by Amiee Smith
Driving off the lot on that cold March morning in Boston, I smiled so much my jaw hurt.
My car was the last thing I had left of my life from before my marriage, my inheritance, my shopping addiction.
I’m not going to drive this mom-car to brunch. I retrieve my triangle shaped YSL sunglasses from my bag and get in the front passenger seat. I will not let him see me cry.
Alex finishes loading the luggage, and double checks to make sure Miz Pepper’s car seat is secure. I used to find his protective nature endearing, now it makes me feel inadequate.
He slides into the driver seat. “Put your seat belt on, Brit.”
I want to yell at him to mind his own business, but I don’t trust my voice not to crack with sadness. Or rage. Instead, I do as I am told.
I watch him glance at his phone and try to type into the GPS. His masculine hand tremble.
“My b... my br... my bro sent me Lynn’s address,” he stutters.
“I got it, Alex.”
I type her address into the GPS, my nails tapping against the screen.
After returning his phone to his pocket, he backs out of the parking stall and heads to the exit.
We stop at the attendant to pay; Alex passes him the parking ticket.
“I hope you found your stay at the hotel enjoyable. That will be $45.00,” the attendant says.
Alex just grunts, handing him his credit card. I guess he doesn’t trust his voice, but mine suddenly comes to the surface, mixed with rage.
“$45.00 for parking! My husband just bought this car. It’s only been parked for a few hours! This is ridiculous! Capitalism at its worst!” I yell.
“Sorry, lady. I don’t set the price. Just doing my job,” he says returning the card and lifting the yellow bar so we can exit.
I instantly feel terrible for yelling at him. “Sorry, sir,” I squeak out before Alex rolls up the window.
He turns slowly into traffic on Powell Street. Union Square is already bustling with cars and people and it’s not even noon. Silence looms in the car as we wait through two rounds of green lights before we can proceed. The GPS informs us it will take twenty minutes to travel the two miles to Lynn’s duplex.
We stop at another light before Alex speaks.
“Sweetheart, if you’re going to yell about capitalism, it’s best you direct your feelings toward me. I’m sorry I didn’t consult you about the car. I knew you would say no. I woke up this morning thinking about what I could do to make up for ruining our date night. I thought about buying a bunch of gift cards to Bloomingdale’s so if you want to shop at a later time... when... when I may not have the money for you to do so, you could. But then how would you get to Bloomingdale’s if your car won’t start? I’m sorry about everything, Brit. But I just couldn’t feel anymore wrong than I already do, so I bought the car. To feel right, I guess. If I’m not around... if I’m away... I would hate for my wife to be riding the bus in $4,000 shoes and a $6,000 coat. I know in your mind it would be perfectly fine, but I’m a Willingham. An unofficial Mafia Man. And it’s just unacceptable for me to ignore your safety, especially while I still have the means to protect you.”
Alex’s gentle voice coaxes my rage to sleep.
“You made the right choice,” I say, quietly and not fighting the tears.
My husband is not an extravagant man. He waited to buy his condo in DTLA until it just didn’t make sense for him to live in his studio apartment anymore. He bought out his mom’s lease on her Mercedes SUV instead of buying a newer luxury car. His suits, some custom-made and some tailored to fit, are not designer labels. He pays his employees well. He saves and invests. He always donates more than 10% of his profits to charity. The wealth he’s built over the last eight years is a byproduct of his drive to succeed on his own terms, not greed. It’s what I respect him for the most. Other than his massive vinyl collection, his only real extravagance, weakness, is me.
We are parked a block away from Lynn’s place before I speak again.
“So, Dragon, you still got me the gift cards?” I ask, smiling.
“Yeah, Brittney. They are in the glove box,” he says, chuckling.
This is us.
I remove my sunglasses. Our eyes meet, and we revel in our eight-year long relationship. Revel in our history. Revel in all that is between us.
Exiting the car, a gust of cold San Francisco wind reminds me of our truth. My smile fades to bleak and I feel kind of blue.
My husband is being investigated by the FBI.
The harsh reality of the situation causes me to shiver underneath my $13,000 black and crystal-embellished Alexander McQueen blazer. Dragon is preparing for the fight of his life, and he’s going to need all of his strength.
The last thing he needs is his too-smart, meddlesome, needy, compulsive, and at times complacent wife dragging him down.
He’s been good to me and he deserves a woman that has her shit together.
EIGHT YEARS AGO
ALEX WILLINGHAM
This morning, I woke up to a new voicemail:
Hey, Dragon. It’s me. Get here by 4:45.
By some miracle I arrive at Canyon on time. As expected on the last Friday before Christmas, traffic on PCH was gridlocked.
In the last month, I’ve managed to accomplish jack-shit nothing. My business efforts stalled.
If I were selling holiday cards or hams, I’d be raking in the cash. But this time of year, no one wants to talk about wealth allocation, investing, or estate planning. And they especially don’t want to talk to a 23-year-old recent grad, who still hasn’t passed his exams, and tends to stutter when nervous.
