When Life Gives You Lululemons

  “I . . .” Miriam coughed. What did it mean to have one’s vagina done? Which part, exactly? And what did they do? “I’m not totally sure what you mean.”

  “About what?”

  “About having surgery on your . . . you know. Is it because you pee when you sneeze? My OB said that happens to everyone after kids.”

  Ashley smiled and patted Miriam’s hand as if she were seriously impaired. “There’s no right fit for everyone. Some fix the outer area strictly for aesthetics. Others have their pelvic floor rebuilt. And others have everything tightened to make sex better. It’s all perfectly normal. Commonplace, actually.”

  Miriam laughed. She couldn’t help it.

  “What, you think I’m kidding?” Ashley turned to face the rest of the table. “Ladies? Sorry to interrupt, everyone, but my friend Miriam here needs a bit of clarification. Do you mind participating in a little informal survey?”

  Seven heads swiveled toward them and Miriam felt herself blush. “Forget it, I believe you,” she whispered to Ashley.

  “Now, we are totally off the record here. But we’re all friends, right?” A few of the women looked nervous. “How many of you have had plastic surgery?”

  There was a brief hesitation before three women raised their hands.

  “Ladies, come on, now,” Ashley said with an encouraging smile.

  The remaining four raised their hands.

  “And how many of you would do it again?”

  All seven hands remained raised and Ashley added hers.

  “Now, how many have done your lady parts? I only ask because I’m scheduled for surgery with Dr. Lawson in just a few weeks, as soon as camp starts. And I’m a little nervous,” Ashley said, letting the last part hang in the air.

  “Oh, don’t be nervous,” said a pale redhead in some sort of strappy workout sweatshirt. “You’ll love how you look in a bathing suit. And Eric will love how it feels.”

  “Agreed,” said the petite blonde with blindingly white teeth next to her. “It’s almost annoying how much Roger wants it now that I’ve had it custom-fit.”

  There was so much to unpack there—so much that sounded utterly and completely mysterious—that Miriam didn’t know where to start.

  “I have to say, though, that I would actually recommend Dr. Fine-Steinberg instead of Dr. Lawson. I don’t know about your husbands, but mine was much more comfortable having a woman handle him down there than a man,” said a strikingly beautiful woman with a deep tan and a heart-shaped face.

  “Agreed a hundred percent,” said the woman next to her.

  Everyone looked to Ashley, who turned to Miriam. “See? It’s pretty standard fare.”

  “Wait. I still don’t understand. What does she mean, you’ll like how you look in a bathing suit? Don’t you, like, wear a bikini bottom to cover that part up?”

  “She means a little snip and sew and you don’t have to be super-self-conscious anymore that your labia is hanging down like the meats at a deli counter,” Evie said, and the table broke into appreciative—and understanding—laughter.

  “I don’t think my . . . I don’t think it, um, hangs any lower than it should.” Miriam couldn’t bring herself to say “labia” in front of all these people.

  The pretty redhead spoke up. “Look, I’m obviously not familiar with your labia, but if you’re in your mid-thirties and you’ve had a couple or three kids, then it’s likely things aren’t where they should be.”

  “Yeah, and I challenge you to find something less attractive than camel toe,” Josie added.

  “Camel toe?” was all Miriam could say.

  “It’s when you’re wearing something really fitted and—”

  “No, I know what it means,” Miriam said. “I just didn’t really realize it was something to consider.”

  “Well, it is,” Ashley said. “Men hate it.”

  “I didn’t know that.” Miriam drained the rest of her Bellini. “So they . . . fix it in this type of surgery?” she asked, clearing her throat.

  “That and more,” Ashley said with an authoritative nod.

  “You said that men feel more comfortable with a female doctor? What do they have to do with this?”

  There was a beat of silence, and then the pretty, petite blonde asked in a sugar-sweet voice with a hint of a Southern accent, “Where are you from, Miriam?”

  “From? Oh, everywhere, really. My parents were diplomats, so we moved all over. But I, um, we actually moved out here last fall from New York.”

  “And none of your New York City friends had their lady parts custom-fit?” the blonde asked.

