Plus One (27 page)

Alex took another big pull off his glass and tried to smile. Why was he getting this speech? Why not Helen? He knew immediately: Women married to successful men have a place. But guys in the same position? No one knows what to do with them. He could hear the interior dialogue: boy scored; must be hard on him; must make up for it in other ways.

“It's not so bad,” he said. “I was never really an office guy—”

“Sure, the whole cubicle farm—all penned in, believe me I know,” he said. “But I need my team around me to keep me sharp. Without nine-to-five, I'd fall apart….”

“Huh,” Alex said, looking across the table at Helen. “What about you? Can't imagine you home balls-deep in Cheetos….”

“I wish,” she said. “Between the foundation, the boards, and the kids' athletics, I'm
never
home.”

Helen proceeded to describe a domestic routine the likes of which Alex could hardly comprehend. She sat on the boards of three nonprofits, organized the annual Pines fundraiser, chauffeured her boys to football and lacrosse practices, and ladled goulash at a soup kitchen on the weekends. So in addition to being the most preternaturally calm mother he'd ever seen up close, she also seemed to be a good and decent person.

“So—what about this supersuite?” Alex blurted out. “The private cabaña? Your own floor at the hotel? How much is that running you?”

Helen shrugged, unshaken by the abrupt change of topic.
“Three? Six?” she said, touching the tips of her fingers and then dismissing the calculation with a languid wave. “The whole thing is ridiculous. But I'd go crazy if I thought for a second about all
that
. Cary gets this one week between shows—and he's got such unbelievable stress at work. This one week I just want things to be
easy
for him.”

A commotion sounded out from the crowd of kids. Alex looked over and saw Eugene standing behind the blindfolded Sam, tying his hands behind his back with a napkin. The other boys were at his side, tugging at his arm to follow them away from the table.

“Guys,” Helen called after them. “Stop torturing poor Sam—”

“It's okay, Mom,” Eugene said, smiling. “We're
play
torturing.”

“Yeah—I like it,” Sam said.

Alex could see from the grin under Sam's blindfold that he meant it, either because he enjoyed the attention the Bamper boys were finally paying him or, more distressingly, because of an eagerness to play bottom to the boys' top. Alex drained his wine glass and gave the thumbs up.

“Go ahead,” Alex said. “Just be safe! No water boarding!”

• • •

Alex awoke the next morning before dawn, head pounding. He'd had too much to drink, that much was clear. The rest was fuzzy. Had there been yelling? He had a vague recollection of yelling something late in the evening after the Pines dad—whose name, it turned out, was Bill—puffed his chest and bared his teeth and said that the chair of the Pines parent association needed to “man up” with the board of directors. Which for some reason had prompted Alex to uncork a monologue about the etymology of the phrase, pointing out that “man up” had no female equivalent—and wasn't it sexist to equate bravery and aggression with
masculinity?
Oh God.

The night ended when Sylvie fell off her barstool and Sam came back to the table crying, the blindfold game having taken an unpleasant turn.

Alex hauled himself out of bed, cracked open a bottle of water, and downed it in one long pull. All night he'd been dipping in and out of intense, overly literal stress dreams. Just before waking he'd had a doozy. He and Figgy had scored a reservation to a pop-up restaurant run by a molecular gastronomist who was doing amazing work “on the boundary between food and non-food.” He lifted a forkful of saffron-glazed something to his mouth. Next to him, Figgy tilted her head back and groaned something about the succulent flavors. He bit down and chewed. He chewed and chewed. He realized with a start what was in his mouth: rubber. He looked back at Figgy, whose face was flushed with satisfaction. “Maybe you just don't have the
palate
?” she laughed. He stood up from the table and turned away; was this supposed to be funny? How come you got dinner and I got
sneaker
?

He woke from the dream shaking with anger. He pulled the mouth guard from his bottom teeth with a pop and turned to Figgy, who was splayed beside him still asleep, her mouth half open. He wanted to shake her awake, demand an explanation, slap her in the face.

Then it occurred to him: Oh right, none of that actually
happened
. Figgy didn't say those things. That was me, wearing her face. And that wasn't sneaker. It was my motherfucking mouth guard.

• • •

The next day by the pool, Alex decided, would be different—today, he knew the drill. He'd do what was required. He arrived at the pool at 7 a.m. with an empty bladder, a fresh coffee, and a wad
of reading material to keep him occupied until the family arrived. Staking his claim on the cabaña closest to the grotto, he settled in.

He picked up a photocopied “news digest” printed for those guests who found ordinary newspapers too cumbersome or complicated for their holiday on the beach. Printed in two stapled pages with no pictures, no jumps, and a crossword puzzle on the back, the digest had a way of sanitizing even the most distressing news. One item grabbed Alex's attention—lawmakers in Colorado were fighting the spread of so-called Coitus Co-Ops after the passage of a controversial ballot measure in the fall. The measure, modeled after initiatives already passed in Florida, Nevada, and Vermont, legalized so-called peer-to-peer prostitution. Hundreds of unregulated clubs had opened in those states in the past year, prompting outrage from social conservatives.

Alex reminded himself to show the story to Figgy. Politics and public policy had been the last thing on her mind when she created
Tricks
, but the legalization effort that had sprung up in the last few years was obviously good for the show. It tickled Alex to think that Figgy's dirty little cable show was having real-world impact. The fact that social conservatives were outraged only confirmed that the impact was for the best.

His phone emitted a little cartoon
ploop
. It was a text from Huck, in a small green bubble: “What up homosapien? You in HI?”

He thumbed back a response: “Yup. All good. U?”

“Crashing at the Oakwood. Drama on homefront. Epic.”

Alex stared at the phone for a second, then switched over to the phone and punched in Huck's cell.

