by Kathy Wang
When Camilla emerged from her front door, she didn’t look surprised to see Kate in her driveway. Perhaps, Kate thought, she’d already been alerted by some unseen presence—a security guard or an array of high-definition cameras (another use case, she noted, for Slippers).
“Want to come inside?” Camilla offered. Up close, she had hints of the look Kate had long dubbed “Peninsula MILF”—the certain breed of moneyed housewife who could be found dotted up and down between San Francisco and Palo Alto. A muscled and thin body, hair blond but dry, a general banishment of fats in the diet, resulting in a slightly papery skin everywhere but the face, which appeared perpetually shiny, slightly taut, plumped. A good friend from high school, Rosa Sachs, was married to one of the top plastic surgeons in Los Angeles. The husband had once explained to Kate that in terms of procedures, Silicon Valley was decades behind Beverly Hills. “You’ve got these billionairesses who are getting thread facelifts I wouldn’t let an incontinent D-list soap actress go under the knife for, let alone someone whose husband owns his own 747.”
“What’s a thread facelift?” Kate had asked, intensely curious.
“You don’t need to hear the details, believe me. Just know that as the skin ages, it’s like a metal string cutting through cheese.”
Camilla didn’t look like someone whose face would be cut through like a piece of triple-crème however; she simply had beautiful skin, which looked expensively young. She wore makeup, but it was applied in such a fashion that Kate was certain Denny thought she used none. She also, in Kate’s opinion, didn’t appear particularly contrite. But to be fair, she was the owner of this particular piece of property—here, it was Kate who was the intruder.
Was there a dignified manner to accept someone’s invitation into their home while silently telegraphing your most ardent desire that they go fuck themselves? Kate settled for clenched fists and refused eye contact. She followed Camilla through the front door to the predictably gargantuan kitchen, which featured cream walls and dark brass fixtures on three separate islands. Camilla caught her eyeing the backsplash behind the burners, an oversize panel of copper, carved with Romanesque angels and figurines.
“Don’t judge,” she said. “The ex.”
“Okay.” Kate’s first question, answered.
“Do you want some tea?” Camilla filled a kettle and stood with her back to her. She was casually dressed for a day at home, though in the sort of polished getup Kate had always assumed possible only in romantic comedies: a camel sweater with a shearling vest layered over it, loose jeans. Her hair was blown out to beneath her shoulders, and her nails were short and a warm nude. Kate couldn’t decide if Camilla was actually beautiful or had just maximized each of the variables at her disposal.
Without waiting for an answer, Camilla passed over a steaming cup. “I know who you are, of course. Denny showed me photos. I was very curious about you, when I learned he was married. Of course, I also felt like a sleaze—I do have a bit of a conscience—but by then we had already started. I met him at the gym. Did you know Denny goes to the gym?”
The only gym Kate knew of was a depressingly cramped 24 Hour Fitness, which Denny patronized the one morning per week he didn’t visit the attic, but Camilla didn’t strike her as the type to be found at such a place. She belonged in some sort of shiny Pilates studio or upscale boot camp.
“The 24 Hour,” Camilla said. “That’s the one. I know, weird that I would go there, right? The thing is, I used to work at a 24, back when I lived in Arizona—this was way before I was married—and I got a sort of lifetime membership deal there. So I still drop in just to mix things up, plus I’m used to the machines. You’d be amazed by how many expensive studios don’t have basic equipment like arm and leg presses. They all go straight for the fancy machines and water therapy. You look familiar, by the way. Where do you work out?”
“Nowhere.”
“Ahh.” Camilla gave her a cool look and appraised her up and down. “Well, you look great.”
Kate felt a spasm of involuntary pleasure and rushed to bury it. “Glad to meet your standards.”
“No need to be sarcastic! It was a genuine compliment. I always told Denny that I thought you were attractive.”
“Oh? Was this before or after you slept together?”
