Joe, it turned out, was a serial philanderer. He loved Alice, or so he said, but he couldn’t resist the charms of a pretty woman, and there were many, many pretty women.
Alice might have been able to ignore it, to pretend it wasn’t happening, to stay in their pretty little cottage in Highfield while Joe spent Monday to Friday in New York City, gallivanting around at all the top restaurants and bars; but then she met Harry, and although nothing happened with Harry until long after she was divorced, it made her realize there was more to life than loneliness, more to life than being an accessory wife.
She had no children with Joe, and there are times when she forgets she was married before, had any life different to the one she has now with Harry, whom she adores.
They are a family, partners and parents, with George and Carly, their six-year-old twins. Even though the stresses of life often get in the way, Alice still goes to bed, every night, snuggled into Harry’s shoulder, and wakes up every morning happy to be next to him, in this bed, with this life.
The income they have comes from Harry’s garden center—he bought out his boss when he retired a few years ago—and Alice’s private catering, but as soon as she came up with the idea for the restaurant, she knew it was right, knew it was exactly what this town needed.
For it was true, Highfield, despite being so close to New York, despite having more than its fair share of sophisticates, did not have a plethora of decent restaurants. Old-fashioned Italian (“Think Chicken Kiev Italian rather than Jamie Oliver Italian,” Harry would say), a few modern Mediterranean places that were fair but over-priced and never changed the menu, and of course the ubiquitous all-American burger joints that were usually filled with kids and people who simply weren’t interested in real food.
“I want something that uses local food, seasonal, preferably organic,” Alice said. “Things we can grow ourselves. I want a place that people can care about, where they know they’ll get great food, fairly priced, but if they just want a cappuccino, that’s fine too.”
“It should be something European,” Harry said. “A true French brasserie.”
“Yes, in the sense that it will serve food all day, but not necessarily French, just ... comfortable. Unpretentious. Somewhere that people can come because of the food, the price and the service.”
“Do you have any idea of the work involved in running a restaurant? ” Harry said.
“Well, no. Do you? ”
“Not really. I mean, I’ve worked as a waiter, but everyone says it’s a killer. You have to be there all the time otherwise everything goes pear-shaped pretty damn quickly.”
“I agree, it’s going to be hard, but wouldn’t it be wonderful? And we’d both be at the garden center, so at least we’d be together.”
“I think we need to do our research,” Harry said. “And take it very slowly.”
Now it’s the most popular place in town, a place where, this evening, Kit, Edie, Tracy and Charlie are sitting comfortably in the corner, refilling their glasses and clearly having a wonderful time.
“Who’s Jed? ” Edie asks Tracy, who is in the middle of a story.
“What? ”
“You just said Jed would do that too.”
“I did? ”
“Yup. Who is he? ”
There is a long pause.
“My first husband,” she says finally. Reluctantly.
“First husband?” Kit and Charlie say in unison. “What first husband? ”
“How many have you had? ”
Tracy flushes. “Only two. I can’t believe I never mentioned Jed before.”
“Neither can we! ” Kit laughs. “I think you’d better start at the beginning.”
Alice comes out of the kitchen and approaches the table to say hello, and Tracy shrieks with delight and stands up to give Alice a big hug.
“You know my friends,” Tracy says, and Alice says hello. She knows Kit and Charlie, has done a few yoga classes with them, but doesn’t know them well, and has never met Edie before.
“You emerged from the kitchen at just the right time,” Charlie says impishly. “We were just about to quiz Tracy on her first husband. We think she may have killed him off.”
“First husband? ” Alice raises an eyebrow. “You mean Richard Stonehill? ”
“Well—”
“That’s what we thought,” Charlie interrupts Tracy who is trying to speak. “But no, it seems there was a mysterious man before Richard Stonehill who is known, simply, as Jed.”
“Jed? Sounds like a biker.” Alice smiles.
