When Life Gives You Lululemons (24 page)

Miriam was thankful for the loud music, because Ashley's sobs had turned into wails, and she seemed entirely unconcerned about who heard her.

“I remember when that whole thing happened, and—”

Ashley cut her off. “And Fairfield County, Connecticut, had, like, the most registered users per square mile of anywhere in the U.S., I think.”

“Some men were just curious what all the fuss was about. They'd go on to check it out but never actually contact anyone on it.”

Ashley turned her tearstained face to Miriam's. “Well, not my husband. I left the dentist's office without even getting my checkup and went straight home. I dug out the old credit card bills, which I never, ever look at because it makes me sick to see how much money we spend every month, and there it was, plain as day. The random numbers-and-letters combination that the article tells you to look for on your billing statement. It's totally innocuous if you don't know what it is, but if you type it into Google, you can see that it's a cover for Ashley Madison billing. I counted thirty-eight months of billing. You think it was just fleeting curiosity?”

Miriam looked down at her hands.

“Miriam, what do I
do
?”

“Well, first I think you need to figure out what
you
want. What is the best possible outcome for
you
in this situation.”

“A
divorce
?” This word Ashley whispered, like “cancer.” “You think I should get a divorce?”

“No! Unless you want to. I didn't say either way. Just that it might be good to do a little thinking about what you want before you talk to Eric about it.”

“Ohmigod, what if
he
wants a divorce?”

Miriam didn't want to point out that the entire purpose of Ashley Madison was for married adults to have affairs with other married adults, working under the assumption that neither wanted to implode his or her marriage.

“You can't know until you talk to him, sweetheart. I'm sure there's going to be—”

“Mommy! I have to go potty!” Ashley's son called out from the stage.

Ashley wiped the tears and makeup from under her eyes. “Am I a mess? Can I even be seen in public?”

“You're okay. You might want to hit the ladies' room just to touch up,” Miriam said.

Ashley offered a hand to her son and helped him down off the stage. Miriam watched and tried to swallow a near-overwhelming wave of nausea. Was it possible? Until the move to Greenwich, she had never once in all their years of marriage seriously considered the possibility that Paul might cheat. But how could she deny that Paul sounded just like Eric? The preoccupation with working out, the lack of sex, the newfound interest in hanging out with douchey guys, like Ashley's husband . . .

Of course. Paul was cheating on her. Maybe it wasn't Ashley Madison—she desperately hoped he wasn't
that
stupid—but it was someone. It had to be.

“Mommy? Mommy!” Matthew called from the stage.

Miriam's head snapped up, but she still couldn't focus.

“MOMMY!”

She jumped. “What, love? I'm right here.”

“Watch me!”

Like a happy zombie, Miriam grinned through a choreographed and highly inappropriate dance show featuring her five-year-old son's pelvis thrusts and watched her sweet, innocent daughter, who had been transformed into something straight out of
Toddlers & Tiaras
, practice her “fashion walk” down the red carpet. At the end of the party, Miriam
even said thank you and managed to seem genuine, instead of horrified, when the children got their party favors: for Maisie, a thoroughly bedazzled, personalized tote bag stocked full of lotions that smelled of cake batter and vanilla and makeup laced with glitter; and for Matthew, a biker-style pleather jacket signed across the back by Justin Timberlake in silver fabric marker. At her twins' last birthday party, Miriam had handed out cellophane bags full of M&M's and had felt like Pinterest Mom of the Year because she'd tied them with personalized ribbons that read:
THANK YOU FOR CELEBRATING WITH US! LOVE, M&M.

“Mommy, that was so much fun!” Maisie said as Miriam buckled her into the car seat. “I am going to wear my new makeup every day.”

“No, sweetie, it's for dress-up. We don't wear makeup outside of the house.”

Maisie burst into tears. “It's not fair! It's mine! I decide!”

“Mommy's the boss, not you,” Matthew said from his seat.

Miriam tipped the valet and eased the car onto the road.

