“Ah yes. Assistant to the famous author. I’d forgotten. Do you like it?”
“I love it. Why?”
“No . . . I—I just see you as something more than an assistant.”
Kit sits up, startled. “It’s not demeaning. It’s wonderful. I love it. What do you mean?”
“Oh God, not that it’s demeaning. I didn’t mean that at all. I just meant I saw you as running your own business. I don’t know . . . something that’s all yours.”
Kit smiles. “Funny, I always wanted to own a clothes store.”
“You did?”
“I know. Weird. Especially since I’m not exactly the fashion queen, but I always saw myself as having this great little independent store, with inexpensive comfortable chic clothing, and a great bunch of loyal customers. I had visions of a cappuccino machine in the corner, and building a community of wonderful people.”
“I think it’s a great dream. Maybe you should start thinking about how to turn that dream into a reality.”
“Now? I don’t think anyone’s able to turn business dreams into a reality in these times. Tracy’s trying to open another branch, and I think she’s having a horrible time raising money.”
“Tracy?”
“Who runs Namaste? You know. She’s always in the front. Tall gorgeous blonde? Don’t tell me you don’t remember her. She’s the one who told me about you!”
“Of course.” He smiles and draws her closer to kiss her. “Isn’t she dating someone?”
Kit laughs. “You’ve obviously been listening to too much yoga center gossip. She’s kind of seeing my boss, I think. I’ve barely seen her. I don’t know what’s going on but it feels like she’s avoiding me. Which is awful.”
“That’s rough. I’m sorry,” Steve says. “You should sit her down and talk to her, tell her how you feel. So much of the time these tiny things blow up into something huge because people just don’t know how to communicate. Tell her. I bet she has no idea you feel she’s avoiding you.”
Kit smiles gratefully. “You’re so right. Thank you.”
“Listen, if I don’t see you tomorrow, if this work thing takes over—which it might—will you come on Saturday? Your neighbor Edie has already phoned to confirm that I’m in for tennis,” he says, and groans. “Will you come and cheer me on?”
“I’m so sorry. Of course I’ll come and cheer you on. I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Kit says, then covers his face with kisses.
Chapter Twenty
Charlie pretends to be busy with the children, so intensely focused on them that she doesn’t have time to look at her husband. A distracted good-bye with no eye contact being about the best she can manage these days.
Her resentment is huge. How could he have let them get to this stage? How could he have pulled the wool so firmly not just over the eyes of everyone they know but, far more worrying, over her eyes, his own wife’s?
For there had been times over the years, so many times, when she had asked him if they could afford it.
“Can we really afford this house?” Her eyes, she recalled, had been large when they had first seen it, when Keith had been so determined to make an offer. It had been the biggest house of any she knew, a fairy tale, a house that would instantly make her the envy of all their peers.
“Of course we can,” Keith said, explaining about leveraging and interest rates, and how their money, put to use elsewhere, was working harder; and she didn’t think to ask what money, because Keith was, after all, a banker. He was supposed to know about such things.
“I make more money than ninety-nine percent of this country,” he would say, defensively, if she ever questioned how his salary, while substantial, could possibly be enough to carry their ever more elaborate lifestyle.
“I’m on track for a million-dollar bonus,” he would say, to allay her fears, and then come up with an excuse when the cash bonus never materialized, and what he got instead was almost entirely in company stock. The stock that is worth nothing today.
“You should have a Range Rover,” he said, indulgently, a couple of years ago, standing in the Land Rover showroom and riffling through the papers, waiting to sign the lease. “It’s what you deserve.”
And because Keith always said they could afford it, she believed him; and because he always said they had the money, she continued to spend. And now that he says there is nothing left, she is filled with nothing but burning resentment.
There is nothing left.
The bank has agreed to the deal. Which only means that they will accept a sale price of less than the mortgage. In this market, it means nothing. The only houses still selling in Highfield are the ones by the beach, or overlooking the harbor, with water views.
And even those aren’t selling like they used to. In the old days, you couldn’t buy at the beach, for love nor money. The houses tended to sell off-market, and if they ever did hit the open market they would be gone in days to the highest sealed bid. Now, even the beach area is littered with For Sale signs.
The realtor came yesterday, with a list of directions about what Charlie has to do in order to expedite the sale of the house. She has to clear out the basement, tidy up the clutter, apply a fresh coat of paint in the playroom where Emma has been overenthusiastic with the finger paints.
“It’s adorable,” the realtor said, “but someone coming in may not find it quite so lovely. We want it clean and fresh so they can put their stamp on it.”
“Do you think it will sell?”
“At this price? One point eight? Under normal circumstances it would be snapped up, but . . . these aren’t normal circumstances. Still, I think it will move. Particularly when you have an identical house on the street at one point nine, and this has a better yard. Even now, even in these times, people still need to move, and there’s a huge relocation starting, a company from Boston relocating to Norwalk, and a lot of their employees are liking Highfield because of the school systems. Are you sure you don’t want to put it on for higher? I think you can afford to give it a few weeks at two, or even two point one, before dropping the price.”
