Wife in the Fast Lane

by Karen Quinn

  Renata walked over to the couch and sat down. She looked at Christy glumly. Her chin started to quiver.

  “Well, I for one am glad Mrs. Smart wouldn’t serve your cupcakes. You know why?” Christy said.

  Renata shook her head silently.

  “Because there’s more for us! C’mon, girls, let’s have a cupcake party.”

  Renata made half a smile. “Can we invite Mrs. De Mille?”

  “That’s a great idea. Shall I call her?” Christy offered.

  “No, we have to go to her house. She can’t get out of bed,” Renata said.

  “I’ll get the milk and meet you downstairs,” Nectar offered.

  That afternoon, Renata, Christy, Nectar, Mrs. De Mille, and Mr. Koodles had a party on Mrs. De Mille’s soft and cozy queen-size bed.

  “What a beautiful boudoir jacket, Mrs. De Mille,” Christy said, complimenting her baby-blue satin-and-lace cover-up. She was impressed that, as sick as the old lady was, her long salmon-colored hair was brushed and shiny, framing her made-up face. Close up, the white powder and eye makeup were slightly alarming, but the old girl was still in the game.

  “Thank you,” she said primly. “It was given to me by one of my favorite lovers, Captain Louis Francisco Grant of the Canadian Mounties. He bought it for me at Lord and Taylor in 1955.”

  “Is he still one of your boyfriends?” Renata asked.

  “Oh no, child. He died in the eighties. I do miss the bastard,” she said with regret. “I may be a wrinkly old dinosaur, but I’m still horny as hell.”

  Christy blew a mouthful of cupcake across the bed when she heard that. Luckily, it hit the wall behind Mrs. De Mille and stuck. Christy ran to the dresser to grab a Kleenex and wipe it off.

  “What does ‘horny’ mean?” Renata asked.

  “Never you mind, child,” the old lady snorted. “You’re too young to know about these things.”

  “Mrs. De Mille, you should not be eating in bed,” her nurse interrupted. “It’s unsanitary.”

  “You think I give a pygmy’s ass? Pardon my French, dear,” she said to Renata, patting her hand gently. “We’re having fun. Go away, you party pooper.”

  “This is too much excitement for you,” the nurse said. “I’m calling your son.”

  “He won’t care. The greedy bastard can’t wait till I’m dead. Just wants to get his goddamn bony hands on my money.”

  “Another cupcake?” Christy interrupted.

  “No thank you, dear,” she said primly.

  Nectar ate two cupcakes. Renata ate two. Mrs. De Mille ate a half. Mr. Koodles ate the other half. The nurse ate one. Christy ate the rest. She didn’t want any of Renata’s cupcakes to go unclaimed, lest the girl’s feelings be hurt even more.

  “You do have an appetite,” Mrs. De Mille said to Christy.

  “Yes, well, I used to be a runner. I had to eat four thousand calories a day just to maintain my weight.”

  “Do you still run?” Mrs. De Mille asked.

  “No, not lately,” Christy said.

  “That’s why she’s looking so plump,” Nectar explained.

  “I don’t look plump,” Christy said.

  “Oh, yes, you do, child. But it suits you. Mrs. De Mille, when I first met Christy, there weren’t an ounce of meat on those bones of hers. But now, ‘Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens.’ That’s a direct quote from As You Like It.”

  “Was that really necessary, Nectar?” Christy said, running into Mrs. De Mille’s bathroom to see if she was looking plump. She stepped on the scale that sat in the corner. Aaahhh! Christy ran back in the bedroom. “I’ve gained twelve pounds.” She immediately resolved to diet and start running again.

  Mrs. De Mille weighed in. “Did I ever tell you about my first husband, Mr. Henry De Mille? Henny. I called him ‘Henny.’ He was handsome and charming, other than his hairy fingers, which were disgusting. But in those days, what could you do? He refused to shave them, which I never understood. Now why was I telling you about Mr. De Mille?”

  “Did it have something to do with my gaining weight?” Christy asked, feeling disgusted by her lack of discipline.

  “Right. Yes, of course. That’s it. Henny left me for a skinnier girl in 1952. But God punished the son of a bitch. He collapsed on top of her after a night of mattress mambo, if you know what I mean. Suffocated the whore. She was too damn weak to push him off. He did five years in Sing Sing for involuntary manslaughter. That rat bastard adulterer,” Mrs. De Mille said, shaking her head in disgust. “Pardon my French, sweetheart,” she added to Renata.

