Wife in the Fast Lane

by Karen Quinn

  Christy took a deep breath. She got right in Ali’s face. “Listen,” she said evenly. “I’m here. And I’m here as long as I choose to be. So get used to it. If you get in the way, you’ll be hurting yourself, not me.”

  “How dare you…you gold-digging wack job! That was verbal abuse.” She turned to Renata. “Did you see what she did? She threatened me. You’re a witness. I’m calling my mother.” Ali ran out of the room.

  “Here, use my cell phone,” Christy said, tossing it after her. She shook her head and resumed packing.

  Renata looked at Christy sympathetically. “Don’t worry. You can get Michael back. He still loves you. Just wear something all see-through and fluffy to bed. The same thing happened on The Cosby Show once, and Cliff took Claire back.” Or maybe it was Mr. French who took Mrs. Beasely back, she thought.

  Christy looked up and smiled at her new love adviser. “Well, that’s good to know. If Claire can do it, so can I.”

  Renata reached into Christy’s suitcase and pulled out the overwashed New Balance T-shirt she had been wearing to bed recently. “This is not what I’m talking about.”

  “Oh dear, you’re right. I won’t need that.”

  Christy spent the four-hour journey to Aspen obsessing about her life and her marriage to Michael. What happened to her vow to put all her energy into becoming a world-class wife and mother? Was she even capable of that? When did she stop putting Michael first? Why did she think she needed to reinvent herself? How could she have let herself get out of shape? Did she look as fat as she felt? Or did she look average? Was it so bad to be average? If she got back into shape, could she become eye candy again? Was it shallow to care about her looks when her life was falling apart? Had that doctor who spoke at the New Trophy Wife lunch had work done? Should she get work done? If so, what? And so it went, all the way to Aspen.

  Christy asked the taxi driver to drop her off in town. She wanted to find that luscious lingerie store she had walked past last time she and Michael were here. Let’s see, which way were we walking, she thought. West, toward the mountains. Yes, there it was: Anabella’s. Christy stopped to admire the lace-and-silk teddies in the window. The store had the loveliest lingerie she’d ever seen, except for Paris of course. She remembered the day she and Michael had gone shopping at Alice Cadolle on rue Saint-Honoré, the most amazing couture lingerie store in the world. Michael couldn’t believe anyone would pay $700 for a bra, until he saw Christy’s breasts showcased in such a magical undergarment. He insisted she take four. Then he bought her a beautiful black see-through teddy and a lace-and-pearl thong. They’d gone right back to the hotel to put it to good use.

  Christy walked inside and set her suitcase in the corner. A mother and daughter were examining push-up bras. Looking around, Christy vowed to wear sexy clothes to bed every night. When did I start wearing T-shirts? She tried to remember. She picked out a few French lace chemises to try, a garter belt, some stockings, and a couple of camisoles. The saleswoman showed her to a dressing room.

  Whoa! This was some kind of fitting room. The only lighting came from candles. The walls were red, and an elegant Persian carpet covered the floor. There was a daybed that looked like it belonged in a high-priced bordello.

  Let’s see, what shall I try first? She went for the transparent lace nightie. After taking everything off, she slipped it over her head. The neckline plunged in a deep V and the fabric left nothing to the imagination. She gave herself a thorough appraisal. This isn’t so bad. I can’t be more than a size eight, maybe ten.

  She heard a muffled voice in the next dressing room, and a man responded, followed by bedroom laughter. Wow, they let couples in here? I’ll bring Michael. He would love this. Wait. She knew that laugh. Without so much as a thought, Christy bolted out, walked next door, and barged inside. There was Galit, all six feet of her, facing the full-length mirror in a black G-string and sheer teddy, her sinewy ass inches from where Michael was sitting. He was still dressed, but obviously aroused. His pants spoke for themselves.

  Michael sensed Christy before he saw her. He turned around. His mouth opened. His eyes widened. His penis deflated.

  “She is your girlfriend,” Christy said. “I was right.”

  “No, no, no, she isn’t,” Michael said. “We were shopping for lingerie for you. I swear it.”

  “Right, I’m sure you were.”

