by Emily Giffin
“Take your time. Be careful. I’ll be here.”
“Thank you,” Valerie said. She nearly hung up, but instead mustered the courage to ask what the little girl had said to Charlie.
“What?” Nick said, clearly stalling, doing his best to evade her question.
“The little girl. What did she call Charlie?”
“Oh . . . That . . . It was ridiculous . . . It doesn’t matter.”
“Tell me,” she said, steeling herself.
He hesitated and then replied, his voice so quiet and muffled that she wasn’t sure she heard him right. But she had. She shook her head, seething, almost scaring herself by the venom she could feel for a six-year-old child.
“Val?” Nick said, the tenderness in his voice making her eyes fill with tears.
“What?”
“It’ll only make him stronger,” he said.
Minutes later, a school receptionist ushers Valerie into the headmaster’s office, a stately room decorated with oriental rugs, antique furniture, and a large bronze statue of a horse. She sees Summer first, perched on a leather wing chair, sniffling and cradling her arm. With long platinum-blond hair, bright green eyes, and a delicate, upturned nose, she reminds Valerie of a preteen Barbie doll. She clearly is a fast girl in the making, dressed in an alarmingly short jean skirt, pink Uggs, and sparkly lip gloss. Valerie remembers thinking she was trouble on the first day of school as she watched a trio of mousy-brown-haired girls follow Summer around the classroom like ladies-in-waiting. Ironically, she also remembers feeling grateful she had a boy. They were so much less complicated, especially those not yet prone to crushes. For the time being at least, Charlie was immune to the likes of Summer.
But that was before.
Purple alien face.
She makes eye contact with Summer, doing her best to telepathically communicate hatred as she steps the whole way into the office, now spotting Charlie, Nick, and Mr. Peterson, the headmaster, a tall, slender man with a youthful face, premature gray hair, and owlish, wire-rimmed glasses.
“Thank you for coming,” Mr. Peterson says, rising from behind his hulking walnut desk. He has a slight lisp and modest manner that offsets his position of authority.
“Of course,” Valerie says, then apologizes for being unavailable when he first called.
“Not at all . . . We were all fine. It gave us a chance to chat . . . And it was so wonderful to meet Dr. Russo,” he says, just as Nick stands, looking uncomfortable. He murmurs to Valerie, “I’ll wait for you outside,” then exchanges final pleasantries with Mr. Peterson before making a discreet exit.
Valerie takes Nick’s chair, resting her hand on Charlie’s knee. She looks at him, but he refuses to look back at her, staring down at his double-knotted sneaker laces. His mask is back on, where Valerie has a feeling it will stay for a long time to come.
“We’re just waiting for Summer’s mother,” Mr. Peterson says, drumming his long fingers on the edge of his desk. “She’s coming from work, too. Will be here shortly.”
A moment of small talk later, an older, heavyset woman with a severe bob and an ill-fitting, shoulder-padded suit bursts into the room, breathless. She does not wait for Mr. Peterson to make her introduction, reaching out to shake Valerie’s hand with an unusual blend of confidence and shyness.
“I’m Beverly Turner,” she says. “You must be Charlie’s mother. I heard what happened. I’m so sorry.” Then she kneels down and apologizes to Charlie while Summer begins to sob—an obvious bid for sympathy which does not work. Instead, Beverly shoots her a fierce look, one that further disarms Valerie. She can even feel herself softening to the little girl—which she thought impossible only seconds before.
“Did you apologize to Charlie?” Beverly Turner asks her daughter, her face stern.
“Yes,” Summer says, her bottom lip quivering.
Beverly is unfazed as she turns to Charlie and asks for confirmation, “Did she?”
Charlie nods, still staring at his shoes.
“But he didn’t say he was sorry,” Summer says, whimpering. “For what he did to me.”
“Charlie?” Valerie prompts.
He adjusts his mask, then shakes his head in refusal.
“Two wrongs don’t make a right,” Valerie continues, although she secretly believes they almost might. “Tell her you’re sorry for pushing her.”
“I’m sorry,” Charlie says. “For pushing you.”