  Christy smiled. “Mrs. De Mille, is that a joke?”

  “No, it’s the God’s honest truth. Nurse Ratched,” she shouted. “I need you.”

  The nurse stuck her head in. “My name is Hatcher, not Ratched,” she said.

  “Hatched, Ratched, Bastard, whatever. Bring me my orange photo album,” Mrs. De Mille said.

  “I can’t find it,” the nurse screamed after less than a minute of looking.

  “It’s in the freezer,” Mrs. De Mille yelled back.

  The nurse brought the ice-cold album along with a Dixie cup full of colorful pills. Mrs. De Mille shooed her away when she tried to get her to take them. She began turning the book’s pages. It was filled with yellowed newspaper clippings. “See, see,” she said, pointing to an article that looked like it had come from the Times. The headline read, LOVE TRYST TURNS DEADLY.”

  “Well, I’ll be,” Christy said.

  “It is rather funny. Now. It wasn’t then. Anyway, the point is, watch yourself, girlie. You don’t want that husband of yours trading you in for a skinnier dame.”

  “You are so wise, Mrs. De Mille,” Renata said reverently.

  “I’m not just another pair of perfect cheekbones, Dolly,” the old lady said.

  Christy knew what was coming next.

  “‘Compare her face with some that I shall show, and I will make thee think thy swan a crow,’” Nectar recited with fervor. “That’s from Romeo and Juli-ett.”

  Christy just stared at the three of them and tried to reconstruct exactly how many cupcakes she had consumed.

  Things Are Looking Down

  DEAR DIARY,

  MICHAEL TRAVELS ALL THE TIME. SOMETIMES CHRISTY GOES WITH HIM. SOMETIMES THIS REPORTER NAMED GALEET GOES. SHE’S WRITING A BOOK ABOUT MICHAEL. SHE INTERVIEWED ME ABOUT HIM. I TOLD HER WE EAT DINNER TOGETHER EVERY NIGHT AND PLAY BASEBALL ON SATURDAYS. IT’S A LIE BUT I WANTED MICHAEL TO LOOK GOOD. WE ARE GOING ICE SKATING ON FRIDAY NIGHT SO THEY CAN TAKE PICTURES OF ME AND MICHAEL HAVING FUN TOGETHER FOR THE BOOK. ONCE AGAIN, WE ARE PRETENDING TO BE A NORMAL FAMILY FOR THE PRESS. I PRAY FOR THE DAY WE CAN STOP LIVING A LIE SO THIS HOUSE OF CARDS KNOWN AS OUR FAMILY DOESN’T COLLAPSE IN MORTAL DECAY.

  UNTIL TOMORROW,

  RENATA

  “So, Brownie tells me that I have to clear my thank-you notes with her before I can send them out. Can you believe that?” Christy said.

  “Unbelievable,” Michael agreed, breathing hard. Christy was sitting next to him as he worked out on the elliptical trainer.

  “I can’t stand her. I’m thinking of quitting the graduation committee. Do you think I should?”

  “Maybe you should,” he said.

  “No, I can’t. Heading the committee was the quid pro quo for getting Renata admitted. I made a commitment.”

  “Then you shouldn’t,” he agreed, flicking sweat off his face with his hand.

  “And what’s your take on the cupcake incident?” Christy asked. She had sent him a BlackBerry message about it when he was coming home from the airport.

  “Shocking,” Michael said. “Maybe we should put Renata in public school.”

  “Michael! We can’t disrupt her life again. Besides, she’s getting a wonderful education at Colby, no matter how crazy the place is for grown-ups. Here, use this towel.”

  “Thanks. She may be getting a good education, but what kind of values will she learn at a place that doesn’t approve of c
hildren making their own cupcakes?” he asked.

  “Oh, that reminds me. I didn’t even tell you about the bulletin-board committee. Wait’ll you hear this.” Christy went on to tell him how the committee was meeting eight times to make the board even though they were having it professionally designed and constructed by an advertising agency.

  Michael shook his head in wonder. “Hon, why don’t you work out with me anymore?” he asked.

  “Oh, didn’t I tell you? I’m gonna start running again. First thing tomorrow morning. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason.”

  “You think I’m looking fat, don’t you?”

