by Josie Brown
Now, ten years later, I’ve no doubt Ted loves me. And yet I know better than to presume he’s finally fallen in love with me.
I can live with that. If I’ve learned anything at all, it’s that it is more important to measure Ted’s loyalty than his love.
DeeDee and Harry Wilder are proof of that.
4
“A dress that zips up the back will bring a
husband and wife together.”
—James H. Boren
Saturday, 2 Nov., 2:16 p.m.
Each of the dressing rooms in the Collectors department at the local Nordstrom looks like the Apollo Room in Catherine the Great’s Winter Palace in miniature. Gilt-framed mirrors line the walls from floor to ceiling. The settee is thickly upholstered and covered in silk brocade. The tufted carpet tickles underfoot so that you float, not walk, on a velvet cloud. Indirect lighting of a rosy hue gives your complexion a healthy, girlish glow. The raised panels on the doors are meant to give the impression that you are secure in this plush sanctuary.
But it is only an illusion.
In fact, the walls are paper-thin, allowing the Nordy shopgirl—or, for that matter, anyone within listening distance—to hear the murmur of zippers or the frustrated sighs that come with the disillusionment that one designer’s size four is another’s size six.
I have just smoothed on a Marc Jacobs sweater dress that is perfect for the event I have this evening—the board meeting for the Paradise Heights Women’s League—when I hear the sobs: breathy gulps of heartache that no amount of expensive couture can muffle. They’re coming from the next dressing room where, just a few minutes earlier, this very demanding customer sent her sales associate scurrying through the department in search of “whatever you have in Armani or Herve Leger, size zero, of course. . . .”
That alone would cheer me up, but not this poor soul.
Unlike my friend Brooke, eavesdropping is not my cuppa. And the very last thing I’d ever want to do is butt in when something is none of my business—
But someone needs to make sure this petite soul doesn’t drown in her own tears.
I tap gently on her door. “Hi, just wondering if everything is okay.”
She gasps before going silent. Then: “Yes, so sorry to have bothered you.”
“Oh, not at all. Please don’t feel you have to apologize. We all have our bad days.”
Slowly the door opens. DeeDee Wilder, eyes liner-smeared and glistening with tears, stares back at me. “Would you mind unzipping me?”
Speechless, I nod and close the door behind me. She avoids looking me in the eye or staring into the mirror because she knows she won’t like what she sees reflected from either point of view: pity from me, and her own despair. I made her soon-to-be ex cry yesterday. It must be Pavlovian. The Wilders get around me and they can’t hold back the tears.
I look around the room. There are three other dresses hanging there. I recognize one as Armani. A mannequin out front is wearing its twin. On another hanger is an Escada that was showcased in the storefront window. The dress she’s wearing is Michael Kors. I tug at the zipper but stop when I realize that it’s caught on the lining of the dress. Besides, her teary hiccups make it hard for me to nudge it along without the risk of tearing $1,800 worth of wool crepe.
“I’ve been so damn weepy lately! It’s so stupid, really. I guess that’s what happens when you are going through a nasty divorce.” She bites the gloss off her lower lip in an effort to calm down.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” I truly am. Upon hearing this, she relaxes enough for me to grasp the fabric from the inside and try again.
“Don’t be. I’ve never felt so—so frightened, and yet so relieved and exhilarated too.” She wipes away a tear. “He’s a hard worker, a good provider. He’s one of those guys everyone calls ‘perfect.’ But if I’m not happy around him—if I feel as if I’m trapped—then I guess he’s not perfect for me. I can’t live someone else’s ideal. So why waste time in a marriage that doesn’t make me happy?”
I don’t know how to answer her. Because I don’t know that answer myself. For her sake, I hope she’s thought it through. “You were that unhappy?”
She stares at herself in the mirror, as if seeing herself for the first time. “It took fifteen years, but it finally hit me: I don’t love him.”
Just like that? No, it’s never just like that. There is always the one thing that pushes you over the edge. . . .
