When Life Gives You Lululemons

by Lauren Weisberger

“Sounds scintillating.”

  “Don’t be a bitch.”

  “That’s exactly what you said to me during the summer we met when you thought I was making fun of that nitwit. What was her name? Rosalie?”

  Miriam laughed, remembering how everyone else at camp was scared of Emily, who wore lipstick despite the no makeup rule, slept in boxer shorts she claimed belonged to her older boyfriend, and said “fuck” with abandon. Miriam had never met someone who would flat-out refuse to play lacrosse for “personal reasons,” or insist on wearing stilettos to the weekly dances on the basketball court with the boys’ camp, or convince the CITs to sneak her cigarettes. The first week they met, Miriam thought Emily was mocking a bunkmate’s weight, and Miriam told her in front of everyone to stop being a bitch. By visiting day, they were introducing each other to their parents as best friends, and by summer’s end, they clung to each other when it came time to say goodbye.

  “How do you remember that? I was convinced you were calling her fat,” Miriam said.

  “She may have been a little bit of a chunker, but I was walking like an elephant because I was imitating that buffoon who worked in the office—what was his name? Something rapey.”

  “Chester.”

  “Yes, Chester! Have you ever looked him up? We should Google him. I bet he has more pedophilia arrests than we can count. I’m just sure of it.”

  “He was the grossest man ever,” Miriam said. “He leered at all the girls whenever they went in to pick up mail or drop off postcards.”

  Miriam’s phone rang. “It’s her. Finally!” she said, and snatched her phone from the table. “There you are!” Miriam said before Karolina could say a word. “How are you? Where are you? I’ve been leaving messages for you stalker-style for three days!”

  “You saw the papers,” Karolina said, her slight Eastern European accent sounding more pronounced.

  “Of course I saw the papers! The whole universe saw the papers! But I didn’t believe them for a second. Where are you? I must have left a thousand messages.”

  “I’m in Greenwich.”

  “What?”

  “To ‘collect myself.’ ”

  “Oh my God. I’m coming over.” Miriam glanced at the wall clock. “I need to shower, but I can be there within the hour.”

  At this, Emily looked up. “Who is it?” she mouthed.

  “You don’t have to rush over. I’m sure I’ll be here for a while,” Karolina said, her voice breaking. “I just miss Harry.”

  “Oh, honey, I’m on my way. Same address?”

  Karolina sobbed. “Yes, the hideous house with the gold-enameled mailbox.”

  Miriam pictured the McMansion . . . splashed across the cover of the Post that morning with the headline WHERE WILL HIGH-FLYING MRS. HARTWELL LAND THIS TIME?

  “Okay, I’ll see you soon. Can I bring anything?”

  “Maybe some pills? What do people take these days? You wouldn’t know it from the news, but I’m out of the loop. Valium? No, that’s old-school. Percocet? I feel like now is an excellent time to develop a prescription-pill problem. I’m a drunk, apparently. No one will be surprised.”

  “Sit tight, I’ll be right there.”

  “What? A mommy friend calling to commiserate about her maid stealing the silverware?” Emily asked, typing furiously on her laptop.

  “Karolina Hartwell calling to say that she’s here in Greenwich.”

  Miriam was halfway to the stairs when Emily called, “I’m coming with you!”

  “No, it’s not a good time. She sounds really upset. I don’t think she would want a stranger showing up at her house.”

  “I’m not a stranger! I met her a hundred times when I was at Runway. She must have been on the cover, what, five times while I worked there? She was in and out of the office every three seconds. I can help her!”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “Trust me, it’ll be good to have me around. You go shower. I’ll change and pack a few necessities. Between the two of us, we can cheer her up.”

  Miriam nodded. As usual, she felt powerless to stand in the way when Emily made her mind up. “Meet me in the car in twenty. And please, no booze until we hear what’s really going on with her.”

  Miriam was halfway up the stairs but could hear Emily in the refrigerator. “Moët is hardly booze!” Emily called after her. Miriam smiled to herself and thought how much she loved that crazy bitch.

