The One That Got Away

by Leigh Himes

  And fake.

  As boob jobs went, this was peerless work. These were the Cadillacs of implants: pliant, under the muscle, any incision scars artfully concealed.

  I stood slack-jawed, wondering what had made Abbey van Holt decide to go under the plastic surgeon’s knife. Especially since I had always claimed I never would. And secretly looked down on women, like my mother, who did. (Breast cancer survivors excepted.)

  But, then again, maybe I was against plastic surgery because our financial situation meant I never really had the option. I stepped closer to examine my face and hair and see what other improvements, surgical or otherwise, might have been made.

  Where were the two deep grooves in my forehead and the little lines around my eyes? The skin was smooth and poreless, as if someone had blurred it in Photoshop. My hair was shorter and blonder, with a razor-sharp edge that just barely grazed my shoulders. I smiled to reveal straight, alabaster teeth.

  “Holy shit,” I mouthed to myself in the mirror.

  I was still naked and admiring myself when Alex walked in. I reached down for my towel and covered myself as best I could as he walked to the double sinks and dropped his heavy silver watch on a crystal tray.

  “So, I guess we should figure out tonight,” he said, removing his sports coat and unbuttoning his shirt.

  “Okay?”

  “I know it’s a lot to ask, but if you are feeling up to it, it might be good for you to come. It’ll stop all the rumors, the media barrage.”

  “Sure,” I said, stealing glances at him in the mirror.

  “But are you feeling well enough?”

  “Surprisingly, yes. I feel fine. And you heard the doctors; they said I can go back to my normal life.”

  “I know, but still. Why don’t you just stay for a few minutes, shake some hands, get your photo taken, and then Oscar can bring you back,” he said. “If it runs late, I can always just sleep at the house. You know how long-winded the Presbyterian League can be.”

  “No kidding,” I said, trying to keep up. “Those Presbyterians are so… so…” My voice trailed off as I watched him step out of his pants.

  “Frank thinks that with their endorsement I can pick up more of Montgomery County, maybe some of Bryn Mawr,” he continued. “Important votes.”

  I had completely tuned out what he was saying, too distracted by his reflection in the mirror. As he lifted his undershirt, he revealed the muscular arms, hairy chest, and six-pack abs of a Men’s Health cover model. When he stepped out of his pale blue boxers and kicked them across the room toward a hamper, my mouth fell open. He walked over to me, his skin looking healthy and tan against the white walls. He wrapped his arms around me and kissed my forehead, not noticing my racing heart and frozen stance.

  “I was worried about you,” he said, whispering into my hair. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

  Except for Jimmy and Sam, I hadn’t seen another naked male in twelve years, let alone had one pressed against me. It felt so strange, so ridiculous, but also exhilarating. I tried to regain some composure, but when I felt his naked cock pressing against my hip, my heart stopped—and I emitted a little involuntary gasp.

  “What?” he said.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Just tickled.”

  He laughed, then disappeared into the shower.

  Our chauffeur, Oscar, opened the door and held my hand as I stepped down from the big Suburban and landed with a crunch on a circular pebbled driveway. Alex followed behind, still talking on the phone. He was speaking to who I presumed was his campaign manager, and together they had dissected poll numbers and voter maps during the entire half-hour ride. I always hated it when Jimmy talked business in the car—hearing just half of a conversation is worse than hearing the whole—but on this ride, I had listened closely, trying to learn anything I could about this man, this life.

  Outside, the early evening light was fading, which made the building before me more potent and magical, like a fairy-tale castle from one of Gloria’s storybooks. It was a massive gray stone mansion, covered in ivy, with too many chimneys to count, a gray slate roof, and one rounded turret. The windows glowed golden, lit from within so brightly the interior seemed ablaze. This was Bloemveld, Alex’s childhood home and the family estate for more than a century.

