The Sinful Lives of Trophy Wives

by Kristin Miller

  Glancing into the rearview, I swipe away the black marks on my face. My eyes are as void and lifeless as the homeless man’s. Mason has stripped me of any light I’d had when he met me. I’m dead inside. Might as well be sleeping on the street. Only I won’t be, because I’ll take him for every damn dollar he has.

  Something bright catches light behind me. In the rearview, a Porsche convertible shines like a ruby-red apple from the glow of the overhead streetlamp. I lift off the seat to snag a glimpse of the license plate.

  The numbers are nothing special. But the plate around it reads: yacht boss.

  But what would Robert’s car be doing—no, not Robert’s, I realize, as vomit rises in my throat. It’s Georgia’s car now. The window. The ass grabbing.

  I retch onto the passenger seat.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  ERIN

  The reception started at eight, and is already in full swing. I’ve maintained my cool. Kept everything stuffed inside. Watched people walk in and out of Georgia’s house for over an hour. I thought maybe I wouldn’t go. I’d only cause a scene. But once I saw Mason waltz into the house, smile at me the way he has every day of our marriage as if nothing was wrong, I knew there needed to be a crescendo to this night. A confrontation inside the walls of our home wasn’t going to cut it.

  I want to see Georgia in her wedding dress, lonely and crying in front of her nearest and dearest friends. I want an audience, an outlet for my anger.

  I’m standing in front of the windows watching it all go down when Mason stomps downstairs. I can smell his cologne from here, spicy and masculine, and I bet he’s using it to mask her scent. Out of the corner of my eye, I can tell he’s wearing his best blue suit—my favorite on him. But I won’t tell him that tonight.

  “I think we need to have a talk,” he says from the entry. He’s spinning his wedding ring around his finger. The gold must be burning into his flesh.

  “I don’t think this is the best time,” I say, smoothing my hands down the front of my dress. “We’re about to head to Georgia’s. Can we talk later?”

  “Sure.” He lowers his eyes to the hardwood.

  Infidelity must be a heavy load to bear. I don’t feel bad for him, not at all.

  Beats from the music at the party blast through the house so loud, the air quakes. Or maybe I’m trembling from the inside out. Perhaps it’s not the music at all. Hard to tell these days. I’m dressed in my favorite blue dress. Bought it a year ago. Been waiting for a special evening out to wear it. Doesn’t get more special than my husband’s mistress’s wedding reception in honor of her dead fiancé.

  “I need a drink before heading over,” he says. “Want one?”

  “How about two?”

  He chuckles. “You sure you can handle a double?”

  “Aren’t you the one who thinks two is better than one?”

  He shrugs stupidly. “I guess. Have you taken your anxiety meds? Probably shouldn’t mix alcohol with ’em if you have.”

  “Suddenly you care about my well-being?” I mumble as he heads toward the kitchen.

  “What was that?” He turns back. “I didn’t catch it.”

  “Nothing.”

  I can hear him in the kitchen, popping the decanter, and pouring two generous glasses of his favorite scotch. He returns and hands over my glass, then takes a long drink. I did take my meds, and I don’t care if they crash and burn with the scotch in my stomach. We stand in silence, a canyon of lies and doubt and malice stretching between us.

  “Have you heard from those detectives?” Mason asks. “The ones who came by before?”

  “No, not a peep,” I lie, finishing the drink. “I’m guessing we won’t be hearing from them until they make a determination about the cause of his death.”

  Mason shakes his head solemnly. “Poor bastard. Drowning sounds like a painful way to go.”

  “Versus what, Mason? Gunshot wounds? Strangulation? How would you like to go if given the choice?”

  He makes a strange, scrunched face. “I don’t know, I guess it wouldn’t matter as long as it was quick. What about you?”

  “Me?” I grab my clutch and head into the foyer. “I’m going to live forever.”

  Chuckling, Mason glances out the narrow window flanking the front door. “Brooke and her husband are on their way to the reception.”

