Mrs. Perfect (5 page)
I don’t even like most of the books we pick. They’re dark and sometimes so damn boring that I can barely plow my way through the paragraphs.
Every now and then, I just wish we could read something fun. A Jennifer Weiner novel. Jane Green.
Nancy Drew.
I pick up the book with its murky vintage photograph cover. It’s the newest big hit. It’s being read by everyone, and of course there is terrible suffering and loss. A book club book wouldn’t be a book club pick if it wasn’t achingly poignant or heartrendingly bittersweet.
I toss the book back down and head to my closet, feeling crabby all the way to my bones. I’m just so damn tired of trying so hard. So damn tired of trying to keep it all together—not just me, but Nathan and the girls, too.
Nathan’s home early, and he’s promised to take the girls out so we can have the house to ourselves for the book group tonight.
“What’s wrong, honey?” he asks, catching sight of me standing motionless in our walk-in closet.
“I don’t know what to wear.” I’m wearing just a bra and thong as I face the rows and rows of clothes. “Nothing I ever wear is right, either.”
“Taylor, you’re always impeccably put together.”
“And it’s so much work. I’m sick of it.”
“Don’t let your book club do this to you. It’s supposed to be fun.”
“Monica says I never read the book.”
“Do you read the book?”
“Yes! Maybe once in the entire last year I didn’t finish it, but I still participated. I still did the research. I tried.”
“So don’t let her upset you. Monica’s in competition with you. She has been ever since you first met.”
He’s right, but it’s small comfort when Monica will be holding court in my living room in less than an hour.
I reach for Roberto Cavalli animal-print jeans and his silky black fitted blouse. With the right shoes and my hair drawn back into a smooth ponytail low on my nape, I hope I’ll strike the appropriate note for discussing yet another tortured, dysfunctional American family where dad drinks too much and mom takes to bed and no one protects the children.
“God, Taylor, you always look so amazing,” Suze exclaims as I greet her at the door sixty-some minutes later.
I kiss cheek-cheek with Suze and then Jen, who have arrived together. They’re Medina moms, not that that’s such a big deal, but last year when we had the whole kindergarten fiasco, quite a few of the Points moms weren’t talking to the Lakes moms. Fortunately, everyone’s moved on to other things, and the kindergartners in question survived and are now happily well-adjusted first graders.
Nathan and the girls haven’t left yet, so Nathan’s uncorking wine and pouring drinks. After Jen and Suze, Ellen arrives. Ellen is an Atlanta transplant who lived in New York before the South and brings her East Coast edge with her.
After Ellen, it’s Patti, Raine, and then Monica close behind. Kate and Lucy also show up at the same time, and I wonder if they’ve driven here together. Lucy looks as though she’s been crying, and Kate keeps her close at her side. Two more women arrive—prospective members?—and they’re talking animatedly as they drop their purses and books on chairs and then head for the appetizers and wine.
I’m in charge of the main course, Jen has appetizers, Patti dessert, and Kate has wine.
The appetizers are a tad ethnic for my taste. I was raised on the best of the 1950 cookbook—hot crab dip, artichoke-and-spinach dip, chilled shrimp and cocktail sauce—but Jen has brought Thai spring rolls and other vegetarian dishes.
“What are we drinking?” one of the women asks, dipping a spring roll in sauce.
“Pinot Gris, Columbia Valley, Château Ste. Michelle,” Kate answers, flashing the bottle’s label. “Bill and I have really been into this wine this summer. This and rosé—”
“Rosé?” Monica repeats, scandalized.
“It’s making a comeback,” Kate answers calmly, filling another glass. “Rosé is really hot right now.”
“I can’t see Bill drinking rosé,” Monica protests.
“You’re thinking of those Gallo jugs you used to buy in your twenties. But rosé’s gone upscale. It’s a perfect wine for the summer.”
“I like Muscat for summer entertaining,” adds Raine, reaching for one of the tomato slices. “Or a late harvest Riesling.”
