by Gina Messina
Is she fucking kidding me?
Dismissing Carrie’s comment with a flash of her middle finger, she spun around on her very high heels and teetered out of the bathroom. She was eager to get back to Sean and to Stacey. She wouldn't admit it to anyone, least of all Carrie, but she didn't trust the two of them alone together.
She was in such a rush to get back to the table, she hadn’t been paying attention to where she was going. The next thing she knew she collided right into her mother.
“I don’t care for your boyfriend,” her mother blurted out.
Take a fucking number, Charlie thought before pivoting on her heels and walking away. She would have given her the middle finger, too, but even she had a very fine line she wouldn't cross when it came to her parents and flipping her mother the bird was one of them. “Well happy birthday to me,” she responded at last, not attempting to hide the sarcasm in her voice.
If that hadn’t been awkward enough, when she got back to the dining room it was as she’d expected. Stacey was practically sitting in Sean’s lap. His lips were just inches from her sister’s engorged breasts. Her father wasn’t paying attention as he was on his cell phone, engrossed in a call that she was fairly certain he’d made as soon as her mother had retreated for the ladies’ room.
“Yes, I’ll definitely see you tomorrow night at our usual spot,” she heard him whisper into the mouthpiece. She knew he wasn’t talking to a golf buddy. Charlie’s twenty-first birthday had turned into a disaster. She could smell the all too recognizable stench of infidelity in the air.
She leaned into Sean and muttered, “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” then pulled her sister off him by the back of her blouse. Reluctantly, he got up from the table, acting as if nothing unusual had occurred despite the presence of an obvious erection looming in his trousers. Charlie pretended not to notice. Not because it didn’t bother her but because she didn't want to fight with him on her birthday. Besides, in her mind, it was all her sister's fault. At that moment, Charlie needed to get away from her family so that the rest of the night could be salvaged. Certainly Sean had something special planned for later that evening. After all, how many times does one celebrate such a milestone birthday? Charlie had no idea that only worse things were in store for her when they got back to her apartment.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Men tell me that I’ve saved their marriages.
It costs them a fortune in shoes, but it’s cheaper than a divorce.”
Manolo Blahnik
“So, your sister went to the Harvard School of Law” Dr. Harrison asked at their next session with an air of incredulity and complete admiration. It sounded more like a statement then a question so Charlie pretended she hadn’t heard her. So many things happened that night and that's what she wants to talk about?
“That’s very impressive,” the doctor continued when she realized she wasn’t going to get a reply. “It must have been difficult living under such a looming shadow.”
Shut up. Shut up. Shut up, Charlie recited in her head while trying to control her looming rage. Just keep your fucking mouth shut. This is all that she latched onto from last week? she disbelievingly asked herself. Why does that bitch always seem to walk in the spotlight?
“Did your sister always get what she wanted?” Dr. Harrison pressed. Charlie practically puked when she flashed back to the late summer afternoon when she’d walked in on her sister enthusiastically blowing Sean in the walk-in kitchen pantry of their Manasquan beach house. It was bar none, the worst day of her life.
“Is there anything she took from you, Charlie?”
Charlie couldn’t think of one thing her sister hadn’t taken from her and the anger she felt toward Stacey started to bubble over.
“Fuck you, Dr. Harrison!” she screamed at the top of her lungs, then jumped to her feet. “Fuck you and the fucking ship your descendants came in on! And fuck your ugly Birkenstocks, too!” she juvenilely howled before racing for the door. Secretly, Charlie was hoping Dr. Harrison would stand up and stop her. Maybe even slap her hard across the face. But sadly, she didn’t. Instead, she gazed up at her with a blank expression and reached for her prescription pad to write out another script. Charlie wanted to rip the little blue square of paper into a million little pieces and fling it back in her doctors face but couldn’t bring herself to pass on the drugs. She only had a few valiums left and even fewer Xanax and still had to get through the long weekend ahead. Against her better judgement, she greedily grabbed it from her doctor’s hand without making eye contact then charged out the room and slammed the door hard behind her in the hopes that the impact would knock off at least one of those useless diplomas hanging on the wall.
