“Okay?”
“You see, I received it after I found out that my husband’s tennis instructor was working on more than his serve.”
Oh.
Tucking her blond hair behind her ear, she revealed at least a three-carat diamond earring. “These were after the au pair was released from duty. Incidentally, she was sent back to London, where these were purchased.” She tittered, pleased with herself.
Ticking off one ring at a time, she explained in her own way.
Every bauble was an affair. Every gemstone the equivalent of hush money.
A giant art deco Colombian emerald was thanks to an indiscretion in Las Vegas. A pavé diamond and white-gold swirl from a gaffe in Chicago. An impropriety in Paris resulted in a cushion-cut canary diamond.
“Powerful men like Daniel and his father have needs, Avery.”
I always hated the way she said my name. Hearing it sneered while discussing her husband’s womanizing was even worse.
“There are all kinds of women, Avery, all kinds. And some are more . . . suited . . . for these needs.”
“What exactly are you saying?”
Cracking the tiniest of smiles, she drove her point home. “He’s already purchased your gift. He’ll be bringing it shortly. You’ll learn to live with it. You’re certainly not the first wife to turn a blind eye to her husband’s extracurricular activities.”
I had nothing to say. I did, however, drink half of my Bloody Mary in one enormous gulp. She went on. “Jewelry is always first. Then a new car. Apartments and vacation homes in faraway places are after that, perhaps Provence or Saint Moritz,” she explained with a hint of excitement.
I immediately remembered her house in the south of France. Oh my goodness.
Penis gifts. They were penis gifts.
You know how there is that Hallmark list of suggested gifts for what to buy for anniversaries? I wondered if there was a ranking system for philandering.
Standing, she patted my hand with her forty pounds of priceless gems. I sincerely hoped she had a bodyguard waiting in the wings to escort her home.
“I’ll see you Sunday.”
She actually thought I’d attend brunch! She felt quite sure she could swoop in, explain these new rules for a happy home, and sparkle right out of here, secure in the knowledge that I’d follow suit.
In walked Daniel, wearing a freshly tailored suit in my once-favorite shade of blue. He air-kissed his mother on her cheeks and smiled. All veneers and confidence. She’d teed me up, and he now was here for the hole in one.
Scooping up the phone from the bar, I told Daisy, “Round two.”
I dropped it into my lap, facedown.
“Baby,” he said softly, looking both handsome and pathetic at the same time. “We need to talk this out.” He sat down next to me, his hand reaching out to touch my bare arm. The second his skin touched mine, a familiar feeling spread through me.
Maybe it was comfort from being with him for so long. Spending so many years with someone, you adopted a certain sense of contentment. Looking at him, he was so handsome, so put together and the safe choice. Perfect for this life, but . . .
Where was that guy I’d loved? The one who took me for Indian food on our first date even though he was allergic to it? The one who brought me pudding when I had my wisdom teeth out sophomore year or the guy who screamed “That’s my girl! ” when I crossed the stage at graduation? Was he ever that guy? I hated that everything I thought I knew about him and our life was now in question. Untrusted and tainted.
A very small part of me considered taking him back in that instant. How easy it would be, to forgive and forget it all. To learn to live with the pattern of guilt and then a gift. Realizing in twenty-five years that I’d become Bitsy, a shell of what I was and being content with living with the knowledge that I’d never been enough. The echo of her explanation reared its bedazzled head. What had felt like comfort for years now felt like an uncomfortable sweater: itchy and tight and smothering. A knowledge that my skin was even aware of, that I didn’t have a clue who my husband really was.
I remembered the secretary. The hair pulling, the sweaty, rough-and-tumble sex that he was having.
Ignoring him, I picked up the phone and pretended like he wasn’t even there.
“Daisy, you still there?”
“Jesus Christ, yes I’m still here, what happened?”
“What happened?” I laughed darkly. “Hilary happened.”
“Clinton?” she asked incredulously. In spite of the chaos about to rain down on my personal life, I couldn’t help but laugh a little.