“Mommy! Maisie said a bad word! She called me buttface!”

“Maisie.”

“I did not, Mama! He is lying!” Maisie screeched.

With this, Matthew started to cry. “I am not!” he wept. “You never believe me!”

“So did you both have fun at the party?” Miriam asked. The twins recounted their favorite activities, and Miriam's mind wandered.
Did that really happen? Who are these people?

As Miriam drove home, she felt a mounting chill of fear. Had they made a mistake by moving to Greenwich and exposing their kids to this lifestyle? Should she have left her job? Were she and Paul drifting? Could he possibly be having an affair? When was the last time she'd made him a coffee the way he liked it, with the milk steamed instead of just dumped in cold? Or taken the time to make her specialty turkey chili that he loved even though the kids wouldn't touch it because it was too spicy? When had she put on lingerie instead of an oversize cotton T-shirt? It was no wonder he was cheating. He'd be crazy if he weren't.

These thoughts occupied her the entire ride home, but it took turning onto her road to confirm, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that she was right. Standing in the driveway, side by side, not seeming to notice the cold drizzle, were her husband and son. Ben was jumping up and down, waving his hands like a maniac. And there it was—a red Maserati convertible, all sleek lines and shiny new paint. The dealer's temporary plates still on. And it was all Miriam could do not to crash her big, ugly SUV straight into her husband and his brand-new car.

“I
t's only a hundred extra per day to upgrade. It's a no-brainer,” Emily said, her back pressed against the red car.

The three of them stood in the executive line at the National Car Rental in McCarran airport. They'd just stepped off a Virgin America flight—where Emily, unsurprisingly, had booked all three of them in first class—and had been debating whether to drive a Ford Explorer (Miriam's vote), an Audi sedan with a nice sunroof (Karolina's), or the BMW convertible that Emily had been hawking as if her life depended on it.

“We're going to be driving five hours through the desert. Anything could happen. A convertible isn't safe,” Miriam announced, sounding very momlike.

“Isn't safe how, exactly?” Emily asked.

“Isn't it obvious? If the car flips over, there's no top to protect us. We'd be crushed.”

Emily rolled her eyes. “When was the last time you flipped your car?”

Miriam rolled hers right back. “I'm just saying. Nobody rents a convertible for a five-hour drive through the desert.”

Karolina held up her hand. “It's like neither of you remembers that I'm headed to ‘rehab'! The A4 is a good compromise, and I'm paying, so no more arguing. Come on, guys, let's get going.” They gathered their rolling suitcases and carry-on totes, but a minute before they made it to the car, a young couple tossed their lone bag into the trunk, swooped into the front seat, and roared out of the garage without a word.

“They knew we wanted that one!” Miriam cried, reaching after them.

“Sign from God that we were meant to have the convertible,” Emily said, popping the BMW's trunk. “Not a ton of room, I admit, but we'll make it work.”

“And get melanoma,” Miriam murmured.

“Have you heard of this amazing thing called sunscreen? It's so cool! You rub a little on your face and you don't get sunburned. And guess what? I have some right here in my bag!”

Miriam glared at Emily but climbed into the backseat. “When we're picking bugs out of our teeth and our hair is wrapped in knots and our scalps are burnt and we've lost our voices from screaming to be heard over the wind, I'm going to say I told you so.”

Emily gave Miriam the finger, and despite herself Karolina smiled, realizing she had never taken a road trip with friends in her life. Karolina had been modeling by age fourteen. She and Graham had traveled extensively—it was one of the things they both loved—but Graham had always balked at renting cars in foreign countries. Flying all over the world was a different kind of adventure, but still, how was it possible that in thirty-seven years she'd never taken a proper road trip?

Karolina slid behind the wheel and, once they hit I-15, set the cruise control for eighty-five. They flew down the open road in the midmorning
March sun. When they passed the Vegas Strip, Emily cracked them all up with a highly detailed description of her newest business idea, which involved selling tours for men to travel to Vegas with their friends, where they'd get a group discount on vasectomies, after which they'd recover in a luxe hotel room while strippers iced their balls.