  “A bunch had episiotomies and various stitches after childbirth, but I’m not totally sure what you mean by custom-fit . . .”

  The women exchanged glances as though silently debating who was going to field this one. Finally, Evie said, “So long as they’re putting you under and getting everything on the outside in tip-top shape, it makes sense to have them tighten up everything on the inside too.”

  “Of course.” Miriam nodded like she was cool and got it.

  “So your husband gets himself aroused, and the doctor measures his length and girth, and then he can customize your vag to fit your husband perfectly. Not too loose, not too tight. Just right.”

  “Wait—is that even legal?”

  The women laughed. Ashley asked, “A show of hands, please?”

  Four women raised their hands. And Ashley was planning to do it, which would make a clean fifty percent of the room.

  Ashley faced Miriam. “See? There’s no way that only women in Greenwich do it. Everyone does. We’re just the only ones who are honest about it.”

  The pale redhead laughed. “I’ll have to disagree with you there,” she said to Ashley. “I don’t think we’re exactly honest about it, at least not outside this room. There are more women in this town with ‘diastases’ ”—she air-quoted the word—“than can be medically warranted.”

  “Diastases?” Miriam whispered to Ashley.

  “When the stomach muscles become separated from pregnancy. It can be a real thing, like a serious problem for some people, but everyone I know says they have it so they can justify their tummy tucks.”

  “And hernias,” Evie called out. “Have you noticed how many women between the ages of thirty-five and forty-five desperately need hernia repair? If that’s not a euphemism for a tummy tuck, nothing is.”

  Everyone laughed. “I told people that,” the petite blonde said.

  “Me too,” Josie added.

  “My personal favorite is when you say you’re having a lift just because you got a little saggy after babies. Um, I’m sorry, if the doctor is putting silicone into your breasts, it no longer qualifies as a lift.”

  More laughter. Suddenly, the conversation shifted to summer camp, and Miriam couldn’t wait to tell someone about this new development. Paul? Emily? Karolina? It was something they all needed to hear: it was totally insane.

  • • •

  “What are you, like, Orthodox or something?” Emily said when she called her on the drive home. “Yes, it’s super-trendy now. Big deal. News flash: girls kiss other girls, and it doesn’t mean they’re lesbians. Buckle your seat belt for this one: people meet each other on Tinder and have random sex. Like, totally random. No one even calls the next day! Can you imagine?”

  “Emily, I’m not that bad!”

  “Hey, if the penis fits . . .”

  “Really?”

  “Sorry. But seriously, Miriam, nothing you’re telling me is remotely surprising.”

  “Having it custom-fit to their husbands?”

  “Bespoke vaginas are the new Birkin bags.”

  “Lovely, Emily. Do you sit around and worry about your camel toe in a bathing suit?”

  “Of course not. My vag is pristine. Pure as the morning snow.”

  Miriam swerved a bit to avoid clipping an oncoming car on the narrow two-lane street. “I can name twenty guys off the top of my head who I know f
or a fact sullied your snow,” she said.

  “At least I haven’t pushed three eight-plus-pound babies out of there!”

  “I worry about every single freaking thing on my body—except for the way my vagina looks in a bikini bottom.”

  There was a moment of quiet on the line, and Miriam wondered if they’d been disconnected. But then she heard Emily say, super-slowly and with obvious delight, “Well, maybe you should.”

  “Ha ha. Listen, can we please talk about Karolina for a minute? She told me about the ex-cop setup. Emily, you’ll get yourself sued—or arrested. Please stop it. We need leverage, but it’s not helping anyone to toe the law.”

  “Spoken like a lawyer.”

  “Spoken like someone with half a brain! Seriously, Em. We’re close. I’m sure I’m going to find something soon, and we can get Harry back.”

  “Good. You keep working like an eager lawyer beaver, Miriam, and I’ll keep doing what I do. Because I’ll tell you this right now, I’m not stopping until Graham is finished.”

  24

  The Tides Are Turning and the Tears Are Terrific

  Karolina

  “I love you, Mom. I’ll see you at visiting day?” Harry asked, his brow furrowing in that way it always did when he was uncertain.