  6

  Just a Cottage in the Country

  Karolina

  As it neared eleven, Karolina peered out the window near the door that faced the grand circular driveway, working her hair into twisty knots. When they’d bought the Greenwich house a couple years into their marriage, Graham had insisted they add the automated wrought-iron gate to the driveway for security purposes. She remembered feeling like it was a prison but hadn’t wanted to start another fight. “It’s the smart move,” Graham had said. “It’s what people do.” He’d sounded both supremely confident and totally vague.

  Karolina had had a hard time understanding Graham’s obsession with the house in the country. They were living in a lovely apartment in a full-service building on Sixty-Third and Park, close to the midtown law office where he was working backbreaking hours as a new associate. Who needed Greenwich? They did, Graham swore. Acres of manicured lawn and great restaurants and fabulous shopping and only a stone’s throw from Manhattan. They could have a garden and a pool and enough space to host all their friends over snowy winter weekends or long vacations in the summer. She remained steadfastly unconvinced until he had played his trump card: Harry would have a place to roam and explore without fear of getting hit by a taxi or kidnapped in plain daylight. Was she really going to say no to that? The boy was two when they got married and still wouldn’t walk barefoot on grass. Harry was motherless—Graham’s first wife had died tragically of a rare type of stomach cancer when he was an infant—so how could Karolina possibly be the one to deny him this opportunity? Wasn’t it time that Harry had a swing set?

  Those were some of the sweetest times of their marriage. She was still swept off her feet by Graham’s charm and social connections, his private clubs and the ease with which he navigated his world. He was a twenty-first-century JFK Junior, dashing and handsome and wealthy. She knew he could have chosen anyone, but he’d chosen Karolina. As successful a model as she’d been through the years, deep down she was still just a poor girl from Wrocław. Beautiful, yes. But also sheltered by a protective mother and surrounded by friends and family who had lacked education. How could she not fall for a man who swept her into private clubs where Rockefellers and Carnegies dined? It was a glimpse into an entirely different world than modeling afforded her. It was storied.

  In those early years they threw lavish parties and extravagant dinners and booze-heavy cocktail hours. They laughed all the time and liked watching the same shows. It was hard to pinpoint exactly when things began to shift, but Karolina thought it had a lot to do with searching for the perfect Greenwich house.

  It didn’t take long for Graham’s wish list to balloon in both size and grandeur: the quest for a modest four-bedroom home on a cul-de-sac quickly became an intense hunt for a minimum of seven bedrooms, two acres, a pool, and a tennis court. And although at the time Graham drank exclusively beer or whiskey, it was suddenly imperative that they have a humidity-controlled wine cellar with a tasting room. Newest. Biggest. Fanciest. Karolina should have listened to those warning bells. But she didn’t.

  On the fourth visit, a spectacular October weekend at peak foliage, Graham fell in love with a house that was designed by a famous architect. It was ultra-modern, with jutting angles and miles of glass: 35 Honeysuckle Lane sounded like it fit the bill, but it looked like it belonged in a movie featuring a sociopath. It was perhaps the least child-friendly home she’d ever seen, but she couldn’t argue with Harry’s obvious glee as he sprinted across the beautiful backyard and giggled uncontrollably as the oversize fish in the koi pond leapt
up as he tossed them bits of his bagel. They’d closed fifteen days later, a record, according to the blue-haired realtor. Karolina had the good sense to require that the house be in both their names. The money was entirely hers, earned from nearly a decade of modeling while Graham was still living off the interest from the trust fund he couldn’t touch until he was forty. He tried to argue it would be better for “tax purposes” to list only his name on the deed, but she had insisted. If only she had known how many weeks and months the house would sit empty and unloved save for a quick trip out to pay the caretakers and groundskeeper and make sure it was still standing. The last time they’d stayed there as a family was before Graham had won the Senate race four years earlier and they’d all relocated to Bethesda, and that was only for the night.

