Wolves in Chic Clothing

by Carrie Karasyov

  Will smiled at Julia. “You’re so pretty when you’re worked up.”

  “Barf, Will!” said Julia, jumping up. “I’m serious.”

  “Okay, okay, seriously. First of all, can you get me a drink?”

  Julia went into the kitchen and pulled out a Sam Adams. She took the top off, then went back into the living room and handed it to Will. “I hope beer’s okay.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’m not thirsty.”

  “Come on, you need to relax.”

  “Fine . . .” She stormed back into the kitchen and got herself a beer. She noticed Will’s was almost finished by the time she got back.

  “Come here,”

  “Will, please—”

  “Will you just come here?” said Will, his tone now gruff. Startled, Julia robotically came and sat next to him.

  “Listen to me, Julia. No one knows anything, just get that out of your head. Nina Waters and Polly Mecox can sit on their fat asses and gossip about whatever they want, but they are just gossips, and liars, and no one listens to what they say, so don’t worry about it.”

  “But what about Lell?”

  Will ran his fingers through his hair, exasperated. “You shouldn’t think twice about Lell. Lell is so busy screwing that pathetic Eurotrash faggot, that she doesn’t notice anything. And don’t forget, she’s the one who should feel guilty. She’s the one who cheated first, who . . .”

  Will stopped and Julia looked at him closely. The vein in his temple was pulsing and his eyes were on fire. “She’s the one . . .”

  Will stopped again and took a deep breath.

  “What?” asked Julia softly.

  “She never loved me, Jules. Never. She told me that on our honeymoon. She only married me because her parents wanted her to, and she thought I was an appropriate match, or some fucking thing like that. I forget exactly what she said. She’s a selfish bitch, Julia. There is only one person Lell cares about and that is Lell. So you shouldn’t waste your time caring about her, because she totally couldn’t give a shit about you or me.”

  “Will, I’m sure it’s not true . . .”

  Will turned and looked at Julia. “Don’t defend her, Jules. Because you’re just a little cog in some master plan she has. People are disposable to her. You should look out for yourself. Because right now you’re a fun game to her, but she’ll get rid of you soon. You should watch your back.”

  Julia was unsure how to react. Lell had always seemed so nice, she couldn’t imagine she’d dispose of her. But then again, she was banging some British dude, totally cheating on her hubby.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I do, Jules. And I need you right now. I know it sounds corny, but I need you.” Will, with a totally mournful look, buried his head in Julia’s chest. Julia rubbed his head, her fingers sifting through his silky dark hair. How could Lell treat this Adonis like shit? Will was the best thing that would ever happen to her.

  Will looked up and into Julia’s eyes with such a sad look that she melted. And against every moral fiber in her being, she couldn’t resist him. She was going to hell, but heck, the journey there would be amazing.

  But after ten minutes of passionate, heated kisses, Will (as any dude would) wanted to go further, and something in Julia clicked. As he rubbed her chest under her sweater and began to fumble for the bra, Julia pushed him off and got up.

  “Will, we can’t.”

  “Why?” he said, red-faced and panting from their fevered rolls.

  “Not yet. Not until you’re like not married.”

  “Come on, Jules, this is it, we both want it.”

  “No shit. I mean, yes, of course I do, but look how majorly I’ve been freaking from just messing around. If I sleep with you, I am FedExed to hell. I couldn’t deal.” He listened while rubbing her leg. “Please don’t do this.”

  “Okay, okay,” he looked up into her eyes. “One day.”

  chapter 32

  Dearest Auntie Louisa,

  Well. I can’t say I haven’t tried. Your dear Oscar is a lost cause, I am afraid. I know I promised you I’d find your son a suitable wife and get his head “out of the books,” so to speak, but the boy is simply not interested. I hate to be the one to break this devastating news to you, but may I simply offer that perhaps he is . . . not so inclined to the fairer sex? Just a thought. I’ve tried everything—introduced him to several eligible beauties from very fine families, brought him to countless parties and benefits, even hosted him for a weekend at the beach in a house festooned with charmers aplenty. It seems he has little interest for anything outside work. Alas. All work no play makes Oscar, well, quite a dullard. Still trying for you . . .

