They’d honeymooned together, the three of them, in an oceanfront suite that opened directly onto the turquoise waters of the Caribbean. She loved how devoted a father Graham was. Parrot Cay was astronomically expensive and exclusive but not super-posh. It was the kind of place you could be barefoot from breakfast to dinner, wearing nothing more than a bikini and a muslin caftan, the pace as slow and languid as the heat. Harry spent hours splashing in the warm shallows, shrieking with laughter as he raced in and out of the waves, while Graham and Karolina looked on from chaise lounges, hand in hand. In the evenings they would feed Harry spaghetti or chicken fingers early, then all rinse together in the outdoor shower behind their suite. When Harry was in his striped pajamas, hair wet and smelling deliciously of coconuts, Graham would read to him while Karolina dressed. A couple of nights a kind older lady from guest reception came to stay with Harry, but since Karolina hated to leave him, they would carry him to the oceanfront restaurant and pull two chairs together to create a sort of criblike bed where Harry would curl himself around his blankie and immediately fall asleep. After a meal of fresh fish, they would walk back to the suite, Harry asleep and cradled in Graham’s arms. Giggling from too much wine, Karolina and Graham would make love like it was the most natural thing in the world, which back then it was. They’d fall asleep on top of the cover as the breeze from the ceiling fan cooled them.
Now, lying in Miriam’s guest bed, Karolina wondered if she’d imagined the whole thing. But no! Things hadn’t always been like this. The wedding and the honeymoon had been real, as had many of the years they’d shared afterward. Naturally, there had been disagreements, even a few all-out screaming fights, but those early years had been filled with mostly happy memories: Harry’s first day of kindergarten; Graham’s promotion to partner; all the birthdays and dinners and cocktail parties Karolina thoughtfully planned and executed, every detail perfect, every guest feeling wanted and welcomed. Graham had bought her beautiful, expensive jewelry for her birthdays, and yes, his secretary had probably chosen it all, but the tennis bracelets and diamond-drop earrings had come with store-bought Hallmark cards on which he’d scrawled heartfelt words about how much he loved her. He’d looked at her with both lust and adoration when she’d glided around those dreadfully boring lawyer parties, and he’d told her she lit up the room. When was the last time he had looked at her like that? Maybe this entire thing had been a misunderstanding. Maybe she was too suspicious of Regan Whitney. She didn’t have any proof that they were having an affair, and God knew her instincts weren’t always a hundred percent accurate. Could the Graham she had shared a life with for the better part of a decade—the same man who’d sworn that he would always take care of her—actually announce their divorce on national television? Or, as she was starting to suspect, could there be another explanation? Something she just hadn’t considered yet?
Karolina bolted upright in bed. This was about a lack of communication, not a shortage of love—not a deliberate sabotage. She hit Graham’s name in her Favorites and listened as it rang and rang. Voicemail. She left something rambling, perhaps a tad incoherent, but loving. The gist was “Let’s work out this mess together; this has all been a misunderstanding; I love you and miss the way we used to be.”
“Call me back?” she said, but it sounded more like a plea. “I’ve realized so many things and want to talk to you.” Then she texted him the same thing. Twice.
She watched her phone for a while, but there was no return call or text. She must have fallen asleep at some point, because when she woke up five hours later, it was nearly two in the morning and someone had turned off the lights and pulled up her covers. The memory came back: she had reached out to Graham to reconcile, to work through this horrible misunderstanding. She would apologize for thinking the worst of him; he would beg her forgiveness for leaving her overnight in jail. They would vow to get to the bottom of this whole situation together. As a team. She saw her phone sitting peacefully on the night table, charging with its ringer thoughtfully turned off. Miriam. Always considerate Miriam. No wonder she hadn’t heard him call back! But when she scrolled through the Recents list, there were no missed calls. It wasn’t until she clicked on her texts that she saw his message:
Karolina, you’re obviously ill, but I’m sorry to say that I can’t help you. Once you put Harry’s life at risk, you sealed your fate. Going forward, please only contact me through Trip.
The sky had already begun to lighten by the time she fell back into deep, dreamless sleep. And when she woke again at nine, pillow soaked with tears and eyes bloodshot from crying, she felt like she’d been run over by a bus. But there was something else there, something that felt equal parts terrifying and healthy. Something that felt a lot like rage.
10
The Suburbs Make You Fat
Emily
The train lumbered out of Grand Central, the conductor calling future stops like an auctioneer on speed, and Emily practiced a deep-breathing technique to zero effect. How the hell can you shut down I-95 at evening rush hour? For a terrorist attack or something real—fine. But a gas spill? Jamming up the entire highway from Manhattan to Fairfield? Forcing innocent people to take the train? It was beyond comprehension.
Emily had just loudly exhaled when a man in a rumpled but clearly expensive suit asked if the seat next to her was available. She needed peace and space to sift through the stack of headshots she’d just been handed by the city’s preeminent talent manager. Singers making their Broadway debut, first-time actors who’d impressed seasoned directors, musicians who stood out from the crowd. The list of up-and-comers was long and varied, but Emily was hopeful her next new star was in that pile. Emily needed the Next Hot Thing, and she needed him or her now, so she didn’t try to hide her annoyance as she heaved her overflowing Goyard tote from the seat next to her onto her lap, turning to stare out the window. The Greenwich train was full but not packed. Could he really not find anywhere else to sit?
