“Most certainly not. My wife is very ill. It’s taken me a long time to understand that alcoholism is an illness, but I do now. That said, she has had every opportunity to get help—certainly many more chances than the average American ever has, I recognize that—but still she continues on with this risky behavior. I’ve tried to help her for many years. If it were just me . . .” Graham allowed his voice to trail off, and the average viewer couldn’t be blamed for thinking he was actually choked up.
It had felt difficult to move before, as if she were swimming in a resistance pool, but now Karolina’s entire body felt paralyzed, and her brain had ceased processing certain words. Illness? Alcoholism? Risky behavior?
“I’m . . . sorry?” Anderson said, newly flustered. Had there ever in his entire career been a guest—a United States senator, no less—who had so willingly broached the subject of his deliciously salacious personal life?
“But it’s not only about me. I have to consider my son. I would be remiss as a father if I allowed my romantic relationship to further put my child at risk.”
A howl escaped from Karolina’s lips. Had she just made that noise? Had Graham just called their ten-year marriage his romantic relationship? And referred to Harry as his son and not theirs?
Anderson cleared his throat. He looked edgy, like a hunting lion about to strike. “Are you saying that your marriage—”
Graham clenched his hands together and stared solemnly at his lap. “You make all sorts of exceptions for the people you love. But I no longer see a path forward for us.”
“I see,” Anderson said, although he clearly did not.
“Does anyone remember you were talking about the fucking Hartwell–Connolly Bill?” Karolina screamed.
It was as though Anderson heard her through the TV. He said, “I have to take a quick break, Senator. I hope you’ll stay with me to discuss this—and everything else—in further detail?”
Graham nodded. “Of course, Anderson. I’d be happy to.”
Her phone rang immediately. It was her former agent, Rebecca, the woman who had mentored her through all her top years of modeling. Karolina knew Rebecca always kept CNN running in the background of her office, had done so for years, and clearly she was watching the Graham interview. As Karolina was debating whether or not to answer, it went to voicemail. A call from her aunt quickly followed. After sending that one and the next two directly to voicemail, Karolina switched off her phone. She yanked the covers to climb back in bed and almost sat directly on an apple-size spot of bright red blood. One glance down at her stained-through underwear confirmed it. How had she not even realized?
Sighing heavily, Karolina stripped in the bathroom, threw her soiled clothes into a sink full of cold water, and climbed into the shower. Although it required superhuman amounts of strength, she grudgingly scrubbed and shaved all the parts that needed attention and wrapped herself in a massive Frette bath sheet. It wasn’t until she went to pull on a pair of fresh underwear and clean flannel PJ pants that she discovered she was fresh out of tampons.
“Christ,” she muttered, stuffing a wad of toilet paper in her underwear the way she used to do in middle school when she found herself without supplies.
It wasn’t even five in the afternoon, but she was entirely alone: the caretaker couple had already called twice to ask if she needed them to return, but Karolina had insisted that she was fine by herself. A local woman came a couple mornings a week to clean, but she didn’t come on Fridays. With no choice but to actually leave her house, Karolina padded to the kitchen. Unable to resist, she swiped open her email on her iPad and scrolled through the new messages. She didn’t make it past the first one, a note from her aunt that contained only two items: an attached photo with a long chain of question marks preceding it. The quality was grainy, since her aunt had taken a picture of the picture using her phone and then emailed it—surely on the lowest resolution—to Karolina, but it didn’t take long to make out the players. Seated at Capitol Prime in D.C., known as the power lunch place for politicos, were Trip, Graham, and Joseph, Graham’s chief of staff. The interesting addition was the striking woman seated to Graham’s left. Regan. The Ice Queen. The camera caught her only in profile, but she was gazing at Graham while tossing her head back slightly and laughing. Graham was cutting his food and grinning a smile much wider than his grilled salmon probably warranted. All four wore business suits. To the normal onlooker, it appeared to be exactly what it was: a business lunch among colleagues. Your average Joe would not look at that photo and immediately think, Those two are fucking, but Karolina would bet her life they were. And so, obviously, would her aunt.
