Wife in the Fast Lane

by Karen Quinn

“Do you really think my lips look luscious?”

  “Totally.”

  “But Tara Rubin’s mom let her get hair extensions after she got her implants.”

  “I don’t care if Honk the Wondergoose got hair extensions, you aren’t getting any,” Christy said firmly.

  “But whyyy-yyy-yyy,” Ali said. She had perfected the ability to turn any one-syllable word into a three-syllable whine. It was a gift.

  “Ali, hair extensions cost over thirty-five hundred dollars. That’s too much money to spend on a teenager’s hair.”

  “It’s not your money. It’s my dad’s! And he can afford it. I’m calling him.”

  “You do that,” Christy said, confident her husband would back her up. Of course, she was happy for Michael that he’d gotten his daughter back, but Christy had never met such a brat in all her life. The kid spent money like it was tap water. She slammed doors and screamed like a two-year-old when she didn’t get her way. She seemed to have never heard of the words “please” and “thank you.” Making her bed was a foreign concept. A trail of towels followed her wherever she went. She preferred the floor to the trash can. And there was a permanent appendage on the side of her head that looked suspiciously like a cell phone. Worst of all, she was influencing Renata, who had begun to stuff her training bra and was agitating to buy a Prada book bag like Ali’s. Michael felt guilty that he and Ali had been separated for so long. So he kept giving in to her ridiculous fits. Christy tried not to interfere. Ali was his daughter, after all. She stood in the doorway to the library, where the child was deeply engrossed in a telephone conversation with her father.

  “And Daddy, when are you gonna talk to her about giving me Renata’s room? If Mom knew I was staying in the servant’s quarters, she’d go ballistic. Mmm-hmm. Yes, well, I am the real daughter in this family. Okay. Yeah, see you tonight.”

  Ali hung up the phone and looked at Christy with a smug expression. “Daddy said I could have the hair extensions, so give me the money and tell Steven to drive me.”

  “Didn’t anyone ever teach you the magic word?” Christy asked.

  “You mean ‘black card’?” she said.

  “No, I mean ‘please.’”

  “Oh, will you please give me Daddy’s black card? Paul Labrecque doesn’t like it when you’re late for your appointment,” she said, rolling her eyes. “And while I’m gone, have Nectar move my things into Renata’s room and give Renata the maid’s quarters. Daddy said you had to do that.”

  “Did he now. Well guess what? Renata was here first, and I’m not moving her. So if you don’t like it, I suggest you move back with your mother where you can have a dandy room.” Christy stormed out of the library. “Goddamned brat,” she mumbled.

  “I heard that,” Ali screamed. “I’m telling Daddy what you said.”

  “You do that,” Christy shouted, frustrated with herself. She was the grown-up, after all.

  When Ali returned from Paul Labrecque, she had Renata in tow. As if by magic, Ali’s chin-length hair now reached the middle of her back. And Renata’s beautiful curly black hair was now straight as an ironing board. The child could hardly contain her glee.

  “Renata, what did you do?” Christy asked.

  “Ali took me to get my hair Japanese-straightened. Do you like it?”

  She hated it. Hated it. Renata’s lovely billowing tresses were no more. The delicate corkscrew tendrils that framed that exquisite Spanish face were gone. She no longer looked like a beautiful woman-child from a Raphael painting. She looked like a Mexican Hilary Duff. “Do you like it?” Christy asked. “That’s what matters.”

  “I love it!” she gushed. “Can I go show Mrs. De Mille?”

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  As Renata skipped out the front door, Michael’s demon-child made a beeline for her room. “Just one minute, young lady. Not so fast.”

  “What did I do?” she asked.

  “How could you do that to her without checking with me first? You had no right.”

  “I knew you would say no.”

  “You should have given me a chance. You should have asked.”

  “Would you have said no?”

  “You’re frickin’ right I would have said no. Just how much did you spend on Renata’s hair?”

  “Seven hundred and fifty dollars, but it’ll last a long time.”

  Christy took a deep breath. “Ali, give me your father’s black card.”

