When Life Gives You Lululemons (23 page)

What the fuck?

“Emily? Emily! WHERE ARE YOU GOING?”

Emily turned around just in time to see Ashley literally racing toward her as fast as her slutty dress would allow.

“Oh, hey. Listen, I'm headed out. I called an Uber, so don't worry about me.”

“You can't leave!”

“Oh, I definitely can.”

“But you're going to miss—”

“
Hamilton
, I know. I desperately hope Lin-Manuel will forgive me.”

Ashley nodded as though this were likely although not guaranteed. “Listen, have you seen Eric? I don't want him to miss the show either.” While she asked, Ashley squinted and swiveled her gaze around the tent, trying to make out faces through the darkness.

“Eric? Nope. Not me,” Emily said, not missing a beat. Ashley, Eric, and Eric's potentially underage blue-glitter-condom-loving girlfriend would have to fend for themselves.

“Hmm, okay. I'll keep looking.”

“Sounds good. Ash? Thanks for tonight.”

A look of sheer joy spread across Ashley's face, and she flung her arms around Emily's neck. “You had fun? Really? Oh, I'm so glad! I mean, I'm sure it's not like any of the super-cool parties you go to in L.A. or New York or wherever, but hopefully you weren't too bored.”

“You know what? I was a lot of things tonight, but bored wasn't one of them.”

Ashley appeared to ponder this and then obviously decided it was a compliment. “Kisses!” she trilled, giving Emily double-cheek kisses.

Emily flashed her a massively fake smile as a Toyota Camry with an Uber sign pulled into the circular driveway.

“Same location you entered, miss?” the driver asked. He gave her a lovely, totally noncreepy smile, and Emily wanted to hug him for not calling her “ma'am.”

As if on cue, her phone rang. It was Miles.

Answer it
, she urged herself, her thumb hovering over the green button.
Answer it!
She wanted to—or rather, she wanted to want to—
but it all seemed so exhausting. Instead, she silenced the ringer, dropped her phone in her bag, and leaned back against the cool leather seat.

“Sir? Can you just drive around for a bit? Thanks.” And she closed her eyes and tried not to think at all. But the thoughts kept coming like cold, unwelcome riptides. Olivia Belle had basically stolen Los Angeles out from under her. She was crashing at a friend's place in a batshit-crazy suburb. New York was right around the corner, but it felt so very far away. Her career was in the toilet. Her husband was across the planet. Was it time to call Miranda? Tuck her tail between her legs and return to
Runway
? At this, her eyes flew open, and she gasped so audibly the driver checked his rearview.

“You okay, miss?” he asked, looking concerned.

It took every ounce of her energy to respond in a measured way, like a sane person and not like a crazed, panicked animal. “Yes,” Emily said, her voice shaking. “I'm doing great.”

M
iriam was a big believer in the pick-your-battles school of parenting, and what kindergarteners wore to a kid's sixth birthday was not going to be one of them. However, as soon as she pulled into the parking lot and joined a long line of luxury SUVs waiting to park, she could see that she had vastly misjudged. Again.

The invitation's “to the nines” clearly translated to miniature humans in all manner of ball gowns and bow ties eagerly rushing toward a bright red carpet flanked by velvet ropes while their mommy chauffeurs yelled at them to watch out for other cars. Matthew was the first one to undo his seat belt, although Maisie actually beat him out the door.

“Do not go inside without me!” Miriam yelled, helpless to do anything but wait for the other cars to move. “Hold hands—it's a parking lot!” But like everyone else in her life, they ignored her and rushed
toward the action. Thankfully a valet materialized to take her Highlander (was that a sneer she detected when she handed him the keys?), and she speed-walked to her children. A man holding a clipboard and wearing a purple crushed-velvet blazer with coordinating velvet slippers beamed at them.

“Well, who do we have here?” he asked.

“Kids, tell the nice man your names,” Miriam prompted, but they were busy watching the other children strolling down the red carpet, turning and posing for a gaggle of what looked like actual paparazzi holding massive flashing cameras and calling out the children's names.

