When Life Gives You Lululemons

by Lauren Weisberger

  “I couldn’t have done it without you,” Karolina said, looking first at Emily and then at Miriam, wondering what she’d done to deserve two such real and loyal friends. “Seriously, you guys are the best.”

  “I’m just so happy that it’s all worked out,” Miriam said, embracing Karolina in a full-body hug. “I love you, honey.”

  “Blah, blah,” Emily said, waving her hands. “Enough of the feel-good crap. You love us. We’re the best. We know. Now, Miriam, can you tell us something more interesting? Like, who on earth picked out that outfit? Because—and I hesitate to say this, trust me—but you look almost cool. High-waisted jeans that you didn’t buy at J. Crew? A heel over an inch and three quarters? Even foundation? I applaud you.”

  Miriam gave Emily the finger and they all laughed.

  Karolina ran to the kitchen and came back with a bottle of red wine. “This was the bottle Elaine bought Graham and me on our wedding day. She said we were supposed to drink it on our tenth anniversary, which of course we didn’t. Graham said he had to work that night, but he was probably seeing Regan. Anyway, who cares about that now? What I do know is that I Googled it, and this bottle is worth three grand. Anyone want some?”

  Karolina poured the wine into plastic cups, since the glasses weren’t yet unpacked. She felt guilty handing a pregnant woman a cup of wine, but Emily snatched it from her and said, “Third trimester is fully cooked. Move along,” and together they held their plastic cups toward the ceiling, cackled like witches, and toasted one another.

  Later that night, after her friends had left and she’d checked that Harry had turned his lights off at a reasonable hour, Karolina climbed into bed. It didn’t feel real—this gorgeous, good-feeling home, her son once again hers, an impromptu night spent drinking wine and laughing with close girlfriends—and she wondered if this was the first time in her entire life she’d felt truly happy. There had been moments. She’d never forget those Sundays she spent with her mother, walking through the park or helping her cook or sharing a bath, but they’d always been tinged with the imminent sadness of her mother leaving again. Getting her first magazine cover, being selected to walk in the Victoria’s Secret show the first time, being named the face of L’Oréal—all of those career accomplishments had filled her with pride but left her feeling somehow empty. Even the early days with Graham, when they’d made love frequently and traveled often, were tinged with her own questions and doubts: Had Karolina honestly loved him? Had he loved her? Had either of them even known then what love was? Or had she been so young and naive and desperate to please her mother and her husband that she’d convinced herself it was love when it was really something else?

  When Karolina’s phone rang beside her, she jumped. The lamp beside her bed was on and the clock on her nightstand said it was 11:48. And a quick glance at the caller ID announced it was Graham.

  “Hello?” she said. “Graham?”

  “There you are,” he said breathily. “I’m sorry if I woke you. I wanted to wait until morning, but I couldn’t. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, I can’t do anything but think about you.”

  Karolina inhaled and held her breath. Why, when she hated him so much, did it still feel good to hear him say that? “Graham . . .”

  “Please, just listen. I screwed up, Lina. I know I did. The whole thing with Regan was an awful mistake. I never loved her, not like the way I love you. What you and I have is different, Lina. I know you feel it too. We built a family together, a home. A life. And I’m the first to admit that I put it all at risk because of my ambitions. You know it wasn’t because I loved her, right? I let my career aspirations be the priority, and in doing so, I jeopardized us. I realize that now, and I can’t apologize enough. But I’m going to get help. I’ve been in touch with a world-renowned psychologist who specializes in high-powered men and infidelity, and I’m certain she’s going to fix this. I’ll take a leave of absence from the Senate. I want to be a better man. A better father to Harry. And hopefully, a better husband to you.”

  “You want to be a better husband to me?” It came out like a squeak. So many thoughts raced through her mind—the planned DUI, the night in jail, and most of all, the completely wasted days and months and years spent trying to get pregnant—but those were the only words Karolina could utter.

  “Yes. You deserve that, and so does Harry. I’m going to work very hard to prove that to both of you, because you two are all that matter to me in the entire world.”