  I would learn later that prior to this gray stone mansion there had been a smaller brick version, and before that, a log cabin. The land had been in the family since Alex’s ancestor Alexandre van Hault purchased it from William Penn in the late 1600s. The first van Holt living on American soil had been a farmer and a tender of sheep, but his great-grandson found coal on the land, which led to investments in steel, which eventually led to real estate. The poor, illiterate Dutchman in the log cabin would never have believed that his descendants now owned a third of Philadelphia, half of the Main Line, and enough of Manhattan to be invited to the Central Park Conservancy gala and the Met Ball every year.

  As I started for the front door, Alex caught me by the elbow. Holding the phone in his hand, he whispered, “What are you doing? You know Mother hates it when we use the front door.”

  “Right,” I said, abruptly changing course and falling into step behind him. This would be the first of many pivots—both physical and conversational—I’d be making that evening.

  It was a warm night for October, almost muggy. I had played it safe with a simple sleeveless black shift and plain gold jewelry. But I couldn’t resist when it came to choosing shoes, picking a pair of crystal-covered Jimmy Choos. They sank past the pebbles into the dirt, but I didn’t care. If these got ruined, there were plenty of other “cocktail” heels back in the apartment: a pair studded with gold, one with little mirrored shards, another topped with a black lace bow so stiff it felt like plastic.

  As we crossed in front of tall windows with pencil-thin mullions, I peeked into each room, taking in the overstuffed upholstery, watered-silk wallpaper, and paintings of bright-eyed, pointy-eared stallions in gilded frames. Passing the dining room, I noticed an enormous crystal chandelier lit by candles, not bulbs. I wondered if wax would drip onto the massive table beneath it and whose job it was to snuff the flames each night.

  At last, reaching the side of the house, we stepped onto a raised stone terrace covered by a taut green-and-white awning. Alex took my elbow and steered me indoors, into a room abuzz with clanking silverware, harried footsteps, and slamming oven doors.

  Actually, it was a series of rooms culled together into one big kitchen, the needs of modern entertaining gobbling up old closets and butlers’ pantries into a massive, noisy ode to all things culinary. A small army of cooks and maids and servers rushed to and fro, like commuters hurrying for their trains, their arms laden with trays and linens.

  Amid the monochromatic tableaux—black-and-white uniforms, stainless steel appliances, and granite countertops—two women stood out like Jordan almonds: one in a pale blue wool suit, the other in a pink sweater set. The middle-aged woman, in blue, inspected a tray of champagne flutes while the younger one, in pink, flipped through a magazine, a bored expression on her face.

  When we approached her, she looked up lazily from her magazine and spoke with obvious sarcasm: “Nice of you to join us.”

  “Oh, calm down. People aren’t even here yet,” Alex replied, sliding his phone off and slipping it into his chest pocket. “I had a radio interview that went long, and I’m not sure if you heard, but my wife was in the hospital.”

  Not knowing her name, I just stood there as she cut her eyes toward me for a moment, then returned to Alex. I thought I should say something, but the best I could come up with was a whispered “Yeah, I was in the hospital.”

  She turned back to me and glared. “Yes, I know, Abbey. You were in the hospital. We would have visited but Alley told us not to.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” I stuttered.

  “Whatever. I really don’t even know why I bothered to come to this,” she said, turning back to Alex. “I’m telling
you, Alley, this is the last night for me. The old bags better have their checkbooks with them this time.”

  “Hey, watch what you say,” said Alex with a glance around the room. “Last thing I need is for that to end up on YouTube.”

  “Chiiiiildren,” wailed the older woman in blue as she moved toward us. “Please stop bickering. Let’s get through this as best we can. It’s important for Alex, for all of us.”

  Then, turning to me and putting her manicured hand on my shoulder, she looked at me with loving concern. “Abigail, we were so worried. Is there anything we can get you?”

  I opened my mouth to respond, but the woman, who I guessed was “Mother,” continued to speak, though her eyes were glued to a passing server’s tray: “What an absolutely bizarre accident. You know, someone should really investigate those escalators. For someone as fit as Abigail to fall, there’s a problem. But the most important thing, of course, is that she is fine.” She turned back to me and smiled, and I smiled back.

