Margo flings herself into his arms with the zest of long-lost love. “Uncle Billy!” she squeals, and he envelopes her into a bear hug, then puts his arm out for Rory, who immediately lunges for him.
Am I that bad?
“Well, well. What have we here?” Billy bounces Rory in one arm and raises his eyebrow in question, a hint of a smile tugging on his full lips. I feel immense relief just seeing his kind face.
“Oh, God, Margo scared me half to death when I was changing, and the nanny walked out on me. You should have heard the cruel things she said. And Rory had this monster diarrhea all over me. And Denise is probably at the spa getting a massage for all I know, because she’s not fucking here where she needs to be. Shit! And I have to go to—”
“A portant luncheon,” Margo finishes with satisfaction.
Billy’s lip twitches. His eyes are smiling, but he’s a good actor—or at least a good friend—because I think he’s trying to be understanding. But what does he know? He’s a bachelor.
“So, I got the Cartier,” he sings, as he does a dramatic sweep of his sleeve to reveal the steel Tank Française model. Margo and I ooh and ahh, while Billy basks in the glory.
“Nice touch there, Laney, but for the record, I’m not mad anymore—just really busy. I have to head back now actually. Glad things are going so smoothly here. Love you!” Billy plants a quick kiss on Rory’s forehead, then hands her back to me, does a little wave, and waltzes out the door.
“WAIT!” I run after him remembering my luncheon. “What are the chances you’d like to have your nieces for the day?” Oh, fingers crossed. Billy barely glances back, and I can hear him laughing. Laughing! Margo seems to think this is funny too. She’s staring after her uncle longingly and chuckling softly. How nice to be four!
A thought hits me.
“Hey! Why aren’t you in school today?”
Margo shrugs as though that answers my question.
“Don’t you know?” I ask, hand on my hip.
Another shrug. “I don’t know why. Alison just didn’t take me.”
Oh great, the imbecile of a nanny couldn’t even remember to bring her to school. Well, good thing she’s gone. I try calling Laura, the other nanny, but all I get is voicemail. I don’t even know where the list is, or if there is a list with babysitter names. I text Micky.
You forgot to pay Alison! My afternoon is bloody ruined as now I have to be with the kids. What’s the point of having staff if they’re not available? We need more help ASAP!!!
Rory is getting heavy. We head back to the nursery and I plunk her into an ExerSaucer. Margo grabs her bin of Barbies and sets up shop beside Rory. Having run out of all options, I text Victoria Hughes.
Apologies Victoria. Something came up and I’m unable to make it. Look forward to seeing you soon.
I stare back at my phone and wait for a reply. No reply comes so, feeling pathetic, I put the phone aside and sink into a chair. I’d love a cup of tea, but there isn’t even anyone to make it. Honestly!
Ooh, a ping.
Sorry to hear you can’t make it. Trina Rogers was just talking about you! All the ladies are disappointed to miss you. We were so looking forward to hearing about your romantic getaway. Hope it was a great anniversary!
Trina Rogers! Ugh, I can’t stand that gossip-obsessed hag. Maybe it’s a good thing I didn’t go. I mean, obviously I would have lied. I would have told them some magnificent story; and it would have been so much fun to tell and so good to have the envy from the wives—for that moment it would have been real to me too. I hear a car door and jump up to see who it is. Margo races ahead to the foyer, blonde hair flying. She peers through the bay window and slumps her shoulders.
“Oh, it’s only Denise.”
Oh perfect, Denise is home. Now I can go wash off this baby poo.
Margo wanders back to her Barbies, while I grab my Burberry trench coat from the foyer and step outside to greet Denise. The trunk to her red Corolla is open, revealing dozens of shopping bags and a massive pile of plastic-coated dry-cleaning. I don’t see any Osaka bags, but I’m not taking any chances.