“He was, actually,” Tracy says, and sighs. “I was very young, had no idea what I was doing, and married the first man who came along and asked me. He was tall, dark and dangerous, and I thought he was the most exciting man I’d ever met.”
“And was he? ” They lean toward her, intrigued.
“Which? Exciting or dangerous? ”
“Both.”
“Well, yes. He was. It was that crazy whirlwind first-love thing, and it didn’t last, and honestly, I hardly ever even think about him. I can’t imagine why his name would just come into my conversation.”
“Perhaps you’re not quite as over him as you thought? ”
“Oh please. This was years ago. I haven’t heard from him in fifteen years.”
“What happened to him? ”
Tracy shrugs. “I have no idea. I’m sure whatever it is he’s up to no good.”
“Was he up to no good then? ”
“Yes. That was one of the reasons I left.”
Charlie sits back and shakes her head with a grin. “God, you do have a habit of attracting the wrong men. They all seem to have terrible secrets.”
“This wasn’t a terrible secret, nothing as perverse or strange as Richard. Let’s just say honesty wasn’t a priority for him.”
“Oh come on”—it’s Kit’s turn—“you can’t just say something like that and leave us all dying of curiosity. What happened? ”
Tracy looks uncomfortable. “Nothing happened. Okay, well, a small something. He stole some money.”
“From you? ” Kit’s eyes are as big as saucers.
“From me?” Tracy bursts out laughing. “I didn’t have any money. Neither of us did. He was working in a retail store and it turns out he’d been stealing from them. He was accused of grand larceny.”
“God! ” Charlie says. “That’s pretty big. Did you know? ”
“No! Absolutely not. That was the end. There were some other things too, things that had happened before that. We’d gone to see my parents and my mom had phoned afterward and accused us of taking some stuff that was valuable, my grandmother’s silver, things like that, and I screamed at her and told her she was crazy, and how dare she accuse us.”
“But presumably this . . . Jed . . . took it? ” Alice has pulled a chair up to the table and joined them.
“Yes, I guess so, but I never found it. I think he’d sold it pretty soon afterward.”
“Wow! ” Charlie sits up and crosses her arms. “What do you think it was in you that attracted bad men? ”
Tracy laughs. “My therapist in California said horribly low self-esteem.”
“We’ll just have to find you a decent man,” Alice says with a smile.
“She’s already got her eyes on Robert McClore,” Charlie tells Alice.
“Robert McClore the writer? ” Alice is impressed.
“Yes. Robert McClore the writer, who’s also my boss, which is just a tiny bit embarrassing.”
“Not embarrassing at all.” Tracy nudges Kit and says, “Just think, if Robert McClore and I get married we’ll see each other every day! Think how much fun it will be.”
“Okay, this is a little much for me,” Kit says, wondering just what it is that is making her so uncomfortable. Tracy is joking, after all, and even if she isn’t joking about being attracted to Robert, why exactly is it so unsettling?
“Never mind about Tracy,” Edie pipes up, “how about Miss Kit her
e? She could do with a decent man herself.”
“You’re single? ” Alice has seen Kit, but never had a conversation with her, knows little about her.
“Divorced. Two children.”
“I’ll keep my eyes open,” Alice says. “Although most of the men I meet these days tend to be Mexican gardeners. Cute, though. Interested? ”
“My Spanish isn’t up to par,” Kit says. “But thanks for thinking of me.”
“Hey,” Alice says suddenly. “Isn’t Robert McClore about sixty-five? Isn’t that a little old for you? ”
“What can I say?” Tracy shrugs with a smile. “I’ve always been into older men, and as Edie will tell you, sixty-five is positively a baby.”
Charlie gets home to find the house unusually quiet. It’s not often she is in the house by herself these days, but with Keith away, the kids at sleepovers, and Amanda being out, it is a rare treat.
Not that she’s going to take advantage of it. What would she do, in the house by herself, that she wouldn’t otherwise do? Dance naked in the living room? Scream at the top of her lungs on top of the kitchen table just to feel what it would be like?
