by Laura Hankin
“I think Charlie broke her with his poo,” Amara said, shutting the door and turning the lock. “She’s different than that normally.” She shook her head. “Well, you’ll get to know each other at the birthday party. The birthday party will be great.”
Chapter 20
So this was how they did it all, Claire thought as she ran through Central Park in the dark, her body filled with too much unwanted nervous energy for her to stand and wait at a bus stop. With a little help from hard drugs. Beyond the aspect of potential child endangerment, Claire didn’t mind the speed itself, exactly. What really filled her with an unexpected anger was the fact that they were cheating. All the natural health that Whitney had espoused, all that “wisdom” Amara had fed her—don’t wait too long to get your shit together, that whole act—it was a lie. If you were wealthy enough, apparently you could just pop pills to lose weight and give you endless energy, and no one would mind. Quite the opposite, in fact. They’d beg for you to be in their coffee-table books so you could make all the normal women out there feel inferior. Someone like Claire would never be able to glow and awe like them, because there was no possible way to catch up.
God, their poor children. Claire thought of Whitney stroking her hair at Sycamore House while Claire poured out the story of her mother choosing appearances over what was best for her child, pretending to empathize while she was doing the exact same thing. The playgroup women probably all thought Claire was an idiot, laughing at her after she left Whitney’s apartment each time for the way that she had fallen for their act. (Because they had to know—there was no way you could delude yourself into thinking a pill of that strength was some all-natural vitamin.)
Dammit, she had really, really liked them. Especially Amara. What a head-spinning, soul-annihilating disappointment.
She slowed down and pulled out her phone, dialing Thea’s number. The phone rang and rang until a text from Thea popped up. Not a good time. Let’s talk later. Claire put her phone back in her pocket and jogged on.
Probably a dumb idea to run through the park at night. That was how people got murdered. Oh, well, she thought as the color that the playgroup women had recently brought into her life leached out, leaving the world around her bloodless and gray. She ran all the way home, jumping back when the occasional rat scrambled across her path, blisters forming where her fraying Chucks rubbed up against her heels.
It had been a while since she’d really indulged in some good old Drinking to Forget alone in her apartment, but now seemed as good a time as any. She lost all of Saturday to the clanking bottles of whiskey she pulled down from her cabinet.
Sunday morning came in far too bright, the sun insistently flaunting itself against her window like a spray-tanned child in a beauty pageant. The lure of curling herself underneath the covers, only coming out to order a pizza in another hour or two, was strong. But she had to get up. It was Reagan’s birthday party.
So maybe the women took speed. She could still take their money. No matter how much she’d deluded herself lately that they were adopting her, that she was their little pet or maybe even a real friend, she was just the hired help. None of them owed her anything except the money they’d promised to pay her, so she might as well go and collect that. Besides, there was the Amara connection for her music too, and she’d be a fool to give that up. Beyond that, screw them all. They could do what they wanted.
She pulled on some clothes and ran a brush through her hair, determined to harden her heart. Hey, she’d passed herself off as a devout Christian for years. She could continue to joke around with the Wellness Goddesses as if she believed that they actually cared about all-natural health.
Gwen’s ridiculous brownstone had pink and white balloons tied to the steps out front to mark the party inside. When Claire stepped into the foyer, Gwen’s older daughter, Rosie, was half-heartedly taking coats, although what she was really doing was wearing a tiara and fairy wings and twirling around the hallway.
“Thanks, Rosie,” Claire said as she handed the girl her jacket.
“Call me by my princess name,” Rosie said, and then sang out in a warbling voice, “Rosalindaaaaaa!”
Claire smiled, a smile that disappeared as soon as she heard Gwen say her name from the top of the staircase.
Gwen wore a string of pearls and a rose-colored dress with a floral pattern, her hair blown out into perfect loose curls. Very Disney princess meets fifties housewife chic. Very Momstagram-worthy. Very hopped up on speed. On her hip, Gwen bounced Reagan, who wore a gold-edged bib with the words BIRTHDAY GIRL emblazoned in pink block letters. Gwen waved at Claire, her blueberry eyes wide in anticipation. “Come on in,” she was saying, “and put your guitar down. Let’s start the music in twenty minutes so that we can do the cake before the kids get cranky. And in the meantime, help yourself to refreshments and make yourself at home!”