To not smoke cigarettes, I spent most of my days working at the mansion and reconciling Brit’s finances. I returned $250,000 of merchandise she bought, but most of her big-ticket purchases were bought online. Rare, vintage, designer apparel. Collector pieces.
While hanging drywall in the master bedroom, I listened to a book about addiction. The author said people with addictive tendencies can go their whole lives without displaying any behaviors that would adversely affect them. An experience, or a series of experiences, trigger such behavior.
I was the trigger for Brit. She almost lost everything because of me. And I will do whatever it takes to make amends.
***
Exiting my car, I slip on my suit jacket. I’m still acting-as-if.
Acting as if this black Brooks Brothers suit and white dress shirt can hide the fact, I have no clients, my fake wife just finished a stint in rehab, and I’m continuing my trend of being an all-around fuck-up.
As soon as I step into the lobby of Canyon, the blonde attendant at the desk greets me.
“Hey Alex! Brit is in her room.”
She must have told her I was coming.
I wander the halls of the modern facility to the residents’ quarters.
“Hi Alex!” a man in a blue custodian uniform calls.
I pass the workout room and a group of women of various ages stop their routines to speak to me.
“Hi Alex!” they cheer.
By the time I arrive at Brit’s room, at least 30 people have greeted me by name.
The door is open, her back is to me. She folds clothes, placing them in her LV cherry travel bag. Dressed in black wide-leg, high-waisted slacks, and an off-white cashmere sweater, each piece hugs her body as if made for her. Her long hair is back to its natural deep brown color and curly texture.
“You changed your hair back.”
She greets me with a warm smile.
I want to wrap her in my arms. Inspect her. Make sure she’s okay.
“Yeah, there was no way I could maintain that color on my budget. I had Frieda dye it back.”
“Frieda?”
“The on-site stylist.”
“There is an on-site stylist?! This is rehab.”
“Come on now, do you really think any of these real housewives of rich husbands would go 30 days without getting their hair and nails done?”
/>
All the gold jewelry she arrived in is gone. Her silver hoops and rings have returned and her nails, while not as long as before, are back to black.
I want to exhale, but I can’t yet.
“Brit, are you better?”
“As good as I can be. I mean, I’m still a weirdo,” she says, chuckling.
“How was everything? Were they good to you?”
“Oh, my God, Alex. Canyon is amazing. It’s like summer camp with therapy and five o’clock cocktail hour.”
“They let you drink in here?!”
“We’re compulsive shoppers not drunks. And there’s a two-drink maximum rule. Though, Betty Akwell always gets the bartender to pour her an eight count. But this is her sixth stay. She knows the ropes.”
“Damn, her man paid for her to be in here six times?”
“You know better, Dragon. The Akwell Trust paid.”
“Wait. Akwell? The oil family?”
The Akwells are one of those ultra-wealthy families of Los Angeles. Their philanthropic footprint is on schools, performing arts centers, museums, and nonprofits throughout the Southland. A member of that family would be an ideal client.
Brit winks and flashes a gleaming smile. “Yep, that family. Come on, I’ll introduce you to everyone. We’ll come back for my stuff.”
She slips on a pair of extremely high red pumps, causing her to stand taller than me.
Together we stroll the residential wing of Canyon until we arrive at a modern parlor with luxurious sofas, a large TV, and a spread of gourmet food, and beverages. Smooth piano jazz plays on the speakers. Dark wood furniture. Cream-colored upholstery. A crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling.
The room is filled with women ranging from their late teens to their 60s. It’s difficult to know their exact ages, I’m certain many of these women have had work done.
“Oh, Brit is this him?” a woman calls.
“Yes! This is my amazing husband, Alex Willingham,” she announces, embracing my arm.
Everyone applauds, crowding around us.
A bartender appears, pouring and passing out glasses of Bollinger champagne. (Really! This is rehab?!)
I take a glass.
“Brit told us the story of how you proposed. So romantic!” a woman says.
“At a Dave Matthews Band concert during ‘Crash Into Me!’” another woman says.
“Brit told us you delayed buying a ring because you’re growing your wealth management business,” someone says.
“...and you said you couldn’t live without her...”
“...and she’s the exact type of woman you’ve always wanted even if you felt you’re not smart or successful enough for her...”
An immaculately styled woman who appears to be 50 but has the voice of an 80-year-old pats my arm. A sparkling diamond ring is perched on her mature hand. I don’t fully meet her gaze, resisting the urge to bow.
This must be Betty Akwell.
“Alex, your wife speaks highly of you. I wish there were more millennial men stepping up to the plate like you. All my grandsons want to do is travel and meditate. Your commitment and ambition are admirable. I told my husband about your wealth management firm and he’d like to meet with you after the holidays. Brit has my contact information. He’ll be expecting your call.”
The Queen of Canyon’s stamp of approval parts the red sea and every woman in the room begins speaking at the same time.
“I told my husband about you too! We leave for Monaco after Christmas. Call him tomorrow. I gave Brit his personal cell.”
“I told my brother about your company. He would like to speak with you too. You can email him here,” a woman Brit’s age says, handing me a business card.
“My business manager has been trying to find a company to handle my investments. Do you have a card?”
