Better Off Without Him (7 page)

Patricia nodded. “She’s right, darling. He’s the one losing here, not you. He’ll never find another woman who’s as accomplished and capable as you are. The man’s an idiot. He’ll probably figure it out for himself in a few months, when he has to start doing things like picking up his own dry-cleaning and remembering to take out the garbage.” She tilted her head at me. “This is a lot for one day. Brian is coming back tonight? Why don’t I hang around until then. You just rest for a while. I’ll deflect the girls.”

I swallowed hard. “Thank you.”

MarshaMarsha got up and looked at me. “The boys are going to start coming home. I’ve got to go. I’ve got eggplant parm in the freezer. I’ll have Joey run it over. The girls will want something hot for dinner, and Lily shouldn’t have to cook her first night. I’ll be by again tomorrow, okay?”

I nodded, stretched out on the couch and closed my eyes. The room was still unsteady, and my lips were back to being slightly numb. My brain was racing, but thanks to all that vodka, I actually napped a little, hearing snatches of conversation that fit into odd, unhappy dreams. The cat curled against me, and I could have sworn Ben Cutler came in and kissed me on the cheek, but that may have been wishful thinking. I became fully awake quite suddenly when the room was turning dark and I could hear Brian’s voice.

I jerked up from the couch, brushed down my hair, and tried to look like I was just sitting in the dark. He came into the room at a rush and angrily turned on the overhead light. I stood up and raised my chin proudly.

“You called my mother?” he snarled.

I nodded defiantly. Then, I crumpled just a little. I pointed to Patricia, who was standing right behind him.

“It was her idea.”

Brian’s eyes narrowed as he turned to look at her. “I should have known. Patricia, you are such a bitch.”

She smiled. “Oh, darling,” she cooed. “I know.”

Aunt Lily came downstairs. She had changed from her sensible shoes to sensible slippers. She looked at Brian coldly. “I never did like you,” she spat, then swept past him to sit by the fireplace, picking up a magazine from the side table and making quite a show of reading it.

Brian clenched his teeth. “My mother called me at work. I can’t believe you told her.”

“I just told her the truth, Brian,” I said.

“We need to talk to the girls,” he snarled.

I squared my shoulders. “No, Brian. You need to talk to them.”

He wheeled around and headed back, yelling for the girls. I could hear protests coming from upstairs, but they all filed down and followed him into the den. I sat back down. Patricia sat with me. We waited.

They were in there for almost twenty minutes when I started to worry. Why wasn’t anyone crying? Shouldn’t somebody have started throwing things by now? Weren’t they angry? Sad? I was trying to figure out how they were taking things when the doorbell rang. I got up, crossed the hall and opened the door. It was Dominique.

My jaw dropped open. She was standing very stiffly, her tiny body wrapped like a sausage in a black suit, her very blonde hair swept up into a perfect twist.

“I got tired of waiting in zee car,” she said. “Is everyzing okay?”

Now, in my novels, I know exactly what to say when the Other Woman has the balls to make an appearance. When Millicent Dupree realized that she actually loved her husband of three months, the silent but devastatingly handsome Geoffrey, Earl of Marchkirk, and when Millicent came face to face with Syllabyne Combs, the Earl’s former mistress, Millicent put that Syllabyne whore in her place with a few scathing observations of character and one well-appointed insult. Amanda Sinclair, newly engaged to Wentworth, Duke of Briarcliff, sent Justine Rutledge, who had very serious designs on the duke, scampering off after a war of words that went on for two and a-half-pages. So, in theory at least, I knew the long and short of it. Looking at Dominique, however, I couldn’t think of a single word to say. Lucky for me, I had Patricia and Aunt Lily.

Patricia went into her Junior League mode. I could tell by the stiffening of her neck and the way her jaw clenched. She let loose a barrage of words that sounded spiteful and insulting, but, since they were in French, I had no idea what they were.

Dominique, on the other hand, understood completely, because she went white.

“Non,” she whispered.