“Gewürztraminer if you’re serving Indian food,” Monica answers, jumping right back into the middle of the discussion. Monica can’t stand being less than an authority on everything.
God, I wish I liked her better.
“Suze, wine?” Kate asks, lifting the bottle.
“No. Can’t.” Tall, blond, gorgeous Suze grimaces. “I’m in the middle of a detox cleansing. Just water and green tea for the next forty-eight hours.”
“You’re kidding.” Ellen stares at Suze agog. “Just water and green tea?”
“There are some natural herbal supplements, too. And then on the last day you get a series of colonic treatments. Positively life changing.”
“What is it supposed to do?” Lucy asks uneasily.
“Recharges your metabolism and makes your skin look and feel fantastic. Afterwards I just glow.”
Monica nods. “I’ve read about them quite a bit but didn’t know anyone who actually did them.”
“Oh yes, there are quite a few of us in the area who do the detox and colonic cleansings. But it’s not something you talk about at parties, if you know what I mean.”
I do. I’m disgusted. As much as I wrestle with my weight and body image, I can’t imagine having anyone squirt anything up my backside.
“Why don’t we move into the living room?” I suggest, ready for a change of subject.
Unfortunately, the self-improvement topic follows us to the couches and chairs, but Monica finally wrestles the book into the conversation and for the next hour holds court on agonizingly boring literary comparisons and useless literary theories.
Finally, the book has been discussed as much as it can be by women who have consumed numerous glasses of wine.
Now it’s the tricky part of book club: scheduling the next month’s meeting. Once upon a time we had a fixed schedule, but that proved impossible with the crazy demands on us.
“How about the first Thursday of October?” I suggest, my BlackBerry calendar open.
“Uh, Boy Scout pack meeting,” Jen answers, looking up from her BlackBerry. “What about Wednesday, the day before?”
“There’s a Little Door parent education class,” Monica answers, her pen poised above her appointment book.
A wrinkle forms between Kate’s brows. “You still attend parent education classes?”
“The school brings in top-notch speakers and specialists to discuss hot topics,” Monica answers, nose lifting slightly with her ever-present superiority. She has two kids, and they attend different schools. “We’re discussing bullying.”
“God, that topic’s been done to death,” Jen mutters.
Either Monica doesn’t hear her or she chooses not to respond. Jen attended Harvard and is one of the only moms Monica defers to.
I hear the garage door open. Nathan’s home. We definitely need to get the next meeting scheduled before the girls come in. “How about Tuesday of that week or Thursday the following week?”
“Thursday the following week would work for me,” Raine says.
“Me too,” Patti agrees.
“It’s a busy day for me, but I think I could do it, too,” Suze answers.
“Look at your day!” Monica squeals, catching a glimpse of Suze’s calendar. “Hair, hair, facial, wax, wax, pedicure, manicure, massage? You’re kidding, right?”
Suze’s lips curve wryly. “It is a long day, but Jefferson loves it, especially the after-the-wax results.”
“How much do you wax?” Raine asks curiously.
Suze’s slim, straight shoulders lift and fall, her long hair a perfect streak of pale gold. “All of it. Jefferson likes me bare and baby smooth.”
“And how often do you get it done?”
“Every four to six weeks.”
Raine points to Suze’s crown. “What about that hair?”
“Every four weeks on the dot.”
“Pedicure and manicure?”
“Every two weeks.” Suze, seeing the wide eyes, laughs. “I wouldn’t do it, or be able to afford it, if it didn’t mean so much to Jefferson. He loves me to be groomed.”
“Groomed, yes,” Ellen answers with a faint frown, “but that’s . . . that’s . . . some serious time at the salon and spa.”
Suze glances around. “But don’t you all get your hair colored and blown out every three or four weeks?”
Most of us murmur agreement.
“And nails? Come on, I know we all get regular pedicures. I’ve seen your toes all summer!”
Patti sighs. “I’d do more massages if I could. Facials do nothing for me, but massages . . . Ah. Heaven.”