  Then she leaned in closer to me with a wink. “Though I have to say, we so enjoyed having the children here with us. You should have seen Van with Cook. What an appetite that little one has.”

  Van, I thought. That’s what they’ve been calling him. Oops.

  Then I saw her eyes flick over my dress and land on my sparkling heels.

  “What wonderful shoes!” she exclaimed. She seemed delighted by them, but I couldn’t help but feel slightly embarrassed.

  “Thank you,” I whispered shyly. “I thought so too.”

  But she didn’t hear, instead focused on a half-filled ice bucket floating toward the swinging doors. She darted away, leaving tendrils of gardenia perfume in her wake.

  “Mrs. van Holt?”

  I heard someone talking behind me but ignored the sound as I took in the enormous wood-paneled room. Despite all the bodies flowing in, and the crackling fire in the stone fireplace, I was shivering in the cavernous space, realizing only now why everyone else wore thick tweeds, wools, and cashmere.

  The voice behind, this time closer and louder, asked again, “Mrs. van Holt?” and I wished whoever she was addressing would just respond.

  It wasn’t until Alex whispered, “Abbey, answer her!” that I remembered. Mrs. van Holt was me.

  I whirled around, and not realizing how close the server was, I upset the wide silver tray she was balancing so neatly in one hand. She and I watched in horror as the tray—filled with champagne flutes—flew up in the air, the glassware hitting the carpet without incident but the bubbly liquid flying farther, smacking a group of party guests as if they were sitting front row at SeaWorld.

  And thus began my foray into Main Line society.

  A woman who doesn’t even know her own name. A woman red-faced and shaking with embarrassment and wondering what one can possibly say to a bunch of elderly Presbyterians one just baptized in booze.

  “Jeez, Abbey,” said Alex after the help swooped in to clean up and the room returned to its conversations. “If you weren’t feeling like champagne tonight, you could have just said so.”

  I looked up at him in anguish, mortified, before I saw a smile curve on his lips. He was joking. I laughed in relief, then leaned toward him and whispered, “Oh my God.”

  “Seriously, what’s with you? Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine, really. Just… just nervous for you. The election and fund-raising and everything.”

  “Well, don’t be. You know I’ve known these people forever.”

  He slid his arm around my back, guiding me protectively, and for a moment, the rest of the room disappeared. It came back into focus quickly, though, as a photographer hired for the event jumped in front and asked us for a few photos, and then, as the flash went off, couples from around the room noticed us. They looked over and moved toward us like a leather-heeled herd, all wanting to be the first to greet the guests of honor.

  I clung to Alex’s side, even standing a few steps back, like a small child hiding behind a parent. I quietly smiled and nodded, trying my best to go unnoticed. But almost every person who approached expected me to say something, if only small talk. After all, Alex was the reason for this party, and I was the reason’s wife.

  Even the simplest question was fraught with danger, and never in my life had I felt so uncomfortable in a social situation. My body language was as taut as a drum, my expression anxious, and when I spoke, my voice came out either too soft or too loud. It was as if I had been thrown onto a Broadway stage on opening night with no script.

  And the audience? Not only strangers, but strangers from another land, talking about things and people and places I knew nothing about. And the way they spoke was problematic too. I had no idea that people—aside from the Thurston Howells on Gilligan’s Island—actually spoke like this.

  “Abigail, dear, are we mucking through?” asked a silver-haired matron with golf ball–sized pearls.

  Mucking through what? This party? My recovery? Life in general?

  I whispered a benign “yes” and she began to drone on about the demise of our country now that there was a “colored man” in the White House. Was I hearing her correctly? I hoped not.

  After her, a silver-haired gent with an enormous overbite mumbled questions at us between bites of shrimp. Though I couldn’t understand but every fifth word, Alex answered deftly and with ease—he being well-versed in this secret Wasp language—before he pitched the conversation to me.

  “You’d have to ask my wife,” he said as he put his hand on my shoulder. “That’s her domain.” Oh no.

