When Life Gives You Lululemons

by Lauren Weisberger

  Emily smiled. She knew Miranda must be desperate if she was complimenting her. “I’d be happy to recommend a few other people who—”

  Click. The phone went dead. Emily was under no illusion that they’d been accidentally disconnected. But the nice thing about being thirty-six years old and accountable to no one was that it no longer left her with that sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  Finishing off the last of her vitaminwater, Emily grabbed her laptop from the kitchen island and brought it to the couch. She tried to FaceTime Andy Sachs to tell her how Miranda had just hung up on her midsentence, but it came up as unavailable. Emily texted her instead.

  WTF? Just tried FaceTiming you and negged. Don’t pretend you have a life. I know better.

  The response came back immediately. Never claiming I have a life, but can’t FaceTime. I’m mystery reader at Clementine’s school right now.

  Sorry I asked. Just had loveliest convo w/ MP. A peach as always.

  Is she still begging you to go back? It’s funny, she never begs me.

  Emily couldn’t help smiling. Wants me to oversee the Met. G knocked up w/ baby #4. MP called it “vile.”

  And you said no??? Liar! Hold on, back to you in a sec

  Emily waited, staring at the screen, but Andy never came back. Not even Andy Sachs had time for her anymore! If that wasn’t pathetic, Emily wasn’t sure what was. Andy, whose new life was the very definition of dreadful, and yet Emily was the one sitting alone on her couch, patiently waiting for Andy to return from gathering eggs or something. If there had ever been any question that Andy was the worst possible fit in the history of Runway magazine, her purchase with Alex of a working farm in Quechee, Vermont, had sealed the deal. Milking cows, collecting chicken eggs, and taking the goats out to free-range was disgusting and smelly and all around about as appealing as a natural childbirth. Emily and Andy hadn’t seen much of each other—surprise, surprise, Emily sure as hell wasn’t going to Vermont—but she was shocked that Andy didn’t call back about Miranda instantly. Times had changed.

  Emily opened Facebook (after reading that only old people in their thirties, like her, ever even used it, she’d been trying to wean herself off) and nearly sprained her thumb madly scrolling past all the photos of babies, babies, babies. Babies sporting those annoying hospital-hat bows and in their coming-home outfits and with cake smashed on their faces as though turning one were some sort of massive accomplishment. Babies in onesies and tutus and swaddle blankets and sucking hilarious fake-mustache pacis and wearing cheeky slogan T-shirts that always referenced MOMMY or DADDY or AUNTIE or MY BFF. Even when they weren’t crying next to her on planes or stealing all of her friends’ senses of humor, they were still making her life miserable.

  Miriam’s manic friend Ashley from the baby shower had requested Emily as a friend; before Emily hit “delete,” she saw that next to Ashley’s psychotically grinning head shot was a photo of the guy from the train a couple weeks earlier. Alistair. Emily quickly clicked on his profile and was irritated to see that he kept it private. Besides his profile picture, which was nothing more than a professional head shot in a less wrinkled Brioni suit, she couldn’t access anything—not the About Me, not any photos of his ex-wife or his kids, nothing he might have been unknowingly tagged in years earlier by some nonfriend. Nothing. But it did provide his last name. And when she typed it into Google, she hit the golden trifecta: work bio on his company’s page, wedding announcement in the Times, and a handful of thumbnail-size party pictures from Patrick McMullan’s website. It was amazing how much you could tell about people from those miniature images. A few quick glances and you got everyone’s names and faces; the types of parties he’d been invited to and had agreed to attend; and the necessary basics like what he was wearing and how he was described (“socialite,” “son of,” “heir to,” “legendary party boy,” or her favorite, “plus one”) in the captions. It seemed Mr. Alistair Grosvenor accumulated degrees from Eton and Cambridge and Brown and had an affinity for keeping his hair roguishly long but his suits impeccably tailored. His mother was titled in England—something Emily could never quite figure out—and his father was long dead. And the ex-wife was, unsurprisingly, beautiful. Thin to the point of possible starvation, but Emily wouldn’t judge her there: if anything, she admired the commitment. Long-legged and graceful, with straight black hair skimming her angular shoulders, she was nearly always draped in something muted and just stylish enough. Like a modern-day Carolyn Bessette. This was not a woman to underestimate. If Emily were single, Alistair’s ex-wife would have made for a very worthy adversary.