That’s just it, Charlie thought. We can’t afford it.
She is now waiting for the photographer to arrive. The listing has already gone up on the Web site, with the old exterior shot from when they bought the house. Which means the word will be out, because the wealthy Highfield housewife knows everything about the real-estate market, spends Sundays popping into open houses, knows all about who’s moving, why and where, as soon as it happens.
She can hear the game of telephone now. “Do you know Charlie Warren has her house on the market?” “But they just finished decorating!” “They must be in trouble!” “And you know their nanny, Amanda, is looking for a job—they had to let her go!” “Isn’t it awful?” It is, but they are excited at the gossip, and relieved it isn’t them.
Keith spoke to his parents yesterday. She is speaking to hers today. She still doesn’t know what to do, only that something has to be done.
Going to her parents, whom she adores, means New Jersey. Leaving everything she knows, everything she has built here, and she just doesn’t think she has the energy to start again, not to mention traumatizing the children even more.
Keith’s parents live in Highfield. The children could stay in their drama classes, their Little League teams, they could keep their friends, particularly Paige, who, at thirteen, may never recover from being pulled out of her life if they moved to New Jersey.
And yet staying in Highfield would mean having to deal with everyone knowing, being the center of the gossip, walking into rooms full of people in the certain knowledge that she is the reason for the sudden hush.
How is it possible to go from having everything, to suddenly having nothing? These last few days, more and more has emerged. They were, indeed, living the American Dream, but a dream created by smoke and mirrors, created by the people willing to lend them money, far more than they could afford, far more than they had a rig
ht to expect, merely because Keith worked in finance so the potential for gold seemed endless.
Almost nothing they have is theirs. The house is owned by the bank, the cars are leased. The stock is worth nothing, and so they are left with possessions.
Charlie has been making lists. The Persian rugs in the family room—the antique, signed Persian rugs that they bought for seventy-five thousand dollars, thinking they were a steal because they bought them with valuations of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars—might be worth, she guesses, fifteen thousand each. If they are lucky.
For who is buying rugs in a market such as this?
The baby grand piano, a William Knabe that cost ten thousand to restore, might be worth—what? Five? Ten? Certainly not the thirty to forty thousand the restorer had said they could expect when they had the work done three years ago.
Her clothes. Her jewels. The huge diamond studs that cost so much, yet would resell for so little.
This morning she went onto eBay, but not, as she has done so many times before, to scout out a bargain, to look for a piece of furniture for the living room, an antique desk, a Swedish table, but to list items to sell.
She is being methodical because it is keeping her calm. Making lists, keeping herself busy, is stopping her from breaking down and screaming.
This morning, the New York Times had an article listing wealthy towns that were suffering. Highfield was close to the top of the list. Stores, upmarket designer stores, were receiving countless checks that were bouncing, from people the stores assumed had more money than God.
It should be some consolation that Charlie isn’t alone, but it isn’t. Just keep moving, she tells herself. One foot in front of the other. But right now, while she’s moving, she can’t forgive Keith, can’t do anything other than sit at the kitchen table once the kids have gone to bed and ask him, coldly, what else she needs to know.
He has cried, confessed his idiocy, says he didn’t know how to tell her things were going wrong, didn’t want to hurt her, was trying to protect her, but Charlie is not swayed by his tears.
And then he jumped on the defensive, again. This wasn’t his fault. The world was collapsing around them, thousands of families were in the same boat, how was he supposed to know this would happen? Nobody could have predicted this. Nobody.
“You weren’t supposed to know this would happen, but you were supposed to have been more sensible. You were supposed to have taken out a mortgage we could afford. Jesus. I didn’t even know about the home equity loan. What the hell was that all about?”
“We needed the money, and you did know. You signed it.”
“Of course I signed it. I signed everything you put in front of me, telling me this was a wise financial move. You know I’m hopeless with money, I don’t understand it. I trusted you to take care of it.”
“You never stopped me.” Keith felt resentment too, and fear at having to shoulder this burden alone. “You could have read it, but you were never interested. Every time I tried to sit down with you and talk about money, you shut down.”
“Oh I see. So it’s my fault? Great. Thanks a lot.”
He is a banker. He was supposed to invest their money wisely. Isn’t diversification the name of the game? Hell, even Charlie knows about diversification, and she’s just about the worst person with money she’s ever known.
As Keith is now pointing out.
He is sleeping in the spare room. And she is making lists. Wandering round the house at night, scribbling guesstimates of their furniture. Sitting in her closet, wondering what designer consignments will get, and whether she can talk them into taking fifteen percent rather than their usual forty.
Nothing they have is really worth anything. Not in the grand scheme of things. Keith isn’t working, and thinks it’s unlikely he will find another job for a while, and Charlie’s business is fun, but doesn’t even begin to fund their lifestyle, not to mention that flowers are a luxury that people can now ill afford.
If they are lucky, they may be able to scrabble together a hundred thousand from selling their possessions. A hundred thousand, which will last them a while, once their children are out of school.
Oh God. Highfield Academy. There is always the possibility of financial aid. With a huge swallow, Charlie picks up the phone and dials the familiar number of the academy.
