“I’m an architect. I do fine, thanks,” Ryan said, smacking his lips. He started to get up, guiding his wife’s elbow upward with his. “Honey, you wanna . . .”
But Suzy didn’t “wanna.” She pulled her arm back and told him, “I’m fine, honey. They gave us these glasses, let’s finish them.” She was surprised at her husband’s ingratitude, he was usually so solicitous and polite. They barely knew these people, and they had generously presented them with expensive champagne. Two minutes wouldn’t kill anyone.
Arthur turned to his right and, in an exaggerated fashion, leaned over Annabelle. “It’s their anniversary, isn’t that nice, Philippe? I love anniversary parties. Are you single, Philippe? Or no,” Arthur asked rhetorically, stroking his beard in mock thought. “Lemme take a wild guess: you just play around because, well, you look like you like to play around, eh?”
Philippe took a big swig of champagne, the bubbles prickling in his nose. “I, uh, I’m not married yet,” he said.
“Well, marriage is a great thing!” Arthur declared, putting his arm around his wife and then pulling her toward him. He planted a big kiss on her lips. “When you have a treasure like I do, there’s nothing better in life than that partnership. It would take a lot to put a dent in it. Annabelle and I are like a Swiss safe-deposit vault, indestructible, right, darling?”
Chapter 35
Secrets Here, There, Everywhere
August, a week later
“It’s stuuunning. A winner!” Philippe yelled over to Sophia’s parents, who were watching her ride from the side of the ring. “You know you’re going to have a famous rider on your hands!”
Philippe, arms crossed, felt a pang of guilt. How to convince little Sophia that she would do well on this horse, given that she was talentless and that the mare was crap? Her banker father in those horrid American pleated pants would need a bit of mental massaging, but Philippe was up to it.
Ruing the day he let his baby princess get on that first pony, George Talbot asked his wife, “How many days a year will she ride this thing?”
“Puddles is not a thing,” she answered, exasperated already—it’s not like he’d get it eventually, either. “And I don’t know, George, maybe fifty days? During the year we can try to come out to the Hamptons on Saturdays. But when it gets cold, I’m not going to be very willing. Just saying.” She kissed her party-pooper husband and rubbed her new boob job up against him.
Philippe studied Puddles’s gait: not too bad, though a little short-strided and inconsistent through the turns, nothing a layman would notice. At the more casual shows, the female judges he flirted with would add a few points, and the little brat would take home a colored ribbon—not first-place blue, but maybe an eighth-place brown, the color of manure.
Horseshit. Bullshit. Ah, a crappy horse that could bring Philippe about twenty grand. The joys of summer in full bloom.
Caroline arrived ringside with an acai bowl and hibiscus iced tea from the barn’s terrace café. She sat on a high-viewing chair ten feet from the Talbots. In her hand, a key to Eddie’s file cabinet in his office that she’d grabbed from his hiding place in the hallway armoire. She fingered the key, planting it deep in the corner of her pocket. Perhaps she’d have a chance to go back into his office today to check on his files, papers, ledgers, anything that looked strange.
Gigi and her friend Rosie were inside the ring, helping the smarmy Philippe move rails around the ring for Puddles’s jumps.
Caroline overheard Mr. Talbot say to his wife, “Just so you know the game here, this trainer guy in the fairy white pants is bullshitting me. If he wants to play ball with the head of the most profitable equity derivative department on the planet, I say game on.”
“Not everything has a balance sheet, George!” his wife shot back. “Show jumping is an art; you can’t put a price on Sophia’s self-confidence.” After a slight pause, during which she remembered the little thrill she’d felt when Philippe brushed her hair back and let his hand linger on her neck, she added, “And those are polo pants. And you’re homophobic. And he’s very heterosexual, I assure you.” She almost immediately rethought the wisdom of confirming the last bit.
