Your Perfect Life: A Novel

by Liz Fenton

  “Our weekly play date?” She looks at me oddly.

  “Oh yeah,” I say, hitting my forehead with the palm of my hand. “Sorry.”

  “Where were you?” She pushes the point as she glances into the messy van. I walk over and stand in front of the open door to block her view of the dirty diaper and half-filled bottles that I didn’t remove yesterday.

  “Where was I?” I repeat. I glance at my reflection in the car window and run my fingers through my hair. “I was at the salon.”

  Hilary gives me a once-over. “Oh, yes, the highlights. Nice.”

  Nice? “Thanks,” I answer flatly, ready for her to jog off down the street.

  “Which salon did you go to?”

  “Anya’s,” I say smugly as I snap Charlotte into her car seat expertly. I’d really come a long way since those first few days. I hadn’t pinched her little chubby leg in the buckle all week.

  “Really?” Her eyebrows raise. “And what did John think of that?”

  None of your business, lady.

  “He was very pleased,” I say with a wicked smile before adding, “Listen, Hil, I need to run, I’m having lunch with Casey.”

  “Wow, she made time in her busy schedule for you? Great!”

  What was this woman’s problem with me?

  “As my oldest and dearest friend, she always makes time for me,” I spit out, trying to control my anger and make a mental note to ask Rachel what discussions she was having about me with her mommy friends. Yes, I wasn’t able to come to the bunko events she invited me to and it’s true I’d missed Audrey’s school play a few months ago, but that didn’t mean I was too busy for her.

  Hilary laughs, as if she knows something I don’t. “Okay. I’ll see you later,” she says before taking off down the street.

  Charlotte starts to cry in her car seat. “Yes, I know, Charlotte. I think she’s a bitch, too.”

  Pulling up to Fig & Olive, I can see Rachel waiting for us outside. Or rather, she’s signing autographs for a few tourists walking down La Cienega. I feel a pang in my stomach as I watch the fans’ faces light up with joy as she chats them up, even patiently posing for multiple pictures. Still not used to seeing a version of myself, I wonder when I let my hair get so blond, going from the golden hue I’d always coveted to a harsh white. My mantra has always been you can never be too blond or too skinny. Now, as I watch my emaciated arms wrap themselves around a couple and their son, I wonder if I may have taken that mantra a bit too far. Rachel looks over and sees us, breaking away and opening the van door, pulling Charlotte out of her car seat easily. Charlotte squeals in delight. That baby can definitely see straight through us to our souls.

  We’re escorted to one of the best tables in the restaurant and I follow the way people watch Rachel, or the way they watch Casey Lee, walk in. They’re fixated on her, some even whispering to each other. How odd to literally sit back and see the way others see you. Rachel’s turned into a pro, striding confidently in her sky-high Manolo Blahniks and blowing a kiss to Randy Jackson across the room, clearly enjoying every minute. I guess stepping into my life was easier than I thought.

  She’s so caught up in hobnobbing that she doesn’t notice my highlights until she finally sits down. “What did you do to my hair?” she asks accusingly as she leans over and tugs at a strand.

  “Ow!” I cry and the couple next to us looks over. “What does it look like I did?” I whisper. “I gave it an update.”

  “An update?” she snorts. “Don’t you need to consult me when you change my hair? I guess now’s the time to tell you I’m chopping off all of yours tomorrow,” she says with a fake laugh.

  “Calm down,” I say quickly. “All I meant is that you always complain that you never have time to get your hair done, so I went and did it for you.”

  “Okay,” she says, backing down. “But just out of curiosity, when did you find time to go to the salon? How long were you there? Three, four hours? Because you also got my eyebrows done, and if I know you the way I think I do, you waxed something else too.”

  I smile. “Well, you said I could call Jan,” I say sheepishly. I’ve always been a sucker for a good Brazilian wax.

  “In an emergency!” she says loudly, and the man and woman turn toward us again and I see a look of recognition pass over their faces as they take in Rachel. I give her a pointed look that says, Cool it.

