“Those boys weren’t drinking champagne. None of us were. And I begged for a Breathalyzer once the boys were out of the car, but the police are saying I refused. It’s a nightmare.”
With this, Emily slapped her hands in her lap. “I can’t stay quiet another second. Why are we all freaking out right now? DUIs are totally recoverable! If you just get in front of this, you can make it go away.”
“Go away?” Karolina asked. “Have you turned on a television or opened a newspaper in the last three days?”
“Yes, I get it. The former face of L’Oréal and current wife of New York senator Graham Hartwell gets busted for driving drunk. Big fucking deal! You didn’t kill anyone. That would be way harder. The kid factor complicates things a little, I admit, but let’s keep the focus on what’s important: no one got hurt; no one died; no one even crashed. This is all a lot of hysteria for nothing.”
Karolina saw Miriam give Emily a look telling her to shut up. She remembered enough about Emily to know that was unlikely. And besides, when Emily phrased it like that, it didn’t sound quite so horrific.
“Go on,” Karolina said.
Emily shrugged. “I’ll tell you what I would tell a client. No one cares if you were drunk or not. You need to apologize for having a problem and putting children at risk. You’ll definitely need to do thirty days inpatient somewhere—the optics for that are just unbeatable, especially when we tip the press off ahead of time—but there’s one in Montana that’s downright fabulous. Like an Aman.”
“Thirty days inpatient? Like rehab? But I don’t have a drinking problem!”
“That’s totally irrelevant,” Emily said, glancing at her buzzing phone. “There’s a protocol people follow, and this is it: everyone loves to forgive a repentant sinner. Look at Mel Gibson. Reese Witherspoon. John Mayer. Graham’s affair complicates things a tad, but it’s nothing that can’t be dealt with. They’ll forgive you too.”
“His . . . affair?” Karolina whispered.
“I’m just assuming. Am I wrong?”
Karolina sat quietly for a minute and then said, “If he is, it’s with Regan Whitney.” Karolina could see Miriam’s face register shock before she tried for a more neutral expression. Was she surprised that Graham might be cheating on Karolina or just surprised that it might be with the young, beautiful, and polished daughter of former president Whitney? Karolina’s suspicions were based solely on a handful of texts she’d seen that were more suggestive than actually incriminating. That and the fact that he’d lost all interest in sex over the past six months.
“She’s not nearly as pretty as you,” Emily said authoritatively. “Not even close.”
“She’s nearly a decade younger than me,” Karolina said. “Does she really even need to be pretty?”
“No,” Miriam and Emily agreed simultaneously.
“Being connected is more appealing to Graham than being pretty,” Karolina said flatly. “Anyway, right now Trip advised us to keep quiet. Supposedly he’s working the phones on my behalf, and he thinks we have a shot at getting the charges dropped.”
The sound of a buzzer broke the silence.
“That’s the gate,” Karolina said. Her mind flashed back to the hordes of camera crews and reporters camped outside their Bethesda home. “You don’t think the police have let them through, do you?”
Thankfully, the neighbors on either side of the Hartwells’ house had complained about the disruption from the paparazzi, and the Greenwich Police Department had very thoughtfully closed the road to all traffic except those who could prove their residence and their invited guests. It was the only thing saving her sanity.
Miriam jumped up from the couch. “Where can you see the gate camera? The kitchen?”
Karolina merely nodded. It was starting to feel like she would never escape this nightmare.
“It’s just two Girl Scouts!” Miriam called. “Can I buzz them in?”
“No cookies at a time like this!” Emily called back. “The last thing she needs is an endless stream of empty calories!”
Karolina took a sip of water. “I guess not even the cops can say no to Girl Scouts.”
Miriam walked back in and shot Emily a disgusted look. “I buzzed them in. You can’t refuse a cookie solicitation, it brings seven years of bad luck.”
“Oh, well, we sure wouldn’t want that,” Emily said. “I mean, not with how gorgeously everything seems to be going right now.”
This time Karolina burst out laughing. She was crazy and emotional, and her life was spiraling completely out of control, but damn, it felt nice just to laugh. “Bring on the Samoas. This girl is ready to eat!”
