“Gotcha,” Dahlia said. “At least I’m not the only one dropping bombs.”
“Speaking of, how are you? And the boys?”
Cass heard Dahlia blowing her habitual raspberries, the way she released her frustration into the world.
“The divorce proceedings continue to be a nightmare. Roxanna transferred to another school, which is great, but Harris is out for blood. He is taking my sexuality as a personal assault on his masculinity, which is ridiculous because he has a slew of twentysomething girls lined up down the block. He’s the Caligula of Scarsdale. I swear only women age. I wanted to thank you for FaceTiming the boys so much the last few months. They love seeing their Auntie Cass. I’ve been so worried about Brady.”
“Is he still obsessed with the Golden State Warriors?”
“Beyond. Why?”
“Just asking.” She made a mental note to send Brady a new jersey. Team swag wasn’t going to make everything better, but it couldn’t hurt. A care package from just about anyone would have gone a long way with Cass back in the day.
“Listen, Cass, I’ve actually been meaning to call you about something. You know The Real Housewives show, right? Well, one of the producers lives in Scarsdale and asked me to be on the Westchester edition they’re getting ready to film.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. You wouldn’t consider it, would you? Those shows make everyone look despicable.”
“Cass, I already owe my lawyer a hundred thousand dollars and Bravo pays really well. It’s not that easy to dust off my degree after twelve years and get a job, not to mention that I’m always tied up in depositions during the week. Harris is slowly poisoning me with paperwork. Do you know what discovery is? Trust me, you don’t want to find out.”
“I’m not telling you what to do, Dahlia. I just want you to consider it carefully before you make a decision. Brady and Toby, they are at a tough—”
“Well, how much consideration did you give your separation?” Dahlia interjected. “I feel like it came out of absolutely nowhere, unless you just weren’t being totally honest with how things were going all these years.”
“That’s different. My marriage isn’t getting broadcast on television,” Cass deflected, though the thought crossed her mind now how easily her trial separation would translate to prime-time entertainment: The Coynes: Better Together or Apart? Or better yet: Coyne Toss. Viewers could vote after each episode on whether they should stay married or get divorced. The final tally would determine their fate. In some ways it was appealing to hand off the decision to the American masses, whose collected sense might be better than hers and Jonathan’s meek attempts at choosing their future.
“And, to be perfectly honest now if I wasn’t before, I probably didn’t think about it enough. You talk about the women lining up for Harris. I’m sure Jonathan isn’t living like a monk either. I’m nauseous when I picture it, even though I’m the genius who said we should be free to see other people as though we’re a couple of horny teenagers.”
She said that partly to make Dahlia feel better. Maybe she was being naive, but Cass still believed her husband wasn’t taking much advantage of the freedom she’d bequeathed him. When she pictured him in New York, it was tethered to his desk. And if he wasn’t working, he was devoting his spare time to fantasy football and the Big Brother program. Speaking of which, she had to make sure to secure the free tickets for Kids Night on Broadway for Jonathan’s chapter. She’d told her husband that this year she’d arrange a meet-and-greet with some of the stars. No matter what, she’d still deliver on her promise, even if it meant FedExing the tickets to Jonathan at his office while she lived another life apart from him.
“You know I’m here for you, right? Cass—if you want to talk, I mean really talk, not just in sound bites and platitudes. You’ve always been private about your parents, but I have a feeling this has something to—”
“Miss?” There was a knock on the dressing room door. “Everything all right in there? Can I bring you another size?”
“I really appreciate that, D. I do. But I gotta go. I’ve been in the dressing room for twenty minutes. I’ll call you soon.”
* * *
♦ ♦ ♦
JASMINE’S NAME WAS reflected on the dance floor in sparkling lights. The entire ballroom of the Beverly Hills Hotel had been transformed into an Arabian palace; all the servers were dressed in either turbans with Nehru jackets or midriff tops and harem pants. They were serving toothpicked bites off of gold trays. The bat mitzvah girl was dressed in a teal blue Herve Leger dress, four-inch gold Louboutins and a jeweled tiara. While a tarot card reader floated among the guests “predicting” their table assignments, a bare-chested man played the sitar during the cocktail hour, taking requests. He then joined a twenty-piece band that welcomed the guest of honor and her parents into the ballroom to the tune of “A Whole New World.” Marty caught sight of Cass in the waiting crowd and gave her one of his customary winks.
