The Wives. Lauren Weisberger
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I’m going home to pack, and then I’ll head to the airport. The story will definitely break while I’m in the air, if not before. Do not – I repeat, do not – make a statement. Do not let him talk to anyone, not even the delivery guy who brings up the food. Information lockdown, you understand? No matter how bad the photos are, or how horrified the reaction – and trust me, it’s going to be bad – I want no response until I get there, okay?’
‘Thank you, Emily. I’m going to owe you for this one.’
‘Go now!’ Emily said, managing not to utter what she was actually thinking – namely, that the charge for her time and the holiday and the travel was going to take Helene’s breath away.
She took the last sip of her margarita, set the drink on the glass table next to her, and stood up, trying to ignore the couple beside her who may or may not have been having actual intercourse.
‘Miles? Honey?’ Emily called as politely as she could manage.
No response.
‘Miles, love? Can you please move her thighs away from your ears for thirty seconds? I have to leave.’
She was pleased to see her husband unceremoniously lower the girl into the water and swim over to the side. ‘You’re not mad, are you? She’s just some dumb kid.’
Emily knelt. ‘Of course I’m not mad. If you’re going to cheat, you better pick someone a hell of a lot hotter than that.’ She nodded toward the girl, who looked not at all pleased with her wet hair. ‘I got a call from New York. It’s an emergency with Rizzo. I’m running home to get a bag and hopefully get to LAX for the six a.m. I’ll call you when I land, okay?’
This was hardly the first time Emily had been called away in the middle of something – her surgeon girlfriend claimed Emily had worse call hours than she did – but Miles looked positively stupefied.
‘It’s New Year’s Eve. Isn’t there anyone in New York who can handle this?’ His unhappiness was obvious, and Emily felt a pang, but she tried to keep it light.
‘Sorry, love. Can’t say no to this one. Stay, have fun. Not too much fun …’ She added the last part to make him feel better – she wasn’t one iota concerned about Miles doing anything stupid. She bent down and pecked his wet lips. ‘Call you later,’ she said, and wove through the throngs to the circular driveway, where one of the cute valets motioned for a Town Car to pull around. He held the door for her, and she flashed him a smile and a ten-dollar bill.
‘Two stops, please,’ she said to the driver. ‘First one is on Santa Monica Boulevard, where you’ll wait for me. Then to the airport. And fast.’
New York, her first and truest love, awaited.
MIRIAM
It was only the beginning of mile two, and she felt like she might die of suffocation. Her breaths came in jagged gulps, but no matter how deeply she took in air, Miriam was unable to slow her heart rate. She checked her Fitbit for the thousandth time in the past sixteen minutes – how could it have been only sixteen minutes?! – and briefly worried that the reading of 165 might kill her. Which would officially make her the only woman in all of Greenwich, or perhaps all the earth, who had dropped dead after running – really, if she were being honest, walking – a single lousy mile in sixteen minutes.
But she had shown up! Wasn’t that what all the feel-good bloggers and motivational authors were always screeching about? No judgments, just show up! Show up and you’ve already won the battle! Don’t expect perfection – showing up is enough! ‘Fuckers,’ she mumbled, streaming massive puffs of steam in the freezing January air. Motivating for a jog at seven o’clock in the morning on January 1 was more than just showing up. It was a downright triumph.
‘Morning!’ a woman called as she raced by Miriam on the left, nearly jolting what was left of her heart into immediate cardiac arrest.
‘Hi!’ Miriam shouted to the back of the woman, who ran like a black-clad gazelle: Lululemon leggings with elaborate mesh cutouts that looked both cool and extremely cold; fitted black puffer that ended at her nonexistent hips; black Nikes on her feet; and some sort of technical-looking hat with the cutest puffball on top. Her legs went on forever, and her butt looked so firm that it wouldn’t possibly hold so much as a bobby pin underneath, never mind a full-size hairbrush, which Miriam had once tucked successfully and devastatingly under her left ass cheek.
Miriam slowed to a walk, but before she could regain anything resembling composure, two women in equally fabulous workout outfits ran toward Miriam on the opposite side of the street. A golden retriever pulled happily on the leash of the hot pink puffer coat while a panting chocolate Lab yanked along the woman in the army green. The entire entourage looked like a mobile Christmas card and was moving at a brisk pace.
‘Happy New Year,’ the golden retriever owner said as they sprinted past Miriam.
‘You too,’ she muttered, relieved it was no one she knew. Not that she’d met many moms in the five months since they’d moved to town just in time for the twins to start kindergarten and Benjamin to start second grade at their new public school. Beyond saying hello to a few moms at school drop-off twice a day, she hadn’t had much opportunity to meet a lot of other women. Paul claimed it was the same in wealthy suburbs everywhere – that people stayed holed up in their big houses with everything they needed either upstairs or downstairs: their gyms, their screening rooms, their wine cellars and tasting tables. Nannies played with children, rendering playdates unnecessary. Housekeepers did the grocery shopping. Staff, staff, and more staff to do everything from mow the lawn to chlorinate the pool to change the lightbulbs.
The heady smell of burning wood greeted Miriam the moment she stepped into the mudroom, and a quick peek in the family room confirmed that her husband had read her mind about wanting to sit next to a fire. It was one of the things she loved most about suburban living so far: morning fires. Otherwise bleak mornings were instantly cozy; her children’s cheeks were even more delicious.
‘Mommy’s home!’ Matthew, five years old and obsessed with weaponry, shouted from the arm of the couch, where he balanced in pajamas, brandishing a realistic-looking sword.
‘Mommy! Matthew won’t give me a turn with the sword and we’re supposed to share!’ his twin sister, Maisie, screeched from under the kitchen table, which was her favorite place to sulk.
‘Mom, can I have your password to buy Hellion?’ Benjamin asked without looking up from Miriam’s hijacked iPad.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Who said yes to screen time right now? No iPad. It’s family time.’
‘Your fingerprint, then? Please? Jameson says it’s the coolest game he’s ever played! Why does he get it and I don’t?’
‘Because his mommy is nicer than me,’ she said, managing to kiss her son on top of his head before he squirmed away.
Paul stood at the stove in flannel pajama pants and a fleece sweatshirt, intently flipping pancakes on the griddle. ‘I’m so impressed,’ he said. ‘I have no idea how you motivated this morning.’ Miriam couldn’t help but think how handsome he was despite all the premature gray hair. He was only three years older than she, but he could have been mistaken for being a decade her senior.
Miriam grabbed her midsection, ending up with two handfuls of flesh. ‘This is how.’
Paul placed the last pancake on a plated pile nearly a dozen high and turned off the stove. He walked over and embraced her. ‘You’re perfect just the way you are,’ he said automatically. ‘Here, have one.’
‘No way. I didn’t suffer through twenty minutes of sheer