When Life Gives You Lululemons (26 page)

“Listen,” Emily said. “It's going to work out. I promise. I have some ideas.”

“You have some ideas for helping me not be a social pariah. And they're all lies anyway. What about getting my kid back? When technically he's not even my kid?” Karolina wailed. “And what about the truth? Shouldn't my name be cleared? Wouldn't that help with custody?”

Emily and Miriam exchanged glances.

“I agree with Karolina. It would help. It's time to clear her name,” Miriam said.

“Have a little faith, okay?” Emily said.

“Faith?”

“Did you not tell me that in ten years he has never taken Harry to a doctor's appointment? Or gone to more than one baseball game a season? Has never taken him away alone anywhere? Doesn't know the names of any of his friends? Doesn't attend parent/teacher conferences?”

Karolina nodded, wiping away tears from her eyes.

“I get that I'm not exactly the authority on all things parental, but those sound pretty basic to me. Things that, like, ninety percent of remotely decent parents manage to handle.”

“Yes, but—”

“Stop defending him! I'm wondering why he really wants to take this all on now. What, he's suddenly going to morph into Dad of the Year because you're out of the picture? Not likely.”

“Yeah, well, he has
her
now,” Karolina said, waving the copy of
People
.

“Oh, and twelve-year-old boys are
so
accepting of brand-new stepmoms.” Emily took another drag and followed it with a sip of wine. “She's going to want her own kids. Not yours.”

Karolina's eyes widened.

“Am I wrong?”

“No, of course not. She's young.” Karolina refilled her glass.

“Unless it's him?” Emily suggested. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted saying them, if only because she desperately didn't want to get into a long conversation about Karolina's infertility. She knew that Karolina had tried everything, from acupuncture to Clomid to crystals to multiple rounds of IVF, and nothing had worked.

“If only,” Karolina said with barely disguised bitterness. “He was tested twice. It's me.”

“What's wrong with you?”

Karolina gave her a look.

“What? Sorry, I didn't mean it like that. I'm not . . . well versed in these types of conversations.”

Karolina sighed. “Unexplained infertility, they call it. They ran a thousand tests and my eggs were fine and my progesterone was a little low but nothing unworkable, and I don't have endometriosis or polycystic ovarian syndrome or—”

Emily held up a hand. She was trying not to look disgusted but wasn't sure she was succeeding. “So what is it?”

“I literally just could never even get pregnant. No miscarriages. Nothing. No positive pregnancy tests ever. Even with IVF, we never made a viable embryo, so we couldn't even get a surrogate.”

“I'm sorry,” Emily said. It was difficult to imagine trying so hard to get pregnant when she'd expended so much effort to stay unpregnant.

“It doesn't matter now because I have Harry.
Had
.”

“And you'll have him again!” Emily lightly touched Karolina's arm. “Trust me on this, Lina. This is all about Graham's appearance. It's only been a couple months. We need to let it play out.”

Emily reached for a copy of the
Post
and flipped to “Page Six,” holding it out to Karolina. “Look!”

“I can't believe it,” Karolina said. “They did exactly what you said they would.”

“It's the press. They're not so mysterious. You got a DUI. You're a
high-profile person in your own right, married to a U.S. senator. Naturally, everyone wants to see you repent. Step one, implied rehab, check! Step two is a total makeover, and step three is a high-profile appearance where you announce to the American people how sorry you are and beg for their forgiveness.”

“How high-profile?” Karolina looked alarmed.

“Like
Ellen
.
The View
.
GMA
. High.”

“Oh God.”

“You've walked in the Victoria's Secret fashion show six times!”

“Seven.”

“Practically naked! And every legitimate pervert and teenaged boy and bored husband in the Western world has watched you. You can't possibly be nervous about going on
Good Morning America
!”

“No, it's going on national TV and lying to the world about my nonexistent alcoholism.”

Emily shrugged. “America wants to forgive you! We forgave Hugh Grant his prostitutes. Ben Affleck screwing the nanny. Even Brad cheating on Jen. We can certainly give you a second chance too.”