Camilla leaned an arm against the counter. She studied Kate for a moment, her green eyes alert. “After.”
The thought of the two of them discussing her in any capacity was infuriating. “How serious is it? Are you in love?” As soon as the words fell out, Kate was annoyed with herself.
“With Denny?” Camilla appeared equally disappointed. “Well, of course not. He’s just someone to spend time with. And I know everyone says this, but I really didn’t think he was married when we met.”
“Does he love you?”
“That, I’m not sure.” She paused. “Probably not. He likes spending time with me. And as you already know, he enjoys the childcare. Poor Isabel finally had a kid to play with—she’s really a nanny first and foremost, with all that baby CPR training and mother-hen instinct. She was a referral from a business colleague, and my ex hired her right away when we moved here. That was when we still thought we were going to procreate, ourselves. Instead, Isabel’s made lovely salads and looked for things to clean around the house for the last five years. Occasionally, she helps out when we entertain. Entertained.”
“You have a very nice home,” Kate said without thinking. Then, to make up for the politeness: “How big is it?”
“Yes, thank you.” Camilla rinsed a serving platter under the faucet and put it away. She washed her nicer china by hand, Kate noticed. “Around fourteen thousand square feet. The lot itself is just under two acres.” She turned back and looked at Kate. “You know I barely get any alimony? Relatively, anyway. We weren’t married for too long, but my ex, you’ve got to believe me, he could pay a hundred times more than what I currently get and there’d still hardly be a redistribution in wealth. But I really wanted to keep the house. And he knew it. Knew I had an attachment to it. So in the end I made kind of a shitty deal, to keep this place.”
“Don’t you need the money?” It had to be expensive to be Camilla, Kate imagined. Normally she would never dare ask such a direct question, but the situation had torpedoed their relationship to a certain level of intimacy.
“I mean, it’d always be nice to have more—when I first heard the property tax on this place I nearly fainted—but I’m doing fine. I don’t want to give the wrong impression; I’m not starving or anything. And aside from the house, I’m a very rational person. Even when I was going after this place, I had my own logic. After all, a house is where you live, where you spend the majority of your waking hours, right? It’s always there and keeps you warm and out of the rain. It’s kind of the most loyal presence in your life, don’t you think?”
Kate didn’t answer and instead stared dizzily at her hands. For the past few weeks, the woman facing her had played the marquee role in her most vivid of waking nightmares. She knew she would be reliving this conversation many times over in the coming days and tried to summon some of her earlier rage. The sad truth she was growing to accept, however, was that she didn’t find the thought of Denny having sex with someone else particularly inciting; it upset her more to imagine Denny eating a meal with Camilla, confiding in her, than their sleeping together did. As she searched, what she found herself returning to was the enormous blocks of time Denny had deemed himself entitled to, hours he’d apparently pissed away lolling about in some workout dilettante’s palace. When was the last instance she’d had a free afternoon, a weekday at that, to indulge in something delightfully wasteful?
“What did you guys do all day?”
Camilla nodded, as if she finally approved of a question. “That was the big problem. We never did anything! We couldn’t go out locally, of course, since apparently you have a lot of friends. Denny always liked to remind me of that, you know, since I barely know anyone in
the area. He can be quite passive-aggressive. He brought it up out of nowhere once, right after I’d had some workers over to repair the French oak in the wine cellar. I told him, I don’t even drink wine, it’s just something that houses of this size are supposed to have, like a nanny apartment or safe room. It was basic maintenance, for Christ’s sake! But he just muttered something about pretentiousness and stalked off. He likes to nitpick at the little things, whenever he feels threatened. You know?” When Kate grunted noncommittally, Camilla drank some tea and continued. “Anyway, I guess we could have theoretically gone out more, but both of us were usually too lazy to drive far. So in the end most of the time we just ordered delivery. Which gets old, fast. I don’t think I’m necessarily high-maintenance, but sitting at home, eating cheap Chinese food and having sex? Oh, sorry.”
