by Cynthia Dane
“Well…”
“Tell me the truth.”
Kathryn took it from there. “Wives fall under three stereotypical characters that you can be pigeon-holed into.” She held up three corresponding fingers. “You’ve got your well-bred women. That’s the first one, and the one mothers are looking to marry their primary heirs to. These are women who already come from families of means, whether more so than the son’s family or slightly less. Either way, the woman grew up with the proper manners and has been ‘trained,’ so to speak, to run her future husband’s household. She’s been educated in something, whether it’s law or fashion design. She’s probably pretty, but also likely to be average looking.”
“Then you’ve got your working woman wife.” Ian slapped his hand on Kathryn’s shoulder, which made her roll her eyes yet again. She’ll go cross-eyed at this rate. “She’s either got her own business or is working for someone else. In the latter case, it’s ideal for her to work for her natal family or, even better, her husband’s family, as long as she brings something powerful to the table. Mothers-in-law don’t like them as much because they tend to not have as many little heirs, if any.”
“Okay.” Jasmine sighed. “I’m neither of those types. So… what’s the third one?”
Another exchange of glances.
“Come on, I can take it.”
They said it at the same time. “Trophy wife.”
“Trophy… wife?” It couldn’t be. Jasmine was so not an actual trophy wife… was she? When I think trophy wife, I think skinny, blond… probably famous for something like modelling or the hottest girl in school. That’s not me!
“Trophy wife,” Kathryn reiterated.
“The most disliked type of wife there is.” Ian shook his head. “She might make pretty kids, but she doesn’t add much to the family or business. The man married her because she gets him harder than an iceberg and he’s convinced that it’s forever love… or so the old women harp on about. Luckily for them, trophy wives don’t last long. Either the man finally gets tired of how incompatible they are otherwise, or she was digging for gold and divorces him after the first twenty years are up.” Ian snorted. “I know someone like that.”
“I’m… a trophy wife…”
“Of course you’re not. In reality.”
“But it sort of is what people are saying. They don’t know you, Jasmine. They don’t get that you two really are in love.”
“You think it’s obvious that we are?”
“Please,” Kathryn said, “anyone who goes to The Dark Hour knows how to tell what’s love, what’s transient lust, and what’s got a shelf-life of five weeks. You two go well together.”
“Yes. People like us like you well enough because… well, it’s easy. There are scores more people outside of that life than there are in it, though. You don’t have to impress us. We know that nothing stops an attraction as deep as love and kink.”
“Yes. Trust us.”
“Shut up for a second.”
“Don’t tell me to shut up.”
“See what I mean?”
“Anyway.” Kathryn shrugged. “Unfortunately, the elite of the elite, especially the older ones, think you’re a trophy wife. They’re writing you off as the trial first wife. Some are taking bets… sorry to have to tell you that.”
“Go… on…”
“They’re taking bets on how long you’ll be married,” Ian finished.
“I see. So, what’s the pool?”
The two of them tried talking at the same time. Ian conceded to his girlfriend, who looked Jasmine in the eye and said, “If you ask me, it’s not worth trying to impress those people. They’re going to think what they think no matter what.”
“On the other hand,” Ian cut in, “there is a lot to be said for a businessman at Ethan’s level who has a strong wife in the wings. She doesn’t have to be Mrs. Elizabeth Mansion Maintainer, but it’s a bonus if she knows what she’s about and how to handle herself in most social situations.”
“You mean how I totally botched shit at Hyacinth Winchester’s?”
“Yeah, that wasn’t good.”
“I almost died of second-hand embarrassment when I heard about it.”
“We went to her school, the Winchester Academy, you know.”
“Went? We met there.”
“You can change your fate,” Ian continued. “I’ve seen it happen before. There are ‘trophy wives’ who went on to become well-respected women in their communities.”
“Like who?” Jasmine felt like she was watching some late-night infomercial promising her the secrets of success. For only $19.99 a month, I too can learn how to not be made a mockery of the day I get back from my honeymoon.”