“Hi, this is Charlie Warren. I’d like to make an appointment to see the headmaster.”
Tracy tries telling Kit she doesn’t have time to meet them, but Charlie arrives and won’t take no for an answer.
“We miss you and we’re not accepting no.” Charlie plants herself in front of the desk in Tracy’s office and refuses to move. “You’re coming upstairs to the smoothie bar even if we have to drag you ourselves.”
“You wouldn’t.”
Charlie puts her hands on her hips. “Try me.”
“Okay, okay!” Tracy throws her hands up in submission. “I’m coming.”
Kit glances at Charlie, who shrugs, for although Tracy is coming, there is little joy in her voice, and little energy in her step as she trudges up the stairs in front of them.
“So what’s going on?” Charlie goes first. “We’re worried about you.”
“Worried about me? I’m fine. Why are you worried about me?”
“Because you’ve barely spoken to me since that night we went out for dinner with Alice and Harry, and Kit says you’ve barely spoken to her, and we’re worried about you.”
Kit reaches over and places a gentle hand on her arm. “We love you, Tracy. That’s why we’re here. We’re your friends, and if there’s something bad happening in your life, we want to help.”
“Let me tell you, there are bad things happening in my life, and right now I’m looking for all the help I can get; and as embarrassed as I am, I’m not afraid to accept it.” Charlie swallows. “And you shouldn’t be either.”
Tracy is aghast. “What kind of things?”
“Let’s just say the current financial crisis is affecting me deeply.”
“How deeply?”
Charlie shrugs, as if it is something inconsequential. “There’s nothing left. That’s why Keith was so antsy when you were asking him for money. Turns out—tada!—we haven’t got any.”
“Are you serious? ”
“I wish to God I was joking, but no. Sadly, I am serious.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Sell the house, sell everything I have, pull the kids out of the private schools unless they agree to grant us financial aid, and either move in with my parents in New Jersey, or, God forbid, although it’s looking more likely, move in with Keith’s parents here in Highfield.”
“But you hate Keith’s parents,” Kit says.
“I know. Everything else I can just about deal with but that may push me over the edge.”
Tracy merely sits, looking at her openmouthed. “Oh my God,” she says, tears welling up in her eyes. “I am so sorry. I had no idea.”
“It’s only money.” Charlie feigns an insouciance she doesn’t feel, scared that if she reveals her true fears, she will start crying and will never be able to stop.
“Oh Charlie,” she says. “I’ve been so selfish.”
“No, you haven’t. I’m fine. And anyway, we’re not here to talk about me, we’re here to talk about you. What’s going on with you?”
“I’ve just been working hard.” Tracy recovers her composure. “The holiday season is starting and it seems to be a crazy time of year. I just haven’t stopped, but I realize I’ve been a really bad friend. I’m sorry.” She looks first at Charlie then at Kit.
“So you really are okay?” Kit asks, dubiously, for Charlie was right: Tracy does look pretty terrible, and that’s definitely a black eye.
“This?” Tracy touches her eye. “A rogue closet door in my house, can you stand it? Everyone thinks I’ve been secretly beaten up by someone.”
“Robert McClore?” Charlie raises an eyebrow.
&nb
sp; “Probably.”
“So, how are things with you and Robert?”
“What things? We just . . . had dinner.”
“Oh right,” Charlie splutters. “He could barely take his eyes off you.”
“Well, he’s a wonderful man. Really interesting. But Kit knows that.”
“It’s true.” Kit still feels weird, still feels that Tracy is hiding something.
“Speaking of wonderful men,” Tracy deflects the subject smoothly, “are you still seeing that good-looking guy who came in here?”
“Steve?” Kit grins. “I guess you could say that. Well, I did see quite a lot more than I expected to last night.”
“Oh my God!” Charlie’s eyes widen. “Do you mean to say you lost your post-divorce virginity last night and you didn’t even tell us?”
“We had other things to talk about.”
“Listen, girlfriend. When it comes to sex with a new man, there is nothing else to talk about. Hell, the way things are going with Keith and me right now, I might be on the market myself shortly, so you’re going to have to tell us everything.”
“Everything like what?”
“Like was it totally weird, being with someone other than Adam?”
Kit shrugs, not sure how much to say. “It was weird, but it was lovely. It’s like, when you’re married, you completely forget what that feeling of true lust is like after a while. And let me tell you, he does have a body worth lusting after.”
“So you actually did sleep with him?” Tracy is transfixed.
“I did! Can you believe it? Me, Miss Goody Two-shoes, who has only had two lovers her entire life, and now I know what it’s like to be a slut!” Kit laughs.
“Hardly a slut with three lovers,” Charlie points out.
“But you’re surprised, aren’t you?” Kit says gleefully. “I know you guys think I’m prissy. You never expected me to jump into bed with him.”
“You’re right. I didn’t,” Charlie says.
“Me neither. Listen, guys”—Tracy looks at her watch, then stands—“I’d love to stay and chat, and I’m so glad we had a bit of time together, but I have a really big phone call coming in soon from some potential investors, and I have to prepare.”