“Hilary, his secretary. She prefers administrative assistant, but I think once I found her and Daniel having the down-and-dirty sex, she pretty much gave up the right to a preferred name. Although I have a few preferred names running through my head right now.”
Daniel’s deep intake of breath put a twisted smile on my face.
“Baby, don’t do this,” he begged, turning the barstool so that I faced him. Baby. I’ll baby him. Did he call her Baby, too? Who else was there? Or is there? Had I really been oblivious to it for all these years? What gift on the twisted ladder was I on? I thought back to the diamond studs he gave me on a random Tuesday a few years ago. Then the Louboutins that I came home to after a Junior League meeting.
Most recently, the Mercedes sedan that I woke up to in the driveway after his trip to Tahoe.
“Oh you slick son of a bitch,” I sneered, the phone still at my ear. Daisy was across the ocean, on pins and needles, so instead of ending the conversation with her, I kept going, plucking the celery from my Bloody Mary and taking a big, loud bite off the end. “The secretary. Ha! Can you believe it? Cliché.” Looking him dead in the eye, I took another huge bite, this time showing my teeth.
“Are you fucking kidding me? Who would cheat on you? You’re the wife that men want to nail on the side!” Daisy exclaimed, loud enough that Daniel heard.
“She doesn’t mean anything, Avie,” he whispered. He focused on the shiny bar top, his finger absently swirling along the grain.
“Don’t you dare call me that, Daniel,” I snapped, stabbing him with my celery, flicks of tomato juice spotting his pristine Bespoke shirt. “You lost the right to cute nicknames when you decided to stick your dick in your secretary.”
“Avery, watch your mouth,” he began, but the bartender—who’d been buffing the same glass for twenty minutes—slammed it down onto the bar, startling us both. She smiled at me, motioning me to continue. Daniel seemed surprised that anyone on the other side of the bar would have an opinion. I doubted she’d work here long after this.
“Whatever it was or is with her, I know that nothing he says will make me stay,” I said to Daisy, and ended the call with the promise to call her back after this dog-and-pony show to fill her in.
“You don’t mean that,” he said, smiling. Taking my hand, he traced my palm seductively. Or what I imagine would have been seductively, in a different time, in a different place. “This is us. We’re a team, remember?”
How could I forget? Choices were made, decisions were cemented, and paths were chosen. But no one said I had to stay running on that particular hamster wheel.
“We’ve been through the ringer, you and I. This was just a stumbling block.”
“How many?”
“Avery, don’t do this. It doesn’t matter.”
I waited. Waited for something in my belly to flare up. To make me truly consider continuing to live this life. Bitsy’s jeweled, Lexused, Provenced life. It never came.
Scooting back the stool, I stood, rolled my shoulders, and simply stated, “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”
But there wasn’t anything simple about it. In those six words, I welcomed back a piece of Old Avery.
I was never big on marching. I gracefully glided most days. Today was not that day.
With every ounce of confidence I could muster, I strutted my high, tight, Burberry-wrapped ass rig
ht past the dinner crowd of couples that likely heard the whole argument. I was sure my next Junior League meeting would be full of whispers and side eyes.
I was out the front door and into the sunshine without a glance backward. As I slid into my penis-gifted Mercedes, however, I realized that without the strut, I didn’t feel confident at all. The strut was for Bitsy, Daniel, and the rest of the country club set, and frankly, to get me out the door without making a fool of myself. But now, alone, wrapped in tan leather and walnut paneling . . .
I didn’t have a clue what to do. My life was my marriage and everything that came with it. Take that away and what was left? I’d given up so much when I married Daniel Remington. If I wasn’t Avery Remington, who the hell was I?
So I called Daisy back and asked her that very question.
“What am I going to do?” I asked. “Is hiring a hit man off the table?”
She sighed. “Bless your heart, but yes, it’s way off the table. As much as I want to inflict pain upon Daniel, I don’t know that it’s the wisest move right now.”