“God, I’d pay for a happy ending, too,” Ellen whispers with a wicked quirk of her lips. “I don’t know if it’s being in my mid-thirties, but I’m revved up all the time. Unfortunately, Mark’s not interested. I suppose having just me in his bed for the past eighteen years has dulled his appetite considerably.”
“It’s the stress of the job,” Jen says with a shake of her head even as she puts her hand on Ellen’s forearm. “Anthony is so tense all the time. The only time he wants sex is when we’re on vacation.”
Heads nod. “Vacations make sex new,” Kate agrees.
“Hotel rooms make it new.” Suze giggles. “This summer when we were at the house in Canon Beach—” She breaks off abruptly, her gaze fixed to Lucy’s face.
We all turn and look at Lucy. Her lips are slightly parted. Her expression is stricken. She looks as though she’s being skinned alive.
Swiftly I go over the conversation. What could have upset her? And then I realize: sex, husbands, and hotel rooms.
Just then my attention’s caught by Nathan’s shadow in the hall. He’s directing the girls up the stairs to their rooms.
“We’ll meet Thursday, then,” Ellen says quickly. “Jen, it’s your turn to host, right? And Raine, your book pick. Have you selected a title, or will you let us know by e-mail?”
“I’m still trying to decide,” Raine says, clicking her pen. “I’ll send out an e-mail and let you know sometime this weekend.”
“Great!” Patti answers with a little more enthusiasm than necessary. She closes her minicalendar and slides it back into her purse. “I look forward to the next meeting, and now I better get home. I promised Don I’d help tuck the kids into bed.”
Everyone’s on her feet, quickly gathering purses and books before giving hugs and kisses, and then in one big group they’re out the door and heading for their cars.
As the front door closes, Nathan comes back down the stairs. “How did it go?” he asks.
My shoulders lift. “Good. I guess.” I glance toward the door and picture Lucy’s silent agony. “I think Lucy’s having a hard time, though. I should call her. Make sure she’s all right.”
“You should.”
I’m about to turn away when I suddenly remember the Welcome Coffee and my conversation with Amelia. “I met someone last week, Nathan, at the Welcome Coffee. She said her husband works with you. Christopher. He’s apparently a vice president at McKee, too.”
Nathan’s expression is blank. “What’s his last name?”
“I don’t know. They moved from L.A. I guess they’ve been up here a while, but until recently they lived on the Plateau.”
Nathan shrugs, heads up the stairs. “Don’t know, hon.”
“Well, find out. If the girls are going to be in the same class next year, it might be good to get to know them better. Have them over for dinner or drinks.”
He mumbles assent, and I follow him up the stairs, turning out the lights as I go.
I tuck in each of the girls and then wash my face, doing the nightly skin repair routine before climbing into bed. Nathan’s not reading tonight. His light is already out. I turn out my light and curl up next to him, but he’s asleep and doesn’t respond.
Lying there in the dark, I see Lucy’s face. No matter how hard I try, I can’t make it go away. I see her eyes, the open lips like a silent scream, and I shiver.
How horrible to be so alone, so naked.
It’s Tuesday morning one week later, and tonight’s Back-to-School Night. I’m giving one of the welcoming speeches, which means I’ve woken up feeling as though I’ve already drunk ten cups of coffee even though I’m still lying in bed.
Things are good, I tell myself. I’m doing good. No need to stress. I just need to relax.
I wish I knew why I have such a hard time relaxing. It’s almost as if I’m afraid something bad will happen if I’m not constantly in control.
Voices waft from downstairs. From what I can hear, Nathan’s in the kitchen trying to get the girls to eat their breakfast. He’s usually patient with them, but unfortunately this doesn’t seem to be one of those days, and Tori—or is it Brooke?—begins to wail.
Grimacing, I pull on the nearest thing I can find—my Juicy tracksuit—as I think about my day. I’m supposed to meet Patti at noon to discuss the auction and the auction chair meeting scheduled for next week. I’d normally have yard duty, but I traded with another mom so I could meet with Patti. The morning’s more or less free, and I consider taking an exercise class. I need some exercise.