  “Of course, honey. Have the best time, and I’ll see you in a few weeks.” Karolina moved her lips close to the phone’s camera and kissed it. She could see Harry blush, but he smiled too.

  “Mom? You’ll definitely be there, right? Even though Dad will be too?”

  “Yes, love. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. You remembered to pack extra Claritin, right? In a package labeled for the nurse? The dissolvable tabs?”

  “Uh-huh. I got them. I checked off everything on the packing list you sent. I have it all.”

  “I’m so proud of you. Packing yourself up for the whole summer isn’t easy,” she said, her voice cracking a bit. “Next summer I promise I’ll be there to help.”

  They said goodbye, and when the FaceTime disconnected, Karolina exhaled. She missed Harry desperately, but somehow it was easier knowing he’d be out of Graham’s clutches too. Plus, getting him safely tucked away at camp was perfect timing for the rollout Emily had planned.

  The makeup artist, a surprisingly unattractive, overweight woman with both bad skin and bad makeup, sighed loudly. “Please hold still. Just a bit longer.”

  Karolina watched as the woman applied dots of concealer the size of marbles under her eyes and spread them around with a spackle-like tool. She tried not to stress about her too-short hair. “Isn’t that, ah, a bit heavy? I mean, I know I must look tired these days, but that seems . . . I don’t know . . . excessive.”

  The woman said nothing.

  Emily swept into the room, bringing with her the smell of cigarette smoke. “Looking good, ladies,” she said without looking.

  “Really? Because I have never had makeup done like this,” Karolina hissed.

  “That’s exactly the point,” Emily said, hanging a half-dozen outfits on a wheeled garment rack. She held up the skirt suits one by one. Each one was a solid jewel color with a knee-length skirt and zero shape.

  “They all look like something my Polish grandmother would wear to Christmas services,” Karolina persisted.

  “Yes. Not a single woman in this room will be threatened by you today. And that’s what matters.”

  “Threatened? I may scare them!” Karolina said, now eyeing the bright rouge the woman was circling into her cheeks.

  “That’s fine too.”

  “Seriously, Emily, this is going too far. I chopped off all my hair, like you said. I’m in full old-lady makeup. Can’t I at least wear something decent? A simple dress, even?”

  Emily sighed. “I can agree to Lilly Pulitzer. Nothing else, I’m afraid.”

  “I cannot wear Lilly Pulitzer!” Karolina said, thinking of a recent photo of Regan and Graham at the golf club where Regan was in head-to-toe Lilly.

  “Your call.” Emily shrugged.

  “Hold still,” the makeup lady said with obvious irritation.

  Karolina raised her eyebrows at Emily, who just laughed. “Seriously, Emily. Are you sure about all this? It seems extreme. And it makes me nervous that Graham figured out that whole thing with the ex–police officer. I just don’t know if—”

  “Listen!” Emily held up her hand. “Feeling over fact! No one cares what actually happened. No one cares if you’re guilty or innocent. No one cares about legality and details. The only thing that matters is how they feel about you. How they viscerally react to you when they see you, hear you, meet you. The rest of it, for better or worse, is noise. And the sooner you accept that, the better off we’ll be.”

  Karolina nodded. Emily said everything with such confidence. She reminded herself that Emily was her best—and possibly only—shot.

  “Okay, let’s review,” Emily said. “Donna will introduce you right before lunch is served—”

  “I smile in an accessible but not sexy way. I talk about how my most important job is to be a great mom, and that’s exactly what I’m going to focus on, and how I want to empower other, less privileged moms toward the same goal. How’s that?”

  Emily was typing something into her phone. “What? Oh, good. That’s good.” She looked up. “Remember: these women can sympathize with too much drinking. This is Fairfield County, Connecticut, which must have more functioning alcoholics per square foot than anywhere in the world except maybe Moscow. Don’t be ashamed to admit it. But whatever you do, don’t mention Graham’s name! Not only are we looking to disassociate you from him, but it’s too risky with this audience. Plenty of women who pretend they’re liberal secretly vote Republican, but you can’t depend on it—a fair number really are bleeding hearts, even when it goes against their own financial interests. But their husbands would murder them if they knew. Basically, everyone lies. It’s impossible to tell. So don’t even go there, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Otherwise, I think you’re ready. I called the local media; the event raises a boatload of money and they have nothing else to do. I have commitments from a few city and two national outlets who would never waste their time with this but are here because I leaked it would be your first public appearance since the arrest. So this is an opportunity to practice. Got it?”