Jasmine often heard that couples developed silent languages after a while. She wasn’t sure if she could say that about her and Ethan, but it was possible, she supposed. At any rate, she had no idea what Ian and Kathryn were saying as they gazed into one another’s eyes. Debating, probably. They seemed keen on doing that.
“What do you say, lovely?” Ian asked, his grin reappearing. “Should she meet the greatest trophy wife either of us has ever known?”
Kathryn leaned against the table, resigned. “Depends on how much we actually like her.”
They then looked at Jasmine. What in the world was she getting into?
Chapter 14
Jasmine had rarely been in this part of town before. It was old – stylishly so. A hundred years ago this was the neighborhood anyone with any means lived in. A status thing. Now it was a place the obscenely rich kept on the side in case they needed to stay in town, like Ethan and his penthouse. There were a few, however, who kept their permanent residences here.
Most of them were older. They grew up here and it felt like home. Or they bought their townhouse thirty years ago and were too stubborn to move, no matter how much their doctors told them a move to their country estates would be beneficial to their overall health. The occasional young family, freshly minted as millionaires, would purchase a home and declare how rustic and Victorian the homes were, but for the most part, the only people screaming about how much they loved this neighborhood were also screaming about youths and the economy from their childhoods.
Jasmine watched the immaculate townhomes go by as her driver eased down the street. Although old, every home was updated with fresh paint and repairs that were as seamless as the dresses the women waltzing around wore. Houses that had garages sported luxury sedans, Rolls-Royces, and the occasional Italian sports car like the ones dotting Ethan’s property up in the Hills. He hasn’t taken me out for a drive in so long. Jasmine could still remember the day he first took her to his permanent residence. The scenic route was all they had as she enjoyed the wind in her hair as he gunned the gas in his Lamborghini.
Houses without a garage had rental cars appearing and disappearing from the curbs. Women in Louis Vuitton, Gucci, Prada, Hermès, Givenchy, and the occasional up and coming name Jasmine had yet to hear of marched with their tiny dogs and tacky cell phones. It was the same fare Jasmine saw in the lobby of the penthouse building, but these people were actually outside. Some enjoyed the sun hitting their skin! What a rare breed.
“We’re here, Miss,” the driver said, pulling up in front of a frosty blue house flanked by rose pink and humble chestnut. “Should I wait here?”
“I’ll text you when I’m ready to be picked up. I don’t know how long I’ll be here.”
“Very well.” The driver got out and came to Jasmine’s door.
The calling card said she was welcomed anytime between the hours of one and four. Of course, this was written in Ian’s hasty handwriting and delivered to Jasmine via a courier who slipped it beneath the penthouse door. Hopefully nothing had been lost in translation.
She buzzed the front door and waited, a spring chill brushing against her bare legs. I hope I didn’t overdress. Jasmine was learning to err on the side of fancy whenever she called upon someone. Especially someone she
had never been formally introduced to. Which still felt like everyone.
A young, mousy maid answered the door. Jasmine handed her the calling card and said that she still hoped to be expected. The maid, who instantly recognized the handwriting, invited Jasmine in but said to wait in the front hall a minute.
Jasmine could never tell if these rich women had good taste or were tackier than they would ever let on. Today was no different. She stood in a hallway that managed to be both airy and stuffy, depending on where one sat herself. If Jasmine sat on a plush red bench by the coatrack, she felt stifled, the old wood behind her taking her back to a time when this place would smell like liquor and moth balls. Yet if she transferred to an armless oak chair by the staircase, she felt a cool breeze coming from the brightly lit salon in the back.
“Yes, yes, send her in,” came a hasty tone. “Get us some drinks, would you, Florence? We’ll need them.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The maid returned, nodding in Jasmine’s direction. “The madam is waiting for you in the salon. You may go in.” The mousy girl trotted off to the kitchen, presumably to get these demanded drinks.