“Then I repeat. What am I going to do?” I whispered, blotting my eye with a tissue from my purse. “I met with a divorce lawyer, Daisy, a fucking divorce lawyer! What is happening?”
“Do you want to divorce him?”
“What?”
“Do you want to divorce him?”
I sat there in my car, unable to answer the question. “I mean, I kind of have to, right?” I asked.
“You don’t have to do anything, Avery. I’m certainly not going to tell you whether you have to do anything you don’t really want to do.”
Even though she couldn’t see me, I nodded.
“So I’ll ask you again, kiddo, do you want to divorce him?” she asked quietly.
She couldn’t see me, but I was still nodding. And then in the tiniest of whispers, I answered . . . “Yes.” I took a breath, then said it again, stronger this time. “Yes.”
“Okay then,” she answered.
I saw Bitsy leaving the front door, and I scrunched down so she couldn’t see me. “But I can’t be here knowing that everyone’s talking. I don’t want the sad looks or the poor Avery that will come with it.”
“Come here,” she said, no trace of jest in her voice. “Don’t think. Just come here.”
There was running away from my problems, and then there was running away.
“Maybe a week or two would do me some good,” I admitted, thinking about what I would miss if I just picked up and left the country. I peeked over the steering wheel to see Bitsy getting into her own penis gift. The lawyer could wait a bit. It’s not like Daniel was going to file. His balls were in my court after all.
“A week or two is nothing. Listen, it’s the beginning of June and I have a spare room. And plus, I’m barely ever home anyway. You’d have the place to yourself. I know you’d love this city, and the weather is to die for! Think about it. You could eat great food, see beautiful buildings, visit museums. You could sketch.” From across the ocean, on another continent, I could hear my friend’s excitement. “Come and spend the summer with me.”
“A summer in Rome?”
“Wasn’t that a movie?”
“I don’t think so, but—”
“Stop stalling. No buts. No overthinking, no stressing. Just do it. Go home, pack your things, and I’ll call you back with flight info. I’ll see what I can get that leaves ASAP so you don’t chicken out on me.”
She hung up and I stared into the visor mirror. Touching the pearls at my neck, I frowned, not recognizing myself. Yes, I was put together, and yes, I looked the part, but I wasn’t happy. Thinking about it, I couldn’t remember the last time I was.
Nodding once in silent affirmation, I slammed the car into drive.
I was heading off to spend my second summer abroad.
ROME IS A BEAUTIFUL CITY. I’m pretty sure. I hoped one day to see it. Because right now, all I could see of it were the cobblestones below my feet, and the occasional look up to check a sign or a house number. Then back to the cobblestones, which appeared uneven because:
1. They likely were uneven.
2. Navigating cobblestones while wearing one stupidly high shoe and one recently lowered shoe was unwise at best.
Why did I wear heels on the plane? Ah yes, because I wanted to appear composed, polished, assured, perhaps even a bit worldly? But the heels that were cute while boarding the plane at Logan Airport had become very pretty torture devices by the time I landed in Rome. This was caused by both the saltiness of the airline meal and the amount of booze I’d consumed, which turned my cute feet into puffy pillows with toes. And now one of the heels was missing, after I’d stumbled on the Metro and left part of my shoe behind like some kind of half-assed Cinderella leaving bits and pieces all over Rome.
How the hell far up this street was Daisy’s apartment?
I stopped for a moment to roll my wrists out a bit, tired from dragging my rolling luggage. Something else not made for cobblestones. I tried to see them for what they were, small pieces of history laid down centuries ago by the ingenious Romans, determined to make their shining city on a hill a bastion of wealth and knowledge for the civilized world . . . they were not made, however, for rolly luggage.
I grabbed my bags, lowered my head, and started to rumble-roll again.
Eventually, I heard the pitter-patter of tiny feet, looked up through the pieces of greasy airplane hair that had fallen in front of my eyes, and saw the most beautiful sight I’d ever seen.
Daisy Miller, best friend and funny gal about town.
