Dune Road (22 page)

“So what did you mean about the addict gene? ”

“That you don’t have it. But I bet our mum does.”

“Why? ”>

Annabel shrugs. “It tends to run in families. Addicts beget addicts, all that stuff. My dad doesn’t have it, so my guess would be Ginny does. Even if she hasn’t ever acted out, she’s still got the gene.”

“Okay, so it’s not like I’ve spent a ton of time with her, but I would have noticed if she were drinking a lot, or,” Kit splutters into laughter at the thought, “snorting cocaine.”

Annabel smiles. “It doesn’t have to be drugs or alcohol. Addicts can be addictive, or compulsive, around pretty much anything. A lot of recovering alcoholics turn to sugar once they give up alcohol, using sugar in exactly the same way, to numb the pain.”

“Yeah. Not so much. Mom’s been a size two ever since I can remember. She’s totally obsessed with her figure and eats almost nothing. And she exercises like a crazy woman.”

“That’s something. They call it exercise bulimia. It’s when you use exercise as a form of control. That could absolutely be her addiction. It can also be sex . . .”

“She
has
gone through five husbands. And I think she’s found her sixth. Do you think that counts? ”

“You
think
? ” Annabel laughs. “And of course there is my favorite addiction of all. Shopping.”

“Aha! Now I think you’ve got it. That’s our mother all over.”

“Figures. I haven’t met her, but in every picture I’ve ever seen of her, and God knows there are enough of them all over the Internet, she looks like she’s seriously high-maintenance.”

“It’s true. She uses Chanel like I use Old Navy.”

“That’s what it looked like from the photos. Some of those diamonds are so huge I thought they must be fake. But they’re not, are they? ”

“Fake? On Mother? Good Lord, no! ” Kit’s hand flies to her chest, feigning horror. “Seriously, I look in the mirror and wonder how on earth she could have had me. No wonder she didn’t want anything to do with me. The very fact of my naturally curly hair was probably enough to send her running.”

“Oh God! ” Annabel giggles. “I know this is awful, but it’s so nice to be able to talk about these things, and with you! Someone who’s been through exactly the same thing. Anyway, I love your hair.”

“Right. Because you’d just love to trade your fantastic mane for my untamed mess.”

“You should let me dry it for you,” Annabel says. “I’m an ace at straightening.”

“Maybe I will.”

And maybe she should. Maybe this is what she needs, a breath of fresh air, someone who can take her in hand and help her realize her full potential. Not that she’s ever wanted to do this before, but she saw the way Adam looked at Annabel, knows that if she put just a little bit of effort into her appearance, if she could actually be bothered to do more than tug a brush through her hair before shoving it back in a ponytail, it might be . . . fun.

The phone rings, disturbing Kit’s inner fantasy of a Cinderella-like transformation.

“It’s me.”

“Charlie? What’s the matter? You sound awful.”

“I . . .” and Charlie breaks into tears.

“Charlie? What is it? What’s going on? ” Kit’s heart leaps in her chest. “Is it the kids? Has something happened? ”

“No! Everything’s fine. I mean, the kids are fine. Keith is fine. Kit, we’ve lost everything.”

“What do you mean? What are you talking about? ”

“Keith’s lost his job. We’re in serious debt, and the bank is about to foreclose on the house.”

“Oh shit.”

There’s silence as Charlie breaks into a fresh round of tears.

“Can I come over? ” she asks eventually, when she has gathered herself.

“Come over right now.”

Annabel looks at Kit with concern. “Is everything okay? ”

“Doesn’t sound like it. That was Charlie, my best friend.” She notes Annabel’s raised eyebrow and adds, “It’s a she. Charlie’s short for Charlotte. Her husband works in finance. Or . . . did.”

“Oh dear. A Wall Street casualty? ”

“It seems so. God, I feel awful. You keep waiting to hear of someone who’s been affected, but you don’t think it’s going to happen to your best friend.”

“Is it really bad? ”

“I don’t know. She says he’s lost his job and they’re about to lose their house.”

“Oh God.”

“She’s coming over. I guess we’ll find out more soon.”