“Well, then. Very good. Very good,” Mr. Peterson says, looking pleased. His palms come together as Valerie focuses on his gold signet ring. She pretends to listen to his eloquent speech that follows—graceful words about getting along and being respectful members of the community, but she can’t stop thinking of Nick, waiting for them outside, both loving and fearing how dependent she has become on him.
Mr. Peterson concludes his talk, standing and dismissing them all for the day, offering both mothers a final handshake. Once outside his office, Valerie breathes a sigh of relief as Beverly lowers her voice and apologizes a final time. Her expression is pained and sincere—more sincere than Romy’s ever was.
“I know how much you’ve been through . . . I’m so sorry Summer added to that burden.” She turns away from her daughter and says in an even lower voice, “I recently remarried . . . I have two stepdaughters now—teenagers—and I think the adjustment has been really tough for Summer . . . Not that I’m making any excuses for what she did.”
Valerie nods, feeling genuine compassion for her situation, thinking that she’d almost rather have a victim than a mean child. Almost.
“Thank you,” she says as she catches a glimpse of Nick, waiting for them by the exit, the sight of him making her pulse quicken. Charlie runs toward him, taking his hand, leading him toward the parking lot.
She says good-bye to Beverly, with the odd feeling that they could actually be friends, and a moment later, she is standing next to her car, watching as Nick opens Charlie’s door, helps him into his seat, and pulls his belt across his narrow chest. “It’s going to be okay, buddy,” he says.
Charlie nods, as if he believes him, but then says, “I hate the way I look.”
“Hey. Wait. Wait just a second here . . . Are you telling me you hate my work?” Nick reaches up and gently removes his mask, pointing at Charlie’s left cheek. “I made that skin. You don’t like my work? My art project?”
Charlie smiles a small smile, and says, “I do like your art project.”
“Well, good . . . I’m glad . . . Because I like your face. I like it a lot.”
Charlie’s smile widens as Nick closes Charlie’s door, then leans in to whisper in Valerie’s ear, “And I love your face.”
Valerie closes her eyes and inhales his skin, feeling a rush of attraction and adrenaline that causes her to forget where she is for a few disorienting seconds. As the feeling of light-headedness passes, something catches her eye across the parking lot. A woman sitting in a black Range Rover, watching them. Valerie squints into the sun, looking straight at Romy, who is peering back at her with an expression of surprise and distinct satisfaction.
29
Tessa
Going out with Cate is better than therapy, I decide, as we saunter down Bank Street right past the paparazzi gathered on the sidewalk outside the Waverly Inn, where she guarantees we can get in without a reservation, jokingly referring to her D-list fame.
“Did they know you were coming?” I ask, motioning toward the cameramen, who are standing around and smoking in their puffy North Face jackets and black skullcaps.
She tells me not to be ridiculous, that there must be a legitimate celebrity inside as a pair of twenty-something girls with artfully tousled, long-layered hair nod their confirmation.
“Yup. Jude Law,” the brunette says, raising her hand to flag a cab, while the blonde expertly touches up her lip gloss, without a mirror, and dreamily murmurs, “He’s so freakin’ hot . . . His friend wasn’t too bad, either.”
The brunette ad
ds, “I wouldn’t kick either of them outta bed, that’s for sure,” right before the two slip into their taxi, on to their next venue.
I smile, thinking that this is exactly what I need tonight—to be at a trendy West Village restaurant in the company of paparazzi-worthy stars and a beautiful crowd, an absolute contrast to my real life. On some nights since I became a mother, such a scene might intimidate me, make me feel matronly and clueless, but tonight I have the feeling that I have nothing to lose. At least nothing I could lose at the banquette beside Jude Law, where Cate and I wind up sitting.
Just after we order two glasses of syrah, I consult my watch, thinking of the kids and Carolyn’s scheduled hours, all the details I orchestrated to make sure that the weekend runs smoothly without me. Nick should be returning home from work just about now, and I take secret satisfaction in the fact that I am out and he is at home with bedtime duties.
“So,” I say, glancing around the shabby but somehow still debonair dining room. “This is the new Manhattan hot spot?”
