The Ex-Mrs. Hedgefund (24 page)

I got up and pushed him off.

“John, what the hell? I'm sorry, but this isn't feeling right. I'm not ready! Why did you keep going?”

“Why did you come up here this weekend?” he said, enraged, eyes ablaze.

“What, I can't come up and get to know you? I have to spread 'em before dinner?”

“You don't go away with someone if you're not going to get comfortable with them.”

“I'm sorry, is this getting comfy, being thrown onto your couch facedown and having my sweater ruined?”

I bent down to pick up the buttons that had flown off.

And then, I saw it: sheer, unbridled ire. He looked like he wanted to kill me. In fact, for a nanosecond, I thought he might. I'd be a headline. Miles would be motherless. The guy in Italy had turned out to be nice, but maybe John was the one who painted his canvases with blood. Holy shit.

“GET OUT!” he screamed venomously.

“What?” I said. Okay, maybe I wouldn't be decapitated. But did he mean
get out
, like, leave?

“I SAID GET THE FUCK OUT!”

I shook with fear and ran to grab my bag.

“GET OUT, YOU DICK TEASE! YOU BITCH! YOU WOMEN ARE ALL THE SAME!”

I was terrified and held back shocked tears as I ran to get my stuff in the kitchen. I had no idea what to say; he just kept yelling, red-faced and red-peckered, from the living room. I stuffed my boots back on, threw my weekend bag over my shoulder, and bolted out.

Into the torrential and freezing rain.

 

 

 

T
he word “boonies” was an understatement. I was in the middle of nowhere. Some twisting route without double yellow lines. I'm talking back roads. Like the kind where a ski-masked maniac descends from the trees wielding a chain-saw. I was a dead woman. I could not have been more drenched. Even my bones were wet. Now I knew why everyone said I should get Miles his own cell phone; it was so I didn't have to be in the Dark Ages without one. You've heard of up shit's creek without a paddle? That was me. No boat, either. Just mired in shit. This SUCKED. Okay, Holly, calm down.
Braveheart, Braveheart, Braveheart.
This was no biggie. Sugar, yes it was. My veins were frozen. My blood must have had ice chips in it. There were no cars to be seen, it was 7:30 at night and I was a wet rat on the road's shoulder, quivering with chills. Honestly, it was so hellaciously awful, it was almost funny. Except it wasn't. A car came by and I tried to wave it down, but they kept going, exactly as I would have if a deranged-looking, drenched lady was hitchhiking, no doubt with a machete in her T. Anthony weekend tote.

I started panicking after ten minutes walking along the road. I didn't think I could deal with this. I looked up at the dark gray clouds as if to beckon, “What else ya got for me?” Were it not for Miles, I would have prayed to be struck by lightning and just put out of my misery. Two more cars passed, their white lights turning red as I saw them from behind, driving away into the soaking night. A few minutes later a truck approached and slowed alongside me. Wait: What was I doing? This grizzled, flannel-shirt-wearing driver could be a headshot from Central Casting for a serial rapist or murderer. Not that John the supposedly sensitive artist was any better. I looked up into the trucker's cab at the man's weathered face. His beard was messy, his trucker hat askew. He was something out of
Fargo
. But I was freezing and soaked and desperate, so I smiled up at him.

“Hi, sir, I need to get back to the city. Do you have a phone I could use?”

“Hop in, Sunshine.”

And then boom-chicka-bow-wow porno music came on and I banged him in exchange for his help. Just lying.

His name was Mo (I swear) and he wasn't going my way, but he kindly drove me to the train station, for free, where I found a pay phone. I must say, it's always refreshing when someone is just plain nice for no reason. I was lucky; who knows what he could have done, and let's just say after John, the Bach-blaring painter, clearly wanted to throttle me, I wasn't exactly wise hopping into a tractor trailer with grizzled Mo. Thank God he didn't beat me and hack me to pieces and then rape the pieces. My near-frostbitten finger dialed 1-800-COLLECT.

“Kiki?” I bleated through my hoarse throat.

“
Holl?
Where are you? I thought you were in Connecticut.”

I burst into tears and told her the whole series of events.

“Holy shit. Fuck that psycho asshole. I'm going to tell Lyle never to show him again. That guy is insane! Okay, stay there, I'm coming to get you.”