In the walk-in closet, I glance at myself in the full-length mirror. In my tracksuit I look fine, but the soft fabric can hide the truth, so I pull up the jacket and pull down the bottoms, exposing my stomach, hips, and boobs. I do this almost every day. Sometimes what I see is okay, sometimes I can see only ugliness, can see only where my waist might be thick and how I’m slightly round across my stomach where I know it should be flat.
Now I touch my stomach, try to suck it in even more, looking for definition, turning to the side to check my width.
The most fashionable women, the truly stylish women, are all thin. Every month when my new issue of
Town & Country
comes, I leaf through “Parties” to see if I know anyone. And to see if I look better than anyone.
I don’t like that I do this. But I’m so afraid that if I don’t keep on top of the situation, of me, I won’t matter.
Usually all the couples in “Parties” are well-known, society staples and celebrity faces, and nearly every woman looks like a greyhound that’s just come from a spa. Their skin is taut and glowing, and they’re all racehorse thin. But every now and then one woman looks a little bigger, sturdier, than the rest of the stick figures in their couture gowns, and I breathe a little sigh of relief—I’m not that fat!—even as I feel a prick of pity that she’s not as skinny. Privately, I don’t understand this preoccupation with weight and figures. I never even think twice about the men in the “Parties” pictures. It’s a nonissue if a man is stout in his tux, or narrow through the shoulder, or thinning at the scalp. Men don’t have to be model perfect. Men just have to be men.
Tugging up my bottoms and yanking down the jacket, I tell myself I should go to Pilates this morning. It’d do me good. But it’s LuLu in the studio today, and LuLu’s style doesn’t work as well for me.
Instead, I drop to the carpet next to my chaise and go through a couple of yoga poses, hoping that five minutes of floor work will equal an hour of Pilates. Closing my eyes, I take a pose, focus on breathing, focus on stretching, focus on being present and in the moment.
Less than two minutes into my routine, Jemma crashes through the door, interrupting my Downward Dog. “I can’t find my butterfly hair elastic,” she cries, her long blond hair caught in one fist.
“Did you check your room?” I ask, turning my head to peer through my arms at her as I inhale slowly to a count of three.
“Yes, and it’s not there.”
I exhale slowly to a count of three. “Then it’s probably in your bathroom.”
“It’s not there, either. I’ve looked. Everywhere.”
I’m inhaling again, and it takes me a moment to answer. “Then I don’t know what to tell you.”
“Mom.”
I stand, brush off my hands, trying to ignore the low blue feeling that engulfs me. “Jemma, it’s your hair elastic.”
“And you’re my mom,” she flashes before flouncing off.
Fifteen minutes later, I’ve got the girls rounded up, backpacks on their backs, lunches in hand, and I walk them to their bus stop. Nathan’s upstairs in the bathroom, shaving at his sink when I return to the house.
Our bathroom is enormous, a true spa retreat with heated marble parquet floor, his and her counters and sinks, glass shower, whirlpool tub, and heated towel bars.
“You’re heading to work late today,” I say, leaning against one of the brown-and-white marble counters. This marble is probably my favorite stone in the house. Dark cocoa richly veined in white. It’s glamorous and masculine at the same time.
He makes a face in the mirror. He’s shaving his neck now and pauses to tap his razor in the sink. “I’m actually heading to the airport. I have an eleven o’clock flight.”
“You’re going out of town?” I can’t quite suppress the sharp edge in my voice. “Why didn’t you mention it before?”
“I wasn’t sure I’d need to go until last night and you had book club and then I fell asleep.”
I frown. His explanation is suspect at best. “I’d think you would have told me first thing this morning, then.”
“You were asleep and then I was getting the kids ready for school.”
“Your leaving town is more important than feeding the kids Froot Loops!”
He looks at me in the mirror. His brown eyes hold mine. “I’m sorry, Taylor.”
