by Karen Quinn
Christy stared at him with her mouth open. She threw her remaining cookies into the sink in anger.
Michael started toward the kitchen door, then turned back and faced his wife. “You keep telling the press that you want to win a gold medal as wife and mother. Well, now you’ve got two kids to take care of. So why don’t you just be what you told the world you wanted to be, and let’s get on with our lives?”
“Michael, how can you expect me to be a mother to Ali when you won’t be a father to Renata?” Christy was raising her voice, but she couldn’t help it. She was sick of pretending that she was okay with the way he treated Renata.
“That’s different. Ali’s my real child. As long as you’re not working, I’m asking you to pay attention to her while I’m not around.”
Christy shook her head. “Your kid’s impossible. The few times I’ve tried to mother her by setting limits, which she desperately needs, by the way, you just give in to her.”
“Well, I think you’ve made some wrong decisions. Like today. Ali wanted hair extensions. Why not let her have them? She needs to know that I’m in her corner right now, that I’ll support her. She’s just come from a home where her stepfather wanted nothing to do with her. Can you imagine how that made her feel?”
Christy stared at Michael in disbelief. “No, I can’t imagine how that must have made her feel, but I’ll bet Renata can. Why don’t we ask her?”
“And that’s another thing,” he said, ignoring Christy’s valid point. “I don’t think Ali should be sleeping in the maid’s room. She shouldn’t feel like a second-class citizen in her own house. She is my real daughter.”
“And Renata’s not my real daughter?”
“No. You know she isn’t.”
Christy looked at Michael, who had turned into a ragged mess between the time Scottie left and now. For the first time, his scruffiness wasn’t endearing to her. “Funny, I don’t know that at all.”
Michael, for his part, slammed his fist into the wall and walked out. That night, he slept in the library.
MY DEAREST DIARY,
MICHAEL BLEW A CASKET AT CHRISTY TONIGHT. DON’T QUOTE ME, DIARY, BUT I FEAR THEY WILL GET DIVORCED. WHO WOULD TAKE ME IF THEY BREAK UP? WHERE WOULD I LIVE? AND WHAT ABOUT SCHOOL? HERE’S WHAT HAPPENED. ALI WAS IN HER ROOM LISTENING TO HER IPOD AS USUAL. ME AND CHRISTY WERE JUST SITTING AROUND WATCHING THE SIMPSONS. THEN MICHAEL CAME HOME FROM WORK AND ASKED WHERE DINNER WAS. CHRISTY TOLD HIM SHE FIRED YOK WAH AND WANTS US TO EAT TOGETHER AS A FAMILY EVERY NIGHT (YAY I THOUGHT!!!). SHE WOULD COOK FROM NOW ON. NECTAR SPENT ALL AFTERNOON TEACHING CHRISTY HOW TO MAKE THIS SOUTHERN DISH SHE GREW UP ON—SHRIMP AND LOBSTER GUMBO. SO WE SAT DOWN TO EAT AND MICHAEL SAID, YOU KNOW I HATE SHELLFISH. SHE SAID NO, THAT HE ATE IT ALL THE TIME. HE SAID SHE WAS WRONG AND HE DIDN’T AND WOULD SHE PLEASE MAKE HIM A STEAK. THEN SHE DUMPED THE WHOLE BOWL OF GUMBO IN HIS LAP. SHE’S GONE MENTAL AND THAT’S A PROBLEM. I’VE NEVER SEEN MICHAEL THIS ANGRY. HE PACKED HIS SUITCASE FOR ASPEN TO WORK ON HIS BOOK WITH GALEET. CHRISTY SAID FINE! GO TO YOUR GIRLFRIEND! MICHAEL SAID MY GIRLFRIEND!!!! YOU’RE DREAMING, CHRISTY! THEN HE RAN OUT AND SLAMMED THE DOOR. ALI LAUGHED WHEN HE LEFT BUT IT WASN’T FUNNY. I’M WORRIED SICK ABOUT THOSE TWO. I WAS PLANNING TO ANNOUNCE MY NEW NICKNAME TONIGHT (FRECKLES) BUT I’M PUTTING THAT OFF UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.