She headed off in the opposite direction from Marty to where the snake charmer was performing and did what she knew she had to do.
“Luna,” Cass said, breathless with anxiety as the two of them met face-to-face. They’d made eye contact early on despite Cass’s juvenile efforts to hide from Luna behind a flaming torch.
Marty’s daughter stared back at her coldly.
“Um, mazel tov,” Cass said. She’d nailed down that that was what she was supposed to say at this event, though she kept confusing the “bar” and “bat” before the “mitzvah.”
“I’m not the one having this incredibly cheesy thirteen-year-old’s birthday party,” Luna said flatly, looking Cass up and down.
After some back-and-forth with Dahlia, Cass had settled on a black strapless sheath that hit her legs just above the knee. It certainly wasn’t the nicest dress Cass owned, but there was no way she would use her and Jonathan’s joint American Express card to splurge on couture for the benefit of another man. Instead she used cash from her freshly deposited paycheck. Marty’s ex Bella Criss, the mother of the bat mitzvah girl, had muddled the Arabian theme and looked like a cross between Cleopatra and a 1920s flapper with her gold-sequined headdress and many strands of knotted pearls around her neck. She had breasts the size of floatation devices and lips that could double as airbags, her body obviously anticipating some type of accident before night’s end. At the very least, Cass was sure she looked better than Bella.
“Right,” Cass said. “I like your dress.” Luna was way off theme in a pink taffeta dress with a full skirt, irony dripping from each ruffle.
“Okay,” she answered.
Jesus, this was like pulling teeth.
“So I hear Puddles loves the new dog walker.” Cass prayed talk of her pet would neutralize the other issues silently dancing around them like a thousand waving arms flailing for attention.
“He’s happier than ever,” Luna said, finally animated. She took a big swig of her Jas-tini. “Puddles is obsessed with Maurice. He’s much better than that Stefania chick you hired off the street.”
“Great,” Cass said, through gritted teeth. Nobody dared insult Cass’s care of Puddles. “Have you seen Jonathan?”
Luna raised one eyebrow, suggesting she couldn’t believe Cass was really going there. A silence that felt endless followed, and then Luna offered a lazy shoulder shrug. It was either I-don’t-know or none-of-your-damn-business. Cass got the feeling it was the latter. It occurred to her that in the court of public opinion, she was the villain. That could explain why Jemima was barely texting her back. Why did nobody recognize the benevolence underlying her seemingly callous actions? This experiment was for Jonathan’s benefit as well—in the long run at least.
“Well, I hope he’s doing well. You’re not going to mention that you saw—”
Luna snorted.
“No, I’m not going to say anything to him. But not to protect you,
trust me. I don’t want to hurt him. You must think you are really something special because the all-powerful Marty Spiegel is—”
“Luna, Cass,” Marty said, approaching them from behind. He awkwardly put an arm around each of them, squeezed them tightly so their profiles were almost touching. “Forgot you two knew each other. Cass, I’d love to introduce you to my mother. She’s sitting down over there.” He gestured off in the distance, near where the Bengal tiger was stationed in a cage alongside a worried-looking trainer with an exposed pistol. “And Luna—you could say hello to your grandmother at some point before she drops dead.”
Luna rolled her eyes and stalked off toward the bar.
“Having fun?” Marty asked Cass as they glided across the dance floor, which was now projecting baby pictures of Jasmine.
“It’s an experience,” she said, still shaky from the interrupted conversation with Luna. Had she been totally naive to think of her and Luna as friends in a way, the two of them occasionally blathering on about diet trends, Netflix shows and the Kardashians? When Luna straightened up the kitchen, Cass always helped bring the plates and cups to the sink—a gesture that they were in it together. “You certainly went all out.”