“I probably could have,” the man said with a posh British accent. He was cute, there was no denying it. “But the only seats I can see from here are next to obese people or babies. So you’re the lucky winner.”
“What?” Emily asked. Had she said that out loud?
“If you don’t want people to sit next to you on Metro-North trains, you should probably consider gaining a few stone. It would be an enormous help.” And with that, he pulled a pair of earbuds from his briefcase and stuck them in his ears.
She sat there, dumbfounded, for nearly a minute before turning to him. “You picked here because I’m thin?” she asked stupidly.
He pulled one bud out of his ear and leaned in close enough that she could smell him. It was a clean, preppy smell, despite the rumpled look. And then he smiled and she noticed how his eyes crinkled. They were a bluish green, not so bright that they were the first thing you’d notice about him, but a lovely color that probably changed according to the undertones in the shirts he wore. Emily was so intent on studying his eyes, examining his teeth, breathing in his smell, that she almost didn’t catch his teasing.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I’m not really a train talker.”
“What?” she asked. Stop it! she berated herself. Can’t you say anything except “what”?
“You seem like you want to chat. Nothing personal, I’m just not really the type.” He said this with the smallest hint of a smile.
“You’re not the type? You have no idea who you’re talking to. I do not talk to people on trains. I don’t even ride trains.”
He raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know you well enough to say that you sound mental, but if I did know you better, that’s probably what I would say.”
“Best compliment I’ve had in weeks. Even if it’s coming from a guy who still manages to look homeless in a Brioni suit.”
With this, he laughed. “Hedge fund asshole, at your service. My name’s Alistair, because really, what else would it be?”
In spite of herself, Emil
y laughed too. “I’m Emily. Former fashion phenom headed unwillingly for total obscurity thanks to my refusal to live entirely on social media.”
“Hmm.”
“Hmm what?”
“I guessed wrongly about you.”
“What did you guess? That my name was Kelsey or Kinley or Lulu?”
He smiled again. “No, I was certain you were a Greenwich stay-at-home mum with a full-time nanny, married to some bloke like me.”
Emily knew this was where she should have at least mentioned Miles, but why ruin the fun? An innocent flirtation on a train she’d never again take with a guy she’d never again see. Why not enjoy it? “Wait—you think I live in Greenwich? That may be the most offensive thing you’ve said yet.”
His laugh was deep and sexy. “It’s not that bad.”
“Clearly you haven’t spent any real amount of time there.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. I live there. Have for five years now.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I wasn’t offended.”
“No, I mean I’m sorry you live there. That must be rough.”
Again the laugh, and Emily couldn’t help but smile back. She felt like she’d do anything to make him laugh again.
“What’s rough is living there as a divorced dad. Let’s just say it wouldn’t be my first choice for having a wide pool of single women to meet.”
So he was divorced. Interesting how he put it out there like that. He was probably only in his mid- or late thirties—how on earth had he already had time to marry someone, have children, get divorced, and start to date?
The train stopped at 125th Street, and a few more people straggled on. One, a sweaty overweight man, eyed Emily before lumbering toward the back of the car.
“You can thank me for that,” Alistair said.
“So why’d you get divorced?” Emily asked, not so much because she thought it was any of her business but so she could try to wrest a bit of control back. He was out-charming her, and she wasn’t used to it.
“Isn’t this where you ask me my children’s names? Or how old they are? Something more benign?”
“I don’t really like kids.”
“All right, then. If you must know, my wife and I met in a nightclub in Istanbul and eloped three months after that. She liked to party, but I thought mostly the usual stuff: booze, weed, a little ecstasy every now and then. How could I have known she was going to fall in love with Adderall and then oxy and then smack? That I’d find her shooting up in our shower? That was fun. That she’d be in and out of rehab for a decade, all while I’m wondering when she’s going to overdose? And then the kids came along, and she couldn’t stay clean even for them? That the final straw was when I came home early from work one day to find her in our bed with our dealer while our daughters watched TV in the family room? Probably more than you wanted to know.”
“Oh my God. Really?” Emily asked, suddenly feeling super-guilty for dredging this all up.
“No, not really! We met senior year at Brown and dated on and off for years.”
It was Emily’s turn to laugh. “You are an asshole.”
“Yeah, she thinks so too. I mean, we were happy for a while, but apparently I pressured her a lot: to get married before she was ready, to move back to London with me when she didn’t want to leave her family, to give up her job and stay home with the girls. Nice, right?”
“I’ve heard of worse crimes. And I’m sure it wasn’t just you.”
“No, it wasn’t. She had a big-time anxiety disorder that medication barely put a dent in. A lot of irrational fears and limitations—wouldn’t fly, refused to drive on highways, that kind of thing. Whatever, that’s all in the past. Now we are very happily divorced. We have one of those highly functional co-parenting relationships where we think of each other as mostly good and decent and we put the children first and serve only organic food and everyone is happy.”