  “Yes,” Karolina said, although her stomach churned with nerves. Why was it that she could walk a catwalk in front of celebrities or half-naked, but she felt intense anxiety standing before a couple hundred housewives?

  “Good. And remember: Miriam is working on getting the Breathalyzer lie debunked. But until she’s there, you have to make nice with the audience. Don’t admit it, but don’t be confrontational and accusatory until we have proof. Okay, finish up here and put the clothes on. I’m going to check on a few things, and I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Karolina changed into the electric blue skirt suit, the least hideous on offer, and followed Emily down the hall to the banquet room of the Greenwich Golf and Yacht. She wondered if she was doing the right thing.

  “Darling!” the blond woman in charge of the luncheon called out when she saw Karolina. “Don’t you look . . . different! My, I have to say, I love what you’ve done with your hair.”

  “You do?” Karolina asked, touching it self-consciously.

  “Love.”

  Karolina shot a glance to Emily, who smiled back at her knowingly. Of course she loves it, Emily’s smile said.

  “Thank you so much for having me today,” Karolina said with as much grace as she could muster. “I helped raise money for underprivileged children in Bethesda, and it means a lot that you invited me to help out here today.”

  “Oh, please. We should be thanking you,” the blond woman said, waving at the crowd, all of whom seemed to be watching from the round luncheon tables. “Your appearance filled the room.”

  Karolina suffered through a few more passive-aggressive comments before the woman finally l
ed her to a staging area with a podium.

  “Ladies, may I have your attention, please?” the woman said, tapping on the microphone. “Can you hear me?”

  There were murmurs and nods.

  “Wonderful. Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedules to join us for this very important lunch today. Without your continued support, we would not be able to fund our children’s program so generously. Thanks to you, deserving children from less privileged families in our community and the surrounding neighborhoods have access to quality after-school care, summer camps, and nutritious meals on weekends and in the summer, when they aren’t able to access their free lunches at school.”

  The room clapped politely.

  “Now I’m delighted to introduce you to our guest of honor. Ms. Karolina Hartwell was an accomplished fashion model, as you all know, and now she works tirelessly on behalf of underprivileged children. She is a stepmother herself, to a twelve-year-old boy, and the wife”—here she paused and looked to Karolina with a questioning expression, which Karolina pretended she didn’t understand—“of the esteemed junior senator from the state of New York, Graham Hartwell. Please join me in welcoming her.”

  Karolina inhaled at the sound of Graham’s name—Emily would not be happy. The applause was not exactly overwhelming, but Karolina was too nervous to care.

  She cleared her throat and leaned toward the microphone. Her accent became more pronounced and her voice shook when she spoke in front of crowds. The women peering up at her were all probably thinking of Karolina, in a drunken stupor, driving their own children home.

  “Good morning, everyone,” she said shakily, and immediately realized it was afternoon. “I’m honored to be invited here today. This is such a wonderful organization, and it does so much to help children. As so many of you surely know, I, um . . .” Karolina’s voice cracked and she felt herself flush with embarrassment. “I have struggled myself recently. But I can promise that I’m doing everything within my power to make it right again.”

  Karolina saw the women’s expressions turn from suspicious to sympathetic instantaneously. She hated the idea of copping to a lie, but she trusted Emily’s strategy, and she desperately hoped Miriam would find something to clear her name. She didn’t know what it was, exactly—the relief she felt when she realized they didn’t all hate her after all, or the embarrassment she felt at having to admit to something humiliating in front of all these people, or maybe the nerves—but the swiftness of her tears surprised her so much that she could barely speak. Her body was wracked with sobs, fat tears falling from her face directly onto the microphone. When she tried to wipe them away, her hands came away streaked in black mascara.