“Mrs. Murphy!” she heard Sally call out when she reached the bank of elevators, “You forgot to book next week’s session.” Charlie jumped into the waiting elevator, trying to gain control of her emotions.
“Fuck next week!” she screamed through the narrowing slit of the closing doors while feeling an absurd desire to cry. “And fuck you too, Sally,” she added for good measure while thinking, I’m going to seriously have a nervous breakdown.
When the elevator dumped her into the lobby, she raced onto the busy sidewalk waving her arm high above her head. “Taxi,” she yelled out so loudly, it sounded as if she’s been run over by one. She knew where she was headed and was determined to get there in light speed time.
“Barneys!” she screeched out to the driver before she even closed the door then slumped back into the well-worn seat that smelled like greasy take-out food and body odor. A little shoe shopping will be my therapy; she justified to herself. Who needs Dr. Harrison when I have Dr. Barney? Just two or three pairs of insanely gorgeous shoes should do the trick.
Pushing her tinted designer sunglasses up onto her head, she whipped out her iPhone and speed dialed Marco, the only man in her life that she could rely on. She needed to alert him of her impending arrival so he’d have time to gather all of her trinkets. Her feel good goodies. Sean’s going to go ballistic when he gets next month’s credit card statement, she glibly mused to herself before experiencing a momentary rush of abundant satisfaction. Fuck Sean too!
If there is one thing Charlie had learned in the retail mecca that is New York City, it was that she simply had to have a personal shoe shopper. Preferably a gay man like Marco. And even if not part of the masculine universe, it was absolutely key, so you never ran the risk of the hottest shoe being confiscated by the staff. God-forbid Charlie walked around in last-season’s heels! She needed Marco to save her from that horrible fate. Being gay just sweetened the pot! Besides, what gay man didn’t have an incredible eye for shoes?
Charlie had met him years ago at Bloomingdales when she was a college freshman, after David, but before she had Sean footing the bill for her feet. When Barneys aggressively recruited Marco, Charlie trailed him like a lovesick puppy dog. As far as personal shoppers went, Marco ranked right up there with Hollywood’s celebrity A-list stylists and Charlie worked hard to keep him wrapped around her little pinky. Besides Sean, he was the only man that she had ever stalked. He was also the first person who got a Christmas card from her each year and she always made sure she included a generous gift certificate to the trendiest new restaurant in the village where he lived with his partner. He was so worth the small fortune she doled out to keep him happy. This token of appreciation always insured that he would secretly squirrel away the most sought-after shoes of the season long before they went on sale. Even the Bloomie’s exclusive VIP customers would be shut out, making the ‘Botox-injected’ society women of the Upper East Side mad with envy.
As the cab made its way downtown, Charlie couldn’t shake the disgusting image of Stacey on her knees with her face buried in Sean’s crotch and her wet string bikini that had left water stains on the newly imported Brazilian wood floors. Charlie would never be able to forget how his hands had clawed at her sister’s salty damp hair and how her head bobbed up and down like a Pez disp
enser. Charlie used to collect Pez dispensers when she was a child, but now she could barely walk past a candy shop without dry heaving at the sight of one of them.
Of course, they both adamantly denied that anything inappropriate had gone on…that she was mistaken about what she had seen. Who could mistake a blow job! It wasn’t like Stacey was fixing his zipper with her teeth.
No, Charlie knew what she had witnessed. At least, she thought she knew what she’d seen. It was the first time she had actual proof of Sean’s fooling around because she’d observedd it with her own eyes. Before, when she’d suspected he was cheating on her, he’d been so damn adept at planting little seeds of doubt deep in her mind and watering them daily until they sprouted into full-bloomed confusion.
“I thought you went to the market to pick up the apple pie for dessert?” Stacey had barely choked out with her lips all chapped and raw looking. Charlie knew they weren’t irritated from the sun because Stacey was always overly conscientious about using sunscreen and wearing a wide brimmed hat.