  “Who’s that?” Miles boomed from behind her, and Emily nearly jumped out of her seat.

  “Why the hell are you sneaking up on me like that?”

  He had a towel wrapped around his waist. “I’m not sneaking! I walked in here like a completely normal person to see if you wanted to come take a shower.”

  “You moved like a puma.”

  “You’re just ogling him so intently you didn’t notice me.” Miles said this lightly, without the least bit of jealousy.

  “I wasn’t ogling anyone. He’s a friend of a friend.”

  “Whatever. Are you coming or not?”

  “No, go without me,” she murmured.

  He shrugged and walked back into the bedroom.

  She was ready for him to go back to Hong Kong and oddly excited to get back to Greenwich, although gun to her head, she wouldn’t admit that to anyone. The sheer amount of money, time, and energy those women could pool among them was astonishing: if they focused their attention to it, Emily had no doubt the town moms could end world hunger or eliminate religious persecution. Just turn those Greenwich mommies loose with their two-hundred-dollar yoga leggings and their Prada checkbooks and their trainer-toned bodies, and there was nothing they couldn’t accomplish. The place had a good energy, bizarrely, and she was eager to get started with Karolina. She’d been advising Karolina to lie low, but that was about to end. It was time to fight back.

  She group-texted Miriam and Karolina: Chins up, betches! I’m coming your way tomorrow! And Aunt Emily is going to change your lives forever.

  Part Two

  14

  Viewing of the New German Au Pair

  Miriam

  “Maybe let’s try Zara?” Miriam asked, hoping Emily would agree. Everything else on Main Street in Greenwich was an absolute fortune.

  It was one of those bitterly freezing February days that required arctic-wear: snow boots, the heaviest and longest down coat in your closet, and the full collection of hat, gloves, and scarf. The only skin Miriam had exposed to the cold were the three inches between her bottom lip and her eyebrows, and still she thought she might die. Yet somehow super-human Emily appeared not even to feel the whipping winds or icy air. She wore only a cute cropped leather jacket and ripped jeans. Miriam had long underwear beneath her full-length jeans—complete with wool socks and knee-high sheepskin-lined boots—and Emily was wearing flats. Barefoot. And she didn’t even seem to notice.

  “Stop it,” Emily said, taking her by the arm and leading her toward Saks. “I took time off from Operation Karolina for this. You don’t buy your birthday dress at Zara. Come with me.”

  Miriam tried to keep up with Emily, who was booking down the sidewalk. “So, how is Karolina’s . . . case?” she asked.

  “You make it sound like an STD.”

  “Well, I don’t know how to ask! And to be perfectly honest, it doesn’t seem like much is happening.”

  Emily turned and glared at her. “I can’t help Karolina until she wants to help herself. Trip and Graham are playing power games with Harry, and she’s not mad enough yet to take action. She’s still in denial.”

  Miriam nodded. She couldn’t disagree. “I’ll talk to her,” she said. And then, because she couldn’t stop staring at Emily’s exposed skin, “Aren’t you cold?” She followed through the store’s front doors and directly down the staircase to the contempora
ry section.

  “What are you, eighty? How much can one person talk about the weather? Here, let’s start with DVF.” Emily plucked two dresses from the racks and examined each one.

  “May I help you?” A saleslady in all black approached them.

  Miriam murmured that they were just browsing, but Emily barked a “Yes” over her. “We’re looking for a great dress that she can wear for a night out in the city with her husband. It has to be something versatile. I’m thinking DVF.”

  The saleslady ran her eyes up and down Miriam’s snowsuit in disapproval. “Would you mind unzipping, honey? I can’t tell what size you are.”