Karolina's face darkened to an alarming shade of red. “My God, I hate him so much.”

“Emily can handle the public,” Miriam said, “but there's no way I'm allowing a fake crime to stay on your record.”

Emily nodded. “See? And after you do your makeover and look-how-healthy-and-sympathetic-I-am interview, we'll get you affiliated with a cause. The obvious choice is Mothers Against Drunk Driving, although a case could be made for Driving While Distracted or something similar. We'll get you on the board of something prestigious and based in New York, and of course you'll host an event at the Greenwich Yacht Club. It would be a really nice touch if you could publicly offer your support and congratulations when Graham and Regan get engaged—that'll play really well. After that? It's smooth sailing. In the meantime, we're hiring a decent social-media consultant, and we're going to show the public who you really are.”

“And who is that?”

“Remember what I said about putting on some weight, changing your image? I think you should get a bob.”

Karolina shuddered. “Stop.”

“I'm serious! Do you want your hair to say ‘drunk seductress' or ‘dependable mom'? Because right now it's screaming the former.” Emily felt badly for even suggesting Karolina cut her long, gorgeous hair, but, well, drastic times . . .

“This is insane.”

Emily nodded and placed her hand on Karolina's ever-shrinking wrist. The stress was taking a toll. “Listen. I can change your image, and it will work. But if you're serious about wanting a stronger case for custody, or”—she waved her hand dismissively—“clearing your name, I need that dirt you're holding back from me. Judging from your sulky lower lip, it's something salacious.”

“It's nothing.”

“He wasn't fazed in the least by ruining your life!”

“It's . . . It's not that simple, Emily. I have Harry to think about.”

“I understand,” Miriam said.

Emily said, “Graham sure as hell isn't thinking about Harry's well-being in any of this, so I'm not sure why you are.”

“Well, you wouldn't be sure, would you,” Karolina whispered, her voice quivering. “You're not a mother, Emily. I know you think it's, like, some bourgeois thing or something, but can't you understand why I wouldn't want to get back at Graham if it means hurting my son too?”

Emily considered this for a moment. “So there is something.”

“Emily, leave her alone,” Miriam said.

Karolina stood up. “I'm done. Have your pick of the guest rooms, they're all clean.”

“We're not done!” Emily called, but Karolina had already walked out. Emily exhaled a loud sigh.

“You're too rough on her,” Miriam said, gathering her coat and bag. “Try to imagine what she's going through.”

Emily massaged her temples.

“I'm heading out. I'll call you tomorrow,” Miriam said.

When Emily heard the front door close, she lit another cigarette. Kids did nothing but complicate things. The night she met Miles, they'd fallen drunk into bed together following some charity event and he had bolted awake at six in the morning, terrified that he'd knocked her up.

“You have a what?” he'd asked, head resting on his bent arm.

“An IUD.”

“Is that like the pill?”

“No, it's not like the pill. Seriously? You've never even heard of it? Men have it so easy.”

“Well, is it as reliable as the pill?” He was really looking worried. “Because I definitely don't want a kid. I mean, no offense. Of course I want them later. But definitely not now.

“A college buddy had a one-night stand with a United flight attendant on a layover in Chicago. He was twenty-two. He didn't even know her name. She tracked him down from the flight manifest eight weeks later and called him out of the blue. She didn't expect anything but couldn't live with herself if she didn't tell him that he would have a son.”

Emily raised her eyebrows. “You're comparing me to a flight attendant?”

“He's got a fourteen-year-old now! It's crazy.”

“Not to worry. I won't be getting pregnant now. Or ever.”

“You don't want kids?”

“Of course not. You do?”

Miles squinted and, incidentally, looked very cute doing so. “Yeah, I do.”