“I’ll take a stack of your cards and give them out at the Westlake Village Country Club.”
“...I’ll take a card...”
“Call my husband.”
“...My nephew just made a fortune on a dating app. He will definitely need help.”
“I’ll pass your card to my son-in-law. He’s awful with money.”
“I’ll take a card...”
I pull my silver cardholder from my pocket. Since having my business cards printed, I’ve only given them to my mom and brother. By the end of cocktail hour at Canyon, my cardholder is empty.
Wealth management is a field built on relationships and trust. A word-of-mouth business, one client leads to the next client. It would have taken five years and thousands of meetings to acquire the high net worth contacts I made during that one hour.
A blessing in disguise, Brit’s stay at Canyon launched my entire career.
Her ability to make friends and build relationships wherever she goes, even in rehab, would lead to millions of dollars in profit for Willingham Wealth Management.
***
“What was that?” I ask, placing her luggage and guitar in the trunk of my car.
“A room full of smoking hot sales leads. Why are you trippin’?”
“It’s my fault you went to rehab. I’m supposed to help people manage their money and I couldn’t even help my own wife.”
“Give yourself a break. I spent all my money. I have a robotic mind. You don’t think I mentally totaled up all those purchases? I knew when my card was declined the first time. Sure, I wanted to believe it was a banking crisis, but deep down I knew the truth. I went to Dior because I couldn’t stop myself. I paced that dressing room aching for relief. And then you appeared and brought me here. I needed to be in Canyon. I needed to do this work. My addiction started long before we got married.”
I want to kiss her, but not here. Not under these circumstances.
“Brit, I want to start over. Let’s go on a real date.”
“No. I just got out of rehab and need time to figure out how to be a regular human being. Besides, we’re not each other’s type. Let’s stay married long enough for you to sign some new business and then go our separate ways.”
“I’m not divorcing you, Brittney.”
“I’m not dating you, Dragon.”
“I’m resilient as fuck.”
“I’m stubborn as fuck.”
“Fine.”
“Fine. Can we go to Canters?” she asks.
“That’s exactly what I was thinking. It’s Friday night. Can I go down on you later?”
“Umm. I’ve missed you, Alex.”
EIGHT YEARS AGO
BRIT PALMER
“What are you doing for Christmas?” I ask.
Alex exits the Canters parking lot onto Fairfax. In the 30 days I’ve been away, the impending Christmas holiday has transformed Los Angeles into a glowing spectacle of lights. The car stereo plays Bill Evan’s “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” and I long to play the piano in my mansion.
“I’ll be studying for the Series 7 exam,” he replies.
“I assumed you had already taken it.”
My fingertips tap across my thighs in time with each key being played on the recording.
“No... I’m having trouble... you know my issue.”
I halt my air piano. “Why didn’t you say anything? I’ll help you.”
“It’s financial stuff, Brit. You clearly haven’t studied finance,” he laughs.
“Um, maybe not, but I’m kind of a genius. Or at least, that’s what people have been telling me my whole life. I can learn enough to help you prepare for your exam.”
“You would help me study?”
“Of course, you’re my... student, turned boss, turned buddy, turned... husband. Lynn, Dana and Claire will be with their families for the holidays. Jen is going to Japan to shoot a commercial. I don’t have any other plans.”
“Shouldn’t you be getting ready to go back to school?” he asks in an overly concerned tone.
“Ah, no. My department chair said I can’t start back until fall next year.”
“Fall? You�
��re going to be out of school for eight more months? That’s not a good idea. Let me talk to your department chair and explain.”
“No, Dragon. I appreciate you trying to watch out for me, but I’ll be okay. It’s not like I have any money to spend anyway. Would your mom hire me back, at least so I can cover the expenses of running the mansion?”
“It’s a mini-estate, Brittney. And it costs $10,000 a month to run that place. I reviewed all the financials while you were away. The three million dollars was to pay for the house expenses and taxes. Your dad had it calculated down to the penny. Even if the money sat in a low-yield savings account, it would have kept a roof over your head for the next 30 years. I’m so angry I didn’t review everything beforehand. He knew your mom moved to Paris and you stayed here. Your dad wasn’t trying to control you. He was trying to protect you. And he’s Saudi. Women are still under male guardianship in his country. While it’s not a feminist approach, it was his custom. He wanted you to be married so you had a male to help you make decisions about the house. I guess he figured you’d marry a man smart enough to read the will.”
“Oh. I guess he’s not as terrible as I thought,” I say, staring out the window.
“I’m so sorry. I should have known better.”
“Alex, you have to stop feeling guilty. You really need to attend the meetings.”
“What meetings?”
“Canyon has a support group for spouses of compulsive shoppers. It meets every week in Beverly Hills. The meetings are included in what you paid for me to go there. I’ll be going to a meeting every week too. Like it or not, we went through this really crazy thing together,” I say, briefly resting my hand on his thigh before pulling away.
“You really think I should go?”
“Yes. I do. Even dragons need to talk through their feelings.”
“Willinghams don’t talk about their feelings.”
“Well, this Willingham just spent 30 days talking about her feelings.”
“You consider yourself a Willingham, Brittney?”
