Chapter 4
The Trophy Wives Club meets Wednesday nights at a local church hall. The wrinkled flyer said so. I’ve driven by this church a million times, but never noticed it was here. Probably all those nightmare Sunday mornings I had under Mrs. Kensington’s guidance. She was the kind of woman who had a shelf for a chest, and her body seemed to break off into oblivion under an oversized floral gown. That woman scared me. How come church people can be so scary? Come to think of it, I never did see Mr. Kensington. I wonder if the authorities ever looked into that?
I’d thought I’d thrown the flyer out. Let’s face it, I meant to. The last thing I needed in my life was more advice from Hamilton Lowe, but I found it still crumpled in my handbag. An odd circumstance, but one I’m willing to concede to if I can unlock the secret to a great divorce settlement.
I imagine a bunch of dried-up old women, bitter and without Botox, lamenting how their husbands got away, but if they’re well dressed, and their foreheads are stagnant, I’ll know right away their settlements were decent, and I made the right choice in coming.
The church is packed, like there’s some kind of live concert going on. I’m flagged in by a clean-cut man in khakis and an orange vest carrying a flashlight. This is what the AV kids in school do when they grow up. As I look around, I see families getting out of the cars, their Bibles clutched to their chest. There’s a tiny pang, I admit.
I don’t have a Bible. I begin to feel like I did that night I found out Hollywood didn’t wear sequins. I get out of the car, and a man says hello and stares too long. His wife gives him a dirty look, and he runs off chasing her. Okay. This is not going well so far.
I’ve decided tonight is the moment to embrace my tacky side and show how poverty-stricken I’ve been left. I’m wearing ratty Keds, from before my wedding, and Levi’s from college. I refuse to dress the part of trophy wife. I am Skipper: her younger, shorter sister with ghastly clothes and pocketbook.
Like salmon swimming upstream, all the people go directly to their rooms, and I’m left in the hallway at the last door. The handwritten sign on the door reads TWC, as though it’s an undercover group, like AA for the badly married set. I pause and take a deep breath.
I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be a part of this group. Why didn’t I marry a simple man? I could have thrown cocktail parties for people who need new windows and dine on BBQ-sauced weenies out of Crock Pots. I open the door and welcome their stares, as they assess their newest member. That’s it. Drink it in, there’s not a designer label on me. Show me the money!
There are five of them. An older lady, a striking blonde of about fifty (probably sixty-five, but with the work, she looks fifty), the matriarch of the group I’m assuming, stands up. She has a warm smile. She reaches her arms toward me like a long-lost friend.
“Welcome,” she says, taking my hands and clutching them tightly. It’s been so long since anyone truly touched me with that kind of warmth, it’s disconcerting. I flinch and pull my hands away. “You’re here for the”—she lowers her voice—“the trophy wife club?”
I nod. She notices my shoes and immediately averts her gaze. That was nice. Maybe I’m not as strong and self-reliant as I’d hoped because what I wouldn’t give for a pair of Donald Pliners at the moment.
“I’m Elizabeth Taylor. Not the Elizabeth Taylor, obviously.” She rubs my shoulder (she’s really into the touchy-feely thing). “You can call me Bette. We are so glad to have—” She flashes her eyes, waiting for my name.
“Haley Cutler.”
Bette exhales deeply. A few of the women nod, and I hear a few audible gasps.
“Yes, that Haley Cutler,” I say.
“So…Jay Cutler?” A brunette asks.
I nod.
“I’m so sorry, sweetie.” She stands up. “I’m Penny, it’s a pleasure.” I reach out for her hand and shake it. Penny is a petite brunette with huge, exotic brown eyes and thick, dark ringlets of hair cascading on her shapely shoulders. She must do Pilates. She’s in that kind of shape. Strong and wholly female. I hate her already.
“He’s not the first husband she’s stolen,” a redhead says.
“And most likely won’t be the last,” another blonde comments. “I think some women collect them like human charm bracelets.”