It was a relatively small affair—mostly the playgroup moms and their husbands, plus a few relatives and coworkers and some rambunctious friends of Rosie’s, but even though the guest list might have been limited, Gwen and Christopher had gone all out. A professional photographer wandered around, exhorting people to smile. In the corner, a bartender served up a specialty cocktail called the “Reagan Rickey”—Claire took one immediately and thanked God for the gin burning down her throat—underneath an entire archway made of those same pink and white balloons from outside woven together, with a floating silver balloon in the shape of an “R” at the center of the whole thing. Streamers flapped down from the chandelier, and a young woman did face painting by one of the windows, dappling children’s cheeks with unicorns and rainbows. (Maybe the face painter was also an aspiring artist who had expected better things from her life by now. Maybe she really wanted to be dappling gigantic canvases to hang on gallery walls.) The coffee table was bursting with presents wrapped beautifully in patterned paper and curling ribbons. Had everyone there gone to a freaking professional gift wrapper? There must have been at least thirty boxes of things little Reagan would soon discard. It was all a whole lot of effort for a party Reagan would never remember.
Claire wandered into the dining room, where the table practically groaned under the weight of all the refreshments it held. How wonderful it would be to be hungry right now, for everything to be normal again, for her to embrace Ellie and Meredith, who were bearing down on her, with uncomplicated joy.
And you’re a lying speed freak, she thought as Ellie hugged her, then passed her off to Meredith while their much less well-kept husbands looked on. And so are you. It was like Claire had run a black light over a beloved room, and now she was seeing all the stains she hadn’t noticed before, when she’d been blinded by radiance. Of course they were so thin, Claire thought, as Ellie put a bony arm around her and introduced her to John, who was holding little Mason in his arms. Of course they had time and energy to meticulously plan the perfect outfits for themselves and their babies, she realized as Meredith showed off little Lexington’s poofy hair bow, which she’d had to go to five stores to find.
“Did you talk to Whitney?” Ellie asked. “The coffee-table-book shoot is this Thursday, so we’ll be meeting there instead of at her apartment. It’s so exciting!”
“I agree. I always wanted to marry a model,” John said. Ellie shoved him affectionately. John was solid, with a bit of a beer belly, his hair graying—the kind of man who had definitely belonged to a fraternity in college and who probably rhapsodized about his crazy days in Kappa Delta Alpha or whatever with great frequency. In his arms, little Mason started crying, his face wrinkling up, and John bounced him, but Mason only continued to whimper. “Here, you want Mama, don’t you?” John said, passing the baby off to Ellie and turning to the refreshment table, then loading cheeses and meats onto a plate for himself. “So you’re the music teacher,” he said to Claire. “Maybe you can convince them that worrying about preschool already is crazy!”
“Not according
to Gwen!” Ellie said as she attempted to calm Mason to no avail.
“It’s true, John,” chimed Meredith in support. “I’ve heard from a bunch of people that it’s really important to do your research.”
Ellie nodded along and went in for the kill. “We could just send Mason to public school, honey. But I can’t imagine your mother would allow that.”
“Okay, I should go get ready for the music,” Claire said.
“We can’t wait!” Ellie said.
“Oh, by the way, we’re going to get manicures before the photo shoot,” Meredith said. “Do you want to come? It’ll be our treat!”
“Is this your nice way of telling me my nails are disgusting?” Claire asked, waggling her unadorned fingers and smiling like she meant it, and Meredith giggled. “Excuse me.”
As she walked away, she caught sight of Vicki on the window seat, wearing her usual floaty garb, feeding a fussy Jonah. The veins in her exposed breast glowed blue in the daylight from the window. As Claire watched, an unfamiliar woman—probably a coworker of Christopher’s, judging by her sleek, boardroom-ready haircut—bustled up to Vicki. “Excuse me,” the woman said. “But you’re making my husband uncomfortable.” Vicki stared up at the woman, her face placid. The woman shot a look back at her husband and then tried again. “Do you have a cover you can use?”