“Party cost half a million,” Marty said. He was indisputably bragging, like a small child hoisting a trophy in the air. While she was mostly turned off by the ostentatiousness of it all, a part of her liked how freely Marty talked about money. Betsy would sooner cut out her tongue than be so tactless. Jonathan too. When he and Cass would meet with Carmel to discuss furnishing their apartment, her husband would point to a table he liked and say, “Tell me more about this. Is it an important piece?” Anything to avoid, “How much does it cost?” Carmel seemed to catch his drift. It was like they spoke in code and Cass was left wondering why everything had to be so oblique. She didn’t like the way the Coyne clan was so formal and militant about being understated, but she also hated the gaucheness of tonight’s affair. What was wrong with her? When did she become this person who had a problem with everybody and everything? If preteen Cass with the bad glasses and terrible clothes could see glamorous, successful Cass now, well, she would slap her across the face for being so ungrateful.
“I didn’t want Jasmine missing out like you and I did.” Marty tucked a piece of Cass’s hair behind her ear. “You really look beautiful tonight.” Cass beamed. Next to Marty, she felt amazing in her own skin for the first time in ages. The other night after a late-night swim in the nude, after they had toweled off and were enjoying a glass of wine in his study, Cass had told Marty a bit more about her childhood. After he showed her a picture of the tiny house he’d grown up in, with its vinyl siding and air-conditioning unit dangling precariously out the window, she had decided to open up more to him.
Marty bent down to kiss the elderly woman examining her manicure a few feet away from the tiger. Mrs. Spiegel was that bizarre, surgically enhanced combination of old and young, what her own mother would look like if she had the money for this battery of cosmetic procedures. “Mom, this is Cass. Cass, this is my mother, Adele.”
“Sit down, honey,” Adele said to her. Her voice was croaky and coarse, what sandpaper would sound like if it could talk. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“I’ll leave you two to get acquainted,” Marty said, and headed in the direction of Ron Howard.
“It’s nice to meet you too,” Cass said, pulling up a chair next to Adele, who took Cass’s hand in her own.
“My son loves shiksas,” she said.
“Excuse me?” Cass said, leaning in closer. The music was blasting.
“And I understand,” Adele continued. “Look at you with your blond hair, that tiny little ski-jump nose. And I bet you’re not mouthy either. No matter what, you’ve got to be better than the last one—that fashion designer with no talent. Who would wear any of her schmattas if Marty hadn’t made them? And this one?” Adele said, pointing at Bella with a hot-pink nail sailing half an inch past her fingertip. “Washed-up trash.” She eyed Cass again. “You’re very young, but it’s to be expected.”
“Mom, I think that’s enough,” Marty said, returning just in time to catch the tail end. “I’m going to steal this one away now. The show is about to start.”
“Show?” Cass couldn’t imagine what came next. The entire evening had felt like some kind of tacky performance art.
“Ariana Grande,” Marty explained. “She’s doing a short set after Jasmine lights her cake.”
“Let me tell you something,” Adele said, pulling Cass toward her just as she was rising to join Marty. Despite her expensive jewelry and designer suit, Mrs. Spiegel’s perfume had a cheap, old-lady scent. Inhaling it transported Cass to Hazel Park. It was the smell that Donna brought home with her after a day of work at the mall.
“Yes?” Cass asked, trying to breathe through her mouth.
“The champagne at this shindig cost three hundred dollars a bottle. I suggest you drink up.” She looked at Cass as though she were waiting for her jaw to drop. “And bring me a glass while you’re at it.”
“Sure,” Cass muttered. Might as well be a waitress too, she thought. She had enough different identities, so what was the trouble in adding one more?
* * *
♦ ♦ ♦
THE NEXT MORNING, Cass and Marty stood side by side in his master bathroom, she applying makeup and he clipping nose hairs. CNBC blared in the background.
“It was fun last night,” Marty said. “I thought Jasmine’s friends looked like a bunch of hookers and Bella was shit-faced by the end of the party, but all things considered, I’m—”
“Shush!” Cass said, dropping her eyeshadow. Purplish-gray powder flew in charcoal bits across the milk glass vanity. She put her hand in Marty’s face to keep him from talking and ran into the bedroom, where the seventy-inch TV was mounted on the wall.