The back door swings open. “Hello? ”

“Who’s that? ”

“It’s Edie. My neighbor. Hi, Edie!” she shouts. “We’re in here.”

Edie walks in, spying Annabel. “Oh good. I thought for a moment ‘we’ meant that man you’ve been seeing.”

“You’re seeing someone? You didn’t say anything! Aha! It’s that handsome man from yesterday morning—I forgot all about him.”

“We’ve kind of had a lot of ground to cover,” Kit says, laughing. “Annabel, this is Edie. Edie, this is Annabel. My sister.”

“Your sister? I thought you were an only child.”

“Long story,” they both say in unison, breaking into peals of identical laughter.

 

Charlie stops short as she walks in the front door, her face tear-stained, her eyes bloodshot and puffy.

“Who’s here? ” she whispers. “Oh God, it’s like Grand Central Station. I didn’t know you had people over.”

“It’s not people. It’s just Edie, and Annabel, my long-lost sister who I didn’t know existed before yesterday.”

“Are you serious? ”

“Completely.”

“Oh God, Kit. I’m so sorry. You should have told me. I don’t want to intrude.”

“You’re not intruding. I can send Edie home and Annabel can go upstairs. We can talk for as long as you want.”

“Don’t send Edie home. Perhaps she’ll have some words of wisdom for me. And . . . Annabel? That’s fine. She can stay. I feel like I need all the support I can get right now.”

“Do you want a glass of wine? ”

“Do you have any vodka? ”

“Go in and sit down. I’ll see what I can find.”

 

“Well, young lady,” Edie says, pushing her glasses back firmly on her nose. “It sounds like you are going to be making some changes in your life, but that is not necessarily a bad thing. I am far older and wiser than you, and I have found that what feels like a hardship at the time usually contains some wonderful lessons, and many that you are all the better for learning.”

“But I’m losing my home,” Charlie says plaintively. “Everything we’ve worked for. And I’m so embarrassed.” She groans. “
We’re
going to be the people everyone talks about. Everyone’s going to be whispering about
us
. It’s the most humiliating thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Nonsense.” Edie’s voice is sharp. “It’s only humiliating if you allow it to be. Look at this one over here—” She gestures to Kit. “She lived in a big house with all the bells and whistles, and now she lives here, and it hasn’t done her any harm.”

“But that’s different. Kit chose it. She didn’t have her life pulled out from under her feet.”

“It doesn’t matter. The end result is the same: we learn to accept what is given us, and move forward with grace. If you’re worried about what your friends will think, I’d suggest you look at who you’re calling a friend. Kit, would you judge Charlie because her husband has lost his job, would you gossip about her with anyone? ”

“No! ”

“Exactly. This might be the time when you find yourself re-evaluating your friendships. Anyone who chooses to whisper about you, or spreads rumors, isn’t that good a friend, I should say.”

There is silence, as Charlie contemplates her friends. It is true, her friends would never say anything bad about her; but it isn’t her friends she is worried about. It is the women in the Highfield League of Young Ladies, the women at the charity galas and events she attends so frequently, although, at an average of $250 per person, per ticket, it looks like she won’t be continuing to attend.

It is the mothers at Highfield Academy, whose smiles and highlights, diamonds and designer handbags are testament to their happiness at all being members of the same exclusive club.

Then again, the school fees are thirty thousand dollars a year. Although Emma’s preschool fee is the bargain basement price of just under ten. And that doesn’t take into account the horse riding lessons, the Hunt Club fees, the piano lessons, the ballet, the everything else that contributes toward the cost of raising what is considered to be a well-rounded child on Connecticut’s Gold Coast.

None of which they can afford anymore. Oh God. The children. Awful for her, but how will the children react? How will they feel, having to leave Highfield Academy, all their friends, the private schools. The lessons will have to stop, the $125 AG “kids” jeans for Emma, the weekly mani/pedis for Paige.

Her friends won’t judge her, but it isn’t her friends she is worried about. It’s everybody else. How will she ever be able to hold her head high in this town again?