YOURS,
RENATA RUIZ HAYES
Thanks for the Memories
The next morning, as was the custom in New York, two thank-you notes with gifts were waiting for Christy with the building’s doorman. First there was the obligatory flower arrangement sent by Brownie Rich. It came from Petals, the florist of choice for ladies of the 10028 zip code. The second, an antique silver compact, was sent by Scottie and Johnny, who did not feel compelled to follow the gift-code conventions of well-heeled New Yorkers.
Dear Christy,
Thank you for last night. As instrumental as I have been in helping you find acceptance in the Colby community, I was still moved that you would host a dinner in my honor. And how very clever of you to think of inviting Scottie and Johnny Childs. I’m so looking forward to Scottie’s involvement in the Golden Latchkey Foundation. Wouldn’t it be excellent if Scottie would devote a whole show to the unique problems faced by these children who are so rich and yet so poor? At your convenience, please call me with her personal telephone number so that I can propose that idea.
Sincerely,
Brownie Rich
Dear Christy,
Many thanks for the lovely dinner you hosted. Johnny and I enjoyed getting to know you and Michael better. Don’t worry, I will not hold that beastly Mrs. Golden Latchkey against you. Michael told me how much torture she has inflicted on you as you’ve tried to do the right thing by your daughter’s school. Just don’t ever send her my way again, or I will have to choke you with a tomato wedge (only kidding, NOT).
It was terrific talking to Michael. You are a lucky woman to have a husband who loves you so much. No matter what subject we talked about, the conversation always came back to you. Johnny mentioned that you feel you’re living in the shadow of Michael, who is so very accomplished. But from what I observed, you are the light of his life. How fortunate you are to have had it all in athletics, business, and love. Not many of us can make that claim.
With appreciation,
Scottie Childs
The New Trophy Wife
On Thursday, Christy pulled herself together to go with Andrea to hear Dr. Mindy Harris speak about the “New Trophy Wife” at the Yale Club for a Mount Sinai Medical Center benefit. At the last minute, Andrea canceled because Heinz’s enlarged prostate had gotten even larger. Christy wore Gucci, Pucci, and Prada in order to blend in with the crowd. And blend in she did. The room was filled with designer-clad trophy wives.
Christy sat at a table of women who seemed to know one another. An elegant brunette suggested that everyone introduce herself. They went around the table. “Hi, I’m Chappy Reeves. I’m married to Henry Reeves.”
“I’m Christy Hayes, married to Michael Drummond.”
“Hi there. I’m Susan Gilbert, married to Jack Gilbert.”
“Hi, Tiffany Underberg, married to Saul Underberg.”
“Carter Jaeger, Jack Jaeger’s second wife, although I really don’t consider myself a trophy.”
“Kathleen Stowers. I’m not a trophy wife yet, but I’d very much like to become one.”
“Lilian Underberg. I’m an ex–trophy wife. I used to be married to Saul Underberg.” She and Tiffany gave each other polite head nods.
A waiter came by with salads. Everyone took one, with dressing on the side. Nobody but Christy wanted the mimosas they were offering. The ladies chatted as they nibbled.
As Christy drenched her arugula-and-endive salad with dressing, she noticed that Lilian was pushing her greens around on the plate like a waifish model. “Not hungry?” she asked her.
“Nothing tastes as good as thin feels. That’s my motto,” Lilian said.
Christy put her fork down.
The waiters came by and replaced everyone’s salads with white poached fish and steamed veggies.
The conversation turned to which charity committees everyone was on. Christy wasn’t sure what to say when it was her turn to speak. Luckily, she wasn’t the only one not involved in that endeavor.
“You know,” Tiffany Underberg said, “I’ve been looking for a pet cause. Maybe you all can help me find a good one.”
“There are so many wonderful organizations to support, dear,” Susan Gilbert said. “Would you like me to take you under my wing, maybe mentor you through the charity circuit?”
“Would you?” Tiffany asked.
Lilian looked at Christy and rolled her eyes. “She’s the same age as Saul’s granddaughter.”
“It must be hard,” Christy said sympathetically. Okay, this is one weird scene.
“You don’t know the half of it. The day I turned forty, Saul dumped me. Then he stopped financing my makeup line. That was the end of m
y career. These people”—she pointed to the women in the room—“used to be my friends. Now they avoid me. They all went to Saul’s wedding. I hate them.”
“I can see that you’re bitter,” Christy said.
“I’ll be back. Don’t you worry,” Lilian said, fire in her eyes.
“No doubt,” Christy agreed.