She does what she always does. Gathers the children’s shoes and sweatshirts, which are strewn all over the hallway. This infuriates her because not only does she tell the children, repeatedly, to put their shoes in the mudroom and hang their sweatshirts on the hooks, she also tells Amanda, repeatedly, to pick up after the children before she goes out, and to make sure everything goes back in its place.
She sighs out loud as she passes the TV room and sees Em-ma’s Polly Pocket dolls and clothes all over the floor, kernels of popcorn scattered among them. Damn. Another thing she has told Amanda repeatedly. No food in the TV room. Why does she sometimes feel she is talking to no one at all?
What is the point of giving instructions when no one listens to her? And much as she adores Amanda, she has noticed a change: in the early days, when she asked Amanda to do something, or requested something be done differently, Amanda would just do it, no questions asked.
Recently, she has jumped on the defense. Charlie feels that instead of accepting things, Amanda argues with her all the time. Or blames the children. When Amanda is supposed to be the adult.
But that, of course, is the problem with having an au pair. Or a former au pair who calls herself a nanny because she is no longer with Cultural Care, or Au Pair in America, or whichever program it was that brought her over here, except she is still only twenty years old, and is therefore far more like another teenage daughter, and certainly not a nanny in the sense that Mary Pop-pins is a nanny.
Charlie hates that she has become one of those women who sits with her girlfriends and complains about the nanny, but then again, she never thought she’d be one of those women who has a nanny.
And now that Emma is four, it’s not really as if she needs one. Sure, Charlie has her flower business, but that’s easily handled while the children are in school. The real reason they have a nanny is that Keith decided that if all the other wealthy Wall Street wives had nannies, then they must have one too, but Charlie didn’t need much convincing.
It has made her life so much easier, allows her to do what she wants, when she wants to. It means that she can do a bit of impromptu shopping: on her way to pick up Paige, she may spot a sale in her favorite store in town, and can ring Amanda and ask her to collect Paige instead.
And really, isn’t it a small price to pay, that she doesn’t always pick up, or clean up, or put petrol in the car? And maybe, just maybe, the nanny will come home tomorrow and realize that Charlie was the one who cleared everything up, and maybe she’ll feel so guilty she’ll make sure it never happens again.
Chapter Six
“It’sme.”
“Hi, you,” Kit says, her stock response to women who phone up and say, it’s me, who would doubtless be upset should she respond, as she is often tempted to, “Which me? ” Although, in truth, these days the me tends to be Charlie, or, more frequently now, Tracy.
Today it’s Tracy.
“So this guy comes in this morning and signs up for the yoga class at five, and he’s adorable, and you have to get your ass over here this afternoon.”
“Thanks for thinking of me, but he’s probably married with five children.”
“No! We chatted. He’s just moved to town, he’s single, and he doesn’t know anyone.”
“Then he’s gay.”
Tracy laughs. “He’s definitely not gay.”
“So if he’s that cute, how come you’re not interested? ”
“Trust me, I would be, but I’ve already told you, I’m into older men and this guy must be late thirties, early forties. Not nearly mature enough for me. But I promise you, he is as cute as can be, and I want you to promise me you’ll be in the class.”
“Five? ”
“Yup.”
“Okay. Let me see if Edie can take Buckley.”
“And wear those lilac yoga pants and the matching vest.”
“Why? You don’t think I look gorgeous in one of Adam’s old oversized faded T-shirts? ”
“I think you look gorgeous in anything, but honey, if you want the guys to notice you, you have to show your wares off to their best advantage, and no one’s going to be able to see anything under one of those huge T-shirts you love.”
“Okay, okay. Point taken. I’ll even do my hair.”
“Good girl. I’ll see you later.”
“Damn,” Kit hisses under her breath as she riffles through her yoga drawer. Where the hell is that lilac outfit? She could have sworn she saw it in here the other day.
One word comes to mind.