  I open the door. Jack is in a dark suit—black or navy, I can’t tell—and Brooke is wearing a dark, floor-length silk dress. “Looks like she’s wearing a sheet.”

  “I think she looks great. You should try dressing up like that sometime.”

  Whirling around, I stare into Mason’s eyes for the first time since I discovered his affair. He’s more handsome than I’ve ever seen him, the bastard. Freshly shaven. Hair cut close to his scalp. Suit fitted perfectly over his muscular frame.

  “You’d look good in it,” he blubbers on, and then: “Better than Brooke.”

  Liar. Cheater. “Thanks.”

  Somehow, all the anger that’d been boiling inside me earlier flips to apathy, and a strange sense of calm washes over me. Other than the constant rattle in my bones and the feeling that I’m going to spontaneously combust, I’m fine. Not angry about the affair one bit.

  He must notice my unease with the way this dumpster fire of a conversation is going. “What you’re wearing is fine too.” He lifts my hand from my side and twirls me around. “New dress?”

  Does he watch Georgia as closely? He certainly has taken notice of Brooke and her fancy, slippery dress. Maybe he plans to seduce all of my friends.

  The thought washes over me like a wave, heavy as lead.

  As we walk across the street holding hands like a couple in love, I’m rather proud of myself. Not a tear has fallen since I watched Mason screw Georgia against his office window. I haven’t set fire to or bleached his clothes. I haven’t taken a sledgehammer to all the windows in the house or threatened to kill him. I can walk next to him, holding his hand, without digging my nails into his palm.

  There are other, better ways to seek vengeance.

  I can’t divorce him—that’s not an option. He would only find someone younger and fitter, some gold-digging slut who’d marry him for his millions and pretend to ignore the bald spot growing on the back of his head. No, what I have in mind is a little more sinister.

  Too bad Danny’s not around anymore.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  BROOKE

  It’s so dark on the short walk from our home to Georgia’s that I can barely put one foot in front of the other without feeling like I’m going to trip and fall. Jack extends his hand like a gentleman, guiding my steps, protecting me from wrenching my ankle. As we step up on the walkway, tiny orbs of golden white light illuminate our path.

  “It’s breathtaking,” I say.

  Looking at me tenderly, Jack lifts my hand and kisses the back. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.” He stops me and forces me to face him. “Brooke, I know you’ve been preoccupied this week, and it’s probably had a lot to do with the amount of time I’ve been working, and the pressure of turning in your book mixed with all of the drama circling Georgia…but I want you to know that I love you. No matter what. I thought moving here was what you wanted.”

  “It was.” I squeeze his hands. “It is.”

  “If it’s not, if this is too much for you, we can move anywhere you want. You name it. As long as we’re together, I don’t care where we are.”

  “I was thinking,” I say carefully, “about heading home. Going back to Louisiana for a while. I have a feeling my mother is going to need me soon. Would that be all right with you? Could you get away from your company that long?”

  “If it means a lot to you, I’ll make it happen.”

  He wraps me in his arms and lifts me off my feet, and for a moment I feel like I’m in a fair
y tale. I’m not scarred by my past and Jack’s not a tech genius with all eyes watching him all the time, and we’re not perfect. We’re just two people trying to make it work. And we might fail at getting it right some of the time, but at least we’re trying.

  “Brace yourself for the crowds in there,” he says, turning to glance through the windows. “The vibe’s going to be interesting.”

  He’s not wrong. Everyone’s going to be in shock and probably grieving, but dressed for a wedding, with the décor and the bride in white.

  As we head inside, the gag-inducing smells of perfume and cologne and body odor hit me first. Then the screeching bleats of a saxophone over the happy plinking of piano keys and incessant laughter and condescending glares and people violating my personal space. My heart races, pushing adrenaline hard through my veins, and for a moment I don’t know if I should be here.