Before the charity conversation got around to Christy, the waiters picked up everyone’s plates and offered coffee and chocolate cake. Most everyone said yes to coffee (with skim milk) and no to cake. Knowing this crowd, Christy wondered if the Yale Club had even bothered to bake the cake.
“…and here she is, Dr. Mindy Harris,” a beautifully dressed woman was saying. Everyone applauded. Christy turned her attention to the podium.
“Do you think she’s had work done?” Lilian whispered. Christy just shrugged.
“When Kitty asked me to come speak about the ‘New Trophy Wife,’ I was happy to do it, because it’s time to put that image to rest. You know the image about which I speak—the grotesque frog of a CEO married to the ravishing young bubblehead as a testament to his manliness. Well, let me be the first to tell you that the old-school trophy wife has been traded in for a newer model, no pun intended.”
The trophy wives applauded nervously at the news. Most of them hailed from the old school.
“Yes, brain candy has replaced arm candy,” Dr. Harris said. “Not that today’s trophy wife isn’t gorgeous—she is. But she is also accomplished, intelligent, well bred, and busy pursuing her own work. As I look around this room, I see women who personify exactly what I’m talking about. There’s Chappy Reeves, Henry’s wife. Chappy has a master’s degree in political science, she’s a writer, a senior fellow at Columbia, she serves on a variety of boards. At the same time, she is beautiful, entertains lavishly, loves her jewelry, has an extensive Impressionist art collection, never misses the opera. Who did you say you were married to, Chappy?”
Everyone laughed, including Chappy.
“And over there, I see Christy Hayes Drummond,” Dr. Harris said.
Oh my God, she’s talking about me, Christy thought. Please don’t do that.
“Christy is an Olympic champion, an entrepreneur, a face we have seen on billboards across the country, a champion for women who choose family over work. She’s also a mother. Christy Hayes Drummond is a wonderful example of the new trophy wife—a beautiful woman who has the perfect combination of brains, glamour, confidence, and achievements. She epitomizes what the powerful man of today wants, and it is not arm candy.”
Christy smiled shyly. She didn’t feel like the person Dr. Harris was describing. But maybe the doctor was right when she singled her out of the luncheon crowd. Maybe Michael did want her by his side for her intellect and accomplishments. Of course, it was kind of hard to hear that she didn’t qualify as arm candy.
Dial “S” for Snoop
Renata waited until Christy was gone before sneaking into the library. First, Christy was going to some luncheon. Then she was meeting with Mrs. Smart for Renata’s parent-teacher conference. She would be safe for at least a few hours. To her surprise, Ali was curled up on the couch reading Cosmo—not Teen Cosmo, normal Cosmo. She didn’t acknowledge Renata’s presence.
Fine, Renata thought. Ignore me as usual. She turned on the computer and went right to AOL. Michael’s e-mail address came up, but the password space was blank. C-H-R-I-ST-Y, she typed in. Ta-da! She opened Michael’s mailbox to see what she could learn. He’d been gone for days, and Christy refused to talk about it. Renata knew she could be arrested for this, but she just had to find out what was going on.
Most of the communications were from either Christy or Galit. Skipping over the mail about Viagra, debt consolidation, and adult XXX specials, she began opening the messages between Michael and Christy. Until the day he left, they were all friendly. The older ones were just plain mushy and gross. Christy had sent Michael a few notes about Renata. He always said the same thing: it’s your choice. Whatever you decide is okay with me. This confirmed what Renata suspected. Michael didn’t care about her. She bit her lip and tried not to think about it.
“What are you up to in there, child?” Nectar was standing in the doorway.
“Nothing. Homework.”
Nectar walked in and looked over her shoulder. What she saw didn’t register. Renata was grateful that her nanny didn’t know anything about computers. “Mmm-mmm-mmm, we didn’t have those when I was a child,” she said, clucking her tongue. “What do you want for dinner tonight?” Nectar asked. Christy hadn’t cooked one thing since the shrimp-and-lobster-gumbo debacle.
“How about Shake ’n Bake?”
“Shake ’n Bake? I’ll pick some up at the store.” Now that Yok Wah was gone, so were the fresh, healthy meals.
Ali looked up from her magazine. “Shake ’n Bake? What are you? Trailer trash?”