“Took you long enough. What did you do? Take a few hours off for yourself and go to the spa?” I holler from the door. Denise, wide eyed, swings around, almost dropping a paper bag full of groceries. She straightens up and wipes her short, black hair away from her tired face, then fishes something out of her jacket pocket. She makes her way over to me, climbs the stairs and hands me a folded piece of paper. She then turns back without a word and trudges back to the car, still holding the groceries. I frown at her back and unfold the paper. It’s the grocery list, and it’s massive. All organized into stores and compartments of meats, dairy, grains, and produce. In addition, there are the to-do’s, which include picking up the dry cleaning at two separate locations, going to the specialty wine shop, shopping for birthday presents, and buying school supplies for Margo, new organic sheets for the spare bedrooms, and contact lenses for Micky, and on and on. Okay, so she wasn’t at the spa, but she still could have come home to at least check on things. Maybe break up the shopping to two trips or something.
“Well, anyway,” I call, “I’m going to the East Wing now. The girls are in the nursery, and you’ll have to watch them because the nanny is incompetent.” I quickly turn around and race inside. Obviously, I just gave orders and she has to abide; but I feel a tinge of guilt because the poor woman looks so bloody haggard and worn. But I’m sure she’ll be fine.
I mount the spiral staircase, and my spirits seem to lift with each step. Looking after the kids is hard bloody work—thank God for nannies. Ooh, I should order a cup of tea.
Almost as soon as I’ve closed the door behind me and drifted back into my blissful world of the East Wing, there’s a soft knock. Now what? Still wearing the Burberry trench over the poo-stained bra, I fling the door open. It’s Margo.
“Daddy is home.”
“Really?” That’s strange. Why would Micky be home in the early afternoon? “Did he say what he was doing?”
Margo hesitates, appearing to consider this. “No, but he went into his office.”
Oh. Right. I don’t know why I get my hopes up. Of course he’s not coming home in the middle of the day to spend time with me. I shake my head, almost laughing at myself. Margo observes me with a perplexed look. Well, enough conversation.
“All right, go back to Rory for me okay?”
Margo nods solemnly, and I close my door once again.
A while later, arms laden with toiletries, I pause at the bay window on my way for my bath. Outside, the ocean is still and peaceful as the evening sun sinks into a glorious display of color. I pad over to the existing Jacuzzi, let my robe fall to the floor, and slide into the steaming, rose-scented bubble-bath water. Breathing deeply, I inhale the glorious scent of roses, close my eyes, and feel my tension melt away. I smile as I imagine I had gone to Victoria Hughes’ luncheon today, all the wives eager to hear every detail. I would tell them about the quaint islands we visited, the romantic way we clung to each other like newlyweds, the glorious emerald-and-diamond drop earrings he gave me, the inside jokes, the couples massages… It wouldn’t have taken much imagination to deliver a truly believable and enviable account. If only they knew.
I sigh with bitterness, open my eyes and almost leap right out of my skin. Micky is here, sitting on the edge of the bath, looking bewildered and anguished. I suck in huge gulps of air trying to regain my composure.
“What the—” I’m at a loss for words. I’ve never seen him look so utterly broken and consumed. I lean forward in the water, desperate for Micky to speak. Instead all I hear are bubbles popping softly all around me.
“What’s happened?” I try again. Did someone die? Did he lose his job? Well, obviously not. I relax somewhat at knowing this can’t be the case. Micky is the master of his own universe, of his own enterprises. Someone must have died. But…who? Micky’s hazel eyes are wild, and he leans forward, pressing his face into his
palms and clawing at his hair like a madman.
“I lost it, Lane. All of it.”
“Lost what? What are you talking about?”
Micky moans into his hands. “All the goddamn money. It’s gone.”
I feel the breath seep out of me. Oh God, no. No! I’m dizzy with desperation and panic. This can’t be happening.
“I…I don’t understand. What do you mean?” My heart is hammering away in my ears. The water is too hot. The room spins.
Micky still clutches at his head in devastation. “I don’t know,” he whispers. “I’ve been trying to save things, trying to make it work. I put all my money into this one venture. But it tanked. It tanked and we did too.” His face crumples as tears pour down his cheeks. Tears! I’ve been married to him for twelve years, and I’ve never seen him cry.
As I try to resume control, my mind races over possible scenarios to rectify this. “Well, I’m sure you can work your way out. I mean, come on, you have how many companies? I mean, this can’t be the end, right?” My skin is turning prune-y, and I’d give anything to get out of this water. Micky is shaking his head with obvious shame. Well, he should feel shame! I’m outraged but still confused. Where does this leave us? What’s going to happen next? And…telling me in the bath…God!
