The Good Life (6 page)

She walked away then and left me alone to think about all of the mean things she’d said. It was good to have a few minutes alone to let it all sink in. I knew she didn’t mean to hurt me, and I figured this was a tough love tactic but it still sucked to hear those things. Was she right?
Am I really a tool?

By the time Hope got back with the refills, I was sobbing into my sundress. She didn’t look surprised. She set the cups down in the sand, sat down in front of me on my beach chair and hugged me while I cried. It was pretty embarrassing, but not any more so than my love handles. Who cared anyway? I didn’t need to impress anyone anymore.

“Come on,” Hope said. She stood up and held out her hand to me. “Let’s go back to the hotel and get dressed for dinner. I packed you something fabulous.”

CHAPTER FIVE

“Don’t beat yourself up over it,” Hope said. We had just been seated at an outdoor table at a restaurant on Main Street. I looked fabulous, as promised, even if I felt like shit. “You were just morphing into your lifestyle. Like a ‘when in Rome’ kind of thing.”

“Except I didn’t know I was in Rome,” I said.

“The good news is that you’re leaving Rome, and you can go anywhere you want and be anything you want. You get a fresh start. Or, in Roxie terminology, you get to rewrite your script.”

I wished I was as perky about it as she was. The idea sounded all right on the surface. But I had failed at marriage, and I’d failed at being a trophy wife, so what if I failed at my new life, too? And what would I do with my new life anyway?

There are three things a woman can be – a career woman, a mom or a wife. Some overachievers juggled all three and still had time left to bake cupcakes, make their own wreathes for their front doors, and always look like they stepped out of a salon. But I’d never heard of a woman who dropped all the balls. Except me. No career, no husband, no kids. What the hell was I supposed to do?

As the waiter dropped off a few glasses of water, I noticed the light blinking on my Blackberry, signaling the arrival of a text or email. Ordinarily I wouldn’t check my phone at dinner, but I thought, under the circumstances, it was a forgivable offense.

And there it was. An email from Caleb that said ‘Divorce’ in the subject line. It had been hours, and he still wanted a divorce. It was really happening!

With a shaky thumb, I opened it.

TO: [email protected]

FROM: [email protected]

I know this seems sudden to you, and I’m sorry for that. I thought it would be best to make a clean break so we can stop wasting time and get on with our lives.

For the past year all you have cared about is getting pregnant. Every month, while you were disappointed to get your period, I felt more and more relieved, but I didn’t know why.

Then I decided to surprise you on our anniversary. I was going to get one of those bungalows in Bora Bora that you’re always going on about. I booked a week at the resort and was about to purchase flights when I realized that the idea of going on this trip was filling me with dread. I wanted you to have a vacation because you deserve one after all of your hard work. But I didn’t want to take that vacation with you. That’s when I realized I am not in love with you anymore.

You’ve been a good wife to me and I’m not trying to hide anything or take anything that you deserve. The papers detailing my offer will be delivered to you when you get home but I’ve attached an unofficial copy for you to look at now since you’re out of town. You have 20 days to agree to my offer, dispute my offer or make a counteroffer. If you agree to everything, we can settle this quickly.

You have been very supportive of me while I was getting my career off the ground and, as a result, your career was put on the back burner. My lawyer and I took this into consideration when we came up with the numbers. We think the monthly maintenance amount is fair, and I think two years gives you an ample amount of time to establish a career of your own. You may think this amount seems small, but you need to realize that after paying off our student loans, buying the condo, and living above our means for the last few years, we are basically living paycheck-to-paycheck.

One thing we need to discuss is the condo. I don’t know if you realize how much of my (our) income is spent on the mortgage payments, association fees, taxes and insurance. I can’t afford to buy you out of it, and I know you can’t afford to buy it from me, either. Luckily for us, the housing market in Manhattan has gone up a little recently, and we should be able to make a small profit from the sale. The bad news is that it could take months, even a year, to find a buyer and we still need to maintain the payments until then. I’ve already spoken to a realtor, and he thinks it will sell faster if we move out and he has someone stage it. So it’s best if we both start looking for another place to live ASAP.