  “In my mind, it was an emergency. You needed these highlights.” I shake my head around like the woman from the L’Oréal commercial.

  “Whatever,” she says, but I can tell by her relaxed tone that she’s forgiven me already. “What did John think?”

  “W-what?” I stammer as I pick up the menu and hold it up to avoid her eyes.

  She leans over and pulls the menu down. “What did John say? Did he even notice?”

  “The wax?”

  “No! The highlights!”

  “Oh, of course.” I choose my words carefully. “He said it looked nice.”

  “Really?” she asks, looking hurt that he complimented me. Even though he thought he was actually complimenting her. In college, I was always uncomfortable when John said something nice about how I looked in front of Rachel, even though his intentions were always seemingly innocent. The air in the room always got thick for a brief moment, me breaking the tension with some self-deprecating comment.

  The waiter walks up to take our order. When he leaves, I’m about to bring up what happened with Sophie when Rachel starts talking about Charlie. How Charlie is so nice, so sweet, and so helpful. So great at his job. Why had I never mentioned him again?

  “There was nothing to say,” I say firmly, even though there was so much to say, too much. But I had been afraid to confide in Rachel. At the time, it just seemed easier not to talk about it.

  “Destiny told me everything.” She holds my gaze. “You can stop bullshitting me now.”

  I break eye contact and start playing with the napkin in my lap. Charlotte drops her sippy cup and we both reach over to grab it at the same time. Rachel gets it first and hands it back to her with a wide smile. Charlotte giggles and claps, dropping it once more.

  “I don’t know what Destiny told you, but it was nothing.”

  “Nothing? Really? I can’t even get the nicest guy at my work to sit with me at the craft service table for five minutes.”

  “My work,” I say quietly.

  “What?” she says as she reaches over and hands Charlotte some crackers.

  “I said, it’s my work, not yours. That Charlie is my coworker, my bad decision. My baggage to deal with, not yours.” My words come out sounding harsh and I instantly regret them. I know we’re both doing the best we can in this crazy situation. I look over at the server and make eye contact, praying he’ll come take our drink order. I need a glass of pinot grigio to continue this conversation.

  “Oh, but giving me a hairless vajayjay and butthole is your decision to make for me?” she says and we both explode in a fit of laughter.

  “Hey, I’m sorry,” I say, reaching across the table and putting my hand on hers. “It’s just the Charlie thing . . . it’s hard for me. Can we not bring it up again?” I plead.

  “Fine, but you know you can talk to me about anything. I’m here for you if you need me,” she says.

  “I know, but I just need you to let it go. And to stop being buddy-buddy with him at work, okay?”

  “Yes, if that’s what you want,” she says as she points her perfectly manicured finger at me. “You know, you don’t have to be afraid of nice guys, Casey.”

  “Not allowed to bring it up, remember? Plus, if we can’t figure out how to get back into our own bodies, it’s not going to matter.” I frown. “What are we going to do to get our lives back?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that a lot,” Rachel says. “And I have an idea.”

  “What? Tell me!”

  She pulls her phone out of the latest Chanel handbag and types something. “I just texted you an address. M
eet me there tomorrow at 10 a.m.”

  CHAPTER 14

  * * *

  rachel

  Casey pulls up in my dirty minivan and I give a short wave. She still doesn’t know why she’s here. I walk over to the car and run my hand over the ding on the bumper, remembering the accident I got into six months ago. Sleep deprived and jittery from too many cups of coffee, I rear-ended a Porsche at the corner of Robertson and Alden while craning my neck to catch a glimpse of Kim Kardashian at the valet stand in front of The Ivy. Thankfully, I was going less than ten miles an hour and the most damage done was to my ego as Kim and her entourage giggled as the owner of the Porsche berated me while I stood there apologizing while Charlotte screamed from the backseat, the impact jolting her from her nap.

  Today, Casey jumps out of the van, glances at the offending ding, and laughs. After the accident I’d called her, sputtering and bawling, unable to take a breath to tell her what had happened until she said she was going to run out of the studio and come find me if I didn’t spit it out, thinking something terrible had happened to John or the kids. When I finally calmed down enough to tell her, she was silent.