“Honey, this is a beginner lesson for a nine-year-old. The guy is not about to play a polo match here, for Christ sakes, that’s a ridiculous Halloween costume he’s got on! And relax, it’s not a judgment about you. I like the barn. I find Eddie a bit aggressive. You know, that tacky, new money glow in his eyes, but you have to admire what he’s done here. I do wonder how rich he’s gotten.” George looked around at the vast fields, show rings, and luxurious stables. How exactly had that local turned city boy created all this? “Surely, this isn’t Eddie Clarkson’s taste. He must have hired a top designer.”
Caroline thought about throwing her iced tea into this asshole’s face. She pretended to be occupied with her phone.
“There’s no backing out of the riding plan now,” the wife fought on. “It’s like you inked a deal. Think of it that way.”
“Just don’t be a dingbat on the expenses, and beware of that haughty Frenchman out there,” Mr. Talbot said. “In addition to the cost of leasing this new Puddles for the year, say forty thousand dollars, it’s a fixed three-thousand-dollars-a-month stall fee at this barn no matter what. Then about six hundred dollars to ship the dumb animal to a local show, eight hundred more in show fees on weekends, one-fifty on the braiding for every show. We just got a fifteen-hundred-dollar vet bill for shots and an oxygen tank for the other pony. That had to be a mistake, she hasn’t ridden that one for a month. I sent it back to the vet.”
“That ‘other pony’ is her baby. His name is Clay. And the poor pony had a bad sore on his back from a saddle that was too tight. The oxygen tank helps wounds heal faster.”
“And whose fault is it that the saddle was too tight? I’m paying them three thousand dollars a month, presumably, to put on . . .”
“George,” she said, defiantly, crossing her arms, “a custom Voltaire saddle is seven thousand dollars. Which, I wanted. Badly.”
“You wanted, or Sophia needed?” he wisely asked.
“Blame yourself for the shitty saddle Clay was wearing and the vet bills you caused. And, just so you know, we are still technically leasing Clay until September and obliged to cover the costs, so don’t think you can—”
“Wait a second,” George interrupted, placing his forefinger across his wife’s poufy, collagen-enhanced lips. “We’re paying Philippe for a pet that doesn’t work? The feed, the stalls, the vets? All summer?”
“That’s why we’re here, considering Puddles as, uh, a replacement.”
“Oh, nooow I get it,” George said, raising his right eyebrow—something he always did when he felt an adversary was trying to fleece him. “You want a second pony? And me to cover the costs of both?” Everything was becoming clear now. George considered the motives behind the spectacular blow job he’d received earlier that morning.
“Clay can’t even have a saddle on him for three months, even a custom Voltaire; it’ll rub his sore. And then it’ll get infected. Then it really gets expensive. I’m saving you money by keeping Clay out of the ring!” She pinched her elbows into her ribs, so her fabulous, new cleavage deepened. “Sophia needs Puddles. Otherwise, she’ll miss every show of the summer, and fall behind, and, worse, feel left out of her new, horsey friend group. Besides, I really like the horse mom crowd. People have the wrong image of show jumping and the whole horse deal; but these moms all get that the sport is really about discipline and grit!”
George smacked himself on the forehead.
Ten minutes later, Thierry approached Caroline with a cold bottle of Sea Crest Stables signature water. “It’s hot out here,” he said.
“Thank you, but you don’t need to bring this to me,” she said, smiling. “I’m not the boss. I’m just here watching Gigi and Rosie. You know, we should be proud of them; unlike the other girls here, they work in the ring and the barn cleaning up ninety percent of their time
and probably ride ten percent. They get there’s some responsibility behind it.” God help her for letting Gigi ride, she hoped she never turned into anything like that Sophia Talbot, who’d never been inside a stall. Caroline knew, with that rapacious mother guiding her through life, none of it was the child’s fault.
“Gigi’s working harder than Rosie,” Thierry said, picking up Caroline’s empty plastic bowl from the grass next to her. “My girl complains a little when she gets bored; she’s always looking for the next activity.”
“Staying with something even when you’re bored is a maturity thing. She’ll get there,” Caroline said. “And thanks for taking the bowl. You know you don’t have to do things like that. I keep telling you.”
He smiled kindly as he turned away, bowl in hand.