Patricia moved her shoulders in a decidedly Gaelic gesture. Then, the real bombshell fell. Aunt Lily, coming up behind, also said something in French. Her accent, I could tell, was not as perfect, and Aunt Lily’s lips actually moved when she spoke, but the effect was still pretty good.

Dominique visibly shrank. She took a few steps back. Then she turned and ran back into the car. Brian’s car. The Mercedes.

“What did you say?” I asked.

Patricia smiled evenly. “I told her that there was a law in this country against husband-stealing and that if you pressed charges she would be sent back to France.”

“Really?” Oh, that was rich.

“Yes,” Aunt Lily said. “And I told her I did it to my husband’s mistress. Had her deported back to Poland.” She shook her head. “I wouldn’t believe such a thing, but Dominique certainly did.”

I was still laughing when Brian came bustling into the hallway, clasping his hands and looking rushed.

“What’s so funny, ladies? And did I hear the door?”

“No, no door,” I sputtered. “How are the girls?”

“Fine, just fine. I really have to get going, so – “

“Wait.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “Why are they fine?”

“Ah, well, I just explained to them – “

I marched back to the den. My daughters were all on the couch, watching American Idol. They did not look upset.

“Why aren’t you upset?” I yelled.

Miranda hit the remote, silencing contestant number three. “What’s to get upset about, Mom? Obviously, this is what you and Daddy want, although I can’t understand why you’d be so willing to let this family fall apart, so what’s the point…”

She was blaming me. Of course.

“Brian!” I yelled. He came, somewhat sheepishly, into the room. Obviously, he had been hoping for a quick escape. “The girls seem to think,” I said coldly, “that this is something we both want.” I was looking at him hard. He was starting to blush.

“Ah, yes. Well, I told the girls that things had been not right for some time.”

I was biting my lip. “Did you tell them I had no idea that things had not been right?”

“No.”

Lauren looked interested.

“What else did you tell them?” I asked. I was chewing the other side of my lip now.

“Just how, well, you know, people grow apart and that you and I had talked about this and you didn’t disagree with me moving out.”

I had to hand it to him. That wasn’t exactly a lie. He just left out a whole bunch of other, relevant parts. “Did you tell them about Dominique?”

“Who’s Dominique?” Miranda demanded.

“So, you didn’t. Okay then, did you tell them that I didn’t know we had any problems until this morning?”

“Who’s Dominique?” Miranda asked again.

“Did you tell them that I was sailing along thinking everything was fine while you were carrying on behind my back?”

“Daddy?” Jessica looked shocked. “But you said you two just drifted apart.”

I was in Brian’s face now. I might have been screaming. “Did you tell them I didn’t disagree with you because you just walked in, packed up your things, and told me we were finished without giving me a chance to even give you an argument?”

Brian looked disgusted. “See,” he said, “now they are going to be upset. You just had to get your two cents in, didn’t you?”

If I had owned a gun, I would have shot him.

“Brian,” I barked at his departing back. He turned. “Name one of my books.”

He frowned. “What?”

“Name one of my books. I’ve published twenty-seven books in the past eighteen years. Name one.”

He looked at me like I was a crazy person. “What the hell are you talking about? I don’t know the names of any of your stupid books.” Then he walked out.

I couldn’t look at my daughters. The blood was running through my body so hard and fast I could barely hear beyond the rushing in my ears. I closed my eyes and took several deep breaths. Then I looked over at my three little girls.

Jessica was white. Lauren was in tears. Miranda looked pissed.

Miranda spoke. “I can’t believe he’d do that to you,” she said in a small voice.

And for the first time in that long, long day, I thought that maybe, just maybe, we’d be all right.

When I awoke the next morning, there was a warm, unfamiliar presence in the bed. I opened one cautious eye.

Fred. Right. Fred had often asked to be let up on the bed, but Brian always said no. During the times when Brian had been away for extended business trips, I had not given in because I knew that Brian would be back and Fred would face even more disappointment. Last night, Fred got the invite.