Vicki shook her head and shrugged her shoulders in an apologetic manner, then began to turn away. The woman unwrapped a scarf from her neck. “Here, you’re welcome to borrow this,” she said, her voice dripping with graciousness. Vicki languidly stretched out her hand for the scarf. As the woman passed it over, Vicki smiled as if in thanks. Then she slid open the window and dropped the scarf onto the sidewalk outside. The woman let out an indignant squeak and rushed away to retrieve it.
Vicki settled back, running her hand over her son’s curly hair, her calm expression slipping for a moment as two angry red spots rose on her cheeks. She noticed Claire staring at her and mouthed a hello, and Claire began to mouth one back as Vicki’s son resumed his feeding. Then Claire’s stomach dropped. Fuck, could speed get into breast milk?
Unable to think about that horrible possibility for a moment longer, she looked away and into the laughing, drinking, glass-clinking crowd, to where Amara stood by the bar with Daniel. Amara lit up in recognition and started waving her over, but Claire pretended not to notice and ducked into the kitchen instead.
It was airy and full of light, thanks to a large window that looked onto the house’s tidy backyard. A few guests milled about, getting glasses of water or simply seeking an escape from the rest of the party. She could have used a glass of water herself. Her mouth was as dry from nerves and dread as it had been when Vagabond sat her down for the talk. She headed for the sink. Over at the kitchen island, a man with curling golden hair was sticking candles into a multilayered cake, puffy with frosting, decorated with a ring of strawberries at the base. A group of Rosie’s friends ran through, and he gave them all high fives, then teased them about how he was going to eat the entire cake himself.
“No!” they shouted, giggling.
“It’s true,” he said. “I’ve already eaten five cakes today, but I need more!”
So this was Christopher, she thought, eyeing him with disdain. The breaker of hearts and vows, the suspected ripper of strange women’s panties. He was even sexier in person than she’d expected.
“You must be Claire,” he said when he spied her, and held out his hand for a shake. “Gwen’s been singing your praises for weeks now. We’re all really looking forward to the music. I’ve been warned not to sing along, because my voice makes dead musicians roll over in their graves, but I’ll do all the dancing you need.” Ugh, and he was charming too, with a strong handshake. He held on to her fingers just a second too long. Yup, he was totally cheating on Gwen. He reminded her of Marcus from Vagabond, actually—that same kind of golden-boy gleam that came from a high success rate of getting women into bed.
“Claire! Hey, you,” Whitney said, sweeping into the kitchen in a gorgeous sundress and heels, throwing her arms around Claire. Speed speed speed speed, went the voice in Claire’s head. “We had a spill out there, so I’ve been sent on a mission to find paper towels.”
“Right over here,” Christopher said, indicating the counter behind him. “Whitney, right? Nice to see you again.”
“Christopher,” she said with the studied coolness of a woman being civil to her close friend’s cheating husband. He held out his arms for a hug, and she walked behind the kitchen island to give him a stiff kiss on the cheek, resting a hand on his shoulder to balance herself as she went up on tiptoe.
“I was just telling Claire,” he said, “that I can’t wait to see what all this playgroup-music fuss is about.”
Gwen poked her head in. “There you are, Claire! Ready to get started?”
So Claire set up her guitar and the props Gwen had bought for her to use—a bubble machine, a parachute, sparkly egg shakers, and rainbow-colored scarves—in the middle of the living room while Gwen ushered the older children to spots on the rug and the women gathered with their husbands and babies. Claire strummed a C chord.
“Hey, everyone,” she said, mustering all the positive energy she could find. “Who’s feeling happy to be here for Reagan’s birthday?” The audience whoo-ed, some of the adults lifting their children’s arms into the air. “Well,” Claire continued, and launched into song, “If you’re happy and you know it clap your hands.”
As she sang, her eyes landed on Whitney, leaning over toward her husband, who was holding Hope and moving her little hands in a clapping motion for her. There was Vicki, now bouncing her baby next to her buttoned-up husband, a contrast so stark Claire almost wanted to laugh. And then she locked eyes with Amara.