“Mmm, maybe,” Emily had said, but only so he didn't think she was a heartless bitch devoid of all maternal instincts when they'd just met. And she wasn't! A heartless bitch? Perhaps sometimes. She thought babies were cute—who didn't? She liked holding other people's sometimes, if they smelled good. And the clothes? They were to die for. That amazing Chloé fur vest she'd just seen at Bergdorf
and pair it with the Ralph Lauren jodhpur leggings. What wasn't absolutely adorable mini-size? But throw away her life and career on a crying, pissing, spitting thing that would inevitably grow up to hate her as much as she hated her own mother? Hell no. Why was that so hard for everyone to understand?

She stubbed out the remaining cigarette and texted Miles.
You up?

He responded right away.
It's 11 in the am here. Yes, I'm up!

I can never remember

12 hrs ahead. Not hard.

I know, I know. I'm working on it.

U at Miriam's?

Staying at Karolina's now. One of the kids got sick so I bailed. It's ok tho—conditions better here. No dog, no kids, more booze. How is all there?

Speaking of kids . . .

There was a pause followed by the three dots that indicated Miles was typing.
Here we go
, Emily thought.

Just got an email from Betsy. She's due in oct—twins!!!!!!

Wow. Good for them.

Could be us you know, just say the word

Emily snapped a selfie holding up her pack of Parliaments and sent it to him.

She watched her screen for a few minutes: no response. She tossed her phone next to her on the couch. Then, reconsidering, she grabbed it, pulled up her T-shirt, and took a picture of her bare breasts. She cropped her face out just in case he was in a meeting or something and sent it.

Three dots. Thumbs-up emoji.

Thumbs-up? A fucking
emoji
? That was what their marriage had come to when she tried to apologize with a quick sexting session?

Emily went into the photo album on the phone and again selected the picture. This time she used an editing app to remove the bit of flab in front of her armpit and enhance her cleavage just so. She cropped in a bit closer on her left breast, the fuller one, and switched the entire photo to black-and-white to hide any stray hairs or freckles. Then she scrolled
her contacts until she found the number Alistair had given her the night of the Moroccan sex party, or whatever the hell they were calling it, and hit “send.”
At least he'll know what to do with a photo of a beautiful naked woman
, she thought as she sat back on the couch and waited for his response.

T
here was a Le Pain Quotidien in Greenwich, of course—two, actually—but something about sipping a full-fat latte on an uncomfortable stool packed in like sardines in the West Village felt better. Miriam glanced at all the people jammed into the sitting area and smiled. Some had strollers, yes, but plenty of others had laptops and messenger bags and bike helmets. There were men. And people speaking foreign languages. All different shades of hair and skin. The entire place hummed while its patrons met, worked, brainstormed, discussed. The energy was palpable in a way that did not exist on the main drag at home, where most of the spacious seating went unoccupied and the only customers who did stop by were clad in activewear and biding their time until school pickup.

She'd taken the train in for her annual eye exam and had dragged a
tote bag full of Karolina's bills and statements, figuring she may as well work in a Manhattan coffee shop as long as she was there. Okay, and maybe shop a little, which had brought her down to the West Village, where she was hoping to convince Paul to grab a quick burger at Corner Bistro before heading back to Connecticut.

“Miriam? Is that you?” She heard a familiar voice behind her.

“Stephanie! Hi! Oh my God, it's been so long!” Miriam jumped from her stool, nearly knocking it over, and hugged her former coworker. They'd both started as associates right after law school, until Stephanie had taken an in-house job at MTV a couple of years later.

“You look . . . great,” Stephanie said.

“Liar.” Miriam laughed. “I'm, like, twenty pounds heavier. Come here, sit.”

Stephanie looked pretty and professional in a perfectly tailored cream Theory suit that highlighted her smooth tanned skin, a silk blouse, sky-high heels, and a blowout so bouncy and shiny it would have made Kate Middleton jealous. She slid between Miriam and a glaring hipster wearing headphones the size of cereal bowls. She turned to Miriam. “I only have a minute before I have to get back to the office for a conference call, but I'm so happy to see you!”