7
Vodka and Tampax: A Match Made in Greenwich
Emily
“Emily! Half-caf skinny latte for Emily!” The Starbucks barista had a ring through the cartilage of her left ear and a line of small silver cuffs all the way up her right one. Emily wanted to hug her for merely existing in Greenwich without either a blond bob or a pair of Sorel Joan of Arctic boots.
“Thanks,” Emily said, grabbing the cup and beelining back to her corner seat before one of the women trolling for tables snagged her spot.
She sipped her coffee and tore herself away from a photo of Olivia and Rizzo lunching at a brasserie in the East Village, instead scrolling through a list of designers to approach last-minute for Kim Kelly. Kim Kelly, the actress made famous by risqué roles (read: willingness to take her clothes off anytime), was having a dress crisis. Kim was Emily’s first client after Runway and remained, to this day, her craziest. The SAG Awards were less than two weeks away, and according to Kim, the Proenza Schouler Emily had commissioned for her was a “total fucking nightmare.” Nearly ten years of dressing the woman had taught her to expect this behavior at least fifty percent of the time—but she was annoyed by the total about-face. Kim had loved the dress at her first fitting a few weeks earlier, twirling in front of the three-way mirror, giggling to herself. The shoes were Chanel, the jewelry Harry Winston, and the only thing left to source was the perfect beaded clutch—hardly a difficult task. Emily’s phone buzzed with yet another hysterical text from Kim.
Will you look at this? Total fucking nightmare, Kim had written.
Emily squinted at the iPhone picture of Kim looking exactly the same in the dress as she had two weeks earlier: gorgeous. Nightmare? WTF? You look like a Disney princess, only hotter.
I look like a wildebeest. You know it, I know it, and soon everyone who watches E will know it!
Stop! This is Proenza we are talking about. They don’t do wildebeests.
Well then they fucked up this time b/c I am huge. I can’t wear this. I won’t.
Okay, I hear you, Emily typed, although apparently she said this out loud, because one of the women sitting next to her turned and said, “Excuse me?”
Emily looked up. “What? Oh, sorry, not you. I’m not hearing you.”
The woman turned back to her friend, only now Emily couldn’t help listening. She sneaked sideways glances as both women pulled out their phones and opened their calendar apps.
“So, yeah, it would be great to get them together. I can’t believe it took until first grade to get them in the same class! Elodie can do Wednesdays. Does that work?”
“No, Wednesdays aren’t great. India has fencing. How are Mondays?”
“Mmm, Mondays are tough. I have to drop my older two at swim, get back to the school to pick Elodie up from violin, and then take all three of them to this healthy-cooking class they’re taking together. What about next week?”
The woman shook her head. “We’re in Deer Valley next week. I know, I know, I shouldn’t be pulling them all out of school right after Christmas break, but Silas is insistent. I was, like, ‘But, honey, we’re going to Vail over Presidents’ Week. Can’t we go somewhere warm?’ ”
Her friend nodded. “I hear you. Patrick is the exact same way. I had to fight tooth and nail for Turks in February. The only place he wanted to go was Ta
hoe. I was like, ‘Enough Tahoe! You are not eighteen anymore. It can’t just be all about your boarding! The kids need to swim outside at some point this winter.’ ”
The ping of an incoming email was the only thing that dragged Emily back to reality. She clicked open the email from Kim Kelly and began to read.
Camilla,
I tried again, exactly like you said, and I CANNOT work with her anymore. I love Emily, you know that. She’s done great things for me over the last decade, but she’s lost her edge. I don’t know how anyone with eyes could think I look good in this total fucking nightmare of a dress. And now she says I have to find something RTW because there’s not enough time?????? RTW to the SAG Awards, are you fucking kidding me? I’ve been hearing great things about Olivia Belle. Can you get in touch with her and see what her availability is for the next 24 hours? And please write to Emily and let her down easy. I like her, I really do, but it’s time for me to move on. Fire her nicely, please. Xx KK
Without even realizing it, Emily was blinking at the screen and then rubbing her eyes. Camilla was Kim Kelly’s manager, and it couldn’t be more obvious what had just happened. It took only a split second to decide whether she should wait for Camilla’s email or write directly to Kim.
