Edie walks in, spying Annabel. “Oh good. I thought for a moment ‘we’ meant that man you’ve been seeing.”
“You’re seeing someone? You didn’t say anything! Aha! It’s that handsome man from yesterday morning—I forgot all about him.”
“We’ve kind of had a lot of ground to cover,” Kit says, laughing. “Annabel, this is Edie. Edie, this is Annabel. My sister.”
“Your sister? I thought you were an only child.”
“Long story,” they both say in unison, breaking into peals of identical laughter.
Charlie stops short as she walks in the front door, her face tear-stained, her eyes bloodshot and puffy.
“Who’s here? ” she whispers. “Oh God, it’s like Grand Central Station. I didn’t know you had people over.”
“It’s not people. It’s just Edie, and Annabel, my long-lost sister who I didn’t know existed before yesterday.”
“Are you serious? ”
“Completely.”
“Oh God, Kit. I’m so sorry. You should have told me. I don’t want to intrude.”
“You’re not intruding. I can send Edie home and Annabel can go upstairs. We can talk for as long as you want.”
“Don’t send Edie home. Perhaps she’ll have some words of wisdom for me. And . . . Annabel? That’s fine. She can stay. I feel like I need all the support I can get right now.”
“Do you want a glass of wine? ”
“Do you have any vodka? ”
“Go in and sit down. I’ll see what I can find.”
“Well, young lady,” Edie says, pushing her glasses back firmly on her nose. “It sounds like you are going to be making some changes in your life, but that is not necessarily a bad thing. I am far older and wiser than you, and I have found that what feels like a hardship at the time usually contains some wonderful lessons, and many that you are all the better for learning.”
“But I’m losing my home,” Charlie says plaintively. “Everything we’ve worked for. And I’m so embarrassed.” She groans. “We’re going to be the people everyone talks about. Everyone’s going to be whispering about us. It’s the most humiliating thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“Nonsense.” Edie’s voice is sharp. “It’s only humiliating if you allow it to be. Look at this one over here—” She gestures to Kit. “She lived in a big house with all the bells and whistles, and now she lives here, and it hasn’t done her any harm.”
“But that’s different. Kit chose it. She didn’t have her life pulled out from under her feet.”
“It doesn’t matter. The end result is the same: we learn to accept what is given us, and move forward with grace. If you’re worried about what your friends will think, I’d suggest you look at who you’re calling a friend. Kit, would you judge Charlie because her husband has lost his job, would you gossip about her with anyone? ”
“No! ”
“Exactly. This might be the time when you find yourself re-evaluating your friendships. Anyone who chooses to whisper about you, or spreads rumors, isn’t that good a friend, I should say.”
There is silence, as Charlie contemplates her friends. It is true, her friends would never say anything bad about her; but it isn’t her friends she is worried about. It is the women in the Highfield League of Young Ladies, the women at the charity galas and events she attends so frequently, although, at an average of $250 per person, per ticket, it looks like she won’t be continuing to attend.
It is the mothers at Highfield Academy, whose smiles and highlights, diamonds and designer handbags are testament to their happiness at all being members of the same exclusive club.
Then again, the school fees are thirty thousand dollars a year. Although Emma’s preschool fee is the bargain basement price of just under ten. And that doesn’t take into account the horse riding lessons, the Hunt Club fees, the piano lessons, the ballet, the everything else that contributes toward the cost of raising what is considered to be a well-rounded child on Connecticut’s Gold Coast.
None of which they can afford anymore. Oh God. The children. Awful for her, but how will the children react? How will they feel, having to leave Highfield Academy, all their friends, the private schools. The lessons will have to stop, the $125 AG “kids” jeans for Emma, the weekly mani/pedis for Paige.
Her friends won’t judge her, but it isn’t her friends she is worried about. It’s everybody else. How will she ever be able to hold her head high in this town again?
Chapter Seventeen
Adam lies in bed in his boxer shorts, one arm behind his head, one arm holding the remote control, endlessly flicking up and down the channels.
Eventually, he settles on MSNBC, but he’s restless tonight, can’t focus on what Rachel Maddow has to say, so gets up after a while, goes downstairs and pours himself a hefty Scotch.
He is bothered by this evening. Bothered by Annabel. Bothered because he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Couldn’t help but imagine what she would look like naked, on all fours in front of him, whispering encouragement as he drove himself into her.
Oh fuck. This he doesn’t need. This is his ex-wife’s sister. This is definitely not going to happen.
So why can’t he stop thinking about her?
Until Adam and Kit were separated, Adam hadn’t realized quite how much he had missed sex.
As a young man, he remembered his friends joking about how married people never had sex, but he knew that wouldn’t happen with him and Kit, their sex life, after all, was the one area in their marriage that was always explosive.
But it had changed. Almost overnight. As soon as Tory was born. Kit just wasn’t interested anymore. At first she said she was too tired, that all she could think about when she crawled into bed was sleep, that it was to be expected with a newborn.
The newborn became a toddler. Who became a child. And still, they never seemed to recover their intimacy; or rather, Kit never seemed to recover her libido. Three, four, five times a week became, swiftly, once, and then not even that.