“Thierry, one sec.” Caroline beckoned him back. She hopped down from her chair and led him into the shade, away from everyone else. “You can talk to me about anything, you know that,” she said. She let that sit a little, and he nodded. It was as if he were considering if he could trust her. “If you’re having issues here, I can always try to smooth things out a little,” she told him.
“It’s fine,” he lied.
“I don’t think it is, Thierry,” she said.
“The girls are doing great,” he said. “The barn is—”
She interrupted him. “I don’t know what was going on between Marcus McCree—that man who owns Executive Limo—Philippe, and you on Memorial Day, but it was something, and it wasn’t what you were telling me. I hear Eddie yelling in the stalls all the time. I don’t know what he’s so nervous about, do you? You’ve known him for a while, right?”
She noticed that Thierry jerked his back more upright at that. “From the other barn, yes,” he said.
“So, you’ve known Eddie since Gigi rode four years ago at Rose Patch with Jenna Westlake, right? You remember when you met him the first time?”
Thierry shrugged his shoulders as if he’d lost the power of speech. Finally, he muttered, “It’s all business. Everything we do here is . . . just . . . ask your husband. He handles the business. I don’t get involved.”
Caroline nodded slowly. It had to be that snake Philippe who was corrupting this kind, docile man. She pried a little more, careful not to reveal what she’d seen in Eddie’s desk. “Was it four years ago, or . . . I mean, you should know, how many years has it been?” He’d been receiving checks for ten years from Eddie. He knew and she knew.
“Mr. Clarkson and Philippe run everything. I’m just managing the animals and the grooms. My part is all fine,” he answered. “I don’t remember much.”
She gave up. He just wanted to do his job and not be grilled.
“Okay, well, please remember that Eddie can be a bully. He doesn’t realize how harsh he sounds when he’s frustrated,” Caroline told him. “He’s very grateful to you.”
Thierry nodded and walked away, his hands slung in his front pockets, his jeans hanging from his slender frame.
Clearly, he didn’t want to talk about it anymore, but Caroline couldn’t help but feel that Thierry wanted her on his side.
But on his side of what?
Chapter 36
High Tension Ringside
Caroline sat back down on her high-viewing chair ringside when she received a text:
This is Robert Smith, the Upholsterer, are you free now?
She replied:
Give me a little time. I’m in the middle of something.
Maybe there wasn’t room for a summer affair. She was still traumatized by the lunch at Duryea’s and hadn’t seen Ryan since, though they’d discussed the debacle in texts later that day. They must stick to Tuesdays, she would tell Ryan, no contact at all on weekends.
“Look at your daughter, Caroline!” Philippe yelled from the center of the ring, drawing her attention away from her phone. He’d put Gigi on Puddles to show Sophia how the shitty pony could indeed prance over a four-inch rail. Caroline didn’t much care for horses or ponies, but she knew enough to recognize that this animal moved more like a donkey than a show pony.
Caroline was so agitated that she couldn’t stay seated. She stood and circled the chair twice with her arms firmly crossed over her chest, fuming at Philippe’s unethical bullshit, unnerved by Thierry’s obstinacy.
She considered the upholsterer contact in her phone. Was that obvious or genius? Could anyone guess it was the architect? Is there any chance that Eddie brought him over to their table to screw with her, as Arthur had done to Annabelle with Philippe?
She kneaded her temples. Maybe Eddie did suspect? Is that why he’d been in such a foul mood this morning? He would have had her tailed by a private eye the moment he considered she might be straying. The thought made her nauseated. She and Ryan had been so careful. But still, that lunch was so bizarre, and she hadn’t stopped thinking about it since.
After watching her daughter round the ring three times, she gave Ryan the all clear.
He texted:
I’m recovering from that lunch, vowing to move on and forget it. You okay? One thing that helps: I remember how it felt when you wrapped your leg around mine on that first Tuesday. That’s when I decided that you were a crazy level of sexy. Your leg around mine: that did it all.
What did he mean by it all? Was Ryan falling for her?
It’ll be a release, not a distraction, Annabelle had promised. She was wrong. Caroline was a pressure cooker, and this was no release.