  Karolina checked the picture window facing the lawn once again. She’d been in Greenwich a few days, not enough time to get lonely, but there she was, desperately waiting for Miriam. Usually an elderly couple lived in the house as a kind of caretaker-and-housekeeper team, but Karolina had asked if they’d like to take some vacation time, and they’d been all too happy to go visit their daughter. She didn’t feel like making polite conversation. Or, honestly, showering. And the solitude had been healing. It was a relief to look out on one’s front lawn and see only empty stretches of space after the paparazzi crush in Bethesda.

  A text came in from Harry.

  what do i wear to a school dance????

  She smiled and typed back. Your navy Brooks Brothers suit with your white dress shirt.

  Tie????

  Yes. Winter Party! Your first dance!

  He replied with a “Y.”

  Is Daddy going? He knows that parents are invited, right?

  This time the three dots popped up, disappeared, returned. Then: No, he’s dropping me off. Your sure about the tie???

  Karolina felt her throat tighten. Wasn’t it obvious? This boy needed her. To advise on outfits, yes, but also to accompany him on his first time being a guest at Sidwell’s Winter Party. Who was going to help him choose shoes or cheer for him beside the dance floor when he competed in Coke & Pepsi, or chat with all his friends and their parents? She knew Harry was growing up, that soon he would start to negotiate these things on his own, but good God—the boy was only twelve! And twelve-year-olds needed their mothers.

  Finally the doorbell rang, sounding like a Buddhist monk hitting a giant gong. Karolina yanked the front door open and found Miriam smiling, looking very suburban in jeans and Uggs and a massive puffer coat, holding her arms outstretched. It was strange to see Miriam in something besides a suit. The women embraced, and as Karolina inhaled the vanilla-scented moisturizer Miriam had been wearing for twenty years, she thought how wonderful it was to be with someone who didn’t hate her. Miriam motioned toward the Highlander, where Karolina saw a woman in the passenger seat smoking a cigarette and screaming into her cell phone. Karolina raised her eyebrows.

  “Sorry. It’s Emily Charlton. She’s staying with me now for . . . I don’t know how long. She’s an old camp friend. Anyway, she overheard me on the phone with you and insisted she come too. She says she knows you from Runway? I feel terrible bringing her by unannounced, which is why I told her to wait in the car while I—”

  Karolina held her hand to her forehead, shielding her eyes, and squinted. “Emily?” she said. “Hey! Come on in. And bring those cigarettes!” She turned to Miriam. “I totally remember her from Runway. Miranda Priestly’s senior assistant. She was such a bitch!”

  “Oh, I know it. Emily has told me all the stories . . .”

  “No, I meant Emily! She was a first-rate ball-buster and funny as hell. I could use funny right now.”

  Both women watched as Emily jammed her finger into the phone screen to end the call and opened the door in a cloud of smoke. “Am I cleared to enter? Did I pass?” she called as she walked toward the house.

  Karolina and Emily exchanged double cheek kisses. “It’s so good to see you! How long has it been? Years,” Karolina said as she escorted them to a sitting room. She pointed a remote toward the fireplace and flames leapt to life. “Here, sit. I made some tea, I’ll bring it in.”

  When she returned holding an enamel tray with a glass teapot and three glass mugs, both women assessed the room. “Welcoming, isn’t it?” Karolina asked, acutely aware of how it looked to outsiders: the couches low and stiff and uninviting; the surfaces devoid of books or knickknacks; the walls bare except for a few fine-art black and whites.

  “I fucking love it,” Emily breathed, looking around. “It’s like no one lives here.”

  “No one does live here,” Karolina said. “Although I guess I might soon.”

  Miriam’s face crumpled. “I’m so sorry about everything that’s happening.”

  “Yeah, quite the drama,” Emily said. “That headline this morning: ‘Most Hated Celeb: Rizzo Benz or Karolina Hartwell?’ My God. I haven’t seen the press this excited since Harvey Weinstein.”

  Karolina opened her mouth to talk, but she felt the now-familiar knot in her throat. “It’s been . . . hard. And confusing. I just didn’t expect it to be so vicious in Washington. Reporters . . . are . . .”

  “Staking out the house, I imagine?” Emily asked.