“Ladies,” Bette says in a tone not unlike Mrs. Kensington’s from my childhood. “Let’s try to remain Christian in our talk.”
Like I said, I may not remember much about my Sunday school days, but the Bible was full of loose women. Hollywood had nothing on the Hebrews.
The redhead reaches her hand out. I can’t tell if she’s natural or not, but her brilliant red hair is eye-catching and ominous. I don’t even want to know who her husband left her for. She’s not the kind of woman you want in the same room during a party, let’s put it that way.
“Helena Brickman,” she says. “My husband is not sure if marriage is for him. I think his girlfriend isn’t sure either, and he tends to take her side in these matters.” She rolls her dark green eyes. “And he wants alimony, if you can believe it.” She shrugs. “C’est la vie. We know your story—at least part of it that we saw played out on the red carpet. Is there no decorum anymore? I ask you! Anyway, I figured you’d want to know ours so you’d know you’re not alone.”
“They’re not all so dramatic, Haley. I promise,” Bette says. “Let her sit down, ladies. Give her a chance to breathe before you pummel her with information and scare the life out of her.”
I wish these women weren’t nice. I’m not here for nice. I was hoping for younger, prettier versions of Mrs. Kensington. That woman could have entered the lions’ den, and I don’t think she would have needed God’s help. She’d just take them down with that glare of hers! I’m here for information. How to get Jay where it hurts—in that leather heart he wears in his back pocket.
These women don’t look like they could hurt an accountant, much less pinch the wallet out of his pocket. They’re not remotely as threatening as Mrs. Kensington. I go over the questions in my mind so I don’t miss my opportunity:
How much money exactly do tabloids pay for inside information?
How do I approach Jay and Hamilton, or do I make the first move and stealthily throw out the first number?
No, Jay says never throw out the first number. It’s the first rule of negotiation.
“I’m Lily Tseng,” an Asian woman pipes up. She looks like an international film star, and she’s dressed to the nines. Her clothes are expensive; if I had to guess I’d say Michael Kors: structured and elegant, with the slightest bit of fabric to add feminism. I wonder what she’d think of my giraffe boots, or if she ever wore sequins in her life. Somehow, I doubt it.
I have to say if these are the wives, I’d love to see the room full of the other women because this seems like a support group of women who might say, “I’m too beautiful to be loved.”
Blech.
“Well, please sit down. We’ll finish the introductions and talk about our weeks and how we’ve done with our assignments. Can I get you some coffee, Haley?” Bette asks, and I shake my head. “We’ll introduce ourselves and tell you a little about our individual situations, so you don’t feel so out of the loop. Helena, you want to go first since you already started?”
They pull their chairs so there’s a wider circle, and I sit, trying to ignore the fact that everyone is still staring at me like I’m a caged animal. Why is it that women can’t resist sizing up other women? It doesn’t matter whether the environment is a Hollywood after-party or a Bible study like this one; we have to size up the competition.
I resist the urge to make a mad dash for the exit and play lockdown with a tub of chocolate frosting. The church smells mightily of new carpet, but it’s not in here. This is a science experiment. One of the walls is half–knocked down, with duct tape lining its edges. I almost expect them to pass the basket at the sight of it.
“Do we get to bash the walls?” I ask, sort of salivatin
g at the idea of picturing Jay’s head behind the drywall.
“I’m afraid we don’t, dear. This is just the only room they have left,” Bette says in that same voice, before people like her bring out the axe. No one is that peace-filled.
I want to leave, but something keeps me grounded here in the midst of these women who feel like my only hope at the moment. They’re all beautiful. I guess I expected that much. No, that’s not true. I didn’t. I thought some would have had some heinous physical malady that forced them to become part of this group because they’d been relegated to the “outside” like the Flintstones’ cat.
The majority are like me. Too young to be in this position. None of them seem exceptionally bitter, which disappoints me. I was hoping for a Dynasty rerun, with dripping jewels and catfights and delicious details on how to fight back. This place is innocuous, and they really have Bibles! How vixenlike can they be, with pink leather Bibles in their manicured hands?