He sounds sincere, but at the same time something doesn’t feel right. “But it’s Back-to-School Night tonight.”
He uses a washcloth to wipe away shaving cream residue. “You’ve got it down. You don’t need me there, and I need to be in Omaha.”
I shake my head. “Arkansas two weeks ago. Omaha today. What’s next? Bakersfield?”
He rinses his razor, takes his time answering, and when he finally speaks his voice is pitched low, his tone almost excessively patient. “I’ll try to get back tonight, but if I can’t wrap everything up today, I’ll be home tomorrow night. Either way, I’ll call you and let you know when I know more.”
I don’t know if it’s his tone or his expression, but I feel something small and hard and sharp form in my gut as he combs his hair and then heads for our closet.
He’s my Nathan, but he’s also a stranger.
“Don’t you want to hear more about the girls’ teachers and their year?” I ask, following him.
“You’ll tell me,” he answers, reaching for his suit jacket. “You always do.”
His answer perplexes me, and I stand there, arms at my side, my brain racing to make sense of what he’s saying and what he’s not saying. This isn’t the Nathan I know. This isn’t the devoted dad who never missed anything pertaining to his children. “Are you okay? Are you not feeling well?”
“I’m feeling fine.” But he’s picking up his briefcase and a small overnight bag, and I can’t help it, I feel as though he’s shutting me out.
The cold, sharp knot in my gut grows bigger, and I open my mouth to ask what I really want to know.
Are we okay?
Is there someone else?
Will you always love me?
But I don’t. I can’t. Instead I kiss him and let him leave.
For a long moment, I don’t know what I feel. I don’t know what to do with myself, either. I have a half hour before I have to drop Tori off at preschool. I should go sit with her. She’s just lying on the floor of the family room, watching cartoons. Instead I sit at my laptop computer in the little room off our bedroom that serves as my home office/wrapping paper/scrapbook room and get on the Internet to check out the flights to Sun Valley for the winter holiday: $380 each. Not bad. Not great. But it could be worse.
I know Nathan said we couldn’t go this year, but he can’t be serious. Sun Valley is the place to be, and I love the town of Ketchum. Tons of our friends have houses or condos there. We usually book two hotel rooms, but this year we won’t go to a hotel. We can just stay with Kate and Bill. Their house is enormous—a seven-bedroom, seven-bath, ten-thousand-square-foot lodge—and they’ve asked us to stay with them every year. I book the five tickets and then reserve the car. By saving on a hotel, it’s almost free, isn’t it?
Back in my room, I strip off my Juicy tracksuit and rummage through my built-in wardrobe drawers, searching for my tiny pink Cosabella thong panties and the matching pink bra.
Years ago when I bought my first $200-plus bra, I felt guilty and sick. But $200 for a bra is nothing now. All of my lingerie is expensive. It’s Italian and French.
Nathan claims that no one in his family ever spent that kind of money on underwear and that people with real money don’t blow it. The truly rich are far more conservative with cash than those who want to prove they’re successful.
Living here in Bellevue, I’m not sure I agree, but I do know that Nathan’s family isn’t like mine. They have money, lots of money. They also detest me, at least his mom and sister. Nathan’s dad seemed to have a soft spot for me, but he died five years ago, and his mother and sister have just grown closer. And colder.
It never crossed my mind that Nathan’s family would despise me. I’m an overachiever, former born again, straight-A student, and cheerleader. I wasn’t the most popular girl at Muir High (being born again had its drawbacks), but I was well liked enough to be put on the homecoming court and respected enough to be named ASB president.
I didn’t get the same respect at USC. UCLA students mocked us by saying USC stood for University of Spoiled Children, but the truth is, I was there on full scholarship. A lot of us there were on scholarship, and I had a virtually free ride through a university that cost others over $30,000 a year in tuition alone.
Nathan should have never told his parents about my scholarship. It prejudiced them against me. They were sure I was after his money.
His mom said so to my face: “You do know under California state law that whatever assets one partner has before marriage remain with the partner after marriage.”