Tory.
Damn.
When Tory was little, it was adorable how she’d come into her closet and play dress up with her clothes, telling her mom she couldn’t wait until she was big enough to actually borrow them and wear them properly, and Kit had laughed, knowing that day was very far away.
Except now it seems that day has come. Tory is only thirteen, but their shoe size is exactly the same, and no matter what shoes Kit buys for her, no matter how cool the clothes—Abercrombie is all the rage—the only things she is desperate to wear are in Kit’s wardrobe, and the more Kit likes them, the better.
Kit’s favorite J.Crew flip-flops with the embroidered whales on them? The ones that were sparkling white and navy? Now they are filthy dirty, Tory having taken them, without asking, and worn them to a baseball match, getting them covered with dust and dirt.
Her pink cashmere pashmina that cost a fortune, that she wore to a wedding a few summers ago and hasn’t had occasion to wear since? Disappeared, Tory swearing blind she hadn’t seen it and hadn’t taken it, only for Kit to find it, damp and crumpled, under a mountain of dirty clothes in the back of Tory’s wardrobe.
Half the time Tory will lie and tell Kit, all wide-eyed and innocent, that she found the clothes in her own closet, as if a) that were true, and b) the fact that they are in her closet means they are automatically hers.
If Tory treated her clothes well, asked before taking them, put them back in the closet, Kit would have no issue with lending her things, but she can’t stand this attitude of entitlement, this what’s yours is mine, and I’m going to treat everything of yours just as horribly as I treat my own things.
It was funny when Tory was six. Anything sparkly or bright—hair clips, nail polish, makeup—would disappear from Kit’s drawers and reappear in Tory’s. Kit and Adam would laugh about how precocious their daughter was, coming down for breakfast with NARS blush on her cheeks and Lancôme Juicy gloss thickly slicked on her lips.
Although heaven forbid Buckley gets his hands on anything of Tory’s. Heaven forbid Buckley even enters Tory’s room without permission. The screaming that ensues is quite unlike anything Kit has ever heard.
But the missing lilac yoga pants? There’s only one place they can be, and by the time Kit has turned Tory’s room upside down, finding two sweaters, three pa
irs of shoes, one pair of pants and four scarves that belong to Kit, she is positively fuming.
The bus pulls up at the end of the driveway, and Kit storms out of the front door. Buckley, seeing his mother in a rage, adjusts his facial expression from one of delight at coming home to his mom to one of nervous anticipation. Tory shuffles toward the house, kicking up stray stones on the road, clad in none other than Kit’s lilac yoga pants.
“Get those off right this second,” Kit says, trying hard to keep her voice calm.
“What? ”
“You know what. Those are my pants. How many times have I told you not to take my things without asking? I’ve been looking for them all day, and I cannot believe you had the nerve to just help yourself.”
“Oh relax.” Tory shoves past her mother and starts heading up the stairs. “I don’t even like them that much.”
“Don’t you dare walk away from me,” Kit yells, starting up behind Tory, who runs into her room, slamming the door. “That’s it. No more clothes. I’m not buying you anything else this summer.”
“I don’t care,” Tory shrieks. “Daddy will buy me stuff anyway, and he spends much more money than you. I wish I lived with him! I hate you! ”
“You spoiled little brat.” Kit can’t help herself; but Tory undoubtedly knew that her words were like a red rag to a bull. “How dare you! I work my ass off to try and buy you nice things, to give you what you need, and this is how you repay me? By acting like one of those bratty spoiled girls you hang out with, who snap their fingers and get whatever they want? That’s it. I’m canceling the Jonas Brothers tickets.”
“Nooooooooooooooo! ” comes a wail from behind the bedroom door. “You can’t do that.”
“Oh no? Watch me. When you’re rude to me, young lady, there is a consequence, and this, I’m afraid, is the consequence.”
“But how am I going to tell Paige? ” The wail becomes louder. “You can’t do this to me.”