  “What?” I’d asked. “Is it so horrible that you’re speechless?” And that’s when I heard her laughing. A deep laugh, so hard that I imagined tears running down her face like mine. I started laughing too. The hilarity of it all; “me” smashing into a ninety-thousand-dollar car with my eight-year-old minivan on one of the most famous boulevards in the country as Kim Kardashian looked on. That was part of the glue that always kept our friendship strong—we always reminded each other to laugh at ourselves.

  “Don’t,” I warn her before she brings it up.

  “Didn’t say a word.” She breezes past me and looks up at the sign from the sidewalk. “Why are we at a wellness center? And who is Jordan?”

  I hold up my hand. “Hear me out—”

  Casey cuts me off. “Did you bring me to a psychic?”

  “I did,” I say unapologetically. “We don’t have a lot of options here, Casey.”

  I pull my sweater around me, trying to block the wind that seems to have kicked up in the last few minutes. “She comes highly recommended.”

  She looks from me to the well-dressed woman waving us inside. The chime she has over her doorway sways in the wind and I can’t help but think it’s some sort of sign. “Please,” I plead.

  “Fine,” she says as she shakes her head and begins walking toward the door.

  • • •

  “So, I need one of you to cut this deck. Doesn’t matter who.”

  I look at the woman named Jordan, who informed us that she was in fact a spiritual counselor, not a psychic, or one of those bottom-feeding carnival fortune-tellers. There’s a huge difference, she’d said, and laughed. And I’d liked her instantly. Although, as I take in her designer shoes and form-fitting dress, I think that she doesn’t look at all like a psychic or spiritual counselor or whatever she says she is.

  I also notice a huge rock on her left hand, which is wrapped around a deck of tarot cards. She’s staring at me so intently that I avert my eyes, feeling as if she’d just read my mind.

  “I just got engaged,” she says.

  “Wow, you are really good,” I say. “How did you know I was wondering about that?”

  “I saw you looking at the ring,” she says simply.

  “It’s gorgeous,” Casey interjects. “When’s the big day?”

  “Oh, we haven’t set a date yet. It’s my second marriage,” she says sheepishly. “We’ll probably do something low key, with my son.” She shuffles the tarot cards again and holds them out to us. “I’d love to tell you all about it, but I do charge by the hour.” She laughs. “Cut the deck.”

  I turn toward Casey and she gives me a look as if to say, you do it.

  What I didn’t tell Casey earlier was that I had actually found Jordan on Yelp. Yes, she had come highly recommended, but not by anyone I actually knew. But after meeting her today, I felt okay about asking Casey to meet me here. What better person to help us than a well-dressed woman with a sense of humor who can see into the future? Plus, she didn’t bat an eyelash when we walked in. If she recognized Casey Lee, she didn’t let on. I liked that. Already craving anonymity after being famous for only a short while, I can’t imagine how Casey deals with someone always watching her. Like when you inhale that sushi for lunch or you leave the house without taking the time to painstakingly blow out your hair. And dating? How is it even possible under this harsh spotlight?

  But then I’m struck by another one of my panicked thoughts. What if this woman can’t help us and I’m in Casey’s body forever? Sure, being Casey has its perks, like having my coffee waiting for me each day when I get to work and the fabulous clothes I get to wear on air and off. And I can’t forget her tight abs. But what about my family? I know John and I haven’t exactly been connecting the past couple of years, but he’s still the person I chose to spend the rest of my life with. And the girls . . . I can’t even think about them. What if being a part of my own family isn’t an option anymore?

  I realize Casey’s waiting for me to cut the deck. Jordan cuts it again and then instructs me to pick three cards. Trying not to think about it, I take three off the top and hand them to her. As she studies the cards I selected, I send her telepathic questions.

  Do you know I’m in my best friend’s body? Can you help us?

  She looks up quickly, startling me, and I half expect her to answer. But she doesn’t. Instead she looks at the cards again and shakes her head.