It was all well and good, in the mustiness of her apartment, to say, Screw them all! But as Claire watched them laughing with their babies and their husbands, these women who had made her feel wanted again, a great wave of sadness crashed down upon her anger. Goddammit. She could feel a reckoning coming on.
Chapter 21
In the crowd of people, Whitney stood in between Grant and Christopher. Oh, the thrilling disaster of it all, the nearness of Christopher as he casually settled himself on her left side while Grant reached for her hand on the right. She was racked with guilt and wetter than she’d ever been before.
It had started in the kitchen. She’d known he was in there, so when one of Rosie’s little friends had spilled a cup of juice, she’d jumped at the chance to go get paper towels, just to see him, to say hello as if she barely remembered him.
She’d gone behind the kitchen island and, marshaling every ounce of self-control she had, kissed him casually on the cheek. And then he had reached his hand up where the island hid their lower halves and run a finger underneath her dress, slipping it for one heavenly second inside her underwear and into her while he kept talking to Claire and the others in the kitchen.
As everyone else began to slowly migrate into the living room for the music, Whitney made her way to the counter and grabbed some paper towels. “It’s a lovely party so far,” she said.
“Thanks!” he said as she walked back behind the island, where the path to get by him was quite narrow. “Yes, we’re very happy with how it’s going.”
“Oops, excuse me!” she said as she brushed her ass against the front of his pants, and he stiffened.
She was appalled at herself, of course, at the kind of woman she had turned out to be—an adulteress. A friend betrayer. A liar.
But she also felt a perverse thrill of excitement and maybe even pride at the kind of woman she had turned out to be—someone who had discovered a whole new level of desire and sensuality that she hadn’t known existed before. An adventurer giving a big middle finger to all the rules she’d worked so hard to follow. Not just a wife and mother, but an interesting and flawed and
full woman.
Now she squeezed her legs tight against each other and focused on Claire, who had launched into “Old MacDonald.” That was good. Nothing remotely sexy about Old MacDonald and his farm. Unless Old MacDonald was really more of a middle-aged MacDonald with Christopher’s face, and he wanted to take you for a roll in the hay in the barn out back . . .
And then the strangest thing happened with Claire. One minute, she was doing fine—not quite reaching the heights of fun and talent that she showed at playgroup, but maybe she wasn’t used to performing for such a big crowd. The next, her performance turned completely unfocused. Her voice broke once and then caught again, like she was about to cry or like she had forgotten how to breathe. She started singing about Old MacDonald having a cow, even though she’d already done that animal.
Whitney stared, concerned. Oh, this was bad. What was going on? Had Claire suddenly come down with food poisoning? Had her cat died that morning, and she’d only now been hit by the weight of its loss? (Wait. Did Claire have a cat? Whitney realized with a shock that she cared about Claire very much—that Claire had filled the space that Joanna had left behind, making the playgroup seven again, like they were meant to be—and yet Whitney knew scarcely anything about Claire’s day-to-day life.)
Within the span of a minute, fickle Rosie and her friends, the bigger children who had gathered and clapped enthusiastically at first, lost interest and drifted away, climbing on a nearby couch and jumping while Gwen tried to cajole them to keep listening to the music. Next to Whitney, Grant gave a little shake of his head and took a large sip of his drink, while some other adults whom Whitney didn’t know exchanged raised eyebrows. Outrage rose up in Whitney on Claire’s behalf—these strangers had no idea how talented she was, how sweet. How dare they judge her like this when it was clear that something else was going on?
Whitney tried to catch Claire’s eye to give her an encouraging smile, but the one time Claire’s glance landed on hers, Claire immediately looked away, her voice catching again. So Whitney sought out Amara’s eyes instead, and the two of them shot worried, befuddled looks at each other. Amara gave Whitney a nod. Action time. They picked up the shakers that Claire had tossed out, shook them enthusiastically, and sang along to the song with gusto. When the other playgroup women realized what was happening, they joined in. Daniel and Christopher did too. Whitney did a shimmy and grabbed Amara’s hand to twirl her. The kids jumping on the couch looked over, having second thoughts about their decision to leave.