by Liza Palmer
“What’s up?” I ask.
“I’m so sorry, I know you’re busy,” Caroline says, shrugging off whatever persona she wore for the men in the living room.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got like twenty minutes before that coq au vin goes off.”
“Smells delicious.” Caroline’s voice is smooth and her diction is flawless. The Midwestern twang that gave away her humble beginnings is all but gone. Now she has the speech and manners of someone from the most elite echelons of society.
She downs her champagne, pulls a coaster over, and sets the empty flute down.
“Drink?” I ask, arching an eyebrow.
“Hell yes,” she says, gathering her long blond hair to one side. I walk to the drink cart in the den and pour us each a gulp of the whisky I got from another client. I extend a glass to Caroline. “Bless you.” I laugh and sit down opposite her, phone in hand, ready to jump into action.
“Hit me,” I say. I discovered Caroline nine years ago. After weathering too many Sexy but Doesn’t Know It parts in her twenties, Caroline was on the verge of obscurity. I poached her on the red carpet for some schlocky comedy she was in and by the end of business the next day I’d signed her. The first thing I advised—much to her agent’s chagrin—was to take a smaller part in a critically acclaimed indie film rather than play some schlubby sitcom guy’s nagging—but super hot—wife. It was the beginning of a lovely partnership.
“I left Max,” she says. Caroline married Max Walsh five years ago. He was an up-and-coming director, it was an epic romance, and the tabloids ate it up. They’ve been a Hollywood power couple ever since.
“What? What happened?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even.
“What do you think happened?” Caroline asks, finally looking at me.
Shit.
“Willa Lindholm?”
“Willa Lindholm.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“She’s not even twenty! Swedish. Has to learn her lines phonetically. Has legs up to here.” Caroline shoots her thin, muscular arm into the air. She leans across and takes my whisky. “And I doubt she’s the first.” She downs it.
“Does Max know you know?”
“The better question is, does he care?”
“Are there photos? Do we need to pay someone off?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I can have Ellen sniff around a bit.” I text Ellen a growing list of things that need to happen right now. The coq au vin isn’t the only thing about to go off in the next twenty minutes. Without looking up from my phone I continue, “We have a little over two months until Blue Christmas opens. Your marriage breaking up as you publicize a huge romantic comedy that opens on Christmas Day is not the best timing in the world.” Caroline winces at the words “breaking up.” A text back from Ellen. No chatter about Caroline and Max at the moment, but she’s standing by. “Is Max interested in keeping this under wraps until Blue Christmas comes out? Even if he just walked the red carpet at the premiere. It would benefit both of you.”
“Honestly, I don’t think I can stomach standing next to him and smiling for the cameras.” I nod.
“Okay…” My mind is reeling. Messages from Ellen are zooming in much like the CNN news ticker on the day of a natural disaster, although half of her messages are just emojis, so …
“You guys had talked about adopting, right?”
“Yeah…” Caroline is wary.
“Would you be open to pursuing that on your own?”
“I don’t think so. I … I wanted it to be something Max and I did together,” Caroline says. “Oh my god. I can’t believe this is happening.” She stands and pours herself a much bigger swig of whisky. Drinks it. And pours another.
“Because then the conversation becomes about what a survivor you are and look at the cute baby and booooo, Max, how could he…”
“No, I know.” She walks back over to her chair. Her steps are careful. Right about now she’s realizing just how drunk she is. She eases herself into the chair. “Feels shitty, you know? Baby as prop?”
“You wouldn’t be the first,” I say.
“Max is kind of adopting a baby.” Caroline waits. “Get it?”
“Yep.”
“That Willa is so young, that—”
“Yep.”
“And they say I’m not funny.” Caroline toasts herself.
“You’re hilarious,” I say.
“I’ve got a million of ’em,” she says, her words slurring.
“So, you left Max? That was the order of things?”
“I left him after I found out he fucked the Swedish Fish, yes.”
“So, he didn’t leave you.”