  Her throat tightened. How many times had she imagined this moment? Fantasized about the time he would come groveling back to her, saying all the right things so they could finally put their life back in order? To recognize his shortcomings, to admit his guilt, to announce his willingness to change? And to beg for her forgiveness? Here it was, happening almost exactly the way she’d envisioned it dozens of times—hundreds?—over the past months, and she wanted only to cry. She would shed tears for babies she had so desperately wanted and for the fear she’d felt about losing Harry and for the old Karolina, the naive and innocent one, who hadn’t been able to predict or even imagine that Graham was capable of doing such hideous things. But here it was, and there was no satisfaction, no feeling of victory, nothing but a strong certainty that this chapter of her life was closed forever.

  “Graham, I want you to listen closely,” Karolina said, not even trying to disguise her crying. “You and I no longer exist to each other as anything more than co-parents, and we never will. Harry and his well-being are all we’ll discuss, ever again. Outside of being the father to our son, you are dead to me. Now and forever.”

  She clicked the “end call” button and collapsed against the pillows. The tears felt cathartic, almost cleansing, and Karolina allowed herself to let it all out, as her mother had always encouraged.

  “Mom? Are you okay?” Harry’s voice, which alternated these days between a little-boy squeak and a manlier baritone, surprised her. He was standing in her doorway.

  “Oh, honey, come here. I’m fine,” she said, motioning for him to join her. Karolina felt a surge of love as her beautiful, lanky boy—now nearly taller than she was—climbed on the bed. He wore plaid pajama pants and an old camp T-shirt, and his left cheek was bright red and warm with sleep, as it always was when he was a little boy.

  “What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

  Karolina reached for him, and when he folded his warm body into hers, and she wrapped her arms around him, she believed she could know no greater happiness. “I’m crying because I’m happy, love.” She buried her face in his hair and inhaled his familiar, delicious smell. “Right now everything is exactly as it should be.”

  31

  Goodbye Wheatgrass, Hello Sarcasm

  Emily

  “I still can’t believe this is happening,” Miriam said as she helped line up baby bottles filled with pink jelly beans. “How did she agree to this?”

  Karolina laughed. She had just finished tying pink ribbons on the guest favor bags and was about to start filling the champagne glasses with sparkling rosé. “It’s not our fault. Everything we suggested was cool and understated and anti-baby, and this is what she chose.”

  “I can hear you, you know,” Emily called from her perch on the couch, where she was directing her baby-shower setup like a bellicose air traffic controller while a girl from Drybar blew out her hair. “I’m starving. Can someone please bring me something to eat?”

  Miriam materialized in front of her. Her floral dress was cinched at the waist, and her over-the-knee boots made her legs look long and glamorous. “You look thin in that,” Emily said accusingly.

  “Nice, right?” Miriam twirled around and finished with a little bow. “I’m back to my pre-kid weight. Who knows? I may be in a bikini by next summer.”

  “Please no,” Emily said, looking disgusted. “You’ve had three children. No one needs to see your bare stomach again, ever. Or mine.” She motioned to her own enormous midsection, which was nothing like the cute basketba
ll-under-the-shirt she’d imagined. Instead, she looked like she’d swallowed a whole goat. Maybe even a buffalo. Her ass had spread into the shape of a half-deflated beach ball, her breasts were bulging out of the double-F nursing monstrosity she’d wrapped them in, and her cankles were textbook, only puffier. Even her face had swollen to nearly twice its size, and her necks—plural—unfurled themselves every time she dared move her chin in a downward motion. She hadn’t seen her feet in six weeks. Karlie Kloss had asked her last week if she was having twins. There was no point of obvious delineation between her breasts and her belly or her right boob from her left. She was straight up, no denying it, huge. And the worst part of the whole wretched thing? She was okay with it.