“What’s going to happen?” I can’t believe this is real. This can’t be real.
Micky gazes at me with swollen, red-rimmed eyes, and shrugs. Shrugs!
“I need to get away, Lane. I need…some time to clear my head, to find myself again. Maybe I can come back with a new perspective.” He looks so deflated; his usual strong and proud posture is gone—this man before me is a shadow of his former self.
“What are you talking about? You can’t go away! Where?!” My voice rises, all shrilly and desperate. It sounds foreign to my ears. Micky stands, shoulders slumped. His eyes have a detached look that I don’t recognize.
“I need space to get back to where we need to be. To where we were. I’m taking my bike on the road for a while.”
His motorcycle? He hasn’t ridden in years, what is he even talking about?
“But what about me? What should I do? Are you leaving me money?” I don’t understand. “My Visa works still, right?”
“THERE’S NO MONEY LEFT, LANE!” Micky seethes. His face is now scarlet and his eyes are cold and wild. I recoil, at a loss for words. He takes a few deep breaths and lifts his eyes to mine. “Lane,” he continues in a horrible patronizing tone, “there is no money. A grand at best in the checking account. You can have it; God knows you and the kids will need it.”
The kids! Shit. I can’t look after kids. I don’t know how. They don’t even like me. “What do you mean? I’ll have the kids alone?” I can’t even fathom this.
“Lane, you’re their Mom. Like it or not.”
“AND YOU’RE THEIR GODDAMN DAD!” I scream with all the rage and all the fear I can muster.
Micky ignores this and walks to the door. “Oh,” he turns around, “you should know the bank is foreclosing the house in two days. You need to be out by then, and you can’t take anything of value. The bank is going to auction everything off, and if we come up short, I could face jail time!”
Jail? Shit.
Well, who cares? He deserves it! Deserting his family like this.
The door closes and Micky is gone. This feels like a nightmare. To be in such a luxurious environment, only to know that in two days’ time it will all be gone, and I will have two kids and no money and—
Oh God! I slide under the water, this time to escape the sickening smell of roses.
I stagger frantically out of the steamy bathroom, hair dripping, and wearing a satin robe I don’t bother to fasten. I’m overwhelmed with panic and grief, but since I’m not the type to cry. I don’t. Instead, I do what any rational person would. I drink. I reach for a bottle of Grey Goose tucked in the back of my wardrobe, spin the cap off, and take a long swig. The liquor burns my throat, but I feel its warmth and comfort instantly.
I survey my lovely bedroom in my grand East Wing. The cream walls, elaborate window treatments, a mix of fine antique and contemporary furniture, and all the lovely pieces I have collected over the years. I pick up a piece, and another, then grab anything and everything in sight, and carry armloads of fine pieces to my canopied sanctuary and pile them onto my bed—crystal vases I’ll take, and porcelain ornaments, sterling silver vanity sets, silver flower bowls, Swarovski crystal beveled mirrors, mahogany chests of fine jewelry. I continue my rampage, pausing every so often to suck at the bottle, until I’m bleary-eyed and swaying.
I reach for another armload of crystal and silver and, making my way to my bed, I trip on the robe’s sash and crash to the floor, causing a thunderous clamor of breaking glass and clanging silver.
Damn! My hand is covered in blood and I’m too dizzy to stand up. Before I can do much to help myself, Denise is at my side, cooing softly. She is efficient and discreet as she goes about cleaning and bandaging my hand and sweeping up pieces of broken crystal. She clears all my treasures from the bed, while I begin to shiver violently. Denise helps me up off the floor and into bed, covering me like a child with blankets and quilts.
“I’ll just go fill a hot-water bottle and I’ll be right back.” She disappears into the bathroom and I lie still, feeling pathetic but grateful to Denise as I nurse my injured hand.
She returns with a hot-water bottle, and tucks it in by my side. The contrast of the ice pack on my hand and the heat at my side are momentarily distracting. Denise turns off the lights on her way out of my room. I let out a long and quivering sigh as I stare up at the ceiling, unable to think rationally about any of this—what has happened or what will be. Mercifully, I black out.