  Yours, Polly

  Mrs. Mecox popped her handwritten note into the envelope, penned the Newport address, and dropped it off for her doorman to walk to the corner and mail. Their poor cousin Oscar. What was his issue? I mean, there were plenty of nice girls all around. Polly hadn’t wanted to be too shocking with her implications, but maybe he was gay. He didn’t have an effeminate aura, per se, but he clearly showed zero amorous penchant for women. Oh well, not her problem! Onto other things.

  First and foremost, Polly had to finish planning the trip to see her mother in Scotland. Her stepfather, a prominent politician there, was going to be running for a Parliament seat soon, and she wanted to see her mother and brothers before the race got heated and took up more of their time. After dialing the endless number, speaking to the butler, who treated her as if she were a telemarketer, and then waiting on hold for a full seven minutes, she heard her mother come to the phone.

  “Darling, hello.”

  “Hello, Mother.”

  “What can I do for you? You know we are quite busy. The boys are simply running raaaaampant! I tell you, these hellions. Be careful there, Charlton!”

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Mother—”

  “It’s all right.”

  “Um. I just . . . wanted to check in about our visit. For you to see Quint. And have him . . . meet his uncles.”

  “Right. Well, Ashforth and I thought you and Henny should reside in the Cruxworth cottage. You’ll have everything you’ll need there.”

  Polly’s heart sank. “Oh . . . okay. I just thought—”

  “Thought what, darling? Charlton! Mummy said no!”

  “I just thought we could stay with you. In Hill Court.”

  “Darling, I think the cottage would suit you better. You’ll need your space.”

  “Mother, I want to be . . . in your space. With the boys, Quint’s uncles. They’ve never met him, and—”

  “It would simply be faaaar too chaotic, I’m afraid.”

  “But the manor has over forty rooms.”

  Her mother inhaled. Polly could hear her mother’s silent frustration mounting across oceans of telephone wire.

  “Polly, just as I don’t burden you by sleeping under your roof, you shouldn’t feel entitled to stay here. I always happily check into a hotel when in New York.”

  “That’s because you prefer hotels. It’s hardly a favor to us.”

  “I will not stand for this. We simply have too much going on right now, what with Ashforth’s campaign, Charlton entering his new boarding school, and Ashton and Ashby leaving for Eton in a month’s time. I have offered you Cruxworth, which is a splendid residence.”

  “And you’re saying take it or leave it.”

  “You said it, not I,” Polly’s mother replied in her clipped British accent, then hung up the phone.

  Polly was fuming. She felt like her mother’s leftovers from a Champagne-submerged wild-teen life she longed to erase by moving across the Atlantic. After having Polly at age seventeen, her race car–driving aristocratic Italian boyfriend was, well, Audi 5000. He denied paternity, but after a few pinpricks to a week-old Polly’s infant heel, his blood ties were confirmed and he was indeed the not-so-proud padre. He established a hefty bank account to wash his hands of the whole mess. Bu
t her mother’s love wasn’t enough—it wouldn’t be enough for a goldfish. Polly’s mother always loved boys and prayed never to have a daughter—too much in-house competition for men. Later on the gods listened—she bore three sons with her husband, who had been a barrister in London. They had courted through the social season, then wed in a lavish five-hundred-guest ceremony as it was her first, and therefore a white, wedding. Polly was absent from the nuptials. Already enrolled at Bement in Massachusetts, a prep school for girls that starts in sixth grade, at age eleven, she knew she was a footnote in her mother’s past. Her mother was moving on from the daughter she’d borne at age seventeen and was off with her new illustrious husband to repave her destiny. And now her three sons would probably never know Quint, their nephew, or Polly, their milk-carton sister, for that matter.

  The only mother Polly had ever really known was Vanessa Leigh, her dorm mistress, who was more of a fairy godmother who looked after her at Groton, where she attended high school. Sadly, as all her classmates flew the coop for fancy island family getaways in Lyford Cay, Little Dix Bay, or Mill Reef Club, Polly would stay with the Leigh family during her vacations. Many times, even up until the night before Polly’s scheduled flights to Scotland, with her suitcases fully packed, Polly’s mother would phone and say “it might be best” if she didn’t come home to Hill Court on account of a sick Ashton or a colicky Charlton. So the Leigh family became her own. Sort of.