I simply stared at her, and she added, as if clarifying her position, “If you marry Nathan, you’ll never have one penny of his trust fund. If you divorce him, you’ll have even less.”
Even today, I’m just one step above poor white trash in their eyes.
Nathan’s family is wrong, though. My family wasn’t affluent, but we weren’t white trash. At least, we weren’t until my mother fell into the gutter, but that was her choice, not ours.
I step into slim, pale gold Adrienne Vittadini slacks topped by a pale gold Adrienne Vittadini knit top that has a long matching car coat. Scraping my hair back from my face into a tight, low ponytail, I study my reflection.
There are times like now where I realize I’m pretty. I’m grateful that God gave me this face. It’s what attracted Nathan in the first place. Dark blond hair. Strong eyebrows. Angled cheekbones. Good mouth. Great body. But I work it. I work it every day. Why?
I like being Taylor Young. I need to be Taylor Young. I never want to be Tammy Jones again. That was my name on my birth certificate. That was who I was growing up.
I change purses, choosing a white Coach bag with a natural leather trim to match my natural leather pumps.
We weren’t always the most dysfunctional family on my block. We just turned out that way. Dad was religious, a deacon in the church. We attended church services twice a week as a family, and then in summer Cissy and I attended vacation Bible camp, first as campers and then as teen leaders.
Growing up, we read a fair amount of the Bible. For all the scripture we read and all the verses we had to memorize, you’d think we were a good family. And to be fair, we were, at least until my mom, the deacon’s wife, started sleeping around. Before long, everyone in South Pasadena knew it but my dad.
Four months into Mom’s affair, I went to my mom and told her if she didn’t tell Dad what was going on, I would.
Mom decided she might be better off breaking the news, and she did, which resulted in a divorce. Dad got custody of my sister and me, and for two and a half years we tried to get on with things. But then Mom wanted back in. She missed us, and her fling had flung, so she begged Dad for another chance. Dad, being Christian, forgave her the way Christians should. They remarried when I was fifteen, and for two years we pretended nothing untoward had happened. Unfortunately, Mom couldn’t stay put. Two years later, she ran away with Ray, a truck driver who ended up getting arrested my senior year at Muir, serving serious time for assault with a deadly weapon.
Interestingly, Mom stuck with him throughout his twenty-two-month prison stint.
I could almost admire her for that.
Purse over my shoulder and binder tucked under my arm, I head downstairs to wrestle Tori into shoes and drag a hairbrush through her blond curls until they’re shiny and smooth. “We’re running late,” I tell her. “We have to hurry and brush your teeth so we can go.”
“I don’t want to go.”
“It’s not a choice.”
“I want to watch
Blue’s Clues
. It’s on next.”
“Teeth, now.”
“I’m not going to go.”
I grab the remote, power off the TV, and look at her. “You have one minute to get upstairs and brush your teeth or you lose all TV privileges for the week.”
Tori stomps her way up the curving staircase and down the hall to her shared bath. “I hate brushing my teeth.”
I don’t answer. Arguing is pointless, and I need to get her to preschool on time. It’s a great preschool program, but they are rather firm on pickup and drop-off times. Apparently, children suffer more separation anxiety if they see other kids arrive late and/or leave early.
Once Tori’s buckled in her car seat, I hit number 5 on speed dial. Voice mail is number 1. Nathan is number 2. School is number 3. Baby-sitter is always number 4, and my friends take up 5 through 10, with Patti always my top friend.
“Patti,” I say, backing my pale gold Lexus out of the garage and into the September sunshine, “could we do an early lunch? I know we agreed on noon, but would eleven-thirty work for you?”
“I can do that.”
“Where do we want to eat?”
“How about 520 Bar and Grill on Main Street?”
“Great.”
The 520 Bar & Grill was opened by the Brazens two years ago beneath their real estate office, and the restaurant still draws a good lunch crowd. Fortunately, Patti is close friends with Rondi Brazen and can always get a table at a moment’s notice.