  Embarrassed, Miriam unzipped her parka to reveal a Patagonia wool sweater, which, layered with one of those Uniqlo heat shirts, was the warmest thing she owned.

  “Mmmm,” the woman murmured, unable to hide her distaste for either the sweater or Miriam’s size or both. “I’d guess a ten?”

  “I’m an eight,” Miriam snapped, lying. She was totally a ten. Formerly a six.

  “Ah, yes, of course. I want to show you this great romper I just got in from Alice and Olivia. Oh, and I think you’ll love this MILLY skirt I have in mind. We could pair it with a silky tank from Helmut Lang, and it would make a fantastic city outfit.”

  “Romper?” Miriam said, but neither Emily nor the woman was listening. Each had moved to her own rack and was wildly grabbing hangers like in some frantic episode of designer Supermarket Sweep.

  A few minutes later, the three women were in the largest dressing room with a mini-stage and a trifold mirror.

  “I’m, uh, maybe you guys should wait outside? I’ll come out and show you everything once it’s on,” Miriam stammered.

  “Oh, come on!” Emily said. “No need to be shy—we’ve all seen those Dove ads featuring ‘real women.’ Strip.”

  Miriam glared. “Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you . . .” She pulled her sweater and undershirt over her head. Then, without making eye contact with Emily or the saleswoman, she unzipped her jeans, took off her long underwear, and stood, feeling horribly exposed and unattractive, in only her bra and underwear. Thank God she was wearing a pair of cute enough lacy bikinis in anticipation of the night ahead, but the bra was a horror show: nude-colored, full-coverage, and easily something a bosomy eighty-year-old would wear without complaint. Angry red lines from her waistband crisscrossed her pale stomach, and bits of lint stuck in her belly button.

  Emily whistled.

  Miriam covered her breasts with her hands. “I wasn’t expecting to get undressed in front of an audience,” she said.

  “Nonsense,” the saleswoman said, apropos of nothing. “Here, let’s try this one first.”

  It took forty-five minutes of cramming herself into terrible things to stumble on the perfect dress. It was Chloé, which was way more than Miriam would usually spend.

  “This one is sixty percent off. In that size,” the saleswoman felt compelled to add. Plain black silk with an asymmetrical hemline and a beautiful forgiving drape. It made her boobs look human-size and her waist nearly petite and could easily be worn at the theater or a cool downtown restaurant; plus, she already had great heels to wear with it, and she would definitely wear it again to something else. She felt a pang of panic when she shoved her Amex into the chip reader, and Emily read her mind.

  “Stop. It’s so on sale, it’s practically paying you.”

  They thanked the saleswoman and headed back outside.

  “Let’s get some lunch?” Emily asked. “I’m starving.”

  “We have to get the kids off the bus.”

  Emily sighed. “Right. The kids.”

  “You’re still up for this, right?”

  “Yes,” Emily said without a hint of conviction.

  Was she making a huge mistake leaving her children alone overnight with someone who had never so much as cared for a goldfish? Probably, Miriam thought as she drove them both back to her house. But what choice did she have? Neither her parents nor Paul’s lived nearby, and they didn’t know anyone in town well enough yet to ask them to take their three children for the entire night and get them to school the next morning. Emily was a functioning adult, arguably. She paid her bills and figured out how to feed herself. Besides, if anything went horribly awry, they were just a half hour away and could be home in no time. It would be fine.

  “You’ll be fine,” Miriam said to Emily after they’d collected the kids from the bus and parked them in front of the television.

  “I know. I’m not worried. What can be so hard? I’ve wrangled pop stars barely older than they are. So long as you don’t mind if Maisie wears foundation to school tomorrow, then I don’t see any problems.” Emily laughed when Miriam looked at her in horror. “Go! Be gone. We’ll have a great time.”

  “I left all the numbers for the pediatrician and the police and fire and both our cells and local contacts on the fridge.”

  “Can’t I just call 911? I mean, like, isn’t that what it’s there for?”

  “Emily.”