  I bought time by pretending I couldn’t hear him. “Excuse me?”

  The old man shuffled closer, his sour breath making my eyes sting. “I mumble mumble Alexander here mumble mumble the cottage. Is it coming along?”

  A cottage? What cottage?

  “Fine,” I replied. “Just fine.”

  “Mumble mumble. So by New Year’s?”

  I wanted to tell him, I have no mumble idea—anything to get him and his halitosis away from us—but I took a stab at an answer: “Yes.”

  Alex started to laugh. “Are you kidding?”

  I guessed again—“I mean maybe”—figuring that was safer. But at this, Alex turned and stared, eyebrows raised. Next, I went with the only remaining option: “No?”

  Alex leaned over and yelled into the old man’s ear: “George, with the way my wife fires architects, we’ll be lucky to be in by next New Year’s.”

  The two men laughed. I joined in a beat later while making a mental note: The van Holts were building a “cottage” so magnificent it required multiple architects and many years to build. Somewhere.

  From another direction came a tall, steely-haired woman in a dark green plaid suit hanging like Spanish moss on her gaunt frame. Her skin was so pale and thin I could see the web of her veins, as if she’d just risen from the dead and rushed right over to Bloemveld. Her only adornment? A diamond salamander with sapphire eyes trying to escape over her bony shoulder.

  “Abigail,” she snapped, stepping in front of the mumbler. “There are too many people here. Why don’t you van Holts pare down your lists?”

  “Um, well…”

  “And the crab is almost gone. Mirabelle should have used my man. He does a smacking good job.”

  I nodded, smiling, but that seemed to irritate her more. She stood straighter and spoke louder. “And you haven’t responded to my note. We will be seeing you and the children at Jamaica Hill over the holidays, right?”

  Jamaica Hill as in Jamaica? Count us in!, I wanted to say. But then I noticed Alex looking down at the floor. I took a stab at an answer.

  “I’m sorry. But we don’t have plans to travel this year.”

  Her black eyes flew open in surprise, then narrowed with irritation. She stomped away.

  “Really, Abbey?” asked Alex, annoyed. “I don’t think driving a mile down the road constitutes ‘traveling.’ Surely we can work her in.”

  “I’m sorry,
” I said, just then realizing that Jamaica Hill wasn’t a resort in the Caribbean but the name of her estate. And it was close to Bloemveld, maybe even just next door. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “Yes, you did. You’ve always hated Aunt Tickle.”

  Aunt Tickle? Who would tickle her? Rich people and their stupid names and their stupidly named estates. Didn’t they realize this was the twenty-first century?

  “Should I go apologize?” I asked. But before Alex could respond, we were approached by yet another couple, these two looking like they’d just stepped off the Scottish moors, their tweed jackets, thick wool turtlenecks, and riding boots perfectly matched. Their most marked difference was their eyebrows: hers were drawn on messily while his stuck out like steel wool. I braced myself.

  “Abigail, we’re so sorry about your little fall,” said the woman languidly. “I trust you’re feeling better?”

  Finally, someone had asked me about something that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. Something I could easily answer.

  “I’m fine, thank you. Overnight in the hospital was just a precaution.”

  “But what happened?” she asked. “Did you slip on something?”

  “I… I just lost my footing. Everyone’s worst fear on an escalator, right?”

  “I’ve warned her before about those high heels, but she won’t listen to me,” said Alex, shrugging.

  “Wives these days never do,” added the old man. Everyone laughed except me.

  The conversation turned to the campaign and then life in general. I listened intently, trying to pick up any information that might help me. From what I could gather, this couple was Mr. and Mrs. Brindle of the now defunct Brindle Department Store chain. They lived nearby and were old friends of the van Holts; Alex was even their godson. And perhaps benefactors too: At one point, the old man pulled Alex aside and slipped him an envelope. Alex put it in his coat and stepped back to me, and we all stiffly shook hands good-bye (no one hugged here, not even godparents).