Kim,
While it’s obvious you didn’t have the nerve to fire me yourself, I don’t happen to suffer from the same condition. So I will gladly tell you straight to your face that the problem isn’t the dress or the designer or me. It’s you. Namely, your raging eating disorder that allows you to think that at 104 pounds and a size two, you look like a wildebeest. I hope you get help before it’s too late. I’m sure Olivia Belle will be the *perfect* fit for you.
Sincerely,
Emily Charlton
She punched “send” without rereading it. Good riddance, she thought. But then the deflation. The dread. Another client lost to Olivia Belle. Another humiliating and high-profile firing. Another step closer to having to shutter her business altogether. She fired off a quick, slightly panicked email to Miles, giving him the update, but she had no idea what time it was in Hong Kong.
Next to her, the women had given up on trying to schedule a playdate. They had somehow segued into an uninhibited conversation about vodka-soaked tampons.
“I mean, I’ve, like, read that the college girls all love it. But I can’t bring myself to actually do it,” the mom of Elodie said. She had on workout wear, head to toe: running shoes, yoga pants, a performance fleece, and a reflective headband, topped off with a down vest.
Her friend wore a variation of the exact same outfit, only she had swapped out the headband for a knit hat with a massive fur ball on top. This woman—India’s mommy—leaned in and said, “Oh, it’s amazing. OBs definitely work best because of the no applicator. All of the buzz, none of the calories!”
“Wow,” the headband mom said reverently. “That sounds amazing. Have you ever tried tequila? I’m not a huge vodka fan.”
“But that’s the best part!” crowed the fur ball. “It doesn’t matter what you use—you can’t even taste it! And I haven’t noticed that any one type is easier on my vag than any other, so . . . as long as it’s not flavored, I think you can use whatever you have lying around.”
“I’m trying it. This weekend. Wait—does that mean you would pass a Breathalyzer? Like, if no alcohol goes into your actual mouth, you should be fine, right?”
Emily was about to respond—they were raging idiots to think that alcohol absorbed through their vaginas instead of their stomachs didn’t have the same effect on their blood alcohol level—but she stopped herself. After ten days in Greenwich, Emily had seen the same faces over and over again. Telling people off in her favorite Starbucks was probably not the best way to go.
She glanced around. It was as though someone released a man-repelling chemical weapon at seven a.m. each weekday and didn’t turn off the spigot for a full twelve hours. The only men able to survive it were the ones older than eighty or too rich to even pretend to work anymore, but they didn’t spend their time in Starbucks. It was women as far as the eye could see. Women in their thirties, pushing strollers and chasing toddlers; in their forties, eking out every second before school let out at three; in their fifties, meeting for a cappuccino and a chat; in their sixties, accompanying their daughters and grandchildren. Nannies. Babysitters. The odd twentysomething who taught a local yoga or spin class. But not one damn man. Emily noticed how different it looked from L.A., where everyone was freelance and flexible and sort of working and sort of not. She missed L.A., but it was not missing her back. Olivia Belle had probably signed half the city by now.
Her phone rang and flashed MILES.
“Em? Hey, sweetie.”
“Hi. I’m so glad it’s you and not the bitch who just fired me.”
“You got fired? Who fired you?”
Emily laughed. “Kim Kelly. In an email that wasn’t even intended for me.”
“Kim Kelly’s a cunt.”
“I appreciate the sentiment, honey, I really do. But can you not use that word?”
“What, ‘cunt’? Since when does that bother you? You’ve been in Greenwich too long.”
“Probably.”
“Have you always hated ‘cunt’? How could I possibly not have known that about you? I mean, my God, we—”
“Stop saying ‘CUNT’!” Emily all but shouted into her phone, causing Elodie’s and India’s mommies to turn and stare. “What are you looking at?” she asked them.
“Me?” Miles asked.