  She dug through her purse and handed it to Christy. “Sorreee-eee,” she said, in the universal teenage fake-apology tone.

  Christy took the card, opened the credenza drawer, pulled out a pair of scissors, and cut the offensive plastic in half.

  “How could you?” Ali said. “That’s…that’s like…that’s like burning the American flag.”

  Christy heard the key turning in the lock, signaling that Michael was home. “Fine,” she said to Ali, “we’ll have this out right here and now.”

  Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner

  Michael walked in, followed by Brownie and Fran. “Look who I found in the lobby,” he said.

  Shit. Was it that time already? Christy hadn’t even put her jewelry on. The discussion with Ali would have to wait. The child slunk off to her room, relieved to be off the hook.

  Fran took Christy’s hand in his. He looked her straight in the breasts and told her how good it was to see her again. Christy caught Michael glaring at him as if he wanted to pummel the man. Brownie, on the other hand, didn’t find the situation the least bit awkward. She was the sort of wife who moved into her own bedroom as soon as her last child was born. Sex wouldn’t even be on her radar screen were it not for all those tabloid reports of her husband screwing this one or that one. As she said to Christy, the fact that Fran cheated didn’t bother her. The fact that his indiscretions hit the papers did.

  “Brownie, you look very pretty tonight,” Christy said, breaking the awkward silence. Brownie was wearing a pale green suit and a matching silk blouse, with wide-heeled khaki pumps. Brownie never felt dressed unless she was wearing some khaki.

  “Thanks,” Brownie said, inspecting Christy as if she were a bitch in the Westminster Dog Show.

  “Would you like a tour of the house?” Christy asked, wondering if she had gotten too fat to wear her Helmut Lang stretch dress.

  “Oh, no thanks,” Brownie said. “We lived in this building when we were just starting out.”

  “Right,” Christy said.

  “Did you know there was an article about you in the Journal today?” Brownie asked.

  “How about some drinks?” Michael offered, changing the subject. The group retired to the living room, where a bartender made cocktails to order. Christy had a double martini. Michael told her to slow down.

  The doorbell rang and Michael answered it, greeting Scottie and her husband, Johnny. Christy walked up behind Michael and introduced herself. She had seen Scottie on television, she had watched her from afar in Davos, but she wasn’t prepared for the three-dimensional manifestation of this living legend standing in her entryway. Scottie was smaller than Christy had imagined. Her smile was warm and radiant, surrounding her like a bright aura. At the same time, Christy sensed what a tough and determined woman she was. She had to be, to get where she was in life. Just being in her presence made Christy feel like a quitter. One hard knock and she’d gotten out of the game.

  Johnny, an athetic-looking six-foot-six skyscraper of a man, introduced himself to Christy. He said he was looking forward to talking with Fran Rich, whom he’d never had the pleasure of meeting. Christy almost told him not to get his hopes up. It occurred to her that she and Johnny had a lot in common. He was with one of the most accomplished partners on the planet, as was Christy. But Johnny had found his niche in life as a hedge-fund manager. She decided to sit next to him at dinner and get pointers on how to find happiness as a high-class appendage. She wondered if it would be rude to ask.

  Brownie and Fran stood side by side as Michael int
roduced them. Brownie actually curtsied when she met Scottie, which surprised Christy, knowing what a stickler she was for proper etiquette. Hello-ow, she’s the queen of daytime TV, not of England.

  Yok Wah announced that dinner was served and that everyone should move to the dining room. Christy grabbed another drink on the way in.

  Michael proposed a toast to their famous dinner guests and thanked them for coming. As Italian salad was placed at each person’s place, Brownie turned to Scottie. “So, did Michael tell you what was behind this dinner invitation?” Brownie didn’t believe in waiting for just the right moment.

  “Why no, he didn’t.” Scottie glanced at Michael, who smiled his guilty smile. Christy knew it well.

  “I’d like to tell you about a wonderful opportunity to become the spokesperson for one of the world’s most important children’s charities,” Brownie said.

  “I’m all ears,” Scottie said politely.

  “Are you aware of how many New York City children of means come home to an empty apartment every day?” Brownie asked.