Chapter Seventeen

A
dam lies in bed in his boxer shorts, one arm behind his head, one arm holding the remote control, endlessly flicking up and down the channels.

Eventually, he settles on MSNBC, but he’s restless tonight, can’t focus on what Rachel Maddow has to say, so gets up after a while, goes downstairs and pours himself a hefty Scotch.

He is bothered by this evening. Bothered by Annabel. Bothered because he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Couldn’t help but imagine what she would look like naked, on all fours in front of him, whispering encouragement as he drove himself into her.

Oh fuck. This he doesn’t need. This is his ex-wife’s sister. This is definitely not going to happen.

So why can’t he stop thinking about her?

Until Adam and Kit were separated, Adam hadn’t realized quite how much he had missed sex.

As a young man, he remembered his friends joking about how married people never had sex, but he knew that wouldn’t happen with him and Kit, their sex life, after all, was the one area in their marriage that was always explosive.

But it had changed. Almost overnight. As soon as Tory was born. Kit just wasn’t interested anymore. At first she said she was too tired, that all she could think about when she crawled into bed was sleep, that it was to be expected with a newborn.

The newborn became a toddler. Who became a child. And still, they never seemed to recover their intimacy; or rather, Kit never seemed to recover her libido. Three, four, five times a week became, swiftly, once, and then not even that.

He hadn’t changed. Kit may have been exhausted, or uninterested, but his needs were the same as ever, so what was he supposed to do? He would wake up early and masturbate quietly in the shower, so as not to disturb Kit, desperate for some relief, but, even more, desperate for some affection, some intimacy.

He had been tempted, but only peripherally. Adam was not a man who would be unfaithful, of this he was sure. He was simply a man who wanted more sex
with his wife
, who couldn’t understand why she wasn’t able to give it to him.

Every night was the same. He would lie in bed, watching television, listening to Kit getting undressed in the bathroom. Sometimes he would remember the early days, when she bought frothy, silly underwear from Victoria’s Secret, underwear he would peel off with his teeth.

Now, or at least during those last few years, she wore an unattractive shade of
greige
. Nude, he thinks it is called. Flesh-colored bras and panties, not a hint of lace or frill or sensuality.

She would walk into the bedroom, face freshly scrubbed, in a long, brushed-flannel nightgown, equally unsexy, climb into bed with a book, and sit back against the pillows, asking him to turn the volume down.

He would reach out, stroke her thigh, and she would give him an affectionate smile, pick his hand up, kiss it, and place it firmly back on his side of the bed.

Occasionally, he was persistent and, occasionally, it paid off. But he always felt she was doing him a favor, fulfilling her duty, her conjugal rights.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like sex, she would say. She loved it once they started; it was just that she could never be bothered. She has a theory, she would say, that women are genetically engineered to be voracious in order to get their man, genetically engineered to have a high libido in order to procreate, then, once the children are born, their libidos are genetically engineered to shrink to nothing.

He supposed it might be true, yet couldn’t help but feel rejected. He didn’t just
want
sex, he
needed
sex. In the same way that he needed to use the bathroom, and eat, and sleep, he needed to have sex. And he needed to have it with his wife.

When they first separated, he was numb with shock. It lasted for months, and he threw himself into his work, the only bright spots being the times he spent with his children.

He knew how far he and Kit had drifted apart, but somehow he never thought it would end, never realized just how unhappy she was. He knew, on some level, she hated who they had to be for his job, but she always did it, dressed up, hosted dinner parties, kept a beautiful home, and he thought they were just words.

Once the shock wore off, he realized that this was now his life: the farmhouse by the railway station, empty every night when he came home; the lone trips to Whole Foods in an attempt to keep his fridge stocked, although most of the time he would eat out, unless the kids were with him, and then he would try to create a stable home, would attempt to cook simple meals—chicken, mac and cheese, pasta.

No wife waiting to greet him, making him dinner, no kids to kiss good-bye when he left them, still fast asleep, to catch the “death train” in the morning. No dinners out at good restaurants in town, no charity galas with Keith and Charlie, no . . . fun.

It was as if the fun had been sucked out of his life, without his permission, in one fell swoop.