“No, not you.” Emily raised her voice and said into the phone, “I prefer ‘cooch.’ As in, next time you want to get drunk, you should consider sticking vodka-soaked tampons up your cooch. That’s what all the cool moms are doing.”
This time the women, dumbfounded, exchanged a look.
“What? Vodka-soaked tampons? What are you talking about?” Miles said.
“Nothing, never mind.” Emily took a gulp of her now-cold latte. “So where are you now?”
“Just got back from dinner to the hotel, which is insane. I can’t wait for you to see it.”
“Yeah, me neither. The pictures look incredible.”
“I’ll be back in L.A. a week from this Friday. You’ll be home by then, right?”
“Of course. Unemployed, washed up, and humiliated. But home.”
“Oh, come on, Em. Who even cares that Kim Kelly fired you? She’s a shit actress anyway.”
“She’s won three Oscars and two Globes. She was one of my best clients.”
“She’s a hack. And getting older and fatter by the second. You, my love, are the queen of the crazies. I know it, and so does everyone else.”
Clearly he was trying to make her feel better, but it only made Emily desperate to hang up. “Miles? I’ve got to run. Miriam’s expecting me home soon.”
“Okay. I miss you, honey. Remember, Kim Kelly is a bad car accident, and you’re lucky you escaped that one. I’ll see you in a couple more weeks, and I’ll take you out to cheer you up. Just remember—you’re a rock star.”
“A rock star. Right. Check.” She couldn’t remember feeling this down on herself, possibly ever, but then again, she’d never been fired by three big clients right in a row. She managed an “I love you” before hanging up.
Then, as Emily went to close her laptop, another email came in. Camilla’s subject line said: Please read immediately.
The official firing email. Well, that had taken all of three minutes. “Fuck you,” she said as she jabbed the “delete” button without even opening it. Two women who had taken the table of the other moms—and who were also clad in head-to-toe Lululemon—turned to stare at her, mouths agape.
“Mind your own fucking business,” Emily snapped. “And just so you know, getting drunk through your cooch instead of your mouth will result in an identical DUI, which will inevitably force you to sell your house and change your name and move straight across the country, since no mommy around here will ever spe
ak to you again. Even though they all do it too. Just a friendly FYI.”
Emily grabbed her computer bag and slung it over her shoulder. “Have a great day!” she sang as she left, flashing just the quickest middle finger as she walked past their table. Making new friends was overrated. Especially in the suburbs.
8
Happy to Sip and Not to See
Miriam
Miriam tiptoed back into her still-dark bedroom and slipped under the covers. It felt so supremely indulgent to crawl back in bed. Like when she and Paul had first met and would sleep until eleven on the weekends, venture out in their sweats to pick up coffee and bagels, and then head straight back to bed with their favorite sections of the New York Times. Now Wednesdays at eight-fifteen were the new weekend: Paul worked from his home office that day and made it a point not to start until ten, since most other days he was up and out early. She snuggled up with him, pressed her body against his, and inhaled. Something about his neck in the morning always smelled delicious.
He smiled without opening his eyes and murmured, “What did you do with our children?”
“All three off to school. It’s just you and me. And Emily, but she doesn’t count. What do you think about that?” She reached her hand under the covers and into the waistband of his boxers, but he turned away.
“I’ve got to get up. An earlier-than-usual call today.” He gave her a dry peck on the lips, headed into the bathroom, and closed the door behind him. A moment later, she heard the shower turn on.
Miriam kicked off the covers and sighed. She’d had the idea to strip off her stretched-out leggings and yogurt-splattered T-shirt before waking him and had even slipped into what qualified as lingerie after three kids and seven years of marriage: a sleeveless cotton nightshirt and no underwear. What more could the man want?
She followed him into the bathroom and appraised him as he stepped out onto the bath mat after his usual quick rinse. There was no denying it, he was still handsome: broad-shouldered and small-waisted, annoyingly so. His close-cropped hair was starting to turn salt and pepper, but that just made him look more distinguished. And he still had the body of a runner—lean, ropy, and tight—despite the fact that Miriam ran more than he did these days, which really wasn’t saying much.