“Whatever. Continue.”
“That’s basically it. I mean, I knew we were never going to get married—though I’d love to be married again, I think I make a very nice spouse—but with Denny, there was never even that excitement that comes with cheating. Have you ever done it? Cheated?” Kate shook her head. “Well, I have, and the best part is going out together and acting like a regular couple and the little thrill of knowing you’re not. Checking into hotels with the same fake last name, paying cash, that sort of deal. But we never had even that, because we were stuck in my house eating Chef Wong’s.”
So that’s why Denny had barely touched the orange chicken the last few times she’d picked up takeout; historically it’d always been a favorite of his. “You’re making an affair sound pretty shitty.”
Camilla snorted. “It’s not like regular dating is so much better. My friends, they’re mostly in similar life situations.” She motioned with her arms, apparently in reference to the extreme wealth that surrounded them. “We talk about it all the time: how at this stage, the conversations become hard. A lot of the more successful men, they’ve got barely anything to say, they’re so used to being escorted from room to room, given an agenda right before by their minions. One on one, on a dinner date? No idea what to do or talk about. They spend most of their time craning their necks around the restaurant, seeing who else is there they might know. You know the last guy I went out with actually bragged about doing a PowerPoint presentation at Benu? They had to set up a special display for him on the wall.”
“Wait. You’re still dating?”
Camilla tilted her head. “Well, yes. Of course.”
“Does Denny know?”
“We haven’t talked about it. I mean, he’s still married, isn’t he? Unless you’re thinking of divorcing him now.” When Kate failed to respond, she went on. “I’m just making the point that the dating scene is difficult. It can get very lonely. But at the same time, I don’t want to settle either. Is it too much to ask that someone not describe himself as either a mogul or visionary in our first meeting?”
Kate was quiet. She was still in shock Camilla had dropped the d-word. She hadn’t yet allowed herself to think of a separation; had so far postponed the worst-case-scenario analysis she normally immediately performed in difficult situations. Camilla studied her curiously, as if she knew what she was thinking. “Maybe someone poor would provide the excitement you seek,” Kate deflected.
“Oh, men without money are the same, except that then they just want to talk about life with money. They’re all obsessed! And I understand what they’re going through better than most; I used to work at 24 Hour, remember? But even I get tired of it.” She turned to the fridge and removed a glass bowl containing what looked to be a precisely assembled Cobb salad. “You want anything to eat?” Kate shook her head.
Camilla began to spear and eat. “Hey, can I ask something? How come of the two of you, Denny’s the one who doesn’t work?”
“Denny works,” Kate said automatically.
Camilla peered at her. “Right . . . ,” she said, drawing out the word. “I mean, how come he’s the one at home? Everyone I know with multiple kids, the woman stays home.”
Somehow Kate was surprised to hear that Camilla had friends with children; she seemed the sort to be acquainted with only the fully formed. “I was at home when Ella was born. For a year. I took a leave of absence, and at the time I wasn’t planning on going back. It was great, actually. I loved that period.”
“Really,” Camilla said. She twirled her fork. She looked fascinated, as if learning about the behavior of a newly discovered insect species. “So why didn’t you continue?”
“Deep down, I still knew I would be happier if I went back to work. Though it was a long, miserable path to get there. You can’t imagine the guilt that comes after having children. And then afterward Denny said it was time for him to have his chance, and I was happy to let him quit and start his own thing.”
It was a good memory, the day Denny left Cisco. They’d gone out to dinner at their favorite Afghan restaurant, and then, after they’d pulled into the garage and discovered that there was still half an hour left of the babysitter, they’d had clumsy sex in the back seat of the car.
“Why?” Kate asked. “Did Denny ever say anything about it? About me . . . at X and him launching a start-up?” She was still loyal enough to use the words launching and start-up, which she’d learned were infinitely preferred to the phrase working on your own business.
“He said you were supportive, but not in a real way. I asked him once what that meant, but he didn’t elaborate.”