“Oh my God. It's brilliant,” Miriam screeched from the backseat. “Not only is it an easy sell for the husbands, but you don't have to take care of them afterward. You are definitely onto something.”

“You haven't even heard the best part. We offer a two-for-one rate and call it the Vegasectomy. I think it's going to be a massive hit.”

Karolina wanted to laugh with them, but she couldn't ignore the queasy anxiety and uncertainty that seemed to plague her all day, every day. Not that it stopped her from eating like a whale for the first time in her life. Hours later, when they were all so starving that the only possible thing to eat besides gas-station snacks were giant, oozing McDonald's sundaes that they ordered from the drive-through, Karolina inhaled hers. “I can't believe I just ate dairy,” she moaned, clutching her stomach.

“You didn't!” Emily said. “It's all chemicals. No milk whatsoever.”

Just after dark they arrived at Amangiri and were met by the general manager, Emily's “old friend.” He promised them complete discretion.

“I chose our most private accommodations,” he said after leading them outside and swinging open glass doors to reveal a suite that looked like it had been carved from a single slab of gray cement. A huge sitting area in the middle featured all-white divans and chairs facing the desert. A small bonfire roared on their porch. The private lap pool glittered like an oasis from the sand, flanked on all sides by mountain ridges. White lounge chairs and white umbrellas with perfectly folded white towels. The master bedroom had a king-size platform bed and a bathroom with a double-rain indoor-outdoor shower and an oversize tub looking out floor-to-ceiling windows.

“You can have this suite,” Emily announced. “Miriam and I will
take the double next door. You'll need all that extra space and solitude to focus on your sobriety.”

Miriam and Emily went to their room to get ready for dinner, but Karolina changed into a swimsuit and lowered herself into the lap pool, which felt more like a hot tub. Almost immediately, her phone rang with a 212 area code. She took a deep breath. She was ready. Emily had told her exactly what to say.

“Hello? This is Karolina Hartwell.”

“Karolina?” The voice on the other end was young and female and sounded surprised. The woman probably never expected to have her call answered.

“Yes.”

“This is Susanna Willensky from the
New York Post
. Is it true you've left Greenwich and are giving up visitation rights to your son?”

Karolina inhaled. She'd been prepared for the rehab question, but the accusation of abandoning Harry? That wasn't supposed to be part of the equation.

“Ma'am?” The woman was insistent.

“I haven't and won't give up visitation. Nothing could be further from the truth.”

“And the rehab? For a problem with alcohol? After your arrest? Is it fair to say you're seeking treatment?”

Karolina paused to make sure she remembered Emily's exact wording. It was important to be precise—not lying but not telling the whole truth either. “I have taken some time to travel out west to clear my head. I think the fresh air and the change of scenery are what I need right now.”

“Out west? Can you elaborate?”

“No, I'm afraid that's not possible.” Emily had been insistent on those two words: “not possible.” It implied that Karolina would happily share her location if only there weren't strict confidentiality rules regarding her stay (in rehab). There was no way any remotely intelligent reporter could hear that and not bet her entire life savings that Karolina
was checked in to the ultra-luxe treatment center in Montana that was part high-end dude ranch and part luxury hotel.

“I see. Anything else you'd like to add about—”

“Thank you, that's all the time I have now.” Karolina pressed “end” and was relieved it was over. Emily would be pleased.

  •  •  •  

“W
ould you ladies like to join us in the desert lounge?” asked Tim, the waiter. “A local astronomer will be giving a stargazing demonstration.”

Karolina looked around the table.

“There will be a s'mores workshop as well. Dark chocolate, milk, Reese's, peppermint—”

“I think we can stop by for a few minutes.” Emily smiled sweetly. As he walked away, she gazed after him. “If this joint weren't charging five grand a night for a room, I might think they were running a male whorehouse.”

Miriam laughed. “He's a child, Emily! Like, twenty, maybe.”