Perhaps we young ones are the ultimate failures in trophy wives. We couldn’t even hang on to our husbands long enough for our time to be up. No one looks exceptionally saggy or wrinkled.
An optimist would say we were the lucky ones, we got out young enough for a second chance. But please. Knowing what we do, I can’t imagine any of us running to the altar at this point. Our days in Vera Wang are over.
Helena stands up. I get the impression Helena has no issues with being the center of attention. She’s goddesslike, with flaming, red hair and green eyes. She has a tiny, teenagelike figure and flawless skin. I can’t even tell if she’s wearing foundation. Oh, so hate her too.
“I’m Helena Brickman, as I was saying. I have a Ph.D. in biochemistry and specialize in genetic engineering. I’m bright in all the right places except when it comes to men.” She grins. “I have a bad habit of taking people at their word, and I’m learning to discern who I should give that trust to.”
“Helena,” Bette interrupts, “why don’t you tell Haley what you’re doing now?”
“Right. I married the CEO of my company and retired from the business. It wasn’t good for stockholders to see the CEO marry an employee, so we agreed that I would get a golden parachute retirement package, and Robert would work.”
“Helena, that’s not what I meant,” Bette says.
She interrupts to finish her story. “He went back to school to get his doctorate on the company dime and had an affair at the same time. If only he were that productive at work, I’d have stock value to show for my trouble. At some point, he dropped out of school and just used the time for her. He is currently in the process of divorcing me. I haven’t worked in two years, and I’m pretty much a dinosaur in the business. No one will hire me, so I’m going back to school and changing my focus. Is that better?” she asks Bette. “Positive enough?”
“What a dog!” I say. Maybe I need to rethink college. I don’t even have a clue what Helena does, but if she can’t get a job, that was a heck of a waste of time. A Ph.D.? How many years is that flushed away? At least at the Gap, I was useful and I know how to fold a polo shirt correctly and I can size anyone in jeans by merely looking at her. That talent doesn’t grow on trees.
Bette speaks up again, in her soft, cottony voice, “Haley, I should tell you, the point of this group is not to man-bash.”
“Hence, the wall being safe.”
“We’re here to take responsibility for our part in failed marriages. Even if we were treated horribly, there’s something within us that attracted us to such selfish or needy men, and we’re here to explore that together, so we don’t make the same mistakes and we become more useful in the Kingdom of God.”
“Oh”—I raise a palm at her—“you don’t have to worry about me. I’m never getting married again, and I was never really very useful to the Kingdom of God to begin with. No offense, you all do your thing, get to that healthy place, but I’m not into analyzing everything about how things could have been different. If I learned anything, it’s never to trust my romantic instincts again. Even though I told Jay’s lawyer, Hamilton, that he was afraid of commitment…I realize I’m really no different than him, which is, I suppose, why I saw fit to lecture him in the first place—” Everyone’s mouth is open. “Sorry. I got carried away. There’s no one to really get out my daily word count on, sorry.” I scoot back in my chair.
“Hamilton Lowe?” a tall, willowy blonde asks.
“You know him?”
She tightens her mouth, and I watch Bette give everyone “the gaze.”
Bette gives me that, there, there dear shake of the head like she is so in touch with her inner peace. My mother gives me that look, and I hate it! It means, ignore the truth and let’s focus on how sweet and wonderful everything is, when in fact, everything isn’t sweet and wonderful. The blonde knows what Hamilton Lowe is, she just can’t say so.
It’s time to make my move before I implode under all these manners. “I’m actually here to find out about settlements. See if anyone has had luck in selling information to the tabloids, negotiating a price, that sort of advice. I got your name from the lawyer—” I look back at the blonde. “The infamously smarmy Hamilton Lowe,” I choke his name out. “Right now, my settlement is $70,000 for seven years of marriage. Even though it was devastatingly close to eight years.” I clear my throat. “Since everything here is to be kept confidential, I thought you might be able to help me. You know, get more so that Jay feels my pain. I don’t want to destroy him or anything, I just want him to sting a little.”