Renata started to respond, but Nectar beat her to it. Snatching the magazine out of Ali’s hands, she lit into the girl. “I’ll have you know, child, some of the finest people I ever met grew up in trailers ’cause that’s all their families could afford. Trash isn’t where you come from; it’s how you behave.”
“Then I guess we know who’s trash in this room,” Renata said, happy that someone finally stood up to Ali.
“Shut up, Snot Breath,” Ali said.
“I know you are, but what am I?” Renata said.
Ali rolled her eyes. “I want my Cosmo, Nectar,” she declared.
“Sorry, you can’t have it,” she said. “Child, you have no business reading this magazine. What do you need to know about ‘his secret sex zones’? You’re too young.”
“Hello-oh! I’m sixteen,” Ali said.
“Sixteen! ‘It is common for the younger sort to lack discretion,’” Nectar said. “That’s from Hamlet.”
Ali got up and stormed out of the room. “Hamlet,” she shouted behind her, “Who’s he? Some trailer-trash friend of yours?”
“Ali, Ali, Ali,” Nectar said, shaking her head as she walked away.
Renata turned to the screen. Professional that she was, she refused to let the fight between Ali and Nectar distract her from her mission. Checking out the e-mails between Galit and Michael, she saw they were mostly about the book. Galit would ask him a question and he’d answer it, like an interview. There were a few notes that Michael wrote to Galit about Christy. Hmmph, she thought, Michael shouldn’t be talking to Galit about Christy. It isn’t right. Whoa! The newer mail was juicier. Galit was flirting with Michael. Then Renata found the smoking gun:
To: [email protected]
Fr: [email protected]
Galit, could you call me? I’m thinking about a new strategy for the TV side of my business, and I’d like your advice. I need a sounding board on some issues. Would you mind? My beautiful wife is momentarily distracted by cupcakes. I’m assuming she will come to her senses soon. MD
To: [email protected]
Fr: [email protected]
OK, I will call in a couple of hours. I am really looking forward to Aspen, a chance to spend a little more time together. You know, Michael, working on this book with you has meant a lot to me. You aren’t the average run-of-the-mill alpha male. Galit
To: [email protected]
Fr: [email protected]
Galit, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me with the book. But our Aspen meeting will be strictly business. As I’ve told you before, Christy is the love of my life. Let’s leave it at that. Michael
Renata spun in circles on the ergonomic swivel chair as she printed the telltale e-mails. My work here is done, she thought proudly. Now it’s all up to Christy.
Boulevard of Broken Dreams
Renata sat on the edge of the bed watching Christy pack. Ali sat across from her, in the easy chair, flipping through Glamour.
“How long will you be in Aspen?” Renata asked.
“A few days, maybe a week,” Christy said. “Nectar will watch you both.”<
br />
“I don’t need to be watched. I’m sixteen,” Ali said.
“All the more reason for Nectar to watch you,” Christy said.
Ali rolled her eyes without taking her face out of the magazine.
“You’ll miss my chorus recital,” Renata said.
“Damn,” Christy said slapping her forehead. “Pardon my French. Mrs. Smart’ll kill me, won’t she?”
“I’ll make up an excuse, don’t worry. You have to go see Michael.” Renata had given the revealing e-mail to Christy. She felt she had no choice. Christy was about to blow her marriage. And while Renata wasn’t too keen on Michael right now, Christy was a different story. When Christy asked how she’d gotten the e-mails, Renata said that she’d found them by the computer when she went to do her homework.
“Oh, man, what have I done?” Christy lamented. “I’ve been so busy obsessing about not being important to the world that I forgot how important Michael and I are to each other. I’m such an idiot.”
“You said it; I didn’t,” Ali offered, glancing up to catch Christy’s reaction.
It was Renata’s turn to roll her eyes. “Ali, didn’t your mother teach you that if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all?”
“No,” Ali said. “My mom always says mean things about people. Now shut up or you’ll regret it, loser.”
“Ali, don’t tell Renata to shut up, and don’t call her a loser,” Christy said.
Ali stood up and yelled at Christy. “You’re not the boss of me. I can say whatever I want.”
“No, you can’t,” Christy said in a calm tone. “If you want to stay in my house, you have to be civil.”
“This isn’t your house. It’s my dad’s. And when he gets back, he’s gonna leave you like he left my mom. You’ll see. You’re not good enough for him. Knowing Dad, he’s got a new girlfriend already.”