  A stranger turns to me, grinning. “Good evening,” she croons, batting her fake lashes. “Lovely night for a party, isn’t it? This place is beautiful—packed! I can’t even get through to the kitchen!”

  “It is lovely,” I say, and push past her, deeper into the house.

  We move on from one group to the next. They’re wearing tuxedos and formal gowns, pearl necklaces and phony smiles. Someone bumps into my shoulder, spilling champagne down my dress. They bumble an apology and swipe clumsily at my shoulder in a poor attempt to wipe away the mistake, but then they’re gone. As I move toward the kitchen, a draft blows into the house. The front door has opened again. Pam walks in, cradling her Yorkie under her arm, then blends into the crowd as they “ooh” and “aah” over her pup.

  Erin squeezes through the open doorway behind her. Stopping momentarily, she scans the crowd with a scowl etched into her face. She’s dressed in a gorgeous floor-length gown that cinches at the waist and flares at the knee. Deep blue. V-neck. Sleeveless. Hair curled into thick tendrils, draping down her back. She looks more uptight than usual, if that’s possible. Her jaw is set as she narrows her eyes at each woman who passes. She’s examining the room quickly, her hands balled into fists. I can see her nostrils flaring from my position near the couch.

  She must be looking for Georgia.

  I spot Georgia across the room, slipping out the back doors leading to the patio. I can’t believe she’s still wearing her wedding dress. If her aim was to become the talk of the party, she’s succeeded. She’s not crying, as I assumed she would be. Instead, she appears angelic, clear-eyed and smiling, thanking one person for coming, pointing out the food and drink lineup in the kitchen to another. A brunette wearing a retro twenties dress covered in beads follows her out, champagne flute pinched delicately between her dainty fingers.

  I should go check on Georgia.

  “Sweetheart,” I say, gently touching Jack’s arm, “would you mind grabbing me a drink? I’m going to find the restroom.”

  Because if I said I was going to talk to Georgia, I’m sure I’d hear a lecture about how I’d rather spend time with her than with him. It’s easier to lie than to deal with Jack’s fallout.

  After a kiss on the cheek, he’s fighting his way to the bar, and I’m weaving through the crowd toward the patio. Outside, white lights cover every shrub and wrap around every tree trunk. They stretch over the pool, from cabana to gazebo on either side, illuminating the water with ripples of silver. Fires burn in pits on either end of the patio. Guests huddle around the concrete rings, cackling like geese, tipping back their pink and orange drinks. It smells like rain and bonfire smoke. Thunder rumbles over the thumping beats of the music, and the guests huddled near the fires barely notice, continuing their meaningless conversations about handbags.

  I find Georgia seated at one of the fire pits with a brunette. Her back’s to me, but her voice floats on the evening breeze.

  “I want to thank you again for making that purchase so easy,” the brunette says, firelight dancing over her face. “Porsches have been my favorite cars for as long as I can remember. I’d hate to say it was good timing, because I understand why you were selling, but I can promise you I’ll take good care of it.”

  Georgia leans back in her seat to get more comfortable. “That’s very sweet of you. Do you have any trips planned? Robert used to like dropping the top and cruising up Highway One.”

  I pause in the shadows, listening, a few steps shy of joining their conversation.

  The brunette beams. “I showed my boyfriend earlier today, actually. He loved it. Says we should take it out this weekend.”

  Georgia nods thoughtfully. “You’ll have a wonderful time.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot, you left the license plate on the front. Did you want to come by my office, or—”

  “Just drop it in the mail.”

  When there’s a natural break in the conversation, I round the couch and extend my hand to the brunette. “I’m Brooke Davies,” I say. “I live next door.”

  “She’s a writer. Murder mysteries,” Georgia elaborates as the brunette shakes my hand. “This is Theresa Wilson. She’s a therapist in the city. I’d called her last week, on Erin’s recommendation, to see about being treated for depression. And then my world went to hell, and here I am. More depressed than I was before.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I say and take the seat next to Georgia. “Do you specialize in depression?”