“No, Kiki, it's fine, I think a train's coming soon, so I'll just go to Grand Central. Can I come over, though? What are you doing? Oh NO, you have your event tonight!”

“Of COURSE, you're coming right over. It's that benefit at South Street Seaport tonight. I was getting ready to go meet Lyle there, but fuck that, my girls are all there taking care of everything. Let's just hang here! I'll put you in a hot bath and pj's and we'll watch Molly Ringwald movies. You're going to be fine. I'll be here waiting.”

“No, Kiki, do not cancel your date.”

“Hey. I'm not Dicks over Chicks. Especially not you, Chiquita.”

She was the best. All I wanted to do was boil myself to warmth and pound hot chocolate. Luckily, the train pulled in minutes later and of course it was freezing and I got all kinds of looks from young suburban revelers cruising via Metro-North into the big city. I cried on the train about the mess my weekend had become, the mess my life had become. What had I done? Maybe I should have listened to Sherry Von and just stayed in my marriage so I wouldn't have to be alone. Tim had his issues, sure (workaholic, an evil mom, sometimes getting a tad too hammered for our age, too-intense reverence for sports, extramarital bangings) but he had no
skeletons
like John-esque psychotic breaks. I was starting to realize it really
was
a jungle out there. And with Tim, I didn't have it so bad, minus the him-leading-a-double-life thing. I didn't know if I could make it now. My whole body was so ice cold that the only thing that warmed me were hot tears as they fell down my cheeks. I closed my eyes and let the side-to-side rumble of the train lull me into a sad daze.

I got to Grand Central an hour later, my hair and clothes damply matted to my face, and when I arrived at Kiki's, she opened the door holding a glass of red wine. Because I looked not unlike a sewer rodent, she started laughing when she saw me, but it quickly turned into a pity laugh as she relieved me of my drenched coat.

“Oh, come here, sweetie!” She hugged me and I had to smile, it was all too over-the-top awful and pathetic.

“Listen, Holly, this was all a heinous dream—you are going to be fine,” said Kiki. “Go in the bathroom, I have a relaxation tank for you.”

“Huh?”

“Get in the bath; just looking at you is making me fucking cold,” she ordered. I went into the large marble bathroom that Kiki called her “hotel bathroom” and was happily surprised. Kiki had drawn me a scalding bubble bath and surprised me with a candlelit tub. I was touched beyond measure.

“Take your time,” said Kiki, sipping her wine. “There's a glass of pinot for you on the side of the tub. See how you feel when you get out.”

“I can't believe this. Thank you!”

It was the first time since I'd lost my mom that I'd felt so mothered. I was so worried about Tim and Miles all these years, I'd barely ever stopped to pamper myself and was run ragged. In the burning hot lavender-and-lanolin pool, I washed away the last few hours' debacle and enjoyed the simple, oft-taken-for-granted good fortune of searing hot water. The therapeutic heat made everything melt away, and aside from the soothing
agua
, I thought about how the best blessing was the girl outside.

While I kind of wanted to just be quiet and chow in front of Andrew McCarthy and the gang on TV, I also knew Kiki had worked her ass off on this benefit and my minivisit to hell shouldn't stop her from going. At about 10:30 I emerged, ready.

“So—” I said, resolved. “Let's go to the Seaport thing. I want to.”

“No WAY,” said Kiki, shaking her head of perfectly blown-out shiny locks, chandelier earrings (or as she called them, “chande-learrings”) clinking. “You have been through the ringer tonight, and we are zoning here on the couch.”

I told her I wanted to go to the party, no popcorn-and-eighties-flicks healing process needed. We'd dance up a storm to “I Will Survive” or some grrrrl-power anthem, and I'd feel better.

Why feel sorry for yourself when you can shimmy your ills away?

I began raiding her incredible, packed closet full of way-too-short-for-me hemlines that would make Paris Hilton blush, and we blared some vintage Duran Duran as I dried my hair and put on makeup. For a moment there during “Rio,” I actually felt okay, worlds away from where my night began. Kiki had made me feel safe again.

We cabbed it down to the Seaport and walked down the rickety wood slats to get to what I could already tell was a raging success. Lyle was standing just inside with Elliot.