He hadn’t changed. Kit may have been exhausted, or uninterested, but his needs were the same as ever, so what was he supposed to do? He would wake up early and masturbate quietly in the shower, so as not to disturb Kit, desperate for some relief, but, even more, desperate for some affection, some intimacy.
He had been tempted, but only peripherally. Adam was not a man who would be unfaithful, of this he was sure. He was simply a man who wanted more sex with his wife, who couldn’t understand why she wasn’t able to give it to him.
Every night was the same. He would lie in bed, watching television, listening to Kit getting undressed in the bathroom. Sometimes he would remember the early days, when she bought frothy, silly underwear from Victoria’s Secret, underwear he would peel off with his teeth.
Now, or at least during those last few years, she wore an unattractive shade of greige. Nude, he thinks it is called. Flesh-colored bras and panties, not a hint of lace or frill or sensuality.
She would walk into the bedroom, face freshly scrubbed, in a long, brushed-flannel nightgown, equally unsexy, climb into bed with a book, and sit back against the pillows, asking him to turn the volume down.
He would reach out, stroke her thigh, and she would give him an affectionate smile, pick his hand up, kiss it, and place it firmly back on his side of the bed.
Occasionally, he was persistent and, occasionally, it paid off. But he always felt she was doing him a favor, fulfilling her duty, her conjugal rights.
It wasn’t that she didn’t like sex, she would say. She loved it once they started; it was just that she could never be bothered. She has a theory, she would say, that women are genetically engineered to be voracious in order to get their man, genetically engineered to have a high libido in order to procreate, then, once the children are born, their libidos are genetically engineered to shrink to nothing.
He supposed it might be true, yet couldn’t help but feel rejected. He didn’t just want sex, he needed sex. In the s
ame way that he needed to use the bathroom, and eat, and sleep, he needed to have sex. And he needed to have it with his wife.
When they first separated, he was numb with shock. It lasted for months, and he threw himself into his work, the only bright spots being the times he spent with his children.
He knew how far he and Kit had drifted apart, but somehow he never thought it would end, never realized just how unhappy she was. He knew, on some level, she hated who they had to be for his job, but she always did it, dressed up, hosted dinner parties, kept a beautiful home, and he thought they were just words.
Once the shock wore off, he realized that this was now his life: the farmhouse by the railway station, empty every night when he came home; the lone trips to Whole Foods in an attempt to keep his fridge stocked, although most of the time he would eat out, unless the kids were with him, and then he would try to create a stable home, would attempt to cook simple meals—chicken, mac and cheese, pasta.
No wife waiting to greet him, making him dinner, no kids to kiss good-bye when he left them, still fast asleep, to catch the “death train” in the morning. No dinners out at good restaurants in town, no charity galas with Keith and Charlie, no . . . fun.
It was as if the fun had been sucked out of his life, without his permission, in one fell swoop.
Six months passed, and he found himself at a work dinner. His team had taken a table at a charity benefit, and some clients were coming. Adam found himself sitting next to Elysse, a single girl, who made it quite clear, quite early on, that she was interested.
Later on, after copious amounts of alcohol, he went back to Elysse’s apartment, stunned at how easy this was, stunned that the modern woman would fuck him on the night of meeting him, then wave him off without even giving him her phone number.
It was a wake-up call. He worked, and had the ability to socialize, in a city where the women outnumbered the men to such an extent that there was never any shortage of interested parties. Everywhere he went, he suddenly realized, he saw gorgeous women with not-so-gorgeous men, and if they could do it, well he, in his early forties and still in great shape, could certainly do it too.
It was as if he was a child let loose in a candy store. Never had he known women so forward, so direct, so willing. And adventurous! Those years of sporadic, vanilla sex with Kit disappeared as he indulged every fantasy he had ever had.
His work colleagues would tease him about his voracious appetite, but after all those years of being in the desert, he deserved a little fun. He was, he realizes now, more than a little manic, although a couple of divorced men he knew said they went through the same thing.
“Got to get it out of your system,” one said, slapping him on the back approvingly. “And God knows we deserve it after the wives we had.”
Now, finally, he has got it out of his system. He has a peace that he hadn’t enjoyed for a long time, and is starting to actually date, rather than just take women out for dinner in order to have sex with them later.
He has been seeing a girl in the city for a few weeks. She is cute, but she doesn’t really do it for him, doesn’t really turn him on.
Not in the way that Annabel has turned him on, in the space of just—what? An hour?
Oh God, he groans, please let me forget about her. And downing his Scotch in one gulp, he trudges up the quiet stairs, back to bed.
“You look happy.” Robert McClore eyes Kit as she comes into his study to say good morning.
“I am,” she says. “It’s been an extraordinary weekend.”
“Oh yes? ”
She is tempted to tell him the story, but won’t, for two reasons. The first is that she is well aware of the number of people who offer to tell Robert their stories: “You should write a book about it,” they say. “Have I got some stories for you! ” Robert always smiles, and listens graciously, but as he’s said to Kit many a time, the stories he tells are his own. Not those of other people.