Caroline promptly deleted Ryan’s texts. She rested her chin on her hands on the back of the chair and tried to focus on sweet Gigi.
In the distance, she could see the main administrative building. Eddie was inside, in his round cupola office. She was sure he was still steaming from the morning.
The key would have to stay in her pocket until much later; maybe she could tell Maryanne that she needed to make a call, that she wasn’t getting good service on her phone, and close the door.
This morning, after Eddie had stormed out of the kitchen and up to their room, she’d found him peeing in their bathroom. He rotated his head toward her midstream. “Don’t call me an entitled urban prick,” he said. “You know it sets me off. Your marital therapist, what is he, the fourth we’ve been to? You know I hate that shit. You don’t even do what he says, so why do you make me go? He told you not to say things that set me off.”
“You’re right, and I’m sorry,” Caroline said. “He also told us to apologize. You’re right; I lit a match to a stick of dynamite on purpose. But you asked for it. If you forgot to charge up your Tesla this week, and you can’t drive it today, the earth will keep spinning. You do know that.”
“Don’t moralize me,” Eddie said, walking into his dressing room to put on a new shirt. On the way in, he looked back at her feet and said. “And by the way, nice four-hundred-and-fifty-dollar Givenchy sneakers.”
“They’re just . . .” she said as she followed him.
“Don’t even try to justify them, Caroline. You’re a player in the game, don’t pull this country milkmaid shit with me.” Then Eddie made air quotes and mocked her voice: “‘They’re the mellow ones, all white, no one can really tell.’ But, thing is, Caroline, your fuckin’ sneakers say Givenchy on the back. And you know what that says? Entitled Urban Park Avenue Mom.”
She looked down at her designer sneakers. She wished Annabelle hadn’t convinced her to buy them at Barney’s that day. Eddie had never been easy to spar with—that was one reason she’d been attracted to him. He went on, “So you drank the same Kool-Aid, baby. Tesla or Givenchy, it’s all the same deal. Look in the fuckin’ mirror before you yell about my car. You don’t appreciate the shit I did to get all of this for all of us.” He marched out of his dressing room and sat on the chair in their bedroom, thrusting his foot into his sock with so much force, he ripped a hole in the toe. “Fuck!”
She rounded the corner after him. “I do appreciate all you’ve achieved! And I’m proud of you,” she said. “You’re ri
ght about my sneakers, I’ll accept that. But the babysitter overheard your tantrum over your new car, honey, and I just wish you could cool it. Francis is making fifteen dollars an hour. That Tesla costs over a hundred and thirty grand! God, I told you that you were nuts to buy it. Just like I told you ten years ago not to get that Hummer army Jeep, the car that almost got you killed the first week you drove it. You remember?”
“I remember,” he said.
“You should remember, you almost got killed rounding the bend; you’re lucky no one was in the passenger seat, you skidding full speed into a tree on that side. Can you imagine if you’d spun on your side?”
That missive stung more than Caroline knew. Eddie marveled that, to this day, she didn’t even know anything about the real story. It wasn’t fair, but what the hell was he supposed to do at this point? Caroline had no idea who was in the Hummer, no idea what happened to her. Still. Amazing he never got found out, only those cops and that hospital in upstate New York. On that Thursday before Memorial Day. Jesus, it was ten years ago. He’d wear that purple tie all year now just to remember her, say out loud to the skies above that it wasn’t fair to Hélène. He didn’t know how the Hummer handled on a wide-open country road.
She went on, “You looked like Schwarzenegger in the vehicle, or like you were in Mad Max in the middle of Manhattan. It wasn’t safe: you were so lucky. You could have left your unborn child without a parent.”
He stood up and buckled his belt. He had vowed to never speak about that Hummer crash and he wouldn’t now. All he said was, “The fuckin’ sitter doesn’t know how much a 2018 Model X Tesla costs.”
“She knows it’s not cheap. Francis is part of our community, where we went to school and grew up, and I just don’t want her talking about your values as if . . .”
“As if . . . what?” Eddie walked up to her and lifted his chin.
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