Lipstick Jungle

  “Of course,” Wendy said. “Why wouldn’t I?” She put the cup carefully back in the saucer.

  “I’m not sure I would do that if I were you,” Harold said. Marge gave him a look as if to silence him, which Harold ignored. “I think you’d better call first, at least. Shane said something about needing a special pass.”

  “To buy a pony? I don’t think so,” Wendy said.

  She went down to the lobby and got directions from the concierge. The Palm Beach Polo Club wasn’t technically even in Palm Beach. It was in Wellington, Florida, thirty minutes west.

  She got back in the car.

  When she got to the Polo Club, she discovered that Harold was right—you did need a special pass to get onto the grounds. She bribed the guard with $200 cash, the last of her travel money.

  She walked through a narrow opening in a wall of hedges, dragging the suitcase with the presents for the kids behind her, still hopeful of success. As she passed through to the other side, she paused in despair. The grounds appeared to be enormous, about the size and scope of a golf course. To her right was a long barn with a fenced pasture in front of it, but in the distance were several more barns and paddocks, and large white-and-blue tents. How was she ever going to find them?

  She approached the entrance to the first barn. Inside, it was dark and cool, like a tunnel, but like a tunnel, she imagined it might be filled with unpleasant surprises. Peering cautiously into the half-light, she saw a large horse tethered to the wall; the horse looked at her, lowered its head, and stomped its foot. Wendy jumped back in fear.

  A young woman came out from behind the horse. “Can I help you?” she called. Wendy took a tiny step forward. “I’m looking for my husband. And my kids. They’re here buying a pony.”

  “From which stable?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “From which stable?” the woman repeated. “There are hundreds here. They might be anywhere.”

  “Oh.”

  “Can you call them?”

  “Yes,” Wendy nodded. “I’ll do that.” She began backing away.

  “What’s the name of their trainer?” the woman asked, determined to be helpful.

  Trainer? Wendy thought. “I don’t know.”

  “You can always try the office,” the woman said. “Just follow that path. It’s around the corner.”

  “Thank you,” Wendy said. She walked around the side of the barn and was nearly run over by a golf cart containing two women wearing sun visors. The golf cart screetched to a stop and the woman who was driving stuck her head around. “Wendy?” she asked. “Wendy Healy?”

  “Yes?” Wendy asked, taking a few steps forward.

  “It’s Nina. And Cherry,” Nina said, gesturing at her companion. “Remember us? Our kids go to the St. Mary-Alice School with your children.”

  “Helloooo,” Wendy said, as if she suddenly recognized them.

  “It’s so good to see you,” Nina said, leaning out and giving Wendy a spontaneous hug as if she were a long-lost friend. “What are you doing down here?”

  “My daughter is buying a pony . . .”

  “Who’s her trainer?” Cherry asked. She was wearing diamond stud earrings the size of almonds. “Is it Marc Whittles? He’s the best. You have to have Marc when you’re buying a pony . . .”

  “I’m not really sure . . . I just got back from location. In Romania,” Wendy added, hoping that this might explain everything.

  “My God. Your life is just so glamorous,” Nina exclaimed. “Cherry and I are always saying we should have had careers instead of husbands.”

  “Less work,” Cherry agreed, and Nina, who had a slight southern accent, laughed raucously. Nina was one of those women, Wendy decided, who was impossible not to like, even if you didn’t particularly agree with her lifestyle. “Honey,” she said, looking at Wendy in surprise, “where’s your golf cart?”

  “Golf cart?” Wendy asked. “I didn’t know I needed one.”

  “Everything’s miles away . . . You weren’t planning on walking, were you?” Cherry asked, in shock.

  “I’m not exactly sure where they are,” Wendy confessed. “I’ve been away, and then my phone . . .”

  “Oh, honey, don’t worry about it. We lose our husbands and children all the time,” Nina exclaimed, waving away Wendy’s excuse.

  “It’s better that way,” Cherry added.

  This caused more peals of laughter.

  “Why don’t we try Marc’s stable first, don’t you think?” Nina said, consulting Cherry. “Hop in,” she said to Wendy. “We’ll give you a ride.”