“I mean, he’s cheating on me, so in a sense…”
“Have you already started the proceedings?”
“What?”
“Have you gotten in touch with your lawyer yet? To start proceedings?”
“Proceedings. Proceedings. Proceedings.”
“I don’t know what—”
“Such a funny word.”
“Caroline?” She’s still mouthing the word “proceedings.” “Are you going to file for divorce?” The door to the den creaks open. It’s Leah.
“So sorry. Some alarm went off? Is it—”
“It’s the egg noodles.” A look from Caroline. “Gluten free.” A relieved nod. “Just take them off the stove top and put them through the colander already in the sink,” I say.
“Egg noodles. Off the stove top. Colander. Got it,” Leah repeats.
“And Leah?” She pops her head back in. “Can you turn down the coq au vin a smidge?”
“What’s a smidge?” Leah asks.
“A hair.”
“I don’t—”
“Maybe one click on the dial. Like—” I turn my hand. “Like that much.” Leah mimics my turn. I nod.
“Will do. So sorry to interrupt.” Leah closes the door behind her.
“It’s so cliché,” Caroline says.
“Serving coq au vin at a dinner party?”
“I’m not the only one who’s hilarious apparently,” Caroline says, cracking herself up. “No, the whole Willllllllla Lindholm thing.”
“I know.”
“What’s my cliché?”
“What do you mean?” Another text from Ellen. And another. She’s acquired more information on Max and Willa, where they are, what they’re doing, and has attached grainy photos of them right at this moment. They’re together, but they’re not yet together. It’s at times like these that I am very thankful Ellen is on our side.
“What do I do now that people would go … oh, look at Caroline Lang, howwwww cliché,” Caroline says, now slumped a bit over in her chair. “Now that I’m officially the woman scorned.”
“You could go out to the hot clubs in age-inappropriate dresses and drunkenly hook up with whatever kid is bulking up to star in the newest superhero movie.”
“Ugh, that just sounds exhausting. And sticky.” Laughing, I finally look up from my phone. Caroline is studying the dwindling whisky in her glass. Watching it swirl around and around and around. “Do you think instead of going out to these clubs or whatever, this kid would want to come over to my house and watch TV in our pajamas? Please tell me that’s what kids today are doing?” I look at her for a long moment.
“You’re stalling,” I say.
“If you told me Max was going through a phase, I’d believe you.” Caroline meets my eyes. Pain.
“I know.”
“So say it.”
“We promised never to lie to one another.”
“Ouch.”
“Caroline…”
“I don’t want a divorce, but Max doesn’t want to be married to me anymore.” Caroline doesn’t know what to do with her hands. She finally folds her hands in her lap like a little kid waiting to have her school picture taken. “So…”
“Okay,” I say.
“Have I ever told you how we met?”
“Caroline.” I pull my chair closer to her and look her straight in the eye. “Are you ready to file for divorce?”
“I don’t know.” Caroline stands, sways, and then begins to pace. “Do you think Willa Lindholm knows that this is how it’s going to be for her, too? There’s always another Willa Lindholm. Always. I’m going to call her. I’m going to tell her. Help her. This is what they call leaning in, right?” Caroline bends over, digging through her purse for her phone. And then she stops. “I’m going to be sick.” I help her back into her seat. “I can see the headlines now. It’s a Blue Christmas for Caroline Lang! PS: Did she get older and fatter overnight?”
“You’re going to be okay,” I say.
“Sure doesn’t feel like it.”
“The whisky probably isn’t helping.”
“The whisky is the only thing helping, you mean.” Caroline looks up and extends a hand. “And you.” I take her hand.
“You’re going to vomit, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” Caroline lurches to the bathroom and retches into the toilet just in time. “I’ll get in touch with my lawyer tomorrow,” she says, still kneeling at the toilet.
“Good,” I say. Caroline stands, washes her hands, and rinses out her mouth. She walks back into the den a little worse for wear. “Is Richard driving you tonight?”