“—welcome Jonathan Coyne,” the morning anchor, Becky Quick, said. The camera panned to Jonathan, who looked like he’d been spray-tanned before going on air. He had on one of his slick suits, gray with a subtle windowpane pattern, narrow, expertly tailored, twenty-first-century Gordon Gekko. “Your boss, Jerry Winston, is in a lot of hot water. Can you tell us what the atmosphere is like at work?”
Jonathan looked confused as to whether he should look at Becky or the camera. His head darted side to side like a turtle checking if the coast is clear.
“To tell you the truth, Becky, it’s just business as usual. I cover natural gas, which, as you know, is having a tremendous quarter. We’ve been lucky, but we also do our homework. The allegations against my boss are absurd and totally without evidence. The SEC has it in for hedge fund managers and this is just simple vindictiveness and dirty politics.”
Becky’s cohost, Andrew Ross Sorkin, chimed in, further confusing Jonathan’s eye contact.
“You’re considered by many to be Jerry Winston’s right-hand man. Are you worried at all he might set you up to take the fall, like what happened to some of the top managers at Steven Cohen’s fund? It’s easier to go after the smaller fish, you must know that, and the SEC wants a win.”
“Jerry would never do that to me, and I have nothing to hide.”
Becky addressed the viewers.
“All right, you’ve just heard from Jonathan Coyne, senior analyst at Winstar Capital, two days after the SEC launched a major investigation into the fund due to allegations of fraudulent reporting, insider trading and price-fixing. Jonathan—thanks for joining us, and good luck.”
“Thanks, Becky,” Jonathan said, looking directly at the camera. Cass cringed. They should have prepped him a bit instead of bronzing him like a Jersey Shore cast member. The hosts probably wanted him to look like an idiot—better for ratings.
“So that’s your husband?” Marty asked. “Looks like he’s in deep shit.”
“I have to go to him,” Cass said, fumbling for her cell phon
e to book a flight. Jonathan had spoken confidently and kept his composure, but she saw the fear and hurt in his eyes that no other person watching CNBC would have been able to discern. She needed to support him. To tell him face-to-face that no matter what happened with Winstar and his career, it wouldn’t have any impact on her feelings toward him.
* * *
♦ ♦ ♦
AS HER TAXI barreled through the streets of the Upper East Side heading to 75th Street, Cass kept her eyes glued to the window like a child. She breathed in the city smog, dizzied herself at the sights. The bodegas on every corner with the freshly cut flowers, the sidewalks thick with pedestrians weaving about like Tetris pieces, the blare of car horns making a symphony; God, she had missed home.
Like a burglar, Cass donned a baseball hat pulled low over her eyes to enter her apartment building. She didn’t want to be forced into chitchat with the doormen, who would gossip on their smoke breaks about her unexpected return. She slipped into the building with a group of nannies pushing strollers and went unnoticed into the elevator. At the front door she paused, running her finger over the grooves of the keys in her hand. She hadn’t turned that lock in months, or set her bag down on the coffee table, or grabbed a handful of pretzels from the jar on the kitchen counter. Foolishly, she considered if her key would still work. She didn’t waste too much time wondering, for fear Jemima would emerge from her next-door apartment at any second. Cass’s plan was to drop her overnight bag off and head to Midtown to see Jonathan, then buzz his beloved Gloria to ask him to come downstairs. She didn’t think he’d be shocked to find out she’d come. It was an unspoken rule of the separation: if the shit hit the fan for either of them, they’d be there for each other.
She expected to find the apartment returned to bachelor status: empty fridge, inside-out dirty boxers, depleted beer bottles stacked in the garbage. To her surprise, the place was neat and well stocked, the refrigerator and pantry filled with fresh produce and a wide variety of cereals and pastas. She felt a fleeting surge of pride that Jonathan was taking such good care of himself, until a feeling of being unneeded soured her mood. She went to see the state of the bedroom, which was also tidier than expected.
The Intermission Page 27