  Wendy heaved her suitcases into a metal basket in the back. “Goodness,” Cherry said. “You haven’t been carrying those all the way from Romania, have you?”

  “Actually, I have,” Wendy said, getting into the backseat.

  “You are a devoted mother,” Cherry said. “When I get back from Europe, my husband and kids know that I don’t get out of bed for three days. Jet lag.”

  “Honey, you get jet lag from going to the top of Aspen Mountain.”

  Cherry shrugged girlishly. “I’m delicate.”

  Wendy smiled, wishing she could join in on the fun. Nina and Cherry were perfectly nice, but they were so different. Their flaring nostrils (probably the result of early eighties nose jobs, Wendy thought; it was disturbing how you could now trace certain kinds of work to specific eras in plastic surgery) and tall, slim figures reminded her of pedigreed racehorses. They seemed to have no cares, and why should they? Their husbands were rich, and even if they got divorced, they’d end up with enough money to never have to work . . . What would that be like? she wondered. She tilted her head back. Probably enormously pleasant. No wonder they were so nice. Nothing really bad had probably ever happened to either one of them in their lives . . . And thinking of the now-inevitable scene with Shane, she gripped the side of the golf cart more tightly.

  “By the way,” Nina said, “your little boy—Tyler?—is absolutely adorable.”

  “He is, isn’t he,” Wendy said, nodding. Now that she finally knew she was going to see her kids, she felt a sickly sweet sense of anticipation.

  “And your husband, Shane, is so good with him,” Cherry added. “We’re always talking about how lucky you are to have a husband who really does the mommy thing. He’s there to pick them up every afternoon after school. Most men say they want to do it, but when you let them, they’re completely helpless.”

  “Mine never even figured out how to unfold a stroller,” Nina said.

  “We think you’ve got him really well trained,” Cherry nodded. “We’re always wondering what your secret is.”

  If they only knew the truth, Wendy thought bitterly. “Well, I . . . I guess I’m just lucky,” she said sadly.

  “Here we are!” Nina exclaimed gaily, indicating a white-painted barn with a green copper roof. There was a fenced ring in front, with colorfully painted jumps scattered about. In the middle of the ring was a grayish-white pony being ridden by a young woman wearing a black riding helmet. Clustered to one side were Shane and Magda, who were talking to a tallish young man with the chiseled face of a movie star; to the other side were Tyler and Chloe, who were holding hands with the nanny, Gwyneth. “There’s Shane,” Cherry remarked. “And that’s Marc, isn’t it? Oh, good, you’ve got Marc after all. No need to worry, you’re in good hands,” she said, turning around to smile at Wendy.

  Wendy smiled back, feeling queasy.

  “Shane, darling,” Nina called, “we brought you a present! Your wife!” Wendy got out. And with small waves of their bejeweled fingers, the two women sped off.

  Wendy stood there, her valise in one hand and the rollerboard in the other, thinking that she must look like a refugee.

  Her family stared. No one seemed to know what to do.

  Act normally, she thought. But what was normal? She put down her suitcases and waved. “Hello . . .”

  “Mother!” Magda screamed dramatically, as if someone were killing he
r.

  She was wearing stretchy brown pants with cuffs at the ankles; on her feet were small lace-up boots. “You’ve arrived!”

  She ran awkwardly toward Wendy with her arms outstretched. She was a little chubby, Wendy thought with a pang of anxiety—underneath her white shirt you could see the beginning of a belly and two small, indistinct mounds of breast tissue. “I must get her a bra. Tomorrow,” Wendy thought, feeling unbearably guilty. “I won’t say anything about her weight—it’ll come off—she’s just starting her growth spurt.” And she held her arms open and hugged her daughter, smelling her hair, which reeked sourly of sweet sweat, and she thought about how mothers could probably identify their children by their scent alone.

  “I’m so happy to see you,” Magda exclaimed.

  And then Tyler, as if deciding it was safe, came swooping toward her, circling around like an airplane. Little Chloe began banging on the sides of her stroller, demanding to be let out. “Here she is,” Gwyneth said, holding Chloe out to her. “Here’s your mum. At last.” And she gave Wendy a searching, somewhat worried smile.