Close it, close it, close it, she coached herself, possibly aloud. Her hands moved to flip the screen cover back on, but she couldn’t stop herself. Up came Google and in went the woman’s name: Regan Whitney. Karolina paused for a moment, knowing that she couldn’t undo what she was about to discover—simultaneously proud for never having given in to the temptation before and ashamed for being too weak to resist it now—and then hit “return.”
Karolina skipped over the Wikipedia entry, the Facebook link, and a handful of the most current news articles and clicked directly on “images,” where she was rewarded with thousands of photos. Regan Whitney at four different inaugural balls, wearing four different gowns, posing with four different guests. Teaching English at a mud hut schoolhouse in rural Nigeria. At a gala benefiting the Make-A-Wish Foundation. Holding hands with a small, sad Syrian child who had been granted a visa to the United States. Looking positively luminescent in all white at a Hamptons clambake.
Karolina clicked back to the nitty-gritty bio details that she’d never allowed herself to read. Some were familiar, because as the daughter of a former president of the United States, Regan had been in the public eye since childhood. Like the fact that Regan’s mother had died in childbirth and she, the youngest of five children but the only girl, was her father’s favorite. But some she hadn’t paid much attention to years earlier, during President Whitney’s administration. Karolina either didn’t know or didn’t remember that Regan had gone to Sidwell Friends and played two varsity sports and graduated with a 4.0 GPA. There were pictures of her being picked up at the White House on prom night by her date. Princeton. The Peace Corps. Then finally a master’s at Harvard. The closest thing to a scandal Karolina could uncover was an embarrassing photo of Regan clutching a bong and exhaling a long stream of smoke in what was obviously a fraternity room with half a dozen other well-scrubbed, white, and preppily clad college kids.
Karolina snorted. Regan Whitney was the closest thing to real live political royalty in this generation. Twenty-nine years old, brilliant, accomplished, gorgeous, polished, and a humanitarian to boot. As pretty as the young woman was in her blue-eyed, blond, all-American way, Karolina knew Regan couldn’t compete with her in the looks department—not even with the advantage of being nearly a decade younger. At thirty-seven, Karolina still turned heads each and every time she stepped outside. While Regan’s body was trim and fit, Karolina’s was slamming: curvy and tanned and sexy and tight—quite literally the stuff of fantasies for boys and men worldwide. Regan’s bouncy bob framed her pretty face and showed off her translucent skin; Karolina’s wild brown waves tumbled down her back and grazed the very top of her buttocks and seemed to suggest that she had always just climbed directly out of someone’s bed. Pretty versus hot. Brilliant versus sexy. Ivy League humanitarian versus high-school-dropout lingerie model. All-American privilege and upbringing versus peasant roots and a slight but persistent Polish accent.
Karolina may have stayed there all day, clicking madly, but she had female matters to address. She slipped on her favorite boots, a massive Canada Goose down jacket, and a pair of outdated glasses from the kitchen drawer. In the car, she commanded Siri to take her to the nearest drugstore, which directed her to Whole Foods instead. Unwilling to continue driving, Karolina parked and braced herself against the frigid January wind as she mad
e her way to the front door in the darkness. As though the cold wasn’t bad enough, it had to get dark in the middle of the day. Had that happened in Bethesda too? Why did it seem so much worse here? And was that creepy guy standing just inside the entrance FaceTiming someone, or was he holding his phone up like that because he was taking her picture? She shivered, unwilling to know the answer, and had begun a frantic search for the toiletries aisle when she heard a familiar voice.
“Oh my God. Karolina!” Miriam materialized, pushing a cart, her cheeks adorably red from the cold but her expression one of concern.
“Hey, fancy meeting you here.”
“Karolina! You look homeless. What’s going on with you?”
“I have my period.”
Miriam frowned. “Is that code for something? Or—wait. Are you relieved? Or upset? Are you still trying?”
Karolina laughed and it sounded bitter even to her own ears. “Yeah, only for seven years now, and you can see how well that went.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“No, please, it’s fine. I’m here to buy Tampax.”