Richard is not just Caroline’s driver. Two years ago, Caroline had a break-in at her house. Some nutjob was positive they were married in a past life. Richard Bernard, a former Navy SEAL, was hired the next day. For being someone who can kill you in less than three seconds—if that—Richard is a rather ordinary-looking man. No more than five foot eight, he’s probably in his mid to late forties with salt-and-pepper, tightly cropped black hair and an always clean-shaven face. You don’t even notice him. I guess that’s the point.
“Yes,” she says. “He’s right out front.” I nod and we make our way out of the den and down the hallway.
“I’ve got this,” I say.
“I know you do.” I smile. “I’m sorry I interrupted your dinner.” Another smile.
“Maybe a new hairstyle?” I say. Caroline nods. “And tell your stylist that for the next two months we’re going to go for color, youth, and a whole new attitude. But, respectful. You know what I mean.”
“That it didn’t get to me. You want me to be…”
“Plucky.”
“Plucky,” Caroline repeats.
“We just have to make it to Christmas Day,” I say.
“I’ve always wanted bangs,” Caroline says.
Caroline slurs her goodbyes to my dinner guests. Richard and I pour her into the awaiting Escalade and I’m back in the kitchen.
“So Caroline Lang,” Leah says.
“She was one of my first clients,” I say.
“No, I mean. I know why she was here.”
“What have you heard?”
“The girl who does her makeup said something to me, but—”
“What do you know?”
“That they’re having problems.” Leah’s voice sounds sad.
“So, it’s just that? That they’re having issues?” I ask.
“I mean—I’ve seen Willa Lindholm. The girl he’s doing that new movie with? I did her makeup for this event earlier this year. She’s really captivating. Perfect skin,” Leah says. Nanette is nodding in agreement.
“What does Willa Lindholm have—”
“Oh, please, they’re definitely sleeping together,” Leah says.
“Did your friend tell you that?” I ask.
“She didn’t have to,” Leah says.
“Hm,” I say. Leah and Nanette nod. Leah looks at her phone.
“The makeup girls start gossiping and it starts buzzing through the tabloids in—”
“Two days,” I say. Leah looks up from her phone.
“Maybe three,” she says.
“Shit.”
“I feel a real connection with Caroline Lang,” Nanette says, her palms up and outstretched. I nod. And then we stand in silence for the next several moments as Leah watches her mother putting the twins to bed from some app on her phone. I sneak glances at Nanette and she looks utterly contented just to stand there. An elegant sigh here and a musing smile there, she couldn’t be happier.
Nanette Peterman is the woman men describe as “sweet.”
I won’t do it, I say to myself. I won’t do it. I can’t. I … I look at the clock on the wall and see that the coq au vin won’t be ready for another three minutes. I take a deep breath.
“So, how’s Sugar?”
“We’re still trying to get her an appointment with Dr. Mukhopadhyay, so…”
“Oh, no. I hope everything is—”
“Everyone says she’s the best dog therapist in L.A.”
This is my own fault. I should have fucking known not to ask.
The coq au vin bubbles away. I send Leah out with the salad and egg noodles. The crusty baguette that only the men will eat is sent out with Nanette. I tell them I’ll be right out with the main dish but to go ahead and start serving the salad without me. I tap out several texts to Ellen about Caroline and plug my phone into the charger next to the toaster.
“Do you want red, Liv?” Adam asks, coming into the kitchen.
“Yes. Yes, please.”
“Hey, good news.”
“Oh?” One last text to Ellen. She zooms back with the running-man emoji with a puff of air behind him. I’ve learned that this is her “I’m on it” emoji combination.
“Yeah, Jacob has only asked me once how my wife ‘keeps it tight,’ so … we’re right on track for me being utterly disenchanted with my hero come the end of the night.”
“Oh, honey,” I say.
“Please tell me I won’t turn out like that,” he says, leaning back on the kitchen counter.