  As Michael and Christy argued, Galit reached into her purse, pulled out a cigarette, and lit up a smoke, acting annoyed by the interruption. Christy looked at her rival’s perfect body, and then glimpsed her newly expanded self in the mirror. That made the situation all the more tragic. Galit sucked on her cigarette, looked up at the ceiling, half closed her eyes, and blew smoke out her nostrils like the evil fire-breathing dragon that she was.

  “YOU bitch!” Christy screamed, lunging at her.

  Big mistake. Acting by reflex, Galit performed some manner of Bruce Lee–James Bond karate chop on Christy, sending her flying out the door. She had forgotten about Galit’s stint in the Israeli elite commando forces. Her body hit the wall across from the dressing room. Then Galit jumped her, pinning her to the carpet like an Olympic wrestler.

  A few shoppers, already pressed together in the tiny shop, heard the commotion and sidled over.

  “Michael, get her off of me,” Christy pleaded.

  Michael grabbed Galit, who had Christy in some manner of Israeli Ramboesque stranglehold. Somehow, he separated the women.

  “I’m calling the police,” the saleslady announced.

  “No, don’t,” all three of them yelled. On that they agreed.

  In pain, Christy picked herself up and staggered back into her dressing room.

  Michael followed. “Christy, let me explain.”

  She turned around, gesturing to her sexy ensemble, which was now ripped. “This was for you, Michael. For you!”

  “Please, hear me out,” he said.

  “There’s nothing to say. I heard everything,” she snapped.

  “Galit has come on to me a few times, that’s true. But we came to Aspen to work. I told her I wanted to buy you something after we had that terrible fight. She offered to help me. We ended up here. While I shopped for you, she went in the back to try something on. She called me to take a look. And then she tried to seduce me, but nothing happened…” he trailed off, aware of just how lame he sounded.

  “So, it’s all her fault, is it?” Christy said, buttoning her shirt. “And anyway, even if nothing happened, you wanted something to happen, didn’t you?”

  “No, of course not,” Michael said sheepishly.

  “Don’t deny it, Michael. If I hadn’t walked in, you’d be screwing her right now,” Christy hissed as she zipped her jeans.

  “Well, I—”

  “I would never have pegged you for a cheater, Michael. Never.”

  Christy craved air. Michael followed her through the store.

  The bell rang as she opened the door. “Wait! Who’s going to pay for the merchandise you ruined?” the saleslady demanded.

  “He’ll pay,” Christy shouted, then slammed the door behind her.

  You Can Run but You Can’t Hide

  As Andrea spoke, her New York Post was open to Page Six, where a picture of Michael and Galit looking all chummy on the slopes was front and center. “Christy,” she said, “you can’t come home. Not yet.” Andrea didn’t think Christy could handle the press that was exploding in New York.

  Christy was at the Aspen airport, about to board Michael’s jet back to New York. She’d called her friend for moral support. “What should I do, Andrea? I can’t very well stay here.”

  “You must go somewhere to heal,” she suggested.

  “You mean like a spa? Will you meet me? God, I could so use a friend right now.”

  “I’m not thinking of a regular spa, Christy. There’s a place, a sanctuary, for high-profile people like you who are in emotional pain. It’s called Moonview. Heinz belongs. He was so burned out last
year. The program was a lifesaver for him. You must go to Santa Monica immediately and check yourself in.”

  “What, is this like Betty Ford or something?”

  “No. It’s a mental-health clinic for executives and movie stars. Moonview understands the special issues faced by people in the public eye. They’ll take care of you, mend your soul, and other than their staff, you won’t see another person while you’re there. It’s completely private. Jerry Levin started it, you know, the guy from AOL/Time Warner. Trust me on this. Go. Heal.”

  Christy pulled away from Moonview’s gate into the perfect luminous asphalt of the highway and took in the backdrop of black clouds. Rain and thunder hung in the air. The sky was as dark and gloomy as she felt.