  “I’m a marriage and family therapist, mostly, though I see people who are suffering with many different kinds of issues.”

  What a stock answer.

  “Well I’m glad you’ll have someone to help you with your grief,” I tell Georgia.

  “Oh, she’s not going to be the one helping me through this.” Georgia and Theresa shake their heads in unison. “We’re not a good fit. After the blowup that Erin and I had the other day, I thought it was best we see different shrinks.”

  “There you are, you bitch.” Erin charges across the patio, jabbing her finger at Georgia. “You glassy-eyed, gold-digging whore. I thought we were friends!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  ERIN

  I hear Mason’s steps pounding behind me, and I feel him grasping for my arm, but nothing is going to stop me now. I held back the floodwaters in regard to Mason, but Georgia…all bets are off.

  “Erin, calm down,” Mason says, panic lacing his tone. “The alcohol isn’t mixing well with your meds. You don’t want to say something you don’t mean.”

  “Oh, I mean every word I say.” My gaze skips to Brooke, looking doe-eyed, as usual, and—my vision blurs. “Theresa? What are you doing here?”

  Mason clutches me against his body, as if to protect me, but I’m not the one who needs protecting. I squirm in his grasp. My body has the sensation that it’s floating, tingling, lifting right off the ground.

  Theresa looks over my shoulder, then back to me. “Georgia invited me. She came in last week—you referred her, remember? It didn’t work out, professionally speaking, but we started talking, and she invited me tonight. I thought, since I wasn’t seeing her professionally, I would come as a new friend to offer my condolences.”

  I recall referring Georgia, but it feels strange seeing them here together. The two women in front of me know all of my deepest, darkest secrets. Every single one of them. I’ve never felt more vulnerable. The skin on my face feels tight, like it’s going to crack and flake away.

  “Georgia wouldn’t know a real friend if it whacked her in the face.” On instinct, I reach over and pat her on the side of the head. Only my aim is off, and I connect solidly, throwing her off-balance. “Damn it, I didn’t mean—”

  “What the hell’s the matter with you, Erin?”

  Mason jerks on my arm, but I don’t acknowledge his presence at all.

  “I want an apology.” I stagger as one of my stiletto heels twists on a seam in the concrete. Mason steadies me by the elbow, but I smack his hand away. “Right now.
In front of Brooke and Theresa, I want you to apologize for what you’ve done to me.”

  She narrows her eyes, squinting. “What have I done to you, Erin? Enlighten me. What could I possibly have done to deserve the public shaming you dished out on national television?”

  Chewing on the side of my lip, tasting blood, I press forward, tugging against Mason’s grasp. “I saw you.” I heave for air. “How about that? I saw your car…in front of his office. I know.”

  “Oh my God,” Theresa gasps.

  “What are you talking about?” Georgia yells. “You know what?”

  Mason yanks my arm. “Erin, this is enough. Let’s go.”

  “Oh, don’t deny it. I saw you together!” Tears roll down my face as my body convulses. “I know you’re having an affair! I saw your car in front of his office earlier this afternoon. I saw you in the window!”

  “Erin, we’re not—”

  “I heard it from your own fat mouth this morning! You and Mason were in your dressing room before what was supposed to be your wedding, and you told him you loved him!”

  “Whoa, whoa,” Mason says over my shoulder. “She didn’t say that.”

  I whirl on him. “Don’t cover for your lover, it’s too late now. I heard her loud and clear. She said she ‘cares about you deeply’ and she asked you to leave me.”

  “Love was never mentioned.”

  Brooke steps in between us, arms outstretched. “Clearly there’s a miscommunication. Why don’t we all slow down, cool off.”

  “That’s why…” Georgia starts, and then stops. “You thought that me and Mason…that explains why you…”

  “Why I put a hit out on him. Yes!” As the words punch out of me, I sway back and forth, suddenly dizzy. “I knew he was cheating. Suspected it for months. I just never thought, not for a second, that it was with you.”