  Wendy looked over at Shane to make sure he was fully appreciating the significance of this scene. He gave her a resigned smile, and she turned away, bending down to Tyler. “Mommy, I lost a toof,” he said, putting his little finger in the gap.

  “Let’s see,” Wendy said. “Did it hurt? Did the tooth fairy come?”

  Tyler shook his entire body from side to side. “Didn’t hurt, but it bled. And the toof fairy gave me ten dollars. So Daddy said it was worth it.”

  “Ten dollars? That’s a lot of money for a little tooth. What are you going to do with it?”

  “Oh Mommy. Ten dollars is not so much. Not even enough to buy a CD.”

  Jesus. What was Shane teaching them? She stood up, and taking her children’s hands, walked over.

  Shane made no move to kiss her hello. Instead, he gestured toward the man beside him, who wasn’t, Wendy thought, nearly as attractive as he appeared from far away. Up close he looked manufactured, as though his skin were made of plastic. He was wearing tinted aviator sunglasses and smoking a cigarette (a Parliament, of all things!), and had a great swoop of highlighted hair that appeared to be plastered in place with hairspray. His legs were encased in skintight white britches and black boots that went up to the knees, and his shirt was white with red stripes, in the same cherry-red color as the red on Shane’s shirt.

  “This is my wife, Wendy Healy. Marc Whittles. Our trainer,” Shane said.

  At least he called me his wife, Wendy thought, shaking Marc’s hand. And for just a second, she thought maybe she’d made a mistake, maybe everything was normal after all.

  “We weren’t expecting Wendy,” Shane said, looking at her pointedly. “But I guess she was worried about the kids.”

  “I’ve been away . . . I haven’t seen them . . .”

  “Where?” Marc asked, flicking a spot of cigarette ash off his white britches. He was slick, Wendy thought, like a real estate broker.

  “Romania,” Wendy said.

  “Romania?” Marc said, drawing his head back in distaste. “What’s there? There’s no skiing, is there? And there certainly can’t be any shopping.”

  “Work,” Wendy said, thinking that she was about to lose patience with this man.

  “Wendy’s in the movie business,” Shane said.

  “She’s the president of Parador Pictures,” Tyler piped up.

  Good boy, Wendy thought, squeezing his hand.

  “That’s very . . . nice,” Marc said, as if calculating her worth. “We have lots of movie people here. So you should feel right at home.”

  Wendy gave him a little half-laugh to indicate that this would never be a possibility.

  “So you see . . .” Shane said, with a triumphant edge to his voice, “the kids are just fine.”

  “Yes,” Wendy said stiffly. “I can see that.”

  They stared at each other hatefully.

  “Let’s get the pony untacked, shall we?” Marc asked, casually dropping his cigarette on the grass and grinding it out with the toe of his boot. Magda grabbed Wendy’s hand and began pulling her after the pony. “Isn’t he the most beautiful pony you’ve ever seen?” Magda asked, her eyes burning with desire.

  “Oh, yes, darling. He’s . . . he’s beautiful,” Wendy said. She had never been around horses, and even though this one wasn’t particularly big (“fourteen hands,” everyone kept telling her, the significance of which was completely lost on her), she was too scared to go within more than a few feet of the beast. Even when they tied it up in the barn with ropes on either side of its head—in order, Wendy guessed, to prevent it from escaping—she was still nervous. “Come on, Mommy,” Tyler said, yanking on her hand.

  “Tyler, stay . . . stay back here,” she commanded. But Tyler twisted out of her grasp and went right up to the pony, who put its head down and actually nuzzled Tyler’s hair. She thought she was going to have a heart attack then, but Tyler screamed with delight. “He’s going to be my pony too. Isn’t he?” he asked insistently.

  “Mother, this is better than Christmas,” Magda said. She put her arms around the pony’s neck. “I love you. I love you, Prince,” she said, “Prince” being the pony’s name, or the name Magda had given it herself. “Can I spend the night with him?”

  “No. No, darling . . .”

  “But Sandy Pershenki . . .”—who the hell was that?—“spent the night with her horse. When it had colic. It was three days before the Olympic trials, and she spent the night in his stall on a cot. And the horse didn’t lie down on her or anything. So it’s really very safe. And if you fall off, the horse won’t step on you. People think they do, but they don’t, you see? Horses know. They know everything . . .”