Her eye catches mine in the mirror. Her smile is hard. “My God, just saying it out loud, it’s like a burden has been lifted off my shoulders!”
As she breathes in again, the zipper gets the last bit of traction it needs. I guide it slowly down her back. “There, it’s moving again.”
She steps out of the dress, all smiles again. “Thanks. Hey, do me a favor—”
Before she can finish her sentence, her cell phone rings. She holds up one hand that stops me from backing out the door as she fishes it out of her purse with the other. “Yes? Bethany? . . . He says he won’t? But . . . Damn him! He can be so vindictive. . . . Yes, I know it’s his ego. Well, he’s used to winning, to getting his way. But you’ve got to convince him that he’s not thinking about what’s best for the kids! My God, he won’t even know what to do with them. He’ll probably palm them off on an au pair. He’ll have to, if he wants to stay a partner. . . . I don’t care what he says, this has nothing to do with an affair. . . . Seriously, do you really want to know? . . . Ha! I thought not. Trust me, there is no way . . . Careful? Yes, I know.”
Angrily she tosses the cell back into her purse. Then, realizing I’m still there, she scoops up the three dresses that are hanging and hands them to me.
“I don’t like this one, but you can ring up the others for me, okay? I don’t think he’s thought of closing my account here, but just in case, you better do it fast.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to remind her that I’m not her salesclerk, that I’m her neighbor; that our sons play ball together, and our daughters dance in the same ballet class.
But what’s the use? The Heights is no longer DeeDee’s paradise.
It’s her war zone. And right now she doesn’t know friend from foe from shopgirl.
That’s smart on her part, because I haven’t made up my mind which side I’m on.
As my salesperson rings up the dress on my back, I hand off DeeDee’s frocks to her clerk with a thumbs-up, all the while wondering how many of the other dresses draped over the woman’s arm will make it onto Harry’s Nordstrom account before he realizes he’s even got one.
5
“Love is an irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired.”
—Robert Frost
6:36 p.m.
You’re a natural-born leader, you know? A natural. I’ve never met anyone like you! You say you were, what, in advertising? Account management, I’m guessing. . . . No? An art director? Well, that explains a lot. Like that natural flair you have for our big events. . . .”
Margot Hardaway, the president of the Paradise Heights Women’s League, thinks she has to sell me on the idea of being her successor.
And because I love being wooed, because I long to be desired, I’ve been playing hard to get all year long.
But the truth is, I want it just as badly as she wants me to have it.
“Keep talking.” I bat my lashes. “I can be had.”
Ted, who is refilling our margaritas, chokes back a snicker that causes him to tip the pitcher precariously over Margot’s head. I give him a look that says Shut your piehole, but he’s not buying it.
“Yeah, boy, I can vouch for that.” He catches his breath, puts on his poker face. “And, Margot, I’ll let you in on a little secret: if you bide your time long enough, she’s yours for the taking.”
“Oh, is that so?” Margot smirks knowingly. “Thanks for the tip, Ted.”
When she glances away, I give him a kick. That’s not exactly what I want Margot to hear.
It’s my
night to host her, along with the rest of the Paradise Heights Women’s League board: Brooke, of course, as well as Isabelle Randall, Tammy Satterfield, and Colleen Franklin. Board meetings used to take place in the tasting room of the one and only wine bar in Paradise Heights’s “resident-serving commercial district”: an apropos rendezvous, considering that our ironically named planned community shares a sun-drenched, mist-kissed valley with about thirty wineries. But on too many occasions, after too many sips of some trendy varietals, finding our way home through the Heights’s concentric maze of streets (pitched in the Paradise Heights real estate brochure as “Another reason why it’s the Pentagon of neighborhoods! It’s not for everyone, but isn’t that the point?”) became tantamount to running an obstacle course—especially for “all you tiny women in monster SUVs,” as Officer Fife, our extremely polite local police chief, put it after issuing his fourth DUI warning to as many board members.