  “No, I’m not,” Scottie said.

  “Thousands. Unlike my children, whose mother is entirely devoted to their welfare, many wealthy parents are so busy jet-setting around the world, they ignore their offspring.”

  “No,” Scottie said.

  “Yes,” Brownie said. “Even the most exquisitely decorated penthouse can be lonely for a child who has only her nanny to keep her company. These kids develop profound psychological problems. Some of them lie. Others steal. Many turn to drugs. The girls develop eating disorders. Most people think that being a child of wealth and privilege is one big party. They never see the dark side.”

  “That is so tragic,” Christy said.

  “Yes, it is. In order to save these children, we’ve started the Golden Latchkey Foundation. I’m the president,” Brownie said.

  “Of course you are,” Christy added. Spare me.

  “As president, I’d like to ask you to serve as our spokesperson,” Brownie said to Scottie.

  “I’m honored,” Scottie said, looking pointedly at Michael.

  “Yes, the board originally asked me to be the face of the charity, but I’m willing to step aside to let you have that honor,” said Brownie nobly.

  “Uhm, I’m just wondering,” Scottie asked, “if these children have such wealthy parents, can’t they afford their own psychological counseling?”

  “They could if their parents were paying attention to their children long enough to notice the problem.”

  “I have an idea,” Christy said. “Why don’t you start an exchange program between the Latchkey kids and the hungry children of the third-world countries who truly deserve Scottie’s help? I’ll bet one week living in Africa or El Salvador would cure those ungrateful brats—”

  Michael interrupted. “What Christy means to say is…”

  Christy realized that she was a little tipsy.

  Scottie couldn’t contain herself any longer. She burst into laughter, sucking a large piece of salad up her windpipe. Her eyes widened, and she grabbed her throat. Her face took on a dangerous hue. Everyone at the table had a vague idea about how to do the Heimlich maneuver, but no one had actually done it before. They all sat there waiting for someone else to jump in to save Scottie.

  Michael, his face ashen, finally took control. He helped Scottie to her feet and gave his best imitation of the Heimlich maneuver, which, to his surprise and relief, was close enough. Half a tomato wedge came flying out of her mouth, landing smack in the middle of Brownie’s hairdo.

  “Oh my God, are you okay?” Christy asked. It would be tragic to lose a national treasure over Brownie’s silly charity.

  Scottie nodded. “Let me just use the restroom,” she croaked, as she left the dining room, coughing.

  “Don’t worry, I’m okay, too,” Brownie said, fishing the tomato out of her hair.

  When Scottie came back to the table, she told Brownie that she’d think about it. But Christy knew that the first thing she’d do when she got back to L.A. would be to send Brownie her deep regrets at not having the time to give to this very worthwhile cause. Christy was mortified. Scottie must think I’m the world’s biggest nimrod to have introduced her to Brownie, she thought.

  Scottie turned to Michael and mouthed, “You owe me.”

  He nodded. His color returned to normal, and the two of them carried on a lively conversation for the rest of dinner. Christy noticed sadly that Michael was as animated while talking with Scottie as he used to be with her. She wondered if he missed being married to Christy, the dynamo.

  “Can I ask you something?” Christy turned to Johnny.

  “Sure,” he said.

  She wasn’t sure how to say this delicately. She had to be tactful. Approach this with compassion, Christy thought. “Johnny, what’s it like to live in the shadow of one the most celebrated women on earth? Do you feel like…like…kind of a loser?”

  “Of course not,” he laughed. “Do you?”

  “Yes, I do,” Christy said. “I absolutely do.”

  Johnny reached over and patted her hand. What a nice man he is, Christy thought. No wonder Scottie keeps him around.

  “Christy, why in the world would you feel like a loser?” The server discreetly took away his salad plate and replaced it with seared tuna.

  “Well,” she whispered, “my best friend betrayed me and stole my company. I tried to reinvent myself and failed miserably and publicly. And did you see that awful article about me in the Journal today? I’m a laughingstock. I’m gaining weight. Meanwhile, I’m married to one of the world’s most successful men. I don’t know why he stays with me.”