Miriam looked relieved. “How are you doing otherwise? I’ve called and texted you the last two weeks, but . . . Anyway, I didn’t want to stop by unannounced.” She made a show of looking Karolina up and down. “But I probably should have.”
Karolina waved her hand but the tears had already begun. “I’m fine,” she said, wiping her eyes.
“Oh, honey. Come here,” Miriam said, and although Karolina was embarrassed to be sobbing at the local Whole Foods, it felt so wonderful to be hugged. “It’s going to be okay. I’m here now.”
A petite woman in a workout outfit pushed a cart with a toddler past them. As the little girl shoved Cheerios in her mouth, the woman couldn’t disguise the fact that she was staring at Karolina. Not sneaking little glimpses but staring openly, head swiveled, mouth agape.
“Yes?” Karolina asked her. She was certain that directly confronting the woman would shame her into looking away, but it had no effect whatsoever. The toddler screeched and pulled at her mother’s sweat-wicking shirt, but still the woman stared at Karolina.
“You’re Karolina Hartwell,” the woman murmured, trancelike.
“Can we help you with something?” Miriam asked more politely than Karolina would have liked.
“It’s just—you were my favorite model ever. I’ll never forget, I saw you at the Victoria’s Secret fashion show . . . what? That was like a hundred years ago. When you were Angel of the Year.”
Karolina forced a smile. “Not exactly a hundred. But close to fifteen. You were there?”
The woman nodded, completely ignoring her child as the little girl dumped the bag of Cheerios on the floor. “You were spectacular. My God! The face of L’Oréal, right here in Greenwich! I thought it was amazing when you became the ambassador for Save the Children. It brought a lot of attention to a cause that not enough people care about.”
“Thank you,” Karolina said, wiping under her eyes with a fingertip despite the fact that she wasn’t wearing any makeup. “I appreciate that.”
“But what happened to you?” The woman’s face contorted into angry accusation. “From Save the Children to drunk driving with children? Innocent children?” At that moment she seemed to remember her own and placed a protective arm around her daughter. “You should be ashamed!” This last part was yelled loud enough that other shoppers turned.
Karolina’s face flushed and her heart beat faster. She was about to defend herself when she felt a stream of blood seep through her flannel pajama pants. She froze.
Miriam grabbed her arm and pulled. “You have no idea what you’re talking about!” she called to the woman from halfway down the aisle.
“It’s all over the news! I know exactly what I’m talking about!” the woman yelled back, and her child started to cry.
Karolina allowed herself to be led to the front of the store, where Miriam extracted a car key from her purse and pressed it into Karolina’s hand. “It’s the blue Highlander in the first row to the left when you walk out. There should be a towel for the dog in the back. Maybe sit on that? I’ll get what you need and be right back.”
Karolina nodded. Miriam, always capable, always reliable.
“Go. Before this turns into a whole thing,” Miriam said, hurrying off.
Karolina found the car and the slightly muddy dog towel exactly where Miriam had said. She had barely hoisted herself into the front seat before her friend returned.
“Here, I got you two kinds. I don’t know what you like,” Miriam said, handing Karolina a plastic bag and climbing into the driver’s seat.
“Wait. Where’s your stuff?” Karolina asked.
“I’ll come back later. First I want to take you home.”
“No, I’m fine. I can drive myself—you don’t have to drop me off. Maybe I can borrow the towel, though?”
“I’m not dropping you off. I’m taking you to my house. And I don’t want to hear another word about it.”
“But my car! And I’m in PJs—blood-soaked PJs. I need to go home.”
“I’ll bring you back to the car later. Right now you need some TLC, and you’re not going to get it alone in your glass mansion,” Miriam said, already turning in to traffic.
Karolina was too exhausted to argue. Although she wasn’t sure how Miriam’s house, with the dog and the three kids, qualified as TLC, she was happy not to have to make any decisions.
When they walked into the house, they nearly tripped over piles of wet snow pants and jackets, muddy boots, and heaps of gloves and hats and scarves spread across the floor and bench. It barely ever snowed enough in Bethesda for Harry to play in the snow—and he was certainly too grown up lately to do anything so childish—but the sight of kids’ snow gear nearly took Karolina’s breath away.