By unanimous vote, the decision was made to cut out the driving as opposed to the drinking, which is why league board meetings now rotate among the board members’ homes, each of which contains three things necessary for such powwows: a husband relegated to running interference with whatever children are home at the time, a well-stocked wine cellar, and a state-of-the-art blender, therefore expanding our beverage choices.
Thus far only one board member has been too tipsy to find her way home after a member-hosted meeting, so the system has been deemed a success.
Margot—a former senior vice president of an IBM division that got downsized into oblivion, and she along with it—views the Paradise Heights Women’s League as her new executive suite. As its CEO, she has already begun to Peter Principle it to death. With just a year on the board under my belt, I’m the board’s newbie as well as its provost. As such, I’ve taken on a lot of the grunt work that the others (especially those who have been on it the longest) abhor, like reconciling Scrip receipts from the classroom moms and organizing the Annual July Fourth picnic.
The others hold loftier board titles than mine: treasurer (Colleen), sergeant at arms (Brooke), secretary (Tammy), and vice president (Isabelle). However, their productivity leaves a lot to be desired. As opposed to rolling up their sleeves and getting their hands dirty, they prefer to strategize (Colleen), delegate (Brooke), whine (Tammy), and, when all else fails, point fingers (Isabelle).
In Margot’s previous life, by now pink slips would have been handed out all around.
On the other hand, my can-do efficiency has positioned me as Margot’s go-to gal.
Her girl Friday.
Okay, yeah: her bitch.
That’s okay. I need to prove something to myself: that I’ve got style as well as substance.
That I am admired, appreciated, and beloved.
That I am desired.
If not by Ted, then by Margot and her posse. That’ll do for now, anyway.
“You know, Tammy will be disappointed if I skip over her for the nomination.” Margot leans in close, as if what she has to tell me is gossip gold, but I can see this for myself by all the anxious looks Tammy shoots our way. “She chaired a decent Valentine’s dance, but let’s face it, her handling of the Easter egg hunt was a travesty! She only dyed three thousand eggs—and in solid colors! No decoupage, no glitter, no tie-dye—nothing. I don’t have to tell you how disappointed I was. And the kids found them all in eight minutes flat. How anticlimactic.” She winces. “You, on the other hand, pulled off the July Fourth picnic with aplomb. The fireworks were spectacular. Those red, white, and blue wieners—sheer genius!”
“Why, thank you.” There’s no way I’m going to tell her that Tanner egged Mickey into putting blue food coloring into some of the pots of boiling hot dogs. That would blow her illusion of my creative flair to smithereens.
“In all fairness, though, Tammy had two projects to your one.” She goes in for the close. “So, how about if you take on one more? Something easy, just to cinch it.”
I brace myself: for all I know, she’s sending me to collect the broomstick of the Wicked Witch of the West.
“No biggie. Something simple, like running the Thanksgiving food drive.” Margot smiles. “All you need to do is inspire the community to collect a few thousand cans. A cakewalk! Not that you’ll even get close to breaking my record: 2,018 cans, if I remember correctly. Of course, if you do, the presidency is yours for the taking. So, you think you’re up for that?”
I’m too tipsy to say no. Besides, the presidency is nearly within my grasp.
I wonder if it comes with a tiara. . . .
7:53 p.m.
“Whoa, Tammy, look at those muscles! Flex ’em for me, babe, go on.”
Tammy accommodates Ted’s demand by taking off the sheer blouse she wears over her tight tank top and curling a taut, sinewy arm. When he rewards her with a wolf whistle, she feigns bashfulness by covering her eyes.
But no one is fooled. This is why she curls ten-pound barbells in twelve reps, four times each arm: so that other women’s husbands will admire her.
Including mine. I hate it when Ted flirts.
It wouldn’t be so bad if he weren’t so good at it. Or if he only flirted with me.
But no, that would be too much to ask.
Unlike some husbands who feel awkward in a room full of women, Ted loves being the cock of the walk. And because he knows I am completely and utterly assured of his loyalty, he openly flirts with my friends.
He does it with a certain smile on his face. You know the one. It promises more than he can deliver. I know this firsthand.