“I forgot my shopping list!” Charlie replied as if it was an ordinary afternoon of running errands and catching her husband getting sucked off by her very own sister. Charlie was most definitely in shock-blindsided even. Sean, on the other hand, acted like everything was normal. He casually thanked Stacey for offering to help him find the olives for her mid-day martini. Then he reached down and discreetly adjusted the suddenly flaccid package in his garish Bermuda shorts.
It was then that Charlie finally lost it and came out of the fog that had momentarily engulfed her mind. “Really!” she shrieked. “Olives? That’s the very best you can do? You’re a sick bastard! You know goddamn well I keep the fucking olives in the refrigerator with the other condiments, not in your pants!”
They both looked at her as if she were speaking in tongues.
“Unless, of course, the olives were shoved in between your balls, Sean, then I guess Stacey did a stupendous job finding them for you,” she screamed, the spit flying out of her mouth like a lawn sprinkler. “You can both go to fucking hell!” she continued to rant, running from the pantry in her new Tory Burch flip flops with Sean and Stacey trailing behind her.
“Don’t yell at me, Charlotte,” he called after her in a commanding voice. The way that he spat out her name made her feel as if it were the most repulsive word he’d ever uttered.
He’s disgusted with me? Me! Charlie couldn’t believe it-any of it. And at that moment something inside of her snapped. She swung around to face him. “It’s CHARLIE for fuck’s sake!” she cried while pounding her fists against his bare chest. “And who the hell are you to tell me what to do when you’re balling my fucking sister! You crossed the line big time, you sick fucking psycho!” she yelled while flying up the stairs two steps at a time, to hide in her bedroom with the sole intention on spending the rest of the night inventorying her summer shoes and her life, in that order.
“What line is that, Charlotte?” she heard him ask as he followed her. “Just what line are you referring too? I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about and you owe both your sister and me a serious apology.”
What I owe both of you is a painful end to your lives.
“I wish you were both dead!” she screamed back at him before slamming her bedroom door in their faces. Charlie could hear Layla begin to howl from the nursery down the hall, but she wasn’t going to open the door, not even for her crying daughter. The nanny would just have to take care of her. Charlie needed to take care of herself at the moment. And right then, what she needed most, was to not feel anything.
The next morning, when Charlie woke up, Stacey was gone.
Just as she was entering the kitchen she could hear Sean talking to Layla who was babbling in her playpen. “Let’s take mommy shopping today, my little shamrock Princess,” he cooed into her tiny ear and then looked up at Charlie expectantly with a sheepish smile. She stared back at him in utter disgust before wearily popping a Paxil and washing it down with her morning coffee.
“Sean, if you think a shopping extravaganza is going to fix this then you’re sorely mistaken,” she despairingly shot back before briefly speculating as to what kind of shopping he exactly had in mind then quickly chastised herself for having even considered it. What the fuck is wrong with me?
Sean’s smile disappeared and he regarded her with a look of contempt, shaking his head and mumbling under his breath. She couldn’t make out what he was saying but she responded just the same.
“You can go blow yourself for all I care,” she muttered back, then grabbed the car keys from the kitchen counter and gathered up Sean’s shamrock princess for the two-hour car ride back to Manhattan. As she was heading into the garage with Layla perched under her arm like a much coveted quilted Chanel clutch and her bags packed and loaded into the Mercedes, Sean turned on Charlie, a distinct callous edge to his voice.
“You’ve been acting crazy since you stopped breast feeding!”
This time Charlie heard him but she had no idea what the fuck he was talking about. She’d never even breastfed Layla. Sean had demanded that she bottle-feed their daughter so that her breasts wouldn’t be pulled, prodded and stretched. He insisted on perky breasts and the birth of his own child wasn’t a good enough reason to risk saggy tits.
“And your raging hormones are making you paranoid,” he then added while running his fingers through his disheveled hair, “Plus that extra fifteen pounds you can’t seem to shake has done a real number on your self-esteem.”