  “What can I get you, honey?” Miriam asked. “The caterers brought a gorgeous-looking arugula and farro salad. Let’s see, I also saw them setting up an enormous fruit platter. There’s grilled salmon over spinach, a quinoa dish with cranberries and feta, and a—”

  “I want a burger!” Emily barked, irritated beyond description that she couldn’t just get up and help herself. She had special permission from her doctor to get out of bed solely for the baby shower, but she had to sit the entire time. The woman was such an alarmist! Something about her cervix being too far opened and the baby almost falling out. Emily wasn’t entirely sure of the details, although Miles had taken notes and asked questions and policed her every move as if she were about to give birth to the next queen of England.

  “We decided against the sliders on the menu, remember, honey?” Miriam said soothingly. “Too many vegetarians. Oh, we have mini–tomato bruschetta drizzled with—”

  “I. Want. A. Burger!” Emily growled. “Not a slider. Not a piece of salmon. A real, juicy burger. With cheese. And fries. And I want it now.”

  “Got it,” Miriam said, and Emily could see she was barely suppressing a smile. “I’ll order one for delivery. Should be here in no time.”

  “That’s my girl,” Miles said, emerging from their new bedroom wearing jeans and a cashmere hoodie. He stood over her and rubbed her belly. “And that’s my other girl.”

  “Your girls are starving,” Emily said, offering her face for a kiss. “All this prissy girly baby-shower food isn’t going to cut it.”

  “I have to run out now to pick up the balloons, so tell Miriam that I’ll grab your burger on the way home, okay?” He kissed her again, grabbed his coat, and walked out the apartment door. There was nothing Miles wouldn’t fetch or find or assemble now that there was a baby in the picture. He was so ecstatic and so damn attentive, Emily worried she might have to get pregnant with a second baby just to keep his attention. She relaxed back into the couch and watched everyone set up around her. They moved so quickly! Like gazelles. She could barely remember a time when it wasn’t an effort to get from the bedroom to the bathroom.

  Emily had been skeptical that they could move into the new apartment by December 1 and have it set up enough for her New Year’s Day shower, but even she had to admit the place looked pretty good. When Miles had heard from his company that his transfer from Los Angeles to New York had been accepted, Emily had almost screamed with happiness. Peace out, L.A.! Goodbye, wheatgrass and early-morning mountain hikes and hideous highway traffic and surfing culture and most of all people who either didn’t understand or didn’t like sarcasm. Hello, dirt and bagels and taxis and self-deprecation and edge. It was good to be home.

  She wanted to move back to the West Village, on a ground-floor brownstone apartment with a backyard area like they used to have, but Miriam and Karolina had gotten hysterical when Emily said so. They moaned about staircases and strollers, about safety and security, and how moving into an apartment without a doorman to sign for diaper deliveries and hail cabs was basically akin to child abuse. So against her better judgment, she and Miles had signed a lease on a three-bedroom condo in a brand-new high-rise in West Chelsea, where the High Line jutted through the third floor of the building and out the other side. The lobby looked like a Mandarin Oriental, the gym could be mistaken for an art installation, and the roof-deck pool switched between indoor and outdoor with the press of a button. There was even a communal playroom designed by child-development specialists and staffed round-the-clock by Columbia students. It wasn’t what she would have chosen, but Emily had to admit that so far it was pretty sweet living.

  “I still think you should have moved to Connecticut,” Karolina said, walking into the room. “Now that you’re going to be a mom and all.”

  Emily stared at her. “I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.” She turned and smiled at the woman who’d finished her hair and was gathering her dryer and brushes.

  “I have to say, I really like it there now,” Karolina said. “It gets a bad rap—and there are some crazies, of course—but overall . . .”

  Emily held up her hand. “Stop. Please. If I hear you or Miriam say another word about how beautiful and lovely and civilized the suburbs are, I’m going to vomit. Mark my words: I will never live in the suburbs.”

  Karolina smiled as she placed a final pink rose in the crystal vase on the pink-draped buffet table. “Yeah, no one’s ever said that before.”

