When Life Gives You Lululemons
“Sounds scintillating.”
“Don’t be a bitch.”
“That’s exactly what you said to me during the summer we met when you thought I was making fun of that nitwit. What was her name? Rosalie?”
Miriam laughed, remembering how everyone else at camp was scared of Emily, who wore lipstick despite the no makeup rule, slept in boxer shorts she claimed belonged to her older boyfriend, and said “fuck” with abandon. Miriam had never met someone who would flat-out refuse to play lacrosse for “personal reasons,” or insist on wearing stilettos to the weekly dances on the basketball court with the boys’ camp, or convince the CITs to sneak her cigarettes. The first week they met, Miriam thought Emily was mocking a bunkmate’s weight, and Miriam told her in front of everyone to stop being a bitch. By visiting day, they were introducing each other to their parents as best friends, and by summer’s end, they clung to each other when it came time to say goodbye.
“How do you remember that? I was convinced you were calling her fat,” Miriam said.
“She may have been a little bit of a chunker, but I was walking like an elephant because I was imitating that buffoon who worked in the office—what was his name? Something rapey.”
“Chester.”
“Yes, Chester! Have you ever looked him up? We should Google him. I bet he has more pedophilia arrests than we can count. I’m just sure of it.”
“He was the grossest man ever,” Miriam said. “He leered at all the girls whenever they went in to pick up mail or drop off postcards.”
Miriam’s phone rang. “It’s her. Finally!” she said, and snatched her phone from the table. “There you are!” Miriam said before Karolina could say a word. “How are you? Where are you? I’ve been leaving messages for you stalker-style for three days!”
“You saw the papers,” Karolina said, her slight Eastern European accent sounding more pronounced.
“Of course I saw the papers! The whole universe saw the papers! But I didn’t believe them for a second. Where are you? I must have left a thousand messages.”
“I’m in Greenwich.”
“What?”
“To ‘collect myself.’ ”
“Oh my God. I’m coming over.” Miriam glanced at the wall clock. “I need to shower, but I can be there within the hour.”
At this, Emily looked up. “Who is it?” she mouthed.
“You don’t have to rush over. I’m sure I’ll be here for a while,” Karolina said, her voice breaking. “I just miss Harry.”
“Oh, honey, I’m on my way. Same address?”
Karolina sobbed. “Yes, the hideous house with the gold-enameled mailbox.”
Miriam pictured the McMansion . . . splashed across the cover of the Post that morning with the headline WHERE WILL HIGH-FLYING MRS. HARTWELL LAND THIS TIME?
“Okay, I’ll see you soon. Can I bring anything?”
“Maybe some pills? What do people take these days? You wouldn’t know it from the news, but I’m out of the loop. Valium? No, that’s old-school. Percocet? I feel like now is an excellent time to develop a prescription-pill problem. I’m a drunk, apparently. No one will be surprised.”
“Sit tight, I’ll be right there.”
“What? A mommy friend calling to commiserate about her maid stealing the silverware?” Emily asked, typing furiously on her laptop.
“Karolina Hartwell calling to say that she’s here in Greenwich.”
Miriam was halfway to the stairs when Emily called, “I’m coming with you!”
“No, it’s not a good time. She sounds really upset. I don’t think she would want a stranger showing up at her house.”
“I’m not a stranger! I met her a hundred times when I was at Runway. She must have been on the cover, what, five times while I worked there? She was in and out of the office every three seconds. I can help her!”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Trust me, it’ll be good to have me around. You go shower. I’ll change and pack a few necessities. Between the two of us, we can cheer her up.”
Miriam nodded. As usual, she felt powerless to stand in the way when Emily made her mind up. “Meet me in the car in twenty. And please, no booze until we hear what’s really going on with her.”
Miriam was halfway up the stairs but could hear Emily in the refrigerator. “Moët is hardly booze!” Emily called after her. Miriam smiled to herself and thought how much she loved that crazy bitch.
6
Just a Cottage in the Country
Karolina
As it neared eleven, Karolina peered out the window near the door that faced the grand circular driveway, working her hair into twisty knots. When they’d bought the Greenwich house a couple years into their marriage, Graham had insisted they add the automated wrought-iron gate to the driveway for security purposes. She remembered feeling like it was a prison but hadn’t wanted to start another fight. “It’s the smart move,” Graham had said. “It’s what people do.” He’d sounded both supremely confident and totally vague.
Karolina had had a hard time understanding Graham’s obsession with the house in the country. They were living in a lovely apartment in a full-service building on Sixty-Third and Park, close to the midtown law office where he was working backbreaking hours as a new associate. Who needed Greenwich? They did, Graham swore. Acres of manicured lawn and great restaurants and fabulous shopping and only a stone’s throw from Manhattan. They could have a garden and a pool and enough space to host all their friends over snowy winter weekends or long vacations in the summer. She remained steadfastly unconvinced until he had played his trump card: Harry would have a place to roam and explore without fear of getting hit by a taxi or kidnapped in plain daylight. Was she really going to say no to that? The boy was two when they got married and still wouldn’t walk barefoot on grass. Harry was motherless—Graham’s first wife had died tragically of a rare type of stomach cancer when he was an infant—so how could Karolina possibly be the one to deny him this opportunity? Wasn’t it time that Harry had a swing set?
Those were some of the sweetest times of their marriage. She was still swept off her feet by Graham’s charm and social connections, his private clubs and the ease with which he navigated his world. He was a twenty-first-century JFK Junior, dashing and handsome and wealthy. She knew he could have chosen anyone, but he’d chosen Karolina. As successful a model as she’d been through the years, deep down she was still just a poor girl from Wrocław. Beautiful, yes. But also sheltered by a protective mother and surrounded by friends and family who had lacked education. How could she not fall for a man who swept her into private clubs where Rockefellers and Carnegies dined? It was a glimpse into an entirely different world than modeling afforded her. It was storied.
In those early years they threw lavish parties and extravagant dinners and booze-heavy cocktail hours. They laughed all the time and liked watching the same shows. It was hard to pinpoint exactly when things began to shift, but Karolina thought it had a lot to do with searching for the perfect Greenwich house.
It didn’t take long for Graham’s wish list to balloon in both size and grandeur: the quest for a modest four-bedroom home on a cul-de-sac quickly became an intense hunt for a minimum of seven bedrooms, two acres, a pool, and a tennis court. And although at the time Graham drank exclusively beer or whiskey, it was suddenly imperative that they have a humidity-controlled wine cellar with a tasting room. Newest. Biggest. Fanciest. Karolina should have listened to those warning bells. But she didn’t.
On the fourth visit, a spectacular October weekend at peak foliage, Graham fell in love with a house that was designed by a famous architect. It was ultra-modern, with jutting angles and miles of glass: 35 Honeysuckle Lane sounded like it fit the bill, but it looked like it belonged in a movie featuring a sociopath. It was perhaps the least child-friendly home she’d ever seen, but she couldn’t argue with Harry’s obvious glee as he sprinted across the beautiful backyard and giggled uncontrollably as the oversize fish in the koi pond leapt
up as he tossed them bits of his bagel. They’d closed fifteen days later, a record, according to the blue-haired realtor. Karolina had the good sense to require that the house be in both their names. The money was entirely hers, earned from nearly a decade of modeling while Graham was still living off the interest from the trust fund he couldn’t touch until he was forty. He tried to argue it would be better for “tax purposes” to list only his name on the deed, but she ha