  “Oh my God. They’re everywhere. I’ve never seen anything like this. Not when they thought I was having an affair with George Clooney pre-Amal. Not even when Graham was elected to the senate. They were three deep at our home in Bethesda.” She motioned to the front door. “Thank God for that hideous fence Graham had installed here.”

  “How is Harry?” Miriam asked, sipping her tea.

  Karolina shook her head. “I don’t know. Graham insisted we take an Uber from my mother-in-law’s house, and literally, a mob of people descended on us as soon as we pulled in. And you know what the first question was? ‘Are you drunk right now, Mrs. Hartwell?’ ”

  “They’re animals,” Emily said knowingly.

  “Thank God we could pull directly into the garage, because I don’t know what would have happened if we had to walk through it. They literally mobbed the car. Harry was crying.”

  “Where was Graham?”

  Karolina took a deep breath. “He couldn’t risk being seen with me.”

  She told Miriam and Emily how she had tried Beth, her best mommy friend. The phone had rung and rung until finally going to voicemail, which wasn’t particularly strange: no one answered the phone these days. Karolina had felt self-conscious even calling. But when her first text had gone unanswered, and then two more, she’d started to feel a little queasy. That wasn’t like Beth, who joked that her phone was practically welded to her palm. Nearly two hours later, Karolina finally received a reply text: Cole may no longer play with Harry. Please don’t contact either of us again.

  Karolina had gasped as though she’d been punched. For nearly a full minute, she’d struggled to catch her breath, wondering if she was having a heart attack. When her breathing had finally slowed to something resembling a normal rate, she’d fired off a group text to the mothers of the boys from the night before: Hi all. I’ll call each of you individually, but I just wanted to let you know that I was NOT drunk and last night was a huge misunderstanding. Your children were never in danger. Love, K.

  The responses came back fast and furious:

  We trusted you with our son!

  How can you even look at yourself after what you did?

  And the worst one of all, although it was the only message that didn’t include any angry exclamations:

  Please, please, please: get some help. I’ve been there too. You can’t do this without the professionals and you’re deluding yourself if you think you can.

  These four simply worded text messages had broken Karolina in a way that being pushed into the back of a squad car, feeling the rage of her husband, and spending an entire night in a county jail had not. Her phone slipped from her hands, and she succumbed to the sobs. These were her friends. Not the catty frenemies sh
e’d made in her twenties. Not the New York society women who were alternately intimidated by her appearance and put off by her lack of pedigree. The group of women she’d met after they had moved to Bethesda had been easy from the start. Some of them worked, some of them didn’t; there was a big variety of education levels and backgrounds and income; most of all, they were all trying to raise their kids as well as they could manage and have some laughs along the way. No one cared that she used to be a famous model. No one cared that her husband was a senator. And certainly no one cared that she wasn’t Harry’s biological mother. They got together for birthdays and took the kids trick-or-treating and carpooled to softball practice. Their husbands shared beers during weekend barbecues. Their kids all mostly got along and treated one another’s houses as their own. It was easy. It was natural. And it was over. She felt ill.

  Miriam’s hand on her arm brought Karolina back to the charmless living room where she sat with two women who didn’t despise her. “How long are you staying?”

  Tears sprang to her eyes. “Graham says it’s better with me here in Greenwich, so that Harry doesn’t have all the stress of the media attention, but I don’t know.”

  “When was the last time you spoke to Graham?” Emily asked.

  “Last night. I’m so confused. Do you know I actually asked Harry about that night?”

  “What about it?” Miriam asked.

  Karolina dabbed her eye with a tissue. “I couldn’t help myself. I asked if he remembered what I had to drink. He said he saw me having one glass of wine—I called it ‘mommy juice,’ which he found totally humiliating in front of his friends. He even remembered I poured it for myself right after I gave the boys their Sprite, and he was worried that Graham would be upset because I’d opened a new bottle. What he could not answer was why there were two empty champagne bottles floating around the back of the Suburban when the police pulled me over.”

  “You don’t think it’s possible he and his friends got into it?” Miriam asked. “I’m sure he’s a good kid, but he is twelve, and he wouldn’t be the first.”