“Hey, Holly! What are you doing here? I thought you had some romantic weekend.” Lyle asked, while kissing Kiki hello on the cheek and wrapping his arms around her tiny waist. I noticed their fingers were intertwined, which was very lovey-dovey for Kiki. She was very much the PDA type, but I'd usually spied hands way up thighs, not tender hand-holding.

“Long story,” said Kiki, “but we're going to have a blast.”

“Nightmare afternoon,” I confessed to Elliot as Kiki and Lyle walked ahead, arm in arm. “But nothing a large beverage can't eclipse!”

“What can I get you then? A vat of absinthe perhaps?” he asked, smiling. He looked very Harrison Ford in
The Mosquito Coast
.

“Hmmm. You know what I'd love?” I think he was expecting some fancy bubble-gum-colored chick drink with an umbrella. “A Coca-Cola.”

“Two Cokes, please!”

We clinked fizzy brown glasses and Kiki waved us through the VIP checkpoint and into the cavernous tented outdoor space on the waterfront, which was filled with heat lamps, Christmas trees, glass bars, and a DJ booth twenty feet up. People were dancing on every surface, the bar, tables, chairs, even the ottomans.

Kiki and Lyle came up with two green drinks that looked like antifreeze.

“Wow, Keeks, congrats, this is huge!” I marveled.

“Holly, take this—”

“What is this concoction?”

“It's a green apple martini. So yummy.” She slammed back a gulp, then offered me a sip, which I tried with trepidation for fear of poison taste, but it was more like Sour Patch Kids liquefied in the Cuisinart.
No, gracias
. “OH! Holly! This is my friend Randy, from Celestial Records!”

I turned to see a smiling woman with thick black glasses. “Hey there!” she said, shaking my hand firmly. We gabbed about my years in magazines and even a summer at Arista in college and she handed me her card, telling me to e-mail her some clips of my work. I was embarrassed to explain that I hadn't exactly been in the workforce for some time.

“I've kind of been in Mommyland for the last few years,” I said, hoping she'd still think of me as hip versus culturally put-out-to-pasture. Which I had been. But now that Miles was in elementary school, I'd felt myself starting to reenter the world of pop culture. I was finally more attuned to new bands, trendy writers, and hot films.

“I'll tell you what,” she yelled over blaring Joy Division. “I'll get your address from Kiki and messenger you the CD and bio for our new band, Candygram, that Noah just signed. See if you can write a kick-ass release for them and e-mail it to me.”

“Done!” I said confidently, hoping I remembered how to do that. It had been five years. She seemed like she'd be a chill boss, even if she had a tough-cookie vibe; my gut was that she was a straight shooter.

“Looking forward to it,” she said, and saluted me, army-style.

As Randy walked away, I looked around for Kiki, who was on the dance floor with Lyle, dancing-slash-making out. She twirled effortlessly in her Louboutins, looking like the
Dancing with the Stars
people, but not B-listy. The next thing I knew, I felt a hand take my wrist. Elliot spun me around, then led me next to Kiki and Lyle, who at this point were practically entangled in a Lambada-esque coil of limbs that would make Patrick Swayze and a pre-nose-job Jennifer Grey blush. Elliot rolled his eyes at them, and we both shrugged, laughed off their PDL (public display of lust), and danced nonstop for an hour. To hit after 1980s hit we laughed and sang along. As Elliot recited every lyric perfectly, I knew that while those older-man Al Pacino fantasies would always be alive and well, I loved being with someone my own age—a common thread, a childhood of the eighties, and a shared knowledge of that time in music. “Come On, Eileen,” “Karma Chameleon,” “Too Shy, Shy,” all played in a row as we danced. When “Hungry Like the Wolf” came on, Kiki grabbed me and whispered, “This is John's song!” I died laughing and was thrilled to be in such a radically different environment than a few hours before.

Elliot excused himself to go to the bathroom, so I third-wheel danced with Kiki and Lyle to Blondie. I was sweaty and vibrant, thighs shaking from the rare workout, now two hours of solid jumping. My throat hurt from belting the tunes and I knew I'd wake up with a sore throat, though making your voice box raw by singing your heart out was worth it. I looked around at Kiki, who waved to me as Lyle kissed her neck, his arms around her waist.