  Emily’s phone rang and caller ID announced that it was Helene, Rizzo Benz’s manager. “Hello, Helene?” Emily said, dripping kindness. “Long time, no talk. What’s it been? A year since Rizzo’s Nazi prank?”

  “Hi, Emily. So sorry to call you again on New Year’s Day. I promise this isn’t going to be a thing, but well, I’m calling with some good news. Rizzo would like to hire you, effective immediately. Not for any particular problem this time, but to be added to your roster just in case.”

  “Sounds like someone else isn’t happy with Olivia Belle’s little . . . situation.”

  “You could say that. Rizzo fired her immediately upon hearing the news, and yours was the first name that came up.”

  “Well, isn’t that flattering,” Emily said sweetly. “I’d be more than happy to work with Rizzo. I just need him to call me himself—tomorrow, please, not today—and tell me that he’s sorry he was such an asshole and from now on he’ll do whatever I tell him, no questions asked. Can you pass that along for me?”

  “Um, I can tell him that, but I’m not sure—”

  “Well, those are my terms. Happy New Year, Helene. And thanks for the call.” Emily hung up and smiled. She’d be hearing from him first thing the next morning. In the forty-eight hours since news of Olivia Belle’s accounts getting hacked—resulting in endless client images, emails, texts, home addresses, even some medical information (aka plastic surgery plans) being splashed across the Internet—Emily had fielded calls from each and every one of her clients who had deserted her for Olivia. And she’d taken each and every one of them right back into the fold, after extracting both protracted apologies and promises of loyalty going forward. Not that Emily would forgive and forget. She wouldn’t. But it was damn nice to have a full roster again, and it would make leaving Miranda and Runway permanently after her maternity leave that much easier. Helping Miranda sort out the Met Ball and Fashion Week the last couple months hadn’t been as hellish as Emily had originally thought—as promised, the perks were plentiful and the pay was impressive—but it was definitely not a long-term career option. Miranda had basically accused Emily of getting pregnant to get out of Runway, and Emily hadn’t disagreed. It was the least confrontational way to end her temporary stint there while maintaining a good relationship with Miranda. It must have worked, because Miranda had accepted Emily’s insincere invitation to the baby shower, and now all Emily could think was that she needed Miranda today like she needed another ten pounds.

  The phone rang before she could consider this further. It was the doorman, announcing that the first guests had arrived. “They’re here,” Emily bellowed from the couch. “Can someone get the door?” She texted Miles: where r u? need my burger!

  One by one, women streamed into the modern Italian-design-style living room. Each so ch
ic and pulled together. So stylish. So thin. And each and every one lied through her teeth, telling Emily how gorgeous she looked, how much her skin glowed, how she barely looked like she’d gained a pound. Emily glanced down at her black maternity leggings with the waistband that stretched over her belly and straight to her bra strap and the poly-blend shapeless black tunic she wore over them, and she forced herself to smile. If only any of them realized that she didn’t give a flying fuck how she looked. There was a real, live human being growing inside her—a daughter, no less! So what if she was fat now? That was why God invented personal trainers and private nutritionists, wasn’t it? Some proper starvation and a ton of exercise and she’d have her body back in no time. And whatever didn’t go back exactly where it belonged would be easily remedied by Dr. Feinberg, right in the privacy of his lovely office on Park Avenue. Why did women get so stressed about all this?

  When nearly all of the invited guests had arrived, Miriam distributed sheets with color photos of two dozen babies. The goal was to see who could write the names of the celebrity parents underneath each photo in the least amount of time. A player could earn extra credit if she also knew the name of the baby.

  “You seriously want to play Celebrity Baby with me?” Emily asked, and everyone laughed. She put her pen to the paper the moment Miriam called “Go!” and had completed the entire worksheet in one minute and thirty seconds.

  “Done!” Emily called, holding her paper above her head. She looked around the room: no one else had filled in even half.

  “Fine, I’ll go back and do my extra credit,” she mumbled as she scrawled “Luna” and “Boomer” and “Rumi” as though signing her own name. Thirty seconds later, she said, “Done! What do I win?”