“Not new. God, Tess. You have been gone for a long time . . . But it’s still hot. I mean, we’re here, aren’t we?” she says over the cozy din, gesturing between us, tossing back her richly highlighted hair, lately drifting toward the reddish-blond hues and quickly becoming her signature look. Aware that she is the recipient of a few double takes, she plays it cool, casually glancing in Jude Law’s direction. She flashes a smile, her dimples emerging, then leans across the table and says, “Don’t look now but guess who just checked us out?”
“I don’t know who just checked you out,” I say. “But I guarantee you, they’re not checking me out.”
“Yes they are,” she says. “And that girl outside was right . . . his friend is cute. Maybe even cuter than Jude. Think of a cross between Orlando Bloom and . . . Richard Gere.”
I turn and glance over my shoulder, more because I can’t conjure such a combination than because I want the eye candy, as Cate hisses, “I said, ‘Don’t look now.’ ”
“Whatever, Cate,” I say, shaking my head. “It doesn’t matter . . .”
“It could matter.”
“For you maybe.”
“For you, too. Never hurts to flirt.”
“I’m the mother of two,” I say. “I have no game.”
“So? Did you somehow miss the expression ‘MILF’?” she says.
I give her a puzzled look as she tosses her hair over the other shoulder and says, “Mother I’d Like to Fuck?”
“Cate!” I say, shaking my head. “Don’t be so crass.”
“Since when did you turn into such a prude?”
“Since I gave birth. Twice,” I say, conscious of the fact that I become more uptight when I’m around Cate—while she diverges in a shallow, party-girl direction, neither of which reflects the real truth. It’s almost as if we hope our extremes will bring the other back to a place somewhere in the middle—where we both began, years ago. Then again, maybe we have become exaggerated versions of ourselves. Maybe it will only get worse over time, I think—a depressing thought, at least for me.
She shrugs and says, “So? You’re a mother of two? Does that mean you can’t have a little fun? That you have to sit around in the suburbs in pastel scrunchies and pleated mom jeans?”
“As opposed to plain-front mom jeans?” I deadpan—although, in truth, I have not fallen this far, not yet lapsing into mom-jean terrain. “You think that’s why Nick is cheating on me?”
She ignores this, just as she’s ignored my last five references to Nick and infidelity, and says, “Back to Jude. Please.”
“Didn’t he sleep with his nanny?”
“I’m pretty sure he didn’t sleep with his nanny,” she says. “I’m pretty sure it was his kids’ nanny. And, shit, Tess. That was a zillion years ago. You sure do hold a grudge . . . I guess you’re still miffed at Hugh Grant for the Divine Brown incident? And Rob Lowe for the sex tape?”
“I’m not miffed at any of them. I’m all about second chances. For anyone but Nick,” I say emphatically, thinking back to my discussion with Romy, April, and MC, finally feeling decisive on the topic. Hookers, love affairs—anything in between. All indefensible, all unforgivable. That is my final position, I silently decide.
She gives me an incredulous stare, steadfastly refusing to believe that Nick is capable of being anything other than a decent guy.
“C’mon. Please tell me you’ve rid yourself of this crazy notion?” she says, lowering her voice as our wine arrives.
“I don’t know,” I say, thinking of Nick’s elusiveness this afternoon. How he was unavailable virtually all day, even when I called him three times from the airport. I take my first swallow of wine, feeling an instant buzz—or at least a good feeling, enough to numb me as I utter my next statement. “He’s either up to no good or really out of it. Big-time disengaged. Something is up.”
Cate smirks, refusing to take the subject seriously. “Okay. If he were up to something—and I know he’s not . . . Would you go there?” she says, nodding toward the corner booth once again.
“Go where?” I ask.
“Would you get even? Take a lover? A revenge screw?”
I take a longer drink of wine and humor her. “Absolutely. Hell—I might even have a three-way,” I say, doing my best to shock her, which of course doesn’t work.
“Jude and his friend?” she asks, appearing intrigued by the notion—or perhaps visualizing such a tryst from her colorful past. Her still colorful present.
“Sure,” I say, playing along. “Or Jude and his nanny.”
Cate laughs and then flips over her menu, informing me that she already knows what she wants.
“What’s that?” I say, perusing my options.