As a sleeping companion, Fred was commendable. He didn’t snore. His legs didn’t twitch. When I snored, he didn’t shake me on the shoulder and insist I turn over on my side. He didn’t steal the covers or get up three or four times to pee. He didn’t fart and stayed on his side of the bed. He had it all over Brian.

I smelled coffee and knew that the previous day had not been some bizarre Kaftka-esque nightmare. Brian, in the twenty years we had been married, had never made the coffee.

I got out of bed and stumbled across the hall to the bathroom. On the way back, I caught a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror beside the dresser and almost had a stroke. I looked awful. My first thought was, God, no wonder he left.

I forced myself to take another look, then began to process my figure logically. I usually didn’t look this bad. My eyes, for instance, were only bloodshot because of all those Carmichael Martinis. That was also why my skin looked so pasty, except for the red splotch on the side where the sheets had bunched up beneath my cheek and left an imprint. Normally, my hair was carefully brushed, not sticking straight up on one side.

I squinted. A few years ago, my eyelashes completely disappeared. They could be coaxed back with two or three applications of black/black mascara, but without that, my face looked lash-less and bland. Not quite this bland, but still.

I pulled back my lips in a forced grin. There was not a forest of pine growing between my teeth after all. It just felt that way. The Carmichael Martini again.

I threw back my shoulders. I had always been proud of the fact that I had only gained ten pounds in twenty years of marriage. Of course, redistribution had become a bit of a problem. My arms were not sleek, but rather rounded, almost puffy. But then, Liz Taylor, in that scene in A Place in the Sun, where she first meets Monty Cliff playing pool, and she’s in that gorgeous white dress with her arms and shoulders bare, well, her arms aren’t very buff either, but you don’t even notice because of all that cleavage. I’ve got cleavage too, but, without proper support, my breasts sag so badly that unfettered, my nipples hover about four inches above my waistline. I’m naturally short-waisted, by the way, but it’s still a pretty impressive drop.

My thighs rub together. And my butt wobbles.

I stepped back from the mirror, hoping that a little distance would improve the situation.

It didn’t.

But I clean up well. I had a head shot done a few years ago, for a conference or some such nonsense, and boy, did I look good. Black and white, with the light just right on my eyes, which are, with enough mascara, my best feature. My cheekbones looked sculpted, my chin and jaw line firm, my dark hair beautifully styled, my smile seductive. Almost Ava Gardener. That old-fashioned, glam look.

Not that morning, however.

I smelled bacon. I suddenly remembered Aunt Lily had offered to get up and make breakfast for the girls so I could, as she put it, sleep off all that Grey Goose. But I felt the need for normalcy, so I slipped into sweats and slouched downstairs.

My daughters were all sitting around the table, smiling and chatty. As I rounded the corner and entered the kitchen, silence fell. They all looked guilty, torn between the bliss of eating good, hot food that someone else prepared for them, and the knowledge that this was day one of Life Without Father.

Aunt Lily had found the waffle maker in the appliance graveyard that was my pantry, and the kitchen smelled of baking and hot grease. I began to salivate.

“Good morning,” Aunt Lily said cheerfully, thrusting a mug of hot coffee at me. “One waffle or two?”

“Two,” I mumbled, sipping gratefully. “How is everybody this morning?” I asked, feigning real interest in something other than the prospect of crispy bacon.

“We’re fine, Mom,” Lauren said, smiling bravely.

“Did you return my outfit?” Miranda asked.

“Can I go to the sleepover?” Jessica also asked.

Oh, my wonderful kids. So much for being devastated by their parents’ break-up.

“Yesterday,” I reminded them coldly, “I was a little distracted, so I didn’t get the chance to do what I had planned to do. Hopefully, today will be a more normal kind of day, and I’ll be able to attend to all your needs. If not, you will all just have to deal, okay?’

They nodded, but not very convincingly. Thank God for the emotionally recuperative powers of selfishness.