  Vanessa’s son, Elliot, was a “fac brat” classmate of Polly’s and Hope’s—he was red-faced and shy, with a bout of teenage acne and constantly averted eyes. Polly and her mean clique of athletic, popular, pretty friends ignored him in the halls, but Hope always stood up for him, saying he seemed kind of sweet and even cute. But Polly still walked by him as if he were invisible. Even though she knew that deep down, come Thanksgiving break, her mother wouldn’t send for her and she’d be facing Elliot over a carved turkey once again. She’d gone to Hope’s house once, and always had the invitation to return, but something about seeing such a Norman Rockwell happy family celebrating the holiday together made her despondent. She’d rather be in and out, quick dinner then quick escape. Plus, she never wanted to admit that she’d been ditched.

  All those packed suitcases waiting by the dorm door, waiting to be loaded into a taxi trunk and sped off to Logan. All those suitcases unpacked into dorm drawers. All those nights as the lonely tenant of an empty hundred-bed house. They say you only can love as much as you were loved yourself. That you run on as many cylinders as you were given by your parents and those who loved you. And as Polly walked by her son’s nursery, she lightly touched the little hand-painted baby blue elephant border, afraid that maybe she was running on very few cylinders. And even those, due to years of incessant disappointment, were cased in cold, impenetrable steel.

  chapter 33

  Douglas was cooking his famous pheasant potpie for Lewis, who had just had a really long day at work. The tiny kitchen was overflowing with bubbling pots and pans, cutting boards, and produce. There was barely enough space for Douglas to squeeze through, let alone create a culinary masterpiece.

  “It’s four hundred degrees in here,” said Lewis, entering the apartment. “What’s going on?”

  When he turned the corner into the kitchen, he instantly beamed. “Ahhhh, my favorite!” Lewis said, chucking his jacket down and giving Doug a kiss on the cheek. “I couldn’t need this more. I’m exhausted. Thanks, sweetie.”

  “My pleasure. Jules was supposed to come though, I don’t know where she is.”

  “I’m sure she’s on the way.”

  “I hope. I know she’s been swamped and all, but . . .”

  They heard her key turning in the door. “Hi guys!” A blushing, glowing Julia walked in and attacked both with giant hugs. “Oooh, let’s turn this up!” She ran to the radio and pumped the dial up and shimmied into the kitchen.

  “Holy shit, girl! You have way too much energy for the end of the day,” observed Doug, smiling curiously.

  “Next you’re going to start singing into a wooden spoon,” teased Lewis.

  “Oh, you know, good day at work.”

  Lies. She had been walking through Central Park with Will, on the West Side of course, so as not to be seen, drinking in the pale pink cherry blossoms that fluttered down on them whenever a breeze hit. It was like bathing in petals, blessing their secret stroll from above.

  “How’s work going, Jules?” said Lewis, grabbing a drink from the fridge. “I haven’t seen you in ages.”

  “It’s great. It’s so amazing working for Lell. She’s just such a great boss.”

  “Yes, we hear a lot about Lell these days,” said Douglas, with the slightest hint of sarcasm. It seemed to him that all Julia could talk about was Lell Pelham and her little coterie of society bitches.

  Julia ignored Douglas’s tone. “Well, I do work for Lell, so of course I talk about her.”

  “How do you like her?” asked Lewis.

  “She’s good to work for. Don’t ask me what I think of her personally, because I think she really takes a lot of things for granted in her life”—this was lovesick Julia’s attempt to defend Willoughby—“but she’s a very good ambassador for the company.”

  “Jeez, you sound like her PR agent,” sneered Douglas.

  “Well, I am in a way,” sniffed Julia. She was sick of Douglas being jealous. Granted, it could not have been easy that she was now working upstairs while Doug toiled downstairs with the customers, but hey, it wasn’t her fault, was it?

  “I saw Lell Pelham today,” said Doug. “She was leaving early for a management conference. Everyone said it was at a spa.”