I have set up a separate account to cover your legal fees. Go ahead and hire a lawyer, and have them contact my lawyer to discuss the information on the documents. Have them send all bills to my office.

I have booked a room at The W for a week. I’m hoping to have a new place within that time frame. If you are on board with selling the condo, you might want to make that your goal as well.

Don’t hesitate to contact me via phone or email if you have any further questions or concerns. Enjoy the rest of your time in the Hamptons. We’ll be in touch soon.

Both Hope and I were quiet for a few moments after I finished reading the email out loud. My thoughts were flying around inside my head like a bunch of balls being juggled by a circus clown.
Bora Bora! Happy face. Establish a career. Scared face. Sell condo. No, not my beloved condo. Find lawyer. Move out. IN A WEEK? I need a new luggage set. Bora Bora! Sad face. Why would he even mention that just to take it away? Start over. What the hell am I going to do? Scared-as-hell face. A WEEK? Is this what ADHD feels like? Do I need Ritalin?

Hope finally broke the silence and my panic-attack-in-the-making when she started laughing. She was pretty loud. I looked around to make sure no one was staring at us before I remembered I wasn’t supposed to care anymore.

“I’m glad you’re finding my crisis entertaining,” I spat out.

“Lighten up, Rox,” she said with a smile.

“I’m pretty sure he told me I have to move out within the week. Where
is
the light?”

“He thinks you’re his employee!” she said between giggles.

I didn’t say anything. I just glared at her across the table.

“You deserve a vacation,” she mocked. “Don’t hesitate to email if you have any further questions. That guy is a real piece of work. It’s hysterical!”

She was right. His email sounded like he was talking to a business client, not his wife! That’s what I was to him, wasn’t I? When I’d called myself a Trophy Wife in the past, I’d always thought of it as a cutesy term. It wasn’t until I read the email that I realized it wasn’t cute at all for your husband to think of you as an employee or business prospect. All this time I’d thought he loved me, but I was just his maid, his cook, his personal assistant and his call girl!

“Open up that document so we can get a look at these numbers,” Hope said.

Oh yeah. I’d forgotten about that attachment. I clicked a button on my Blackberry to open the document. Hope and I put our heads together from opposite ends of the table and both watched and waited while the hourglass spun around and around and then, finally, the document opened. It was a bunch of legal mumbo jumbo, so I scanned quickly looking for numbers.

It was right about the same time when we both saw it, the “offer,” so to speak. Her mouth was hanging open in shock. My eyeballs probably looked like they were about to fall out of my head and onto the table.
No, no that can’t be right. There must be a mistake!

Hope ordered a bottle of red wine while I tried to remain composed, even though my world was crumbling around my feet like the debris following a natural disaster. But this wasn’t a hurricane, tornado or earthquake. This was just my greedy, arrogant bastard of a soon-to-be ex-husband ruining my life!

Breathe in, breathe out. Slowly. Blow it out like cigarette smoke. Try not to hyperventilate. Feel your body relax with every breath.

I had seen a hypnotist in my quest to quit smoking, and I tried to practice the calming techniques she taught me. I also tried to channel my inner yogi, whatever it took to get my composure back, so I could figure out what the hell I was going to do with
that
.

I felt dizzy and sick again.
Was it possible for someone to have two panic attacks in the same day? I prayed the waiter hurried with the wine. And if he brought a shot of tequila with him, too, that’d be great.

The waiter arrived and I tried to stop the restaurant from spinning while he opened the wine bottle and poured us each a glass. I kind of heard Hope order a few appetizers, but her voice sounded like I was hearing it from under water. I wasn’t at all hungry, either. At least not for food. More so for revenge.

“Let’s not panic,” she said.