Jasmine walked slowly through the hall on her way to the rear salon, taking in the crisp photographs on the hall, like her mother and grandmother would have decorated such a place years ago. Even the older photos, hailing from an era only existing in the memories of the middle aged, looked like they came from yesterday. Okay, maybe before cell phone cameras. Decent digital ones from 2005. Jasmine lingered in front of a wedding photo. The bride was a blast from the ‘80s, with large, poufy shoulders and lace that clutched her breasts. Her permed hair spilled over the lining of her veil while her groom, a younger man who also had permed hair, patted her pregnant stomach. Indeed, the bride glowed. Not just in the hormones of pregnancy, or the jubilant wedding day, but in that hasty youth that was so fleeting that not even Jasmine could claim to be as young as this bride anymore. She was nineteen, twenty-one at the most.
Trophy wife.
“Come in!” That bride, now aged thirty years, cheerily bade Jasmine to enter the moment she knocked on the paneling transitioning into the salon. While the rest of the hall was dark, wooden, and carrying remnants of the past, the salon looked as if it took notes from Hyacinth Winchester in its delicate white furniture and green plants soaking up the sun by the large windows. The occasional red or pink flower bloomed, but for the most part, the focus of the room was a frosted glass chess set and the woman who probably spent half her day here.
“Pardon my intrusion,” Jasmine said, stepping into the bright light of the salon. Sitting at a bistro table was the woman of the house. That is… an outfit. Red, long-sleeved, cut off at the knee. What made it stand out, however, were the swaths of black lace pouring over every inch of the crimson fabric hugging this thin woman’s feminine frame. Her dark hair was pulled up into an intricate twist sporting drops of black onyx and peeks of blood-red rubies. Her makeup, while subtle, made her looks as dark and red as the rest of her, while from her ears dangled more onyx. Her shoes were downright frightening: six-inch monsters that looked liable to pierce the marble beneath them. Black straps wound up the woman’s legs, her red toes wiggling against them.
Her posture was impeccable. Inviting, casual, but impeccable. In her hand she held an electronic cigarette that emitted the scent of peaches. She took one last puff before turning the thing off and standing to welcome Jasmine.
“No intrusion at all. I’ve been dying to invite you to my humble abode anyway.”
Jasmine accepted a light handshake and an air-kiss to the cheek. Chanel No. 5. The classic. “You have?”
Caroline Grant-Mathers stepped back, on the verge of laughing. “You are one of the most interesting, most talked-about women around right now. Why wouldn’t I want to meet someone like you? It’s unfortunate that it took my son’s introduction to make it happen. I should have done it myself. My apologies.” She gestured to the bistro table. “Care to sit? Florence will be here with some drinks soon. I hope you like cider. I’m going through a rut. Cider every day.”
Cider made Jasmine think of that terrible wedding shower she threw Monica two months ago. “It’s very kind of you. In truth, I haven’t been invited to many places in this manner.” She sat down, shedding her coat and letting it drape over the back of her chair. I don’t see a basket to put my bag in… Screw Adrienne and her helpless advice. Jasmine was putting her bag right on the floor. Looked clean enough anyway. How could one go wrong with marble?
“So I’ve been informed.” Caroline sat back when Florence the maid arrived, carrying a silver tray holding a bottle of sparkling cider and two crystal goblets. While the bottle was certainly fancy, with its long neck, exquisite opaque glass and label printed on the finest paper, Jasmine still recognized it from local supermarkets. It couldn’t have cost more than twenty dollars a bottle. Yet the moment she accepted some and tasted it, she immediately thought that it was far better than the hundred-dollar per bottle fair she served at the wedding shower. “Isn’t it divine?” Caroline asked, shooting back a whole gulp and then gesturing for Florence to fill it up again. “I figured you wouldn’t care if I shared the good stuff with you. Most of my guests would shit themselves to see something so cheap. They only care about how much it costs, not how good it actually is.” She pointed to the label after Florence set the bottle on the side of the table. “It’s made in New York, from a mixture of American and Western European apples. English and French, I think. Sweet, isn’t it?”
The sweetness hit Jasmine within another second. “Definitely.”