“The frisée aux lardons salad, the chicken-liver mousse, and the steamed artichoke,” she rattles off, clearly a regular.
“And a little Mr. Law for dessert?” I ask.
“You got that right,” she says, grinning at me.
But moments after our entrees are cleared, just as we’re joined by Rachel and Dex for an after-dinner drink at the bar, Jude and his friend are joined by two blondes, both of whom appear to be models, hovering near six feet, crazy pretty with nary a line on their faces. Despite the fact that I know Cate was mostly kidding about Jude, I can tell she is also disappointed that her chances with him went from very slim to nil, and even more deflated by the fact that the girls must be a full decade younger than we are.
“That figures,” she says, as the canoodling commences.
“What’s going on?” Rachel asks.
“Jude Law,” I say. “In the corner.”
She turns ever so slightly to catch a glimpse as Dex does a rapid 180.
“Jeez. You two are clearly related,” Cate says with a fond smile. “Your sister got whiplash, too.”
Dex turns back around and drapes his arm around my shoulder, too confident to be shamed by Cate.
“So how was the show?” I ask, referring to the off-Broadway play they just went to see, one of the many things Dex gladly does with Rachel—either at her request or because he actually wants to, both scenarios filling me with envy.
“It was interesting,” Dex says. “But Rach fell asleep.”
“I did not!” she says, frowning at a loose button on her long, sheer black cardigan. “I just rested my eyes for a second.”
“While you snored and drooled,” Dex says, working his way into a space near the bar and ordering a vodka martini for Rachel and an Amstel Light for himself. Then he makes a face and says, “So Jude Law. Didn’t he sleep with the nanny?”
I laugh, proud of my brother’s tabloid knowledge, even prouder of his disapproval of such reindeer games, which, combined with my now strong buzz, prompts me to say, “Do you think Nick would ever do something like that?”
“I don’t know,” Dex says. “How hot are your babysitters?”
I force a smile, one that my brother must see through because he looks at me, confused,
then shifts his gaze to Cate and says, “What’s going on here?”
“Nothing,” Cate replies, reaching out to tap my thigh. “She’s just being a Paranoid Patty.”
Dex looks at me again, awaiting an explanation. I can feel Rachel’s eyes on me, too, as I hesitate and then say, “I just . . . have a bad feeling lately.”
“What do you mean?” Dex asks. “What kind of a bad feeling?”
I swallow and shrug, unable to reply for fear that I will start crying.
“She thinks Nick might be having an affair,” Cate says for me.
“Really?” he asks.
I nod, wishing that I had kept things lighthearted, thinking there is something so depressing about having this conversation, drunk, at a bar.
“Tell her it would never happen,” Cate continues with her usual verve and rah-rah conviction.
“I can’t see it,” Dex says more somberly while Rachel is tellingly silent.
“Are you really worried?” my brother says. “Or is this just one of your weird ‘what if’ questions?”
“I’m . . . moderately worried,” I say, hesitating, then deciding it’s too late to turn back now. I finish my wine, then confess all my fears, spewing a verbatim account of the mystery text and asking for his candid guy’s opinion. “Honestly. Doesn’t that sound . . . fishy?”
“Well . . . I’m not wild about the ‘thinking of you,’ ” Dex says, running his hand through his hair. “It definitely sounds like a girl . . . But it really isn’t all that damning. Is that all you have on him?”
“That and the fact that he just seems so distant lately . . .”
Rachel nods, a little too quickly for my comfort, as if to say she noticed the same behavior during their recent visit.
“You see it, don’t you?” I ask her.
“Well . . . I don’t know . . .” she waffles. “Not really . . .”
“C’mon, Rach,” I say, relinquishing my usual competitive feelings about our respective marriages. “Tell me. Did he seem odd when you were in town?”
“Not odd,” she says, exchanging a telling glance with Dex. Clearly they’ve discussed us. “He’s just . . . a little distracted, by nature . . . And I think he’s just really passionate about his work. Which is admirable. But I can see how that could become frustrating for you . . . None of that means he’s cheating, though . . . necessarily.” Her voice trails off, leaving me with a pit in my stomach.