  “Mommy?” Tyler asked. “Do you know Sandy?”

  “No. No, darling, I don’t,” she said, reaching down and picking him up. He was so heavy. And dressed just like Shane, in little white jeans and a blue polo top.

  “Do you love Prince, Mommy?” Tyler asked.

  “Yes, I do. He seems like a very nice little horse.”

  “He’s not a little horse, Mother. He’s a pony. There’s a difference. I really think I should spend the night with him,” Magda said. “I don’t want him to be scared.”

  “He won’t be scared. This is where he lives,” Wendy said with false brightness. “And now it’s time for us to go where we live . . .”

  “Back to New York?” Magda asked in horror.

  “It’s okay, sweetheart. Don’t you want to go home?” Wendy asked.

  “No,” Tyler said.

  “But Mommy has a plane. A private plane to take us home.”

  “Can we take Prince with us?”

  “No, darling . . .”

  “Then I want to stay,” Magda said.

  “What about Grandma and Grandpa?” Tyler asked.

  “They’ll go home later. With Daddy.”

  “But Grandma said I was going to sit next to her on the plane.”

  “You can sit next to Grandma another time.”

  “Mother, you’re spoiling it all,” Magda said, her face scrunched up in angry fear.

  “We’re buying the pony, Magda. That’s enough.”

  “Trouble, Mrs. Healy?” That was Marc, coming up behind her.

  “No, it’s fine. They just don’t want to go home.”

  “Who would? It’s fabulous here, isn’t it? The Palm Beach Polo Club. A secret little piece of heaven, no?”

  No, it’s hell, she wanted to say.

  “So let’s go buy that pony, then, Mrs. Healy,” Marc said. He leaned over, and the swoop of hair didn’t budge. “How would you kids like to see the babies?” he asked.

  “Babies?” Magda asked, thrilled.

  “Baby ducks and baby kittens. And maybe some baby dogs as well.” He stood up. “The kids love it. I’ll have Julie, the groom, take them, and then she’ll bring them back here. Magda will want to see Prince again,” he said,
giving Wendy an intimate smile. “Her first pony. It’s a milestone in a little girl’s life. A moment she’ll never forget.”

  He was right about that, Wendy thought. It was all really quite unforgettable. And she stood there wearily as her children raced past her.

  “Wendy! Come on,” Shane called impatiently from the passenger seat of the golf cart.

  Wendy sighed and dragged herself and her bags to the golf cart, looking back at her children with longing. She sat down on the backseat and placed her valise on her lap. It was eighty degrees and she was dressed all in black. She felt like an old Italian woman.

  Marc got into the driver’s seat and lit up another cigarette. “Magda is going to do so well on Prince, Mrs. Healy,” he said, taking a sharp corner that nearly threw Wendy out of the cart. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she placed in her first show. I keep telling Shane how lucky you are—these kinds of ponies don’t come up very often.”

  “How much is the pony?” Wendy asked, glaring at the back of his head.

  “Fifty thousand dollars,” Shane said evenly.

  Wendy gasped and grabbed onto the back of Shane’s seat for support.

  Shane turned around and gave her a hard stare. “It’s really not that much, Wendy,” he said.

  “It’s a reasonable price,” Marc interjected, dropping his cigarette into a cup of water as if people bought ponies for $50,000 every day. “Red Buttons for two hundred thousand—now that wasn’t reasonable.” He turned around and gave her a quick grin. “And the important thing is that Magda loves the pony. They already have a relationship. You can see that she loves that pony, and the pony loves her. How can you deny your daughter her first love?”

  Wendy shook her head hopelessly. Fifty thousand dollars? It was insane. What the hell were you supposed to do in this situation? If she objected, Magda would be crushed, and Wendy would be the villain. And on top of it, this was all Shane’s doing—once again, he had set her up; engineered a situation in which she was bound to fail with her children. She wanted to put her head in her hands and cry.

  Exhaustion was beginning to make her shiver. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to speak to my husband alone. Before we complete this transaction,” Wendy said, with as much strength as she could muster.