I looked at her and blinked a few times, trying to make her less blurry. I must have had tears in my eyes. I took a drink of my wine. A big drink.

“We now know,” she said slowly, “without a doubt, that he is a complete ass, and this divorce is the best thing for you.”

I now agreed with her that this was for the best because the only way I could imagine putting my arms around Caleb again would be if I were squeezing every last bit of life out of him.

She had my Blackberry in her hand and was reading over the documents as she spoke. “He is giving you half of his 401k. It’s not much.”

I reached down into my beach bag and pulled out my trusty notebook and pen to take some notes as she continued. “He’s paying for your health insurance for two years, so that’s good.”

Bless his heart
, I thought, in that snide insulting way I’d picked up when I was going to school in North Carolina. In my notebook I wrote
Access to Drugs
.

“He’s paying all of your legal fees, including transportation to and from consultations and court proceedings, and he’s offering to pay a quarter of the tuition costs if you choose to go back to school.”

I wrote
Apply at Columbia and NYU
in the notebook
.
If he was paying then I should go to the most expensive school around, right? Oh, wait, I had to pay the other 75%. I scratched out Columbia and NYU and wrote
CUNY or Berkeley
.

“That’s all the good stuff.” She stopped and took a big drink of wine, and I did the same. “Now for the bad stuff.”

I closed my eyes. I knew what was coming.

“Half the costs to maintain the condo will come out of your monthly maintenance until it is sold or rented.”

I nodded.

“Which is total bullshit,” she said, “because it doesn’t look like you’re getting half of his monthly income. Definitely ask your lawyer about that.”

I nodded again.

“And half of the credit card debt is your responsibility, too. Forty thousand
dollars
, Roxie? And that’s only half? How the hell?”

I shrugged. I’d developed expensive tastes throughout the years – hair salons, pedicures, spas, shoes, handbags, 7 For All Mankind and Citizens of Humanity jeans – that stuff all adds up and so do the payments. I wouldn’t have racked up that much in credit card debt if I knew my husband was planning a divorce, but there was no point in crying over it now. I was lucky he was going to cover the other half.

“And the maintenance. I don’t know if he’s hiding money or if he just doesn’t make as much as we thought, but it’s a pretty small amount.”

“Yeah, I got that.”

The waiter dropped off our appetizers and Hope ordered entrees for both of us. I was glad she was here. It felt good to have someone taking care of me for a change. I guess that part had been missing from my marriage because I couldn’t remember Caleb ever making me feel like I was taken care of. He kind of ordered me around a bit, but he never made sure I was eating. I wasn’t hungry, but I would go ahead and eat a few stuffed mushrooms to make her happy since she actually seemed to care.

“So the way I see it,” she said between bites, “you can move to another borough, look for someone who has a room for rent and use the 401k money to prepay for an apartment for as long as you can afford, maybe a year, depending on the neighborhood. You can get student loans to enroll in grad school, use your alimony to pay your credit card bills and utilities and serve drinks at night for spending money. I know Wes would hire you back.”

“But what would I do when the prepaid lease was over?”

“Hopefully by then the condo would be sold and you’d have more money.”

“And I can’t work in the Financial District,” I said while shaking my head furiously. “What if one of Caleb’s coworkers came into the bar? Or even worse, one of the wives. I would be mortified! I can’t be the new laughing stock of the firm.”

We munched on our appetizers in silence for a few minutes while we thought of a plan. It probably seems petty that I was basing my future life choices on the chance of running into one of about fifty people in a city of eight million, especially since I wasn’t supposed to care what they thought of me anymore. But, well, I
was
and I
did
.

Just the thought of one of those horrible, wretched women coming into a bar where I was working to laugh at me and then stiff me on a tip was too much to bear. They’d run home and laugh about it with their husbands, who would go to work the next morning and laugh about it with Caleb, who would go home that night and laugh about it with his new girlfriend who was probably skinnier and prettier than me and loved anal sex. NO. FREAKING. WAY. Was that EVER going to happen.