4
Soft sunlight streams through my windows, gently waking me with the promise of a beautiful day. I lie still for a brief moment, relishing the indulgence of relaxing in bed. Then, I attempt to roll over. Ouch! My hand. Oh God! It all comes back to me. Micky’s lost the money, and in two days I’m out. “Ohhhhh,” I groan and will myself to disappear, to sink into the mattress and just poof—gone. Where do I start? How am I supposed to find a place to live in two days? And with just one lousy grand.
Wait! I bolt upright, and… Ouch! Again. My head is starting to pound. Why did I have to hammer back vodka, of all things? Like today won’t be bad enough without a hangover. I yank my satin robe on and stumble over to the dressing room. God, I hope it’s still there. Well, why wouldn’t it be? It’s not like anyone would know in a million years.
In the boudoir, I approach a mirrored dresser and pull the bottom drawer all the way out. I crouch down on my knees and stretch my hand into the very back of the dresser. There’s a little wooden panel, and I feel around behind it. Is it there? Yes! Relief and jubilation are a welcome respite from my pounding head and growing anxiety. It’s all here. Five thousand dollars in cold, hard cash. Hardly a windfall, but this is going to give us a couple of months of breathing room if I spend it very carefully. I only wish I had put aside more money. Why I had the insight to stash some cash, I’m not sure. There’s something about having money close at hand—not in a bank or via a plastic card—that offers a tangible feeling of security.
I shove the velvet bag of cash into my pocket and glance in the mirror. Already I look down-and-out, haggard and old. Hallow eyes stare back at me. My face is pale and dark circles have formed under my eyes. Nice. Okay, think! I need a place to live.
I retreat to my bedroom and power up my tablet to review the rental listings. I don’t even know where to begin. It dawns on me that I’ve never had to look for a rental before. Feeling overwhelmed, I flop back onto the bed, and regret it instantly as my headache worsens tenfold. I need backup. I reach for my phone and am about to call Billy when my bedroom door flies open and Margo is here—once again!
“Mommy! I woke up and nobody is here! Not Denise or Laura or Alison or anyone!” Her eyes flicker with worry and confusion. The
realization hits me that it’s just us now. Until Micky comes back and saves us from this misery, there will be no staff and no support.
I raise a finger to shush Margo and fidget with my iPad, buying time while I try to decide what to say.
“Why don’t we check on Rory?” is all I can muster. I lead Margo out of the East Wing and down the hall to Rory’s bedroom. I burst into the room and wake a sleeping Rory, who is lying on her back in her pale yellow sleeper. She sees my face and, I guess from surprise or maybe distaste, breaks out into monstrous wails. Her little body shudders as she screams.
Margo gives me a wry grin and shrugs. “Can we get some cereal, I’m soooo hungry!”
Ugh, food. Without knowing what else to do, I pull Rory out of her crib, and we make our way downstairs. The kitchen is unusually still, with no welcoming smile from Denise, no glorious aromas of freshly baked pastries, no coffee percolating on the stove, and no platters of perfectly ripened fruit, sliced and artistically arranged. Nothing. Just bare granite counters and a lonely light above the gas stove. Well then, cold cereal it is. Where is the cereal?
“Margo, you choose your cereal and I’ll get the milk.” I swing Rory onto my hip and shuffle over to the fridge. Margo and I meet back at the breakfast bar, and I pour a bowl of Nature’s Path cereal. Margo seems pleased to have her breakfast, and for a moment she’s absorbed with eating. Her spoon clangs the bowl and milk drips back into the cereal, and the rhythmic crunching fills our ears. At least it does mine. Margo keeps slurping, and it’s annoying. I glance at Rory, who is watching Margo’s food with intensity. What does Rory eat? Am I that bad of a mother that I don’t know what my own baby eats for breakfast?
“I think Rory’s hungry.”
Margo stops mid bite and observes Rory. “She likes Pablum or mashed banana.” She continues to crunch.
Riches & Rags: Things are seldom as they seem. Page 3