And the second reason is that telling him about Annabel would be a transgression somehow. She likes the fact that she and Robert are not friends, that they are able to chat and there is a comfort between them, but neither of them shares the intimate details of their own life.
Although now, given Tracy’s burgeoning friendship with him, it is starting to feel a little awkward.
“Just . . . life,” she explains with a smile. “But good.”
“Excellent,” he says. “And getting better, I suspect. Something arrived for you.”
“For me? Here? ”
“Yes. It’s on your desk.”
Kit leaves and goes into her own office, and on her desk is a huge bouquet of creamy white roses. She gasps, in delight, and pulls out the card.
Thinking of you, and hoping your weekend went well. I’d love to rearrange . . .
Steve
Steve. So much has happened in such a short space of time, she has forgotten about Steve entirely, forgotten that just days ago she was planning to seduce him, but that was before she discovered her sister, before her life changed immeasurably.
A warm glow spreads through her as she sits down in the chair and studies the note. How lovely. And how long has it been since anyone has thought to send her flowers?
She picks up the phone and calls Charlie.
“I am sitting at my desk with the most beautiful bouquet of roses that you clearly made for me, from Steve.”
“I’m so glad you like them! He asked me if I knew your favorites.”
“How did he even know to call you? ”
“He asked Tracy if she knew of any good florists.”
“Well, they’re beautiful. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. He sounds sexy.”
“I haven’t even thought about him, it’s been so crazy these last few days. But I’m thinking about him now.” Kit laughs, then recovers quickly. “But you. How are you? How are you feeling today? ”
“Terrible.” Charlie sighs. “And Keith’s a mess. He seems to be paralyzed with fear, so not only am I working and running the floral business, I’m now also trying desperately to salvage whatever’s left.”
“There is something left, then? ”
“No. Not really. But I’ve left messages with the bank. I’ve heard that banks will consider doing deals, writing off some of the loan if you can just get the house sold. To be honest, Kit, I’m just trying to avoid a foreclosure. I realize we’re walking away with nothing and I don’t know what the hell we’re going to do, but to have our credit destroyed will make it all so much worse.”
“I wish there was something I could do.”
“Me too. Right now I’m just making phone calls and praying to God. Not necessarily in that order.”
“Do the kids know? ”
“No. I don’t want to tell them anything until I have to.”
“But . . . if there really is nothing left, where will you go? ”
“We’ll have to move in with my parents, I guess. Or Keith’s, although, to be honest, I’d rather stick needles in my eyes. But what choice do we have? I’ll have to give up my own business, because I can’t afford a space, so I’ll have to find a job, and so will Keith.”
“But . . . your parents are in New Jersey.” Kit gasps. “You’d leave Highfield? ”
“Not unless we have to, but, Kit, right now there doesn’t seem to be a choice, and I’m just grateful my parents are still around and there’d be room for us.”
“Oh Jesus, Charlie,” Kit says. “It’s just awful.”
“I know. I feel like everyone knows, too.”
“But they don’t. How can they? ”
“The financial world is very small. Everyone knows everyone. Someone already asked me, at yoga, if everything was okay because they’d heard Keith’s company was in trouble.”
“That doesn’t mean they know anything.”
“I guess. You know what else was weird? ”
“What? ”
“Tracy. I don’t know whether this was becau
se Keith was obviously not interested in investing in her business idea, but she was really weird with me today.”
“Really? Weird, how? ”
“Just . . . off. I tried asking her about Robert and what was going on, and, I swear, she just cut me off. Also, she had a black eye.”
“What? How did she get a black eye? ”
“She said she walked into a closet door when she was going to the bathroom in the middle of the night.”
“Have you ever walked into a closet door, at nighttime or any other time? ”
“No.”
“Me neither. Did you think she was telling the truth? ”
“No. It totally felt like she was hiding something.”
“But what? How the hell could she have gotten a black eye? You’re right. That is weird.”
“Damn. That’s my other line. Listen, Kit, promise me you won’t say anything to anyone about our financial stuff.”
“Of course! I wouldn’t ever do that.”
“I know. Thank you, sweetie. I love you and I’ll talk to you later. Gotta go.”
Charlie clicks over to the other line. “Hello? ”
“Charlie? It’s Alice.” Her clipped English accent is unmistakable.
“Hi! How are you? ”
“I’m fine, thank you. How are you? ”
“Okay.”
“Listen, I hope this isn’t inappropriate to call you, but I was wondering what your take is on Saturday night.”
“What do you mean? ”
“Just . . . I don’t know. Harry and I were talking afterward and we just thought it was, well, a little uncomfortable. Look, the restaurant is doing okay. Not great, not like it was a few months ago, but good enough. We’re very lucky, but everybody is suffering somewhat in these terrible times, and it seemed bizarre that she would think any of us would be in a position to give her what sounded like a rather vast amount of money.”
“I agree, it was a bit odd.”
“And more than that, she seemed resentful when none of us said yes absolutely. I just felt there was a strange energy from her, and it made me slightly uncomfortable. I don’t want to get into gossip, but Harry and I won’t be investing, and I have no idea what you and Keith are thinking, and I so hope I’m not overstepping the mark here, but I wanted to say that I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”