Miriam was suddenly self-conscious about her own outfit, a pair of admittedly not great mom jeans and a lumpy down coat. “Sorry,” she murmured to the doorman. “This is Matthew and Maisie Kagan,” she said.

“Terrific!” the bouncer boomed as he checked their names off his list. “Schuyler will be so happy her classmates are here. I'm Ron, one of Schuyler's dads.”

“Thanks for having us,” Miriam squeaked, trying to hide her surprise that this extremely young and very attractive man was the father of a six-year-old girl.

“And you are?”

“Sorry.” Miriam blushed. “I'm Miriam Kagan. Their, uh, mom.”

“Step right up, kids. Parents' entrance is around the other side. Only kindergarteners get to walk the red carpet.” He motioned toward the start of the walkway, marked with a massive gold-plated frame standing on a three-foot-high easel that read
VIP ENTRANCE
.

Maisie, who was just starting to read, asked, “Mommy, what does ‘vip' mean?”

“Oh, it's another word for ‘kid,' ” she lied.

The father-bouncer gave her a funny look but didn't say anything as he pinned a corsage on Matthew's track jacket and slipped a wrist version onto Maisie's hand. Both children beamed. “Go pose for the cameras now, gorgeous ones!” he told them.

That was all the encouragement they needed. Someone must have fed the “photographers” their names, because they all began shouting, “Matthew, over here! Maisie, show us your outfit!” in such convincing ways that Miriam couldn't help but stare. She wondered if she should pull them out of there—after all, this wasn't the message she was dying to convey to her five-year-olds—but she couldn't for the life of her think of a decent exit strategy. Maybe she'd get lucky and one of them would throw up. Her heart nearly stopped when Maisie, her baby girl, broke into a dance for the cheering paparazzi and the other watching parents. “Show us your moves, Maisie!” one of the women called. On cue, Maisie shook her butt in the same way she did during family dance parties, when Paul would blast “Call Me Maybe” and they would all dance like crazy in their pajamas.
No. No. No.
Miriam wanted to throw her coat over her daughter's head and whisk her away from this insanity.

She didn't wait around for the parents to stare at her daughter. She pushed her way through the parents' entrance and found her children in the “entertainment” area with two attractive twentysomethings.

“Maisie? What a cute name!” one of them was saying. “Would you like me to do your hair and makeup?”

“Yes!” Maisie squealed, although Miriam was nearly certain she had no idea what she was agreeing to.

“She's only five,” Miriam said to the makeup artist, who was plugging in a flat iron.

“Oh, I know. Don't worry, we won't do lashes or anything. Just some lipstick, blush, eye shadow, maybe a touch of tinted moisturizer. Then I think we'll flatten her hair and maybe weave in some tinsel. What color would you like, sweetie?”

“Pink and purple, please.” Maisie looked like she would faint from excitement.

“Tinted moisturizer?” Miriam asked.

The girl looked up at her, frowning. “It's just for fun. Dress-up. But if you don't want me to—”

“Mommy! I want to! Don't say no!”

“Of course not, love. It's just . . . I think you're beautiful exactly the way you are.”

“I want pink and purple in my hair!”

Miriam sighed. “I know. Go ahead.”

The makeup artist gave her an unmistakable look:
Go away, overbearing mother
.

She pulled out an old-school Caboodle filled with more Chanel and Armani cosmetics than they stocked at Bergdorf.

“I'll be right back, sweetie.” Miriam was going to kiss Maisie on the cheek, but the stylist swooped in front of her with a hot iron.

Most of the tables had been removed to make room for an enormous professional-looking stage complete with a sound system and light show. Red velvet curtains hung in swooping drapes from the ceiling and the walls, and another red carpet—this one with gold stars, each with a child's name—wove its way through the main room and up to the stage.

“Miriam!” A woman with wild curls whom Miriam recognized from the sex-toy party stepped in front of her. “It's so good to see you.”

“You too!” Miriam said loudly to compensate for the fact that she couldn't remember the woman's name.

“How
amazing
is this? I mean, what I wouldn't have given to go to something like this when I was a kid. All we ever did for birthday parties were pony rides or Chuck E. Cheese's.”