  “Is that all?” Johnny asked, smiling.

  “You want more?” Christy said.

  “You know, Christy, believe it or not, I understand your feelings. Most people think being the partner of a celebrity is one big laugh riot. But you and I both know there’s a dark side.”

  “Just like those Golden Latchkey kids,” Christy said ominously.

  “Exactly. All I can tell you is what I figured out after fourteen years of being married to Scottie. And that is, when you’re completely at home in your own skin, Michael’s success will be a nonissue. Trust me on this.”

  “Thanks. That makes sense,” she said, grateful for the advice. “I guess I’m not comfortable with who I am right now. I’m still not sure where I’ll land.”

  “Give it time,” Johnny said. “You’ll figure it out.”

  Christy glanced at Michael and Scottie, who were laughing about something. Those two were certainly acting chummy. Brownie and Fran were eating silently. Christy gave Johnny the eye signal to engage Brownie, which he did. Then she turned to Fran. “So Fran, you going to Davos this year?”

  Let’s Disagree to Agree

  Brownie and Fran took off the minute Scottie and Johnny left. Brownie wasn’t interested in spending any more time with Michael and Christy than she absolutely had to.

  “So, did you accomplish your objective tonight?” Michael asked, pouring Christy a glass of wine. They sat at the kitchen counter.

  “I don’t know. When Scottie says no to her charity, which of course she will, and she should, Brownie’ll take it out on me.”

  “No good deed goes unpunished. I’ve always found that to be true,” Michael said, popping open a beer.

  “Me, too. But don’t think I don’t appreciate what you did,” Christy said, flashing a half-drunk, sexy smile. “I’ve had a little too much wine,” she added.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “The room’s spinning.”

  “Good sign. Here, give me your glass.”

  Christy handed it to Michael. He spilled what was left into the sink and offered her a box of mint Girl Scout cookies.

  “Thanks,” she said, taking five. “You and Scottie sure seemed to get along.”

  “We do. She’s an amazing lady. Very attractive. So accomplished. Respected by everyone. A hoot to tal
k to. I’m glad they came.”

  Christy bit her lip, which had started to tremble.

  “What?”

  “I used to be all those things.” Christy took his hand. “Are you sorry you married me?”

  “No, I love you. You’re perfect. I could never be married to someone like Scottie.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s too successful. I’d feel like a glorified hood ornament around her.”

  “That’s how I feel around you.” Christy took three more cookies.

  “What! How can you say that? You’re everything I’ve ever wanted.”

  “Yes, but I used to be special. Now I’m nobody.”

  “Beegee, if I’d wanted a trophy wife, I would have married one.”

  “That’s the thing. You did marry one. And you stayed a trophy, but I didn’t.”

  Michael pulled his hand away from hers. “Christy, for God’s sake, get a grip. I married you because I love you. And I love you with or without the company, with or without the money, with or without a few extra pounds, with or without the kid. I will always love you. Get that through your thick head. Now let’s just go to bed.”

  “Okay,” Christy said, sounding only slightly less needy than she felt. “Would you want to go to bed with Scottie?”

  “Christy! Enough. Jeez, what has happened to you? You used to be so beautiful and confident. Where’s the girl I married?”

  Christy swallowed hard. “Michael,” she said, barely breaking a whisper. “I’m confused. First you say you still love me with a few extra pounds. Then you say I’m not beautiful anymore. Which is it?”

  Michael threw his hands into the air in frustration. “You know, Christy, when you think you’re a loser, people around you pick up on that vibe. Don’t think I haven’t. I’ve been really patient with you until now. Did I stand behind you when the Journal made those sexual accusations? Yes. Was it hard for me to do that? You bet your sweet ass it was. You wanted the kid. You got the kid. You said that wouldn’t change anything, but it did. You stopped exercising. You started eating too much. You don’t travel with me anymore. You can’t have a lucid conversation about anything but Renata and her goddamn school. You’re turning into my ex-wife, and I gotta tell you, hon, that’s not attractive.”