“What? Of course not.” I wrap my arms around him. He pulls me in tight and kisses the top of my head. I can feel him shaking his head. I pull away from him and look him straight in the eye. He looks away. “You hate dogs.” A smile. He kisses me.
“God, she is an idiot. Like officially.” I pat his chest and take the coq au vin off the flame. Adam brings down the serving dish from the top shelf.
“Thank you, baby.” I transfer the coq au vin to the serving dish. I send it out with Adam. He gives me a wink as he disappears back into the dining room.
The quiet of the kitchen settles in around me. It’s nice. I look at my phone. So many texts. From Ellen. She’s checked with her sources.
The story is getting out. Caroline Lang and Max Walsh are dunzo.
“I don’t want a divorce, but Max doesn’t want to be married to me anymore,” I repeat Caroline’s words. Hear them aloud in the quiet of the kitchen. I say the line again. “I don’t want a divorce, but Max doesn’t want to be married to me anymore.” I pick up my glass of wine. Take a long drink.
Caroline never mentioned love as she spoke about the end of her marriage. Not once. Whether she still loved Max. Adam calls for me from the other room.
“Just a sec,” I yell back.
No, this is good. Love makes things messy. Caroline not factoring it into these proceedings works to our advantage.
TOMATO, TOMAHTO
“Oh, he’s totally cheating. Wouldn’t you?” Leah asks. The men avert their eyes, acting as though Leah’s just speaking to the other women at the table. “Oh, come on. Can you imagine being married to THAT?” I drink my wine.
“Caroline Lang is a that?” I ask.
“It’s just so relentless with her. She’s so icy,” Leah presses.
“I think she’s gorgeous,” Nanette says.
“Well, that’s undeniable,” Leah says, looking to Gregory for a reaction.
“Greg. I implore you. Don’t say a word. Your life has never been more in jeopardy than it is right now,” Adam says, laughing.
“I’ve always thought she was quite sexy, in that—I don’t know, like it’s kind of natural with her, you know?” Gr
egory says, pushing his glasses farther up his nose. I’m always surprised at how tall Gregory is. He seems so much smaller to me. Smartly cropped black hair, a wardrobe filled with oxford cloth shirts, and gaining an average of ten pounds a year, Gregory Werner is every wealthy man who is just attractive enough to have his pick of any woman. I’ve known him for going on ten years and I’m still not quite sure what he does for a living.
“Natural?? Are you serious?” Leah says, setting down her wineglass. Adam just shakes his head.
“You know, like it—”
“If you say ‘effortless’ right now, I may just have to throw this wine in your face,” Leah says, only half laughing. I, of course, know that Leah will be mumbling “natural” to herself while scoffing and monologuing for the next several months, if not years. “Caroline has never had an effortless thought in her entire life.” Of course, Leah is 100 percent correct. Caroline hasn’t been effortless in decades. I keep this tidbit to myself.
“It’s her job to look the way she does. She gains a pound and the tabloids start with the baby bump rumors,” I say.
“I love those rumors,” Nanette says.
“But does Caroline have to constantly remind us how hard it is to be that beautiful? You know? Have a piece of chocolate cake, why don’t you?” Leah says.
“Oh, because you eat chocolate cake all the time?” The one time I bought gluten-free, vegan chocolate cake for Leah’s birthday she took one bite, pushed it away, and pronounced it “too rich.”
“You guys are really making me want chocolate cake,” Adam says.
“I’m just saying, look up Joyless Ice Queen in the dictionary and there’s a picture of Caroline Lang standing there with a bunch of kale and a yoga mat,” Leah says. The table erupts in laughter.
What Leah wants is for Caroline to toe the party line like the rest of us. We Instagram pictures of lush, gluttonous brunches that we don’t eat and make jokes about how our husbands better not want that last piece of a pie we have no intention of having and act like it’s a spontaneous, last-minute choice not to have dessert. Ever. And while working out is definitely something we all do for the mental benefits as well as the physical, I doubt any of us will admit that our need for it borders on the compulsive.