Bette pats my knee, “Dear, we don’t discuss those types of issues here. We’re here to get healthy, not to exact revenge. Revenge is Mine, Saith the Lord.”
I shake my head, “Okay, then color me red, I’m totally in the wrong place because I just think the Lord”—I make the sign of the cross from my childhood—“just isn’t going to move quickly enough for me. I’m into handing out justice the old-fashioned way. Did you ever see A Fistful of Dollars?”
Bette is still gazing at me openmouthed. Apparently, she did see the movie. “We’ve all been there, Haley, we know what it feels like to hurt like this, but it won’t do any good to get more money. It will only increase his hold on you.”
“No, that’s where I’m different from you. You’re like my mother, you see the good in all situations, and wow, I totally admire people like that. In fact,” I say, putting up my forefinger, “I think I used to be like that, but then I walked into one too many walls, and I realized no one is going to prevent you from the impact. You totally have to look out for yourself, you know what I’m saying?” By their expressions, I’d say no, they don’t, so I continue. “Jay Cutler will never have to face what he’s done without this situation hurting his bottom line. So in this particular case, I’m going to have to say revenge is mine, meaning Haley’s, not God’s. It’s not that I don’t trust that He could do a better job and all that, if He’s around, I’m just certain He’s really busy, and it’s not high on his priority list. Whereas I can devote all my attention to the matter, as I have no job or life at the moment. Just this really strong desire to get Jay where it hurts. Understand?”
She pats my hand again. “So you’re helping God out, is that what you’re saying.”
“Exactly!” I point at her. “You got it!”
“I understand that the pain is fresh—”
May I just say that the whole psychology tone is lost on me. I’m sure Bette is a very sweet woman with fabulous intentions, but is she really at peace? Or just denial?
“Holding on to these dark memories only makes your situation worse. We can all testify to that. Forgiving…” She pats her chest. “Forgiving is for us, not for them. Revenge is like giving ourselves poison and expecting the other person to die.”
They all nod in agreement. Well, except for the one vivacious brunette, oddly enough the one with the Pilates body, and the only other blonde in the group. I could have sworn she rolled her eyes.
“I’m going to make sure Jay drinks the po
ison. You sure you saw A Fistful of Dollars? Pale Rider?”
“Haley, one of the things we focus on here is how to break the negative patterns in our lives and be free of the chains that bind us in miserable situations. You have to ask yourself if the fight is worth what you might be able to build on your own, without Jay’s money.”
“Think how much farther ahead I’ll be with his money though.” Am I the only one with any practicality here?
“What do you want to do with the money?” the blonde asks.
“I’m sorry?” I say to her.
“I’m just saying if you have no plans for the money, what do you need it for?”
“Have you seen the price of shoes lately?”
“Some women are left with nothing, and they have kids to support,” the brunette pipes in.
“Two wrongs don’t make a right,” I say smugly.
“What you’re really pissed about is that the other woman is getting your spoils. Admit it,” the blonde says with a glimmer in her eye.
“Lindsay!” Bette chastises.
“No, it’s okay. She’s entitled to her opinion. Oh, and I can tell you, she’s not getting my money. She makes her own. Well, her twenty-year-old body double makes it for her, but the public doesn’t know that.”
The brunette starts to giggle and soon, the other women join her, but straighten up immediately as Bette shoots them the look. We can’t be having a giggle melee.
“Laugh. We can laugh, can’t we?” This is exactly what happened to me. I slowly learned “the right way to act” until there was nothing left of me anymore;—only the girl who walked into walls because I second-guessed everything.
“Not at someone else’s expense, dear.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t lie to myself anymore. I’ve spent nine years telling myself lies, and my body just won’t allow it anymore. Excuse me, won’t you?” I start to rise.
Bette snaps up from her chair, and I want to warn her if she pats me again, there’s no telling what I’ll do. “Haley, this is a long road. Please don’t give up. I know we all sound fanatical to you, maybe even a little crazy—”
The Trophy Wives Club Page 6