Charlie was fairly certain she also heard him irritably say, “Join a gym for the love of God!” when she was leaning into the car and strapping Layla into her baby seat. Sean was always on her to lose the baby weight. He thought he was helping her by constantly monitoring what she put in her mouth and insisting on weekly weigh-ins, but it just made her want to stop trying. She grew to dread Monday mornings when he would stand over her and peer at the scale, inputting her weekly weight loss or gain data into his trusty iPhone app.
After that pantry incident, it had taken her over a year to step one foot in their beach house. For Charlie, it was a matter of avoiding the pain. For Sean, it was a matter of convenience. With the cat away, the mouse most definitely played. Their beach house turned into a revolving door of women. It became the perfect place for him to carry on with his numerous affairs.
When Janie pointed this out to Charlie during a conversation they were having regarding Sean’s inability to keep his cock in his pants, Charlie vowed to spend the entire next summer in Manasquan. Unfortunately for her, this plan miserably backfired. With Charlie there to watch his every move, Sean spent only one weekend at the beach house that season. He suddenly had an insurmountable amount of work (or mountable number of women) at the office and had to stay in Manhattan, conveniently leaving him with the exclusive use of their apartment to conduct his sordid business. She’d been at a loss of what to do. How could she be in two places at once?
So she did what any self-respecting conniving wife would do under the circumstances and followed him back to the city. Once again, Charlie had become Sean’s shadow. The only difference now was that she hated the person she’d become. This was all Sean’s fault. He’d done this to her. Sean had created this monster and he was the one who had to live with the consequences.
The first Monday evening after she caught her sister giving him a blow-job, Sean came home from work and gave Charlie her first piece of significant jewelry. It was a diamond and sapphire tennis bracelet; one that to this day, she has never worn. It was the most gorgeous thing she’d ever seen and the ugliest at the same time. Somehow, when he laid that sparkling bracelet around her wrist, it had been the most offensive thing he’d ever done to her-worse than the humiliating affairs he did little to hide. That beautiful bracelet remained in her jewelry box along with the many other unworn trinkets that built up with each indiscretion, until she could no longer close the lid of the large red, velvet-lined box. Like his lies and decept
ions, the peace offerings accumulated like the ice accumulated around her heart.
But it wasn’t only Sean that played the part of a loyal, loving husband so well. So did Stacey. Several weeks later she called Charlie to discuss their parent’s upcoming anniversary as if nothing had happened. When Charlie tried to talk about the pantry incident with her, Stacey became self-righteous and defensive.
“I have nothing to say to you, Charlie,” she vehemently declared. “And if you insist on bringing it up again, I’m going to hang up the phone.” Charlie begged her for an explanation and an apology but there was just silence on the other end of the line. She was talking to dead air for five minutes before she came to the sad realization that Stacey had been true to her word and long ago hung up on her. Stacey had trumped her again!
When Charlie entered Barneys, Marco and Anna, his mousy assistant, were standing at attention in the vast entryway. He walked up to her and gave her a kiss on each cheek then held her at arm’s length and looked into her eye’s. “How are you, Charlie?” he asked, as if he sensed something was off. It sounded more like a test than an inquiry of her well-being.
He probably feels that my mood will determine how much of Sean’s money I’ll be dropping today, she calculated to herself then imagined how his eyes would light up depending on her answer. ‘Sean fucked me over!’ Cha-ching, cha-ching, cha-ching. ‘I’m really pissed!’ Cha-ching, cha-ching. ‘I’m feeling blue today,’ sadly, but just one cha-ching, although probably still a fair commission for her favorite personal shopper.
“I’m in pain,” she announced while speculating how many cha-ching’s that would get according to Marco’s calculations. She guessed two. “It’s my stupid therapist,” she continued, “It’s like she wants to punish me for my poor choices in life. Like I’ve been found guilty even before there’s been a trial!”
Charlie imagined standing before a judge and being sentenced: “I hereby remand you into custody for a term of six years of therapy for the crime of fucking for shoes,” he would say as he pounded his gavel. Then he might add that she was to report for one hour of therapy each week until such time the court would deem just and equitable with good behavior taken into account for each day she resisted the urge to go shopping!