They didn’t go back to chatting, but they started smiling again as they ate. The waffles, when smothered with syrup, were delicious.

“Why don’t you ever make waffles?” Jessica asked.

“Well,” I explained, “you girls usually aren’t down here at the same time on school mornings, and on the weekends, you all sleep really late. When you were little, though, we used to have Pancake Saturday, remember?”

They all nodded. Brian had made the pancakes. I paused for a moment, expecting some fond sentimental memory to sweep over them.

Jessica snarled. “It was the only fucking thing Daddy ever cooked.”

Normally, that kind of language is not tolerated, at the breakfast table or anywhere else, but since I totally agreed with her, I let it slide.

“Well,” Aunt Lily suggested, “we could always do brunch. You know, eleven-ish. That way everyone can sleep in, but we can all have something really yummy together. What do you think?”

The girls nodded. Out with the old, in with the new. Aunt Lily was starting her own traditions under my very nose. I’d have to think how I felt about that. But not now.

“I’m going to take a shower,” I announced, “so everyone have a great day. No assaults, please, or any other digressions. I can’t handle any more drama.” I kissed each of them on the cheek and went back upstairs. Quick shower, no blow-dry, back into sweats and slippers. I grabbed Lana off the living room couch, yelled to Aunt Lily that I was going to work, and went out the back door, down the driveway, and climbed the stairs to my office over the garage.

All of the houses on my block have a huge, detached garage with a finished upper story where, I’m sure, the help once lived. My own personal help comes every week with a mini-van, so the upper story was converted to an office space when we first bought the house. I wanted a place to write that was away from the house, and that worked well for the first year, until I had my first kid, and then I couldn’t leave the house except for food shopping or other emergencies. As the girls got older, I hired a long succession of mothers’ helpers to watch my daughters while I crossed the driveway to go to work. It’s not at all like my long-planned attic oasis, it’s just a really good place to write in. It’s one long, narrow room, with bookshelves covering the one tall wall, and a bathroom and kitchenette against the opposite tall wall. The other walls are cut short by the roofline, and on one side is a long desk and work table, and across from it is a huge, shabby sofa covered in rose chintz that Brian said was too hideous to put in the house after I went out and bought it without asking him first. It’s the kind of perfectly pouffy, pillowy couch for curling up in on rainy afternoons. In front of it is an old trunk I use as a coffee table. It ‘s the same trunk I took with me when I went away to college, and back then I spent an entire summer cutting things out of my favorite magazines and decoupaging them to the trunk, so that even today I can look down and see Lauren Hutton smiling from the cover of an old
Seventeen
magazine. There are a couple of skylights and an ugly linoleum floor. I love it.

I went over to the kitchenette and made coffee. Lana settled into the couch. She loves “Take Your Cat To Work” days. I turned on my computer, but didn’t read anything. I took my coffee mug and snuggled into the couch and waited for Anthony.

Anthony Wood is my personal assistant. About ten years ago, my agent suggested I hire somebody to deal with book-signing schedules, conference appearances, and the like. I hired Anthony part-time, a high-school senior who wanted to be a painter. In the ten years he’s been working for me, he’s gone on to graduate from Parsons School of Design, where he received a Masters in Fine Arts. He is now a very successful painter of what he calls “interior landscapes”, which are really big murals on people’s living room walls. He also paints exquisite watercolors, but you can’t make nearly as much money doing that as you can, say, painting a replica of Monet’s Water Lilies for a really rich stockbroker.

He continues to work for me two days a week for several reasons. I pay him a lot of money. He can adjust his own schedule around his painting jobs. He loves telling people that he’s an artist who dabbles in publishing, and he loves to travel to all those conferences and conventions with me. In return, he is an invaluable deduction on my income tax return. He is an excellent assistant. He’s gone on to do proof-reading and editing, as well as making significant contributions to the actual writing process.