  “What? What is it?” I scoot my chair closer to the table, hitting it and almost knocking over a glass of water.

  “It’s just as I saw last night.” She pulls a sleek leather notebook out of her even sleeker leather handbag and turns the pages rapidly until she finds what she’s looking for. “Yes, here it is. These cards indicate what I picked up during my meditation.” Then she stops to explain. “That’s what I do, meditate the night before I see a client.”

  I nod approvingly, not knowing what else to do, and she continues. “I got a strong feeling that you came here for my help.”

  Casey gives me a look that says, duh.

  “That you two aren’t what you seem,” she continues. “That there’s something going on here that’s . . .” She pauses, trying to come up with the right word. “Magical.”

  Casey and I look at each other excitedly, effortlessly reading each other’s mind. She knows, we think. And she’s going to help us.

  Please, God. And as I have so many times since becoming trapped in Casey’s body, I make promises to God. I’ll be more lenient with Audrey. I’ll stop checking her Facebook account! I’ll be more tolerant of Sophie, I’ll even let her wear something semirevealing once in a while. Maybe even buy her a lacy bra from Victoria’s Secret. I won’t put Charlotte in front of Sesame Street so I can eat breakfast in peace. Shit, I’ll even start having sex with John again if you switch us back, God.

  “So, then you know. You know what’s going on here.” Casey breaks her silence.

  Jordan frowns. “Well, I only know what they want me to know.”

  “They?” Casey and I say in unison.

  “The spirits, the angels that guide you, I get messages from them,” she says matter-of-factly, as if this is totally common.

  “So what are they telling you?” I ask, trying not to sound as impatient as I feel. Starting to watch the hope of switching back fade away.

  “That you’re not at all what you seem, that you’re masquerading, that you’re stuck.” She looks up from her notes. “Is this making sense to you?”

  “That’s all true,” I say.

  “There was a party?” she asks.

  “Our high school reunion,” Casey offers.

  “There was a bartender there that we think is involved in this.” I wave my hand back and forth in the space between Casey and me and start speaking quickly. “But he’s disappeared . . .” I trail off, realizing
we haven’t yet spoken aloud about what’s really going on here. Will it help to tell this woman or does the fact she hasn’t mentioned it mean she’s just a hack with tarot cards she ordered off the Internet? But then again, she did know about the party and that we’re masquerading. Not exactly something you bring up in everyday conversation.

  Masquerading. That word makes it sound like we’re playing dress-up, like we chose to disguise ourselves. But we didn’t . . . did we? Who would choose this for herself, let alone her worst enemy?

  I look at Casey, suddenly appearing so fragile, the circles around her eyes deepening, her face pale. Each day we’ve been switched seems to be taking more of its toll on her emotionally. The last eight, nine—what’s it been?—maybe ten days that we’ve been like this. You’d think I’d know the exact amount of minutes, hours, days, but I don’t.

  I decide to go for broke and trust Jordan. “We are masquerading. But it’s a little bit more literal than you may realize.” I hesitate. What do we have to lose by saying this out loud? The worst that can happen is she’ll laugh at us and kick us out of here for wasting her time. It does seem like she has higher standards than maybe most. “You see, the thing is, I’m her and she’s me.” I exhale for maybe the first time in days. It feels good to say it.

  “Can you be a little more specific?” Jordan asks in a way that tells me she cares about my answer.

  Casey jumps in. “I’m in her body and she’s in mine. We woke up like this the day after the reunion. We got in a fight, some jerk bartender named Brian brought us each a shot, and after we drank them, we woke up like this.” She puts her arms out to her sides.

  I jump in. “I’m really Rachel Cole. I have three kids. I live in the suburbs. I’m not famous unless you count my mean karaoke rendition of ‘I Think We’re Alone Now’ by—”

  “—Tiffany,” Jordan finishes. “I know the song. Some high notes there. Impressive.”

  “Do you get what we’re saying here? We’ve switched bodies!” Casey raises her voice impatiently.