“Why the hell didn’t you call me? I’ve been worried sick! You were supposed to call me when you landed!” she called out, her long legs hurrying expertly over the cobblestones toward me.
Show-off . . .
I barely recognized Daisy coming at me, thanks to a newly acquired shock of blond hair cut into a chic bob. She nearly bowled me over, squeezing and hugging me while laughing out loud, exclaiming how happy she was to see me and how glad she was I was finally there. I saw all of this in fuzzy black and white because behind her, in full Technicolor with a dreamy soft focus lens, were two gorgeous men. And they were scooping up my luggage?
I noticed that Daisy was instructing them on the luggage scooping, directing them back toward her apartment.
“My neighbors. I had a feeling you’d have a ton of bags,” she explained as I watched in a daze.
Pack mules. She’d brought stunning, golden-skinned, raven-haired pack mules.
As I stood unevenly on the uneven cobblestones, looking at my best friend glowing like a Lite-Brite, the weight of the crazy decision and the airplane cocktails and the crowded Metro and the heel break and the jet lag all caught up with me and poured out of me in sudden tears.
“I know it doesn’t look like it,” I sniffed, “but I’m so glad to be here!”
* * *
“SO WHEN I HEARD all those wheels rolling across the cobblestones, I knew that had to be you.”
“Oh that’s nice,” I said, my voice still a little quivering and whiny post-Italian-Street-Side Breakdown. “You heard the sound of a stupid American rolling her stupid countless suitcases across the city and you thought, hey, I bet that’s my best friend.” I blew my nose into my tissue and waited for her to disagree with me.
“Pretty much.” But her grin softened her statement.
Inside her apartment, I let my head fall back against the plush cushion, her enormous couch enveloping and cocooning me in the loveliest of ways. Feet propped up on a stack of pillows and beginning to slightly depuff, I let my tired eyes roam around her apartment, taking in the beautiful oak beams soaring overhead, the terra-cotta-tiled floor, the archways that seemed to curve and beckon from every corner. Pretty tables and occasional chairs spilled across the wide living room, haphazard and unmatching, yet somehow coming together in this sweet room filled with bits and bobs of her travel-filled life. Warm sunlight poured through tall windows, one giant patch
where the French doors were thrown open to the postage-stamp-size terrace with a promising view.
“Besides the cheating, the monster-in-law smackdown, and flying four thousand miles to escape Boston, anything else interesting going on?”
“That’s not enough?” I asked.
She shrugged. “It’s conversation. I’m trying to keep you coherent.”
“I see. Well, I was almost pickpocketed on the Metro. It’s right out of a guidebook for American tourists! And the guy seemed so helpful, too, I nearly let myself get played.”
“So, nothing is missing?” Daisy said. “Please tell me you didn’t have your passport in your pocket.”
“No, that’s in my tote bag, and I’ve got copies packed into each suitcase.”
“Smart. A bit of an overkill, but smart.”
“Hey, I grew up on the mean streets of Wellesley,” I said, pretending to pop my collar.
“Ha! Something tells me that no one has ever called any street in Wellesley ‘mean.’ Be grateful you’ve traveled a lot and know how not to be that tourist.”
I frowned. “Mr. Pickpocket did get my favorite lipstick, and a Starlight mint.” I patted down my other pockets, assuring myself once more that he hadn’t gotten anything else.
“A Starlight mint huh?” she asked, and I rolled my eyes.
“I wanted to have fresh breath when I arrived.”
“I hear that,” she said. “There’s so many hot men in this city, sometimes you just never know when you’re going to fall on one of their mouths.”
I laughed, scrubbing my face with my hands and trying to will some energy into my body. “I’m not falling on anyone’s mouth. What I need right now is a shower, and then a bed.”
“Nope,” she said, standing up and grabbing her wrap. “What you need right now is some water, something to eat, and then a good long walk to get your blood moving. Get changed and be fashionably comfortable. The only cure for jet lag is to get on Roman time as quickly as possible. Let’s go!”