  “I’m kidding! It’s fine. They’re not aliens, just small humans. I’ve got this, okay? And I promise, I won’t even drink myself into a stupor tonight just in case the house mysteriously combusts or a gang of armed men breaks in to murder us all. I’ll be on top of my game.”

  “I can’t tell you how much that sets my mind at ease.”

  Emily grinned. “Go and enjoy.”

  “You can call anytime, for any reason. We can be home in no time.”

  “You’re not getting out of sex with your husband that easily.”

  Miriam laughed, perhaps too loudly. The pressure was definitely on. If it didn’t happen that night, something was officially wrong with them, and none of the possibilities was good. Either her husband was disgusted with her, in love with someone else, or had been lying to her (and himself) his entire adult life and just realized he actually preferred men. Miriam considered these scenarios during the train ride to the city, and by the time she reached Grand Central, she was more convinced than ever that their entire marriage was riding on this evening. It had taken some effort, but by cross-referencing her calendar, she’d figured out that the last time she and Paul had properly slept together—from start to finish, without falling asleep in the middle—had been two months earlier. Christmas Eve. She’d gone upstairs at her in-laws’ house in New Jersey to rest before dinner, and Paul had followed her. The kids had been occupied with their cousins in the basement, and Paul’s parents were busy entertaining in the kitchen, and no one had noticed their disappearance for nearly an hour. It had been lovely, but good God—two months? The length of time was horrifying, but worse was the fact that Paul had not uttered a single word about it. Not so much as a token “I miss you” or “We need to make time for us.” It was as if he didn’t notice.

  When she joined the short taxi line outside of Grand Central, Miriam tried to forget about all of that. “You need a cab, miss?” called the porter in an official-looking uniform, hailing a cab gracefully. She had forty minutes to get downtown. It was perfect. Plus, he’d called her “miss” and not “ma’am.” Things were looking up.

  In the forty-five minutes it took to go as many city blocks, Miriam’s mind drifted. How long had it been since she’d felt like this? It must have been pre-kids but also pre-pregnancy. Her honeymoon? So she was a few pounds more now than she had been then. Who the hell really cared? She felt gorgeous in her new dress and couldn’t wait to show it off.

  When the hostess escorted her to the bar area, Paul caught sight of her and actually whistled.

  “You look amazing.” He breathed into her neck when he pulled her into his arms. “Sexy as hell.”

  It felt warm and safe to rest her head against his chest. Paul. Her husband. Her best friend. Who’d just called her sexy. They had the whole night, the two of them, and she was suddenly certain that all was fine between them. More than fine—perfect.

  “Happy birthday, honey,” he said, pulling ba
ck a chair at the bar for her. “I ordered you their house drink. Some spicy tequila thing with watermelon. Sounded right up your alley. Damn, I love that dress.”

  She couldn’t keep from grinning. “Emily helped me pick it out. I don’t think I would’ve even tried it on if she hadn’t made me. And I texted a picture to Ashley and she freaked out saying how much she loved it.”

  His face clouded over for an instant but then went back to the solicitous smile and admiring eyes. “Mmm. So does this mean you’re all friends now?”

  “What was that look?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You got a weird look when I said Ashley’s name.”

  He laughed, and it sounded insincere. “Ashley? What? If you like her, I like her.”

  There was definitely something he wasn’t telling her.

  “You seem to like her husband.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Paul took a long drink from his vodka on the rocks.

  “Mean? It doesn’t mean anything. You went over to her house that night I was out with the girls.”

  “So?”

  “Just that it was a little weird to hear from Ashley first.”

  Another massive swallow. “Why don’t you just chip me? Like they do with dogs.”

  “Maybe I should chip you. If you think it’s a great idea to ditch your own children on one of the few nights you actually have to be alone with them so you can go drinking and ogling some nineteen-year-old au pair, maybe that’s exactly what you need.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  The bartender arrived and slid Miriam’s cocktail to her. It was gorgeous: pink, frothy, and sporting lovely green accents of cucumber, lime, and a jalapeño slice. “German? Supposedly gorgeous? And practically a child.”

  “Miriam.” He sounded exhausted.

  “Paul.”