“I call bullshit,” Emily said.
“It’s all rather dull, if you must know. The girls are well adjusted, we both go to all their sporting games and co-host their birthday parties, and we’ll often spend weekends together. I had an early client meeting in the city today, but I’m headed to her house now so we can all go skiing together this weekend.”
“How progressive.”
“Yes. Lots of therapy. Supposedly this is how our generation separates, did you know that? We are all so knackered from our parents’ vicious divorce battles that we refuse to subject our own children to it. We don’t even put down our ex-partners, can you imagine? Just support and kindness and ‘family love.’ ”
“My parents got divorced when I was ten, and they definitely hated each other.”
“Naturally,” Alistair said. “My mother found my father shagging the housekeeper one day and he was gone the next. It was proper. Expected. But anyway—”
At that exact moment the train screeched to a halt at the Greenwich station and the doors opened. They scrambled onto the platform, barely making it before the train pulled away. They stood looking at each other as the crowd dispersed around them.
“Well, Emily, it was a pleasure to meet you,” Alistair said, extending a hand. It felt warm, dry, strong.
“You as well. Have fun skiing. I’m not going to lie, that sounds like a terrible time.”
He laughed. “What? A freezing weekend away with your ex and two kids doesn’t sound like a dream? I hope you have something far lovelier planned, Emily.” And with that, he turned and walked to the stairs.
She stared after him. Had he really just left? After a conversation like that? Without so much as asking for her number or if he could see her again?
Miriam was not impressed when Emily climbed into the passenger seat and complained about this fact. “You’re married!” Miriam said while she navigated the hideous, crumb-laden SUV out of the station parking lot.
“He didn’t know that!”
“Well, aside from the fact that you should have told him, you do happen to be wearing a wedding band with, like, blinding diamonds in it. I doubt he missed it.”
“Men don’t notice things like that.”
“What did you want? Would you have slept with him if he called? Or is this an ego thing?”
Emily sighed. She loved her friend like a sister, but Miriam could be so exasperating. How was Emily friends with someone so perfect? Sure, appearance-wise she had the extra fifteen pounds and the frizzy hair and the vile suburban-mommy addiction to athleisurewear—but Miriam was just so good. So even-keeled and rational. So smart and sensible. So considerate of those around her. And the doting husband and the three kids and the perfect house in the perfect suburb? With no visible signs of marital fracture or life dissatisfaction or even run-of-the-mill depression? If Emily didn’t love her so much, it would be really fucking annoying.
“Never mind. Can we get a Starbucks?”
“I have coffee at home.”
“Your pods don’t compete with the real thing.”
“But they’re Starbucks brand. They are the real thing.”
Emily sighed loudly.
“Fine. But just the drive-through. Karolina is upstairs. She stayed over last night.”
“Stayed over? Why?”
“I found her wandering around Whole Foods last night, looking like she’d just stepped out of a crack den. I couldn’t let her go home.”
“Is she okay?”
“She’s fine. But I’m guessing her general demeanor had something to do with Graham announcing on Anderson Cooper that their marriage is over.”
“Oh shit, of course. I saw the clip.”
“Yeah, it was bad. He basically called her a drunk in front of the entire universe and said she was beyond help and that he had to think of his son. Not their son. His.”
“He’s a real first-class pig. And he must be super-serious about this other woman, because that was an aggressive move. I wonder who’s advising him.”
Miriam shrugged.
“I’m not positive, but I think she and her agent parted ways right before all of this went down and she hadn’t hired someone new yet. Her lawyer is a family friend. Graham’s best friend, actually, so I’ve offered to help her with anything in that area. She really doesn’t have anyone; it’s kind of surprising.”
Emily rolled her eyes. “Well, then, she really needs to get someone. Like, stat. If anyone can convince her, Miriam, it’s you.”
Miriam pulled up to the Starbucks drive-through, and Emily leaned over her friend and shouted out the window, “Grande skinny vanilla latte, please. Extra hot and no foam.” She turned to Miriam. “What are you having?”
“I’ll just get it at home.”
“You are so like my mother. Live a little, have a coffee!”
Miriam sighed. “Fine. Just a drip, please. Small.”
“Sexy!” While they waited, Emily tapped her fingers. “What’s Karolina going to do next?” And then, watching Miriam take the cup: “There you go, rock star. Enjoy it.”
Emily had downed her entire coffee by the time they got to Miriam’s and wished she’d ordered a venti. Her phone bleated with a text message, and although they hadn’t exchanged numbers or even last names, she found herself hoping it was from Alistair. When she read Miles’s text (Hi baby. Safe flight back to L.A. today. Missing you so much and can’t wait to see you. xoxo), she felt a pang of guilt. But it had just been fun, innocent flirting. The kind that Miles engaged in pretty much every minute of every day, often right in front of her. They were both secure enough in their relationship that they could have fun with other people. Not a big deal.
When Life Gives You Lululemons Page 9