  Moonview was a bust. She should have asked Andrea a few more questions before flying all the way to California. The facility was beautiful. The atmosphere was peaceful and supportive, just like Andrea had said. The combination of Eastern and Western healing practices to promote harmony of mind, body, and spirit was made to order for a heartbroken wife who’d caught her famous husband cheating. But there was the small matter of the $175,000 fee (not including food and hotel). Christy couldn’t bring herself to spend such an enormous sum on her self-esteem. To her, this fell into the same category as spending $3,500 on hair extensions for Ali’s self-esteem. “But we have equine therapy,” the counselor had said, as though that explained everything. “Do I get to keep the horse?” Christy had asked. No, Christy’s midwestern values precluded her from dropping the cost of a small house in Glenbrook, Illinios, for a two-week psyche cleansing. It didn’t matter that Michael could afford it.

  Luckily, the concierge at her hotel recommended an ashram down the road for a little silent meditation therapy. At $500 for the weekend, it sounded like a bargain.

  Christy turned onto a windy road and followed the sign to Dharmadhan Wilderness Center. After pulling up to the lodge and registering, she was directed to her monastic suite, which was more like a cell with its own tiny bath. A green cotton meditation outfit was laid out for her on the bed. No, outfit was too kind a word. It was more like a doctor’s scrubs or a prison uniform. Think positively, Christy admonished herself. This is just like being issued a bathrobe at Canyon Ranch, she thought, hoping that the food here was just as good.

  After dressing, Christy wandered over to the gift shop. There was a world-class candy-bar selection right next to the devotional objects and meditation cushions. She loaded up on junk food, a Dharmadhan Center sweatshirt, and a sexy T-shirt with a green goddess on the front. Realizing that she couldn’t buy another thing without drawing attention to her desire to shop her way out of anxiety, she carried the loot back to her suite/cell.

  Later, Christy wandered into the shrine tent, which reminded her of the one she and Michael had been married in. It was filled with people sitting on a sea of navy-blue cushions on the floor in front of an exotic-looking altar affair dominated by a large ancient Buddha. There were wildflowers in one chalice and cooked rice in another. The warming scent of incense floated over the whole space.

  Christy selected a cushion in the back row and waited for the spiritual part to begin. From what she understood, most of these people had been sitting here silently meditating ten hours a day for two weeks. This being her first visit to an ashram, she awkwardly mimicked the little bows she saw going on, then sat down and watched everyone pile in. Wow, that guy is cute, she thought. Hmm, there are at least twice as many women here as men, maybe three times. You’re once, twice, three times a lady, she sang in her head. And I lo-o-ove you-ou-ou. I don’t care what anyone says, Lionel Richie’s a genius. This deep reflection was cut short when the teacher began to speak. He sounded refreshingly normal, and Christy began to think that this might not be so bad.

  The teacher, who was Christy’s age, sat in a chair by the altar. He looked like he might have come straight from Park Avenue, and it turned out he had, several decades ago, from a New York family of distinguished lineage. He told the group that he recently overheard his father telling a friend, “Yes, Bill is still at that place in California. I wish he would come home and practice law, but he does seem less pissed off.” Well, Christy thought, I would like to be a little less pissed off myself right now, so maybe I’m in the right place, too.

  After Bill (which seemed to be his name despite an array of unpronounceable titles used to refer to him) welcomed everyone, he assumed the half-lotus position, and everyone followed suit. He demonstrated proper meditation technique, which boiled down to follow your breath, in, out, in, out, gaze three feet in front of you. Christy would do okay for three or four breaths. Then she would come to, having no idea how much later, midfantasy, where she would be chopping Galit’s perfect body into tiny little pieces. Or dabbing acid on Michael’s private parts while he slept. The more Christy tried to clear her mind the way Bill explained, the clearer the images of her SOB husband and his skanky slut. She finally forced herself to picture Renata, and that brought her into a more tranquil state. In, out, Renata, in, out, Renata, in, out, Renata—this went on for three hours. Including Renata in her meditation practice was cheating, but it calmed Christy and filled her with a sense of well-being.