Huck answered on the first ring, his voice raw and laboring to maintain its usual confident nonchalance. His marriage, he said flatly, was cooked. Things had been rocky for a while; they'd finally blown up over his plans to launch a line of Katherine Pool–endorsed sex toys.

“Think of it—celebrities have their own fragrances, their own fashion lines. Why not vibrators?” he said. “How great would that be, butt plugs from the star of TV's
Tricks
? Come on, right? She just can't
stand
the idea I might have some success on my own.”

“You think?” Alex said. “I mean, the sex toy thing—isn't that just a little…
foul
?”

“No, it wouldn't be sleazy at all—we'd go upscale with nice packaging, super designy—”

“That's not what I mean,” Alex interrupted. “It just kind of sounds like—a betrayal? Using her fame to get your thing out there? If you want to start a line of vibrators, go ahead and sell vibrators—why do you need to use—”

“Look, Kate hates all the attention she gets. All I'm saying is why not see some actual benefit? I was just
updrafting
, you know, getting my thing off the ground. The products are amazing—I'm telling you, Alex, once they were out there, people would've gone crazy.”

Alex made a noncommittal murmur.

“Look, I love her and all that,” Huck said. “But I don't know. I'm just not sure I can stand living in Pool world anymore.”

Alex thought back to the brunch at their house. The gleaming white kitchen. The basil frittata. The zip line. “So that's it? What about the kids? The house?”

“I don't know—I'm renting this horrible apartment 'til we figure it out. It's gonna get ugly. Her people are already on the warpath, but I've got this kick-ass lady from Century City—she's got actual
fangs
. Drives a red Audi with a vanity plate that says liti-gate, with a number 8? She says as long as I stay single, I'm set for at least a few years. Won't prevent me from hooking up, maybe even get good ol' Dr. Finkelstein to unclip the tubes. Start over with someone who knows how to
appreciate
a man.”

“I don't know, Huck. You sure this isn't something you can work through? What about counseling?”

“No—we're done. I'm ninety percent sure she's fucking her faith healer anyway. No way am I letting her get away with
that
while I sit on some shrink's sofa rehashing ground rules and boundaries and
bottom lines
.”

Huck got an incoming call from his lawyer, promised to call back, and hung up. Resting the phone on the frosted glass table beside the chaise, Alex sat up straight. A dull ache rippled though him. No sooner had it passed than he was struck by the urgent need to tell Figgy all about the call. It wasn't nice, but he knew from the last few years of marriage that nothing made you feel better about your own relationship like recounting the details of another couple's meltdown.

When she finally came down to the pool an hour or so later, he launched into a breathless recap, clucking and frowning, shaking his head at the Katherine Pool–branded dildos and Huck's plan to undo his vasectomy.

“He sounded wrecked,” Alex said. “What's he going to do now? He's pushing forty with no job and no marketable skills. Now he's gonna go out and score a hot young cocktail waitress and start all over again?”

“Sure,” she said. “Happens all the time. You know how many single forty-year-old men are out there—who can cook? And redecorate a kitchen? He'll have no trouble at all.”

Alex got quiet and looked out at the ocean. Maalaea Bay was chopped with whitecaps and striped in a dozen shades of blue.

“You think? Really?”

“Oh yeah.”

Figgy pushed her sunglasses up and peered over at a patch of lawn near the grotto. Helen, dressed in a sleek, black one-piece bathing suit and floppy straw hat, had all the Bamper boys crouched in a line in front of her.

“What're they up to now?” Figgy said.

“Something amazing, undoubtedly.”

As they watched, Helen helped each boy make a tripod with their forearms and extend their bodies up until their legs were sticking straight up. Helen clapped and laughed as the boys flailed and kicked, moving from one kid to the next, gently repositioning their hips or adjusting their weight.

Figgy leaned forward and propped her chin on her knees, eyes fixed on the scene. Helen was leading a game, challenging the boys to get into a handstand at the same time. As soon as one tumbled over, she helped him pop back up into position, moving among their upturned legs, a graceful ringleader among wild animals.

“She's such a great mom,” Figgy said flatly.

“So are you,” Alex said. “Really, hon. So you're not a gym coach. You get more points for doing what you do—your degree of difficulty is higher. A lot higher.”

Figgy grinned and popped her elbow into Alex's side. “Thank you.” She paused for a second and took a deep breath. “How many years have they got, do you know?”

“Huck and Kate? Four, I think. Maybe five.”

“You sure?”

Alex felt an alarm bell go off in his head. “I think so—why?”

“Difference in the payout, obviously. She probably had him sign a pre-nup, but if not, he's due alimony for half the length of the marriage. Given that she joined the show a year and a half ago, he might make a case for a bigger piece… Hope she's got good representation.”

Alex nodded and said nothing, glad his sunglasses were on to obscure his bug-eyed expression. He had no idea Figgy was so conversant in divorce law. Had she always been?

“Don't go getting any ideas,” she said after a long pause. “But absolutely—Huck's gonna do
just fine
.”

• • •

Figgy had dozed off soon after their little talk, leaving Alex to stew on her analysis of California divorce law. Maybe Huck was right—maybe she'd decided to get informed. She'd be stupid not to, right?

He was fighting off a full panic attack when he heard a cry ring out from the beach. He hopped up at the sound of it. It was Sam, who he saw scampering up from the surf, clutching his side and yowling, eyes clamped tight and mouth locked in a wide O. Cary had been on the beach playing football with his boys, so he was first to reach him. Alex hurried over.

“Ow!” Sam sputtered, motioning to his side. “Stings!”

Cary leaned down and lifted the fabric of Sam's swim shirt. Bulbous white welts wrapped around his side, tracing an angry trail from the small of his back to his belly button.