  “They do it at Canyon Ranch in the Berkshires,” said Julia knowingly. “She said I could go next year. Can you imagine moi getting pampered at a spa? That place costs more for a weekend than I make in a month!”

  “Tough work,” sighed Lewis. “Too bad my business trips aren’t like that. I get cold quesadillas from room service at the Atlanta Westin.”

  “It’s so funny,” said Doug. “She’s going to the mountains so she’s all decked out in, like, Patagonia, but it’s designer fleece, hilarious.”

  “Patagucci,” laughed Lewis.

  “Totally!” said Doug. “I call it Pradagonia!”

  “This girl’s life sounds insane,” said Lewis.

  “It’s pretty awesome,” Julia agreed dreamily. She knew that Alastair would probably be sneaking up to Lenox to “hike” with her. She knew when Lell announced she was leaving to “get away” for a few days and “research,” the only hiking going on would be Alastair hiking up her skirt. But Julia didn’t care. In fact, she loved it because Lell’s actions unbound Julia’s moral strictures; if Lell was cheating, her marriage was no longer sacred. And if sweet, doting, gorgeous, kind Will was wounded by her dalliances, why shouldn’t she swoop in as his emotional Florence Nightingale? Just thinking of him then, recalling their talk on the park bench, their shared milk shakes in the grass, made her feel charged with a joyful jolt she’d never experienced. She put a hand to her stomach as if to quiet the rambunctious butterflies flapping wildly within.

  As a new song started, Julia spun around, lifting Doug’s arm up so she could twirl under it. Her ladylike skirt spun out into a fabric flower as she giggled giddily.

  “Well, you’re looking quite blissed out,” Doug said. “Another promotion?”

  “No . . . just a nice afternoon with the city as my office. We’re doing an architecture-inspired line, so I was at the library researching.”

  Bullshit. Doug knew her too well.

  “Really?” he asked, observing her shy laugh and fresh, crisp, very Lell-like outfit down to her pink-polished toenails. “Are they giving out Ecstasy tablets at the library these days?”

  Busted. Julia couldn’t lie; it was too much outside her nature. She crumbled, guiltily. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry! I just know what you guys think about cheating. But it’s chaste. It’s not a real cheat. We’ve
only ever kissed.”

  “Let me guess,” said Doug, shaking his head, “Will Banks?”

  Instead of confirming with words, Julia shrugged with a slightly guilty smile. Only an hour before Will had taken a momentarily reluctant Julia in his arms and kissed her deeply under the bursting April blossoms. She collapsed dizzily into his squeeze. They could have been anywhere, they felt so transported by the moment.

  “Oh shit,” chastised Lewis. “It’s none of my business, but that is a bad idea.”

  “Can you believe this chick? It’s called playing with fuego.”

  “Come on, you guys, that’s why I didn’t tell you,” said Julia, her balloon of rapture slowly coming down to earth. “You don’t know all the details, so don’t be so judgey.”

  “Fine,” sniffed Doug. “Do what you’re doing. But everyone gets caught. Look at Gunther Moldberg.”

  “Who is that?” asked Julia, not that she cared. Sometimes she was just so tired of Douglas’s righteous little stories about his friends and acquaintances from Fire Island. It was like enough already.

  “His boyfriend, Michael, was something like head of Calvin Klein Home and is the sweetest thing ever and Gunther just screwed all these Provincetown himbos behind his back. One day Michael caught wind and Gunther was out on his ass, alone, broke, and miserable. And then he got hit by a speeding taxi and died on lower Eighth Avenue right in front of Rawhide.”

  “Douglas! What are you saying?” asked Julia with mounting frustration. “That if I continue seeing Will I’ll get mowed down as some kind of retribution from above?”

  “You yourself know that it’s wrong, Julia. That’s why you’re so testy.”

  “Don’t start, Douglas.”

  “I just don’t want you to get hurt. Because no matter what, Will is never going to leave his wife or his life. That dude loves those private jets and fancy cars, and he needs Lell to pay the bills. You are naïve if you think he is serious about you. Snap out of it.”