But Tammy doesn’t—until she sees the loving manner in which he unconsciously strokes my hair while complimenting Brooke on her last tennis game.
As Tammy follows the other women out the door, she sighs in my ear, “You are sooooooo lucky.”
Whereas she is not. Her Charlie’s bank account may be humongous, but his sperm bank is all but empty.
This gives her something else to whine about.
It also gives her the audacity to graze up against Ted on her way out the door.
If she thinks I didn’t see her, she’s crazy. Okay, now I have to be president. Just so I can kick her off the board.
9:44 p.m.
Vixen . . . I am a vixen . . . a sexy, vibrant vixen . . . a sultry—
“Hon, do me a favor and move your head a little to the right, okay? Otherwise you block the TV—What the hell is wrong with Kobe? That’s the second foul shot he’s missed!”
I sigh and open one eye in time to watch the odious Spurs race down the court with the ball. For the past ten minutes I’ve been straddling Ted’s cock—backward, froggy style—in the hope that all my gyrating will be just as riveting to him as the antics of his beloved home team.
As if. When will I ever learn that a close game between the Lakers and the Spurs brings him to orgasm faster than anything I can do to him?
A TV set in the master bedroom makes it convenient for Ted to watch basketball, but it has had a marked effect on our love life. His answer to this is to suggest that we subscribe to a porn channel to put us in the mood—not exactly what I have in mind for romantic stimuli.
Then again, neither is a subscription to NBA League Pass.
It’s been ten years since that day in the hot tub, when Ted confessed he wasn’t in love with me. Still, I steadfastly refuse to believe I can’t change his feelings. I figure it all comes down to one thing:
Keeping the passion alive.
My parents didn’t share that, and look what happened to them.
Since then I’ve been working my way through all seven parts, thirty-six chapters, and 1,246 verses of the Kama Sutra. Variety is the spice of life, right?
Wrong. When it comes to sex, Ted likes it missionary style. He takes that to mean he’s in control. Otherwise he views it as a spectator sport, albeit not half as stimulating as his precious Lakers.
If only Ted appreciated my moves as much as he admires Kobe’s. Come to think of it, maybe I should come
to bed wearing nothing but a Lakers jersey.
“Hey, I’ve got a pretty radical idea.” I mute the television. This makes Ted go wild-eyed, but at least I now have his undivided attention. “Why don’t we make love with the TV off?”
He squints as if contemplating that seriously, but I know better. Watching basketball is the way he unwinds, his release, his stressbuster. . . .
Whereas I’m just an annoying distraction.
Like when the TV is tuned to ESPN with color commentary by Bill Walton, who won’t shut up, I won’t give up.
I don’t need him to go soft on me to prove the point. If nothing else, at least while the TV is on I’m guaranteed a hard-on.
Then again, I have that with my dildo, sans Stu Lantz’s color commentary.
I flick the TV’s sound back on and take my dildo with me on the way to the guest room.
After five minutes of personal playtime, it dawns on me that I miss Stu.
I wish I could say the same about Ted.
6
“The majority of husbands remind me of an orangutan trying to play the violin.”
—Honoré de Balzac
Monday, 4 Nov., 10:13 a.m.
It is true that the Highlander Hybrid goes from zero to sixty in around 9.6 seconds.
However, the inverse of that—say, you’re driving at sixty miles an hour down Highway 101 in a rainstorm when you blow a tire—happens a little more slowly.
I am experiencing this now, as my Highlander hydroplanes out of control as yet another rain wave rolls under its chassis.
I eat up the first few seconds with some freaking out and swearing at myself for forgetting Ted’s warning about going too fast on bald tires. Then, oh, possibly another six seconds goes to slamming on the brakes and praying up a storm as the Highlander spins out of control. By the time it comes to a complete stop and my heart rate goes back down to normal, I’m guessing I’ve lost another twelve seconds.
Okay, I lied. My chest is still heaving twenty-two seconds later when I hear the tap on my window.