  “No, I like a woman with a little extra meat on her bones.”

  Since when, Christy thought in a panic. “Honey, I know I’ve put on a few pounds. It’s the stress associated with all this school business. But I’ll take it off, don’t worry.”

  “Speaking of school business, did you hear from Eve?”

  “No, not yet. You?” Christy asked.

  “Yeah. Three times today. There were a bunch of sticking points she needed my advice about. But they seemed to be close.” Michael had sent Eve to L.A. to negotiate with Scottie’s people over the terms of the dinner invitation he had extended.

  “If she makes it happen, you should do something really special for her as a thank-you,” Christy said.

  “I will,” he said. “And you should do something really special for me,” Michael added.

  “Oh, don’t worry, I will, you sexy thing,” she said making the bedroom face Renata had taught her.

  Michael got off the machine, dripping with sweat. “Come here, you,” he said. “Kiss me.”

  Christy screamed and ran out of the room with Michael on her tail.

  Christy Hayes—New and Improved

  Early Sunday morning, Eve knocked on Michael and Christy’s door. The Times had arrived, and in it, Dina’s story. Christy brought it into bed where she and Michael snuggled together to read:

  WHERE IS SHE NOW? CHRISTY HAYES

  by Dina Gladwell

  Olympian tycoon trades glamour for family life

  A year ago, the last place you’d expect to see Christy Hayes was preparing poached salmon and Asian salad for guests in the middle of the day. But that’s where we found her one recent rainy Tuesday afternoon.

  Last year, Christy Drummond (yes, she took her husband’s name), the two-time Olympic marathon champion and the founder, CEO and spokesperson for Baby G Sports, met and married wealthy entrepreneur (and one of People magazine’s ten most eligible bachelors) Michael Drummond. Tall and lithe, and living in a magnificent Fifth Avenue penthouse with views to die for, Christy would be easy to hate if she wasn’t so nice.

  Wearing brown Valentino pants, a Dior chiffon blouse, and spiky Jimmy Choos, she spoke as she expertly sliced tomatoes to top the salad. “After I met Michael, my housekeeper, Maria Ruiz, passed away, and I was left responsible for her granddaughter, Renata. All of a sudden, I was faced with trying to be a good wife, mother, and CEO. That’s when it hit me. I’d had my fill of the jet-set life. What I wanted to do more than anything was to take care of my husband and child. I vowed to be as good a wife and mother as I had been an Olympic athlete.”

  With that realization, Christy said good-bye to Baby G and never looked back. Overachiever that she is, however, Christy isn’t stepping quietly into the role of wife and mother. No, she has taken it upon herself to become a spokesperson for women everywhere who choose old-fashioned domesticity over making it in the traditional world of men.

  Mrs. Drummond served poached salmon with a tangy orange vinaigrette, presenting this reporter with a lunch that would delight the most discerning critic. “I think the hardest part of being a housewife and mother in our culture is that there are so few accolades for a job well done. In business, you get a bonus or an award when you do something noteworthy. With family, maybe your husband or child thanks you for making a tasty meal or running an errand, but that was the job you signed up for. It’s what they expect. In my new universe, there is no Best Supporting Wife trophy, no profile in People magazine. As someone who spent her whole life working for recognition, always being singled out as someone special, that’s been an adjustment for me.”

  Christy was thoughtful when asked what she would tell her own daughter about career versus family priorities. “Of course I’ll make sure she gets the education and training she needs to take care of herself financially. But if she works for a while and then wants to take time off to raise a family, I’ll encourage her. If you love being with your children, it’s not a sacrifice. You can always go back to work later.”

  So does Christy believe this is the beginning of a trend—women choosing old-fashioned wifehood over independence? “I’m not the only high-achieving woman who feels this way. I can’t tell you how many famous, powerful women come up to me to say they want my new life.”

  What’s not to want? Who among us wouldn’t take the life of a Fifth Avenue princess caring for one of the country’s richest, most powerful men?

  Does Christy have any regrets? “Not a one. I could never have kept my old job and sustained a warm and loving marriage. I couldn’t have been there for Renata as she grew up. I couldn’t have devoted myself to Michael’s happiness. A hundred interchangeable people could run Baby G. I’m the only one who could do these things.”

  Michael put the paper down. “Wow. That’s a great article. I’m so proud of you.”