“The ‘fancy’ stuff is always so bitter. Who wants to drink that, other than to show off?” Caroline shrugged. She maintained her ladylike posture, but her countenance betrayed the low-class girl lurking inside of her. “I mention this because I know why I was prodded into inviting you to my home. This isn’t a pleasure call, is it? You want to know how to elevate yourself to billionaire’s respected wife.”
Jasmine swallowed, and it wasn’t cider going down her throat. “I don’t know how much they told you…”
“My son and I have a very candid relationship. I think he said, ‘Mom, this poor girl is getting made fun of wherever she goes because all the snots think she’s nothing more than a temporary trophy wife out to suck Ethan Cole dry of his money. Help her, would you?’ Well? Is he wrong? Am I wasting my time and we’ll spend the next hour merely speaking of your wedding details while I sit here reminiscing of my own wedding?”
“That was your photo in the hall, right?”
“Oh, that dreadful thing. Who knew back in 1985 that such a look would be so dowdy and embarrassing. The dress, that is. Unfortunately the perms haven’t died with some people.”
“So that is you…”
“Of course it’s me! Who else would I have hung up there? Sorry, but only one ‘80s pregnant bride is going to be in my house. Especially with a perm like that man’s…”
“Your ex-husband?”
“I only know he’s my ex because I get alimony checks every month. A woman has to keep up a certain lifestyle, you know.” Caroline opened her arms to the modest townhouse around her. Well, modest by most millionaires’ standards. Jasmine had gotten used to looking up the financials of people she cavorted with. Caroline was rich as shit, but most of that money came from her ex-husband, and unless she hit the investments harder, she would never be worth more than a mere forty million. “What do you think of the size of this house? Big? Small?”
Jasmine wasn’t sure why she was being put on these ridiculous spots. “To me it’s plenty big enough, especially for a single woman.”
“Right? Florence lives here with me, because I don’t like to be alone at night, but that’s still two more bedrooms open to guests upstairs. I’ve lived here ever since the divorce, and I still get lost in it sometimes. Except I’ve had so many friends and acquaintances lament how tiny it is and how I need to make my ex-husband give me more money or at least buy me a bigger place.
‘At least a flat, Caroline!’” Jasmine tried not to giggle at the tawdry voice emanating from Caroline’s throat. I’m not sure what’s going on, but I like her. “They don’t get that even to a gold-digger like me, huge houses are still intimidating. I grew up in a one-bedroom apartment with my mom and grandmother. Please.”
“I don’t know how a single woman could use so many rooms anyway.”
“I feel the same way. I am excessive, but I hate excess, if you get my meaning. It’s different for women born into this lifestyle, however. They can’t help it. To them, this is a vacation home at best. An investment property I’m sitting on and stay in when I visit for a weekend here and there. I’m supposed to sell it at some point. Shit, if I sold it right now, I’ll make a twenty million profit… but this is my house. I’m probably gonna live here for the rest of my life. Why would I sell it? To prove a point?”
Jasmine braved saying more than a single sentence in front of this chatterbox. “Ethan and I have a penthouse here in the city.” It still felt strange to refer to it as hers. “It’s big, but it’s ‘only’ one bedroom. The main house up in the Hills is a cozy manor, I’m told. To me, of course, it’s a huge mansion.”
“Of course. Because it is. Perspective is lost on these people.”
Slowly, Jasmine came to understand why she was referred to one of the most ostentatious women in the social circuit. She comes from a background like mine. Jasmine already knew that from the grape vine and from glancing through online articles, but it was different experiencing this woman’s character for herself. The rumor mill had mixed reviews of Caroline Grant-Mathers, though. Most agreed that she was a gold digger who played the game the best out of anyone – the most planned surprise pregnancy, shotgun marriage, and then waiting out twenty years until the prenup said she could get a shitton of money in a divorce. Which Caroline took full advantage of and now lived a modestly lavish lifestyle that mostly included jet setting even at her menopausal age. She was linked to some new foreign nobody piece of ass every month, with her ex-husband in between all the youths. Is she still milking him? Or does she actually care about him?