Miriam, being Miriam, noticed immediately. “You must miss him so much.”
“I can’t believe it’s been almost a month. This is the longest I’ve ever gone without seeing him.”
“But you’re talking to him, right?”
“Every night. And we FaceTime. But it’s not the same.”
“No, of course not.”
Maisie spotted her mother. “Mommy! Did you see what we built outside? It’s a real snowman. His name is Bobsy. Isn’t that funny?” The little girl’s cheeks were red with cold and her nose and lips were covered in mucus, but Karolina still had an overwhelming urge to kiss her.
“Bobsy looks terrific, honey. Tell Ben and Matthew they have ten more minutes until dinner, okay?”
When Karolina saw Paul sitting in the kitchen, clicking away on the computer, she nearly had a heart attack. Again, Miriam read her mind. “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “If he thinks it’s just me, he won’t even look up. Just take the back stairs to the guest room. There are towels in the bathroom, and I’ll bring you some clean sweats. I’ll be up in a few minutes.”
As predicted, Paul called out a hello to his wife but didn’t glance up from the screen. When Karolina came back downstairs, hair wet from its second washing in two hours, wearing a super-comfy sweatsuit that was at least three sizes too big, the entire family was assembled around two large pizzas at the kitchen table.
“Karolina!” Paul said warmly, walking over to embrace her. He’d clearly been prepped, because he didn’t utter a word about her appearance. “It’s so good to see you.”
“Thanks for letting me crash your Friday-night dinner. I think it’s my fault you’re having pizza tonight and not whatever Miriam was planning to buy at the grocery store.”
“Pizza, pizza, pizza!” Ben sang out through a mouthful of half-chewed food. “I love pizza!”
“Yeah, you can see how devastated we all are.” Paul smiled and pulled out a chair for her. He turned to Miriam. “Is Emily back for dinner?”
“No. She’s staying in the city. She’ll be back in the morning to pack. Her flight is tomorrow at three out of JFK.”
“
Where’s she going?” Karolina asked.
“Home, can you believe it? One night turned into three and a half weeks. I thought she’d never leave.” Miriam laughed. She didn’t seem to notice Matthew pouring a small stream of milk onto his side of steamed broccoli.
“Oh, come on. You’ve loved having her,” Paul said. “I hear you two cackling like witches late into the night.”
“Of course I have! It’s been great. This is the longest time we’ve spent together since we were fifteen. What’s not to like?”
Karolina forced herself to smile. She asked each of the children questions about school and friends, and even managed to get down a slice of lukewarm pizza despite feeling like she might vomit.
“I’ll just Uber back to my car,” she announced, not caring that it was either rude or a complete non sequitur. “A driver can be here in three minutes.”
“Nonsense,” Paul said, waving her off. “Miriam said you were sleeping over.”
Miriam nodded. “I already changed the sheets in the guest room. You’re staying.”
Karolina wanted to argue, but she couldn’t get the words out. It was freezing and dark out, and Miriam’s house was homey and warm, and the idea of not being alone another night sounded rather nice. She nodded and allowed Miriam to walk her upstairs.
“I’ll be back after I get the kids to bed, okay? Then we can watch something bad on Bravo? I’ll light us a fire.”
“Thank you,” Karolina murmured. She closed the door and immediately climbed under the covers. She briefly thought about turning on the TV but didn’t want to risk stumbling across another news show. Instead, she picked up her phone. There on the screen saver, in honor of her wedding anniversary, was a wedding portrait: Karolina in a filmy custom Vera Wang; Graham so handsome in bespoke Tom Ford. He’d been thirty-two then, and he looked like an absolute baby. And standing beside him, Harry, just two, clutching his raccoon lovey and holding tightly to his father’s hand. Karolina had been twenty-six when she met Graham at a dinner party in the Hamptons, and they’d gotten engaged six months later. She remembered feeling ill prepared to become an overnight mother to this sweet, motherless boy, but Harry had made it so easy. Loving him was the most natural thing in the world, and she remembered thinking that one day they would give him a whole flock of brothers and sisters.
When Life Gives You Lululemons Page 8