  Christy smiled. “Thanks. It’s the new reinvented me. What do think of that family picture of us?”

  “Nice,” Michael said.

  “Do I look chubby to you?”

  “Well you know, the camera puts ten extra pounds on anyone,” Michael said.

  “Michael! You’re supposed to say I look beautiful.”

  “That goes without saying.”

  The telephone rang. Christy grabbed it. She never made Michael do anything resembling work when he was home. It was Jerome Fudderman. He was beyond thrilled.

  “You done it, Christy,” he said. “You done it!”

  “No, you done it, Jerome. You’re the genius.”

  “Yes, well, I am, aren’t I, heh-heh-heh?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Guess what? Robert Beck wants you Wednesday night,” he said.

  “Robert Beck wants me on his show Wednesday,” Christy whispered to Michael. “That’s great, Jerome. The Times and Robert Beck in the same week. You’re amazing. Amazing!”

  “That’s just the beginning, kid. People’s covering you in this week’s issue. With my help, we’ll make you the most revered domestic diva on the planet.”

  “Thanks, Jerome. Love ya.”

  “Love ya, too, kid.”

  Once Again, Galit Weighs In

  To: Michaeldrummond@aol.com

  Fr: Galit@TFJ.com

  I just spoke to Jerome. He seems pleased. She comes off as the classiest housewife on earth. I bet other guys are eating their hearts out right now. You have a sexy CEO wife who gave it all up to wait on you hand and foot. Galit

  To: Galit@TFJ.com

  Fr: Michaeldrummond@aol.com

  Galit, I know this is good for Christy, but I assure you, the last thing I want is a classy housewife. I married Christy for her brains, her guts, and her awesome accomplishments. And those stand, no matter what she does or doesn’t do for a living. Michael

  To: Michaeldrummond@aol.com

  Fr: Galit@TFJ.com

  I just hope you won’t find yourself missing the Christy you married. By the way, I will be asking for a review of your company’s financials as background for the book. Can I meet with your CFO? Do you want to be there? Galit

  To: Galit@TFJ.com

  Fr Michaeldrummond@aol.com

  Sure, I will get back to you on how we’ll handle the meeting. Give me a list of the kind of questions you will want to ask so we can put the right reports together. Michael

  Christy Live and in Person


  Tonight. Exclusive! Christy Hayes Drummond. From Olympic star to high-flying CEO to traditional wife and mother. She’ll open up about it all, take your calls, too. Christy Hayes Drummond, next on Robert Beck Live.”

  As Robert went to commercial, two people came on set, one to comb Robert’s thick silver hair, the other to powder his face. Christy smiled uncomfortably. She tried to appear calm even though her nerves were frayed and her heart was racing.

  The red taping light went on. “She’s been a role model to girls everywhere for the last twenty years. First, she won two Olympic gold medals. Then she parlayed her endorsement fees into a small running-shoe company that grew into a multimillion-dollar operation. Last year, Christy Hayes married media mogul Michael Drummond and inherited a daughter when her beloved housekeeper died, naming Christy as her granddaughter’s guardian. Christy then shocked the world by chucking her career and announcing that she was devoting her life to being a traditional wife and mother. Christy, do you realize that you’ve set the women’s movement back thirty years?”

  “Well, I hope that’s not the case. It was the women’s movement that gave me the ability to choose between being a corporate warrior and a traditional wife.”

  “So what was the impetus for this decision?”

  When Michael and I were first married, there was plenty of time for me to be a world-class CEO and wife. But when a child was added to the equation, I knew I couldn’t shine in all three events—work, wife, mother. Something had to give.”

  “And that was work?”

  “Well, Michael’s the love of my life, and I couldn’t give him up. When Renata showed up, I knew I couldn’t run the company and still pick her up at three o’clock every day.”

  “Let’s be honest, isn’t it more stimulating to lead a company than to wash your husband’s dirty underwear?”

  “Let me answer you this way. I’m trying to be as good a wife and mother as I was an Olympic athlete. I’m always trying to think of creative ways to please my husband. Here’s an example. Not too long ago, I met his plane after he’d been on a long business trip. I was wearing a fur coat with nothing underneath. We couldn’t get in our limo fast enough. That was one very sexy ride home, let me tell you. When you put that kind of energy into every domestic activity you do, life is anything but boring.” Oh my God, did I just tell that story? Christy thought.