  After three hours a gong rang, signaling that it was time for dinner. Everyone stood up and walked in a stately way (the only way people walked there) to get their oryoki sets, little bundles of blue linen tied around chopsticks and a set of bowls. Christy got hers and sat back down, watching the person beside her for clues as to the next move. Suddenly they were bowing to each other, and the bundle went in front of them. Then they were untying the knot, laying out the bowls and chopsticks and the little spatula thing with white cloth tied around it. The person across the aisle looked hard at Christy, a meaningful insistent look. After staring stupidly back at him and intensely studying his arrangement, she realized what the problem was. Her spatula was turned the wrong way.

  By the time Christy fixed her spatula, the chanting had started, and she quickly consulted the little card that came with the bowls, only to find that it was all in Tibetan. Okay, she moved her lips and fake chanted. As she did, a server was bowing to her and she handed over her bowl as she had seen the rest of the row do. They all seemed to be making little tripods out of their fingers as they held out their dishes, and using the spatula thing to indicate when they had had enough. By the time Christy got the spatula up and running, her rice was overflowing. As Christy tried to chase down the rice that had fallen into her lap, a bowl of condiments was offered to her along with a bow from the left. With one hand on her rice bowl, the other on her chopsticks, Christy was at a loss as to how to proceed. She was receiving lots of looks—helpful, disdainful, urgent—eyes that were trying to send a message in plain but unfortunately unspoken English. Finally, the tension ended when Christy’s rice bowl flew out of her hands as she simultaneously bowed and reached for the condiments. The whole row cracked up, except for one man who glared at Christy, which, in her fragile state, unnerved her even more.

  Now Christy understood the candy bars in the gift shop. They ate oryoki three times a day, and each time she took less food in order to avoid a mishap. After lunch the next day, she made a dash to her room and scarfed down all the junk food she had bought.

  Following the break, Bill returned to the altar and assumed his half-lotus position, then invited those who had joined the ashram in the last day or two to raise their hands, come up to the mike, and say a few words about why they were there. Christy panicked and sunk into her cushion. She imagined herself speaking: “Hi, I’m Christy. I’m here because I caught my dirty rotten husband screwing his biographer. Okay, I caught him prescrew, but still.” No, that won’t do at all, she thought. Buddhism is about nonattachment. Say something more Buddhistically correct. Ah, I know, she thought, “I’m here because Moonview was too expensive.” No, that makes me seem too attached to money. It hit Christy then that she had no idea why she was there.

  Finally, it was her turn
to take the mike. She looked out over the motley but surprisingly kindly sea of people, opened her mouth, and then closed it. C’mon, Buddha, she thought, help me. I’m dyin’ up here. Christy took a deep breath and then spoke. “I came to the ashram,” she started, “I came because, I came because I thought, I thought I could somehow mend my heart here. But I realize as I stand before you that I came to the wrong place. Over the last day and a half as I’ve meditated, one vision keeps recurring in my mind. And when I see it, I’m at peace. It’s my daughter, Renata.” As Christy spoke, everything became clear. It was as though Buddha had given her a pair of magic spectacles and now she could see what had been a blur before. “I think I’m going back to New York now, to Renata. But you know, I believe I needed to come here, to this ashram, to open my eyes to how much my little girl means to me, so thank you for that.” Christy smiled, waved, and ran out the door. If she hurried, she could catch the last flight home.

  Reality Bites

  Christy’s plane arrived at La Guardia at five A.M. Rather than wake Steven, she grabbed a taxi. As the car sped down the Long Island Expressway, she made a mental list of ways she would be a better person now—no more sodas, candy, or ice cream, more workouts, less mind-numbing TV. She would get her act together, and then she’d know what to do. She supposed that in some ways, Renata had contributed to her current predicament. If not for the child, Christy would have kept her eye on business and on Michael. Without her, maybe none of this would have happened. And yet now, Christy couldn’t imagine her life without Renata playing a central role—this lovely, smart, funny little person who introduced her to a side of herself that she’d never known. After training her butt off since she was twelve, then working it off since she was twenty-six, eating junk and languishing about like a couch potato was a revelation. Thanks to Renata, Christy had tasted the Zen of wasting time. But more than that, Renata cared about the real Christy. Her public glory and recent defeat meant nothing to her. No matter how things turned out with Michael, she knew Renata would stick by her.