He also manages my website, filling readers in on my day-to-day life. He leaks clues about the next book, tells them where I’ll be putting in an appearance, or doing a signing. He coordinates all my on-line activities – blog conferences, discussion groups, on-line book clubs. I answer all my own e-mails, but he juggles MySpace and Facebook.

Anthony is gay. Not one of those obvious, flamboyant gay men, but he’s a real expert on male sexuality from both the giving and receiving end. Since he has also become a real friend and confidante, I have no problems asking him - if you do this to a penis, does it feel good? (FYI – according to Anthony, there is pretty much nothing you can do to a penis that doesn’t feel good).

Anthony is also my head cheerleader. He has a very high opinion of himself, and has told me on several occasions that even if he didn’t work for me, I’d be the only writer of flashy, trashy historical smut that he would ever read.

He is so sweet.

I sat, stroking Lana between the ears, until I heard Fred barking hysterically from the house. A car must have pulled into the driveway. Thank God, Anthony at last.

Anthony is a very beautiful man. He has those classic, golden-boy looks, think Redford in The Way We Were, but without the mole or crooked nose. Anthony’s nose, in fact, is perfectly straight. So are his teeth. His eyes are green, his jaw is firm and square, and his hair is dark honey blond and swept off his high, broad forehead. Since I know him so well and since he is so very gay, he has never been a character in any of my books.

I could hear the door downstairs slam shut, and Anthony came upstairs. Even though it was a cool, cloudy April morning, Anthony had dressed for a golden June afternoon. He was wearing white cotton pants that tied just at his hips with a drawstring and came to just above his ankles. His shirt was blue-and-white striped, sailorish, tight enough to show off his very nicely muscled arms and short enough to reveal his flat-as-a-board abs. He was also wearing blue canvas slip-ons with rope soles and a straw sunhat.

Okay.

So, remember what I said about him not being flamboyant or obvious? Forget all that. You could spot this man across a crowded room and know immediately what side his bread was buttered on.

“Hello, Mona,” he sing-songed. His look was swift and accurate. “Absolut-itis?”

I nodded. He put down a large straw tote bag and poured himself some coffee.

“Trish?” he asked.

Anthony has a nickname for everybody. He calls Patricia “Trish”. I have never heard anyone, not even her parents, whom I have met several times, call her anything but Patricia, but Anthony calls her Trish, she calls him Antoine, and they get along famously.

I nodded again while he shook his head. “And on a weekday? You should know better. How are my girls?”

Anthony loves my daughters. He thinks they are three of the brightest and most charming individuals of earth. They in turn, love him, but I can see where that comes from. He’s beautiful, non-threatening, will drive them to the mall anytime they want, buys them expensive coffee drinks that end in –io, and will talk for hours about clothes, cute boys and make-up.

Anthony is their designated guardian. If Brian and I should both tragically be killed in an airline crash, or if, for instance, I try to blow up his car and can’t get away fast enough and get blown up as well, he will be their guardian. Our first choice had been my parents, and after their deaths, Brian’s parents. After Brian’s father died, and Phyllis said she would not want the responsibility of all three of them by herself, we looked around for an appropriate person, preferably someone who had an outside chance of outliving us. In the end, Anthony was the obvious choice. Some people, on hearing this, wonder why we didn’t choose some other close family member. But the only ones who ask that have never met any of our other close family members.

The girls don’t know. As certain as I am of their love and devotion, Brian and I both believe that Mommy’s money + Daddy’s money + Anthony telling them what to do might be too great a temptation.

“Miranda thinks that the lighting in dressing rooms is designed to make clothes look better than they really are,” I told him.

He settled into the other side of the couch and waved his hand. “Of course the lights are fixed. Everyone knows that. Something about the fluorescent. What else?”

“Jessica wants to go to a boy-girl sleepover.”

“Well, she can’t. I read all about those things. Parents think there will be no sex going on, but believe me, orgy city. Do you want me to talk to her?”

See, I told you he was sweet. I nodded. “A girl named Bernadette broke the DNA project on purpose, and Lauren hit her over the head with it.”