That stung. “I don’t know what more I could have possibly done! Denny had every opportunity to be the partner with a regular paycheck. Walking away was his choice.”
Camilla shrugged, bored with the topic. “Are you going to tell him we met? I assume you haven’t said anything yet. If you want, I can swear that I’ll never see him again. We haven’t talked since that day in the park, you know. He thinks I’m on a girls’ vacation.” A giggle escaped, and she put her fingers delicately over her mouth. It was the sort of gesture Kate used to practice by herself as a teenager but could never perfect; the charming, effortless movements of the expert geisha.
“You can do whatever you want, though it stands to say Ella’s playdates with your nanny-chef are permanently over.”
“Do you think we could keep in touch?” Camilla looked down at her bowl. “I wish I’d met you before Denny. Does that sound weird? I’d love to get a drink sometime.” She met her eyes with abrupt sincerity.
“I don’t think so,” Kate said. “That sounds beyond weird.”
“But why? I’ve told you more in the last twenty minutes than I’ve confided in anyone for a long while. Even going back to when I was still married. Isn’t that kind of amazing? When was the last time you actually really shared your intimate thoughts with someone? I mean, have you even told anyone else what’s going on with Denny? I bet you haven’t. It’s not the kind of update you blast on Facebook.”
“I don’t post there. And you’re wrong. I have told people.”
Camilla’s gaze was unwavering. “I don’t think so,” she said quietly.
Kate kicked her legs against her chair. “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean I want to discuss it with you.”
“But we already are discussing it, don’t you see? Isn’t that great? Our situation is so unique. You asked me if I needed money! And I actually answered! Talking about that is even more taboo than sex!”
“Fine. I’m sorry if that came off as rude.”
“But it wasn’t! That’s my point. I’ve been dying to talk to someone about my financial situation. Isn’t it crazy that everyone here is obsessed with money but you can’t actually come out and say anything about it unless it’s related to your work? God, if I had a job, I bet I’d talk about money all the time. Or maybe not. It does get vulgar after a while.”
“You have those women you mentioned. The first wives’ club who compare jet interiors.”
“Oh, them.” Camilla waved a hand, as if dismissing a single item on a long checklist of tasks. “They’re not really fri
ends. We’re just people with the same socioeconomic and romantic status. That’s not so easy to find, you understand. Plus, not everyone’s a first wife. There are plenty of seconds, even thirds. You can’t imagine the tiering that goes on. Of course, I’m a first, which would make me higher, but I occupy a weird position because I married Ken when he was already rich, and plus we never had children.”
“Tiering?”
“Oh yeah. At the very top are the wives who actually met their spouse at school or work. Before they made it big. I guess that’s considered the most pure, true love and all that. I don’t know too many of those. I’d like to, but they largely keep to themselves. I understand how they see me, but we all ended up in the same place in the end, so.” Camilla gave a shake of the shoulders. “After we moved here, I always thought I would have more friends who worked. I mean, I always had a job myself, right up to when I met Ken. They were never terribly prestigious or anything, but still, I was earning money. It’s strange now, to be with all these women who don’t work and know I’m one of them. Denny told me you’re a director at X Corp. And you did that yourself, didn’t you? It’s not one of those positions that your husband set up for you. I remember how impressed I was the first time he told me. I wanted to hear more, but he always avoided my questions. What do you do there?”
“I’ve got to go,” Kate said. She knew she needed to extract herself before she got pulled in further. A portion of her was softening toward Denny; she could see how anyone might be sucked into the vortex of someone like Camilla Mosner. And she felt a horrible sort of growing pity for the fact that Camilla apparently found him quite disposable.
“Five more minutes?” Camilla pled. “Just five. Five real minutes.”
Kate gathered her things. She was struck by an absurd sensation that she had been rude. “I hope things work out for you. You seem like a decent person, when not abetting adultery or mild kidnapping.”