“This is definitely not Chuck E. Cheese,” Miriam murmured, catching sight of a male dance teacher who was giving the boys dance lessons in the back room. He couldn't have been a day older than twenty-one, and his abs were so defined that Miriam stopped in her tracks and stared.

“Not bad, huh?” whispered another mom beside her.

“Oh my God.” They all stared at the shirtless, spandex-bottomed human Gumby gyrating in front of the boys.

“Yeah, I know. I used to think a birthday party was good if they served adult beverages. Now I'll never be happy again unless there are half-naked man-boys who can move like that.”

“Are these really Justin Timberlake's backup dancers?” Miriam asked, certain she should already know the answer.

“One of Schuyler's dads—not the one by the door, that one over there—is some big executive at Justin's record label.”

“There is no way Matthew is going to agree to dance,” Miriam said with a mother's authority. “He hates dancing. He thinks it's a girl thing. Nothing we say can convince him otherwise.”

As though on cue, Matthew started moving his hips. Slowly at first, and then madly, in every direction. As the teacher added arm movements, so did Matthew. Within a minute, twenty boys were thrusting all over the stage.

A flash of blond hair in the back of the room caught Miriam's eye. Looking like she was trying to disappear, was Ashley.

“Excuse me, I just have to say hi to a friend,” Miriam said. As she got closer, it became obvious Ashley was crying. “Hey, are you okay?” Miriam asked.

Ashley's eyes were bloodshot and mascara streamed down her colorless cheeks. She was so pale that Miriam was certain she'd just received some sort of horrific medical prognosis.

“Oh, honey, come here.” Miriam took her hand and led her friend to a table that was shielded from the dancing boys and the watching parents. She pulled a chair out and Ashley collapsed into it. “What's going on?”

“Oh, Miriam. It's . . . too . . . awful.” Ashley hiccupped. “My kids are never going to recover from this.”

Miriam took Ashley's hands in her own and was shocked by how cold they felt. “Tell me, sweetie.” Miriam squeezed her hands.

“I think Eric is cheating on me. No, scratch that—I know he is.”

Miriam was surprised only by how completely unsurprised she was. She cleared her throat. “Why do you think that?”

“There have been a lot of signs lately. Nothing definitive, but things have just been . . . different.”

“Every marriage has ups and downs.”

“I know, and that's what I kept telling myself. But Eric is totally checked out in the bedroom. It's like he's doing it out of obligation.” Ashley offered a small, bitter laugh. “We're the ones who do it out of obligation, not them!”

“Oh, honey. He could be tired. You said yourself he's been working like crazy.”

“And then there's the trainer. Eric's always been an athlete, so it wasn't that strange. He's always loved team sports. Or running. Not going to the gym. But, like, now he's there every day.”

Miriam's mind flashed to Paul and his newfound interest in working out. Ashley kept talking, though Miriam was quiet. “Do you remember when that whole Ashley Madison hack happened?”

Miriam nodded. She'd known a mom from their preschool in New York who had discovered her husband's account during the hack and had promptly divorced him, taking him for everything he was worth.

“Okay, boys! Let's take it from the top!” the dancer yelled into a headset microphone. “One, two, three, four!” A too-loud rendition of “Can't Stop the Feeling!” blasted from the speaker.

Ashley went on, “I remember reading about it. But it never even occurred to me to check Eric's email address. What was that, like, three years ago? The baby wasn't even born yet! I remember reading all the horror stories of women finding their husbands on it. I felt bad for them, but I was certain Eric would never do something like that.”

“And?” Miriam croaked. She was trying to focus on Ashley, she really was, but it was hard when all she wanted to do was get to a computer.

“I was reading some super-old copy of
Women's Health
at the dentist's office yesterday, and there was an article about what you should do if you find your husband on Ashley Madison. Like, everything from what therapist you could see to which STDs you should get tested for.”

“Okay . . .”

“And I don't know what came over me. I can't explain to you why I did it.” With this, Ashley started bawling again. “But I Googled that
database where you could check someone's email address, and sure enough. He was there—both his work and personal email! Does that mean he has two accounts? Like one account for cheating on your wife isn't enough?”