All You Could Ask For: A Novel (5 page)

I also saw a different side of him, though. I was the only one around with whom he would occasionally let his guard down. He could be very funny. His humor was caustic and sarcastic, which I thought betrayed his insecurity at being the only Brooklyn boy in the most prestigious class in American education. And he loved old movies, as I do. That was where we really bonded. He especially loved Humphrey Bogart; in fact, the only time he was ever goofy was when boarding an airplane. No matter where we were, he would always break into the famous lines from
Casablanca
.

“You’re getting on that plane,” he would say, baring his teeth like Bogart, in a vocal impression that was dead-on. “If you don’t you’ll regret it. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon and for the rest of your life.”

I have always loved that movie, and I loved Phillip madly. It was an Ingrid Bergman kind of love, only I was much too selfish to ever consider sending him away for the good of the Resistance. Let Paris fall and the Germans come marching up Fifth Avenue, I wasn’t letting that man get away. Which is why the way it ended hurt me so, and why to this day I hope to someday see him whacking off a stallion.

They say the best revenge is living well, and I’m not buying that, either. Nobody is living better than I am; I have a duplex on Park Avenue, a driver, a chef, an assistant, and a killer house in South Hampton, and I did it all on my own. But I still haven’t gotten past what happened with Phillip and I doubt I ever will, and I wish to god he was ten times more miserable than I am.

If that sounds bitchy, I guess I don’t really care.

SAMANTHA

FUCK HIM.

With every step I ran, those words were in my head. And they were liberating; those two words freed me from my self-pity. Anger is inspirational. Anger has launched wars, cured diseases, conquered civilizations; it’s not always the most beneficent of emotions but damned if it doesn’t help get things done. And now it was helping me. The anger surged through me and propelled me with each step I took. It helped. And as I ran, I started to remember who I am.

Fuck him.

I’m not a politician’s wife. I’m a jock. I was the captain of the soccer
and
lacrosse teams in high school. I ran three marathons my senior year of college. When I lived in New York I played ultimate frisbee in Central Park every day. I climb rocks and mountains, I ski, I surf. I don’t stand on a makeshift stage in hotel ballrooms, smile blankly, and wave.

Fuck him.

I got a job at MTV Sports after I got out of the Peace Corps and I loved it. I produced shows about extreme athletes, shows that took me all over the country, all over the world. I filmed motocross racers and skydivers and cliff divers and skateboarders. I trekked across an Arizona desert for three weeks, shooting a guy who runs forty miles a day barefoot for fun. I filmed guys climbing mountains on bicycles and fighting crocodiles with their bare hands. And along the way I participated in most of it. I jumped out of an airplane with a parachute, off a mountaintop with a bungee cord, and over a Volkswagen on a motorcycle. I walked on hot coals, collected honey from a swarming hive of bees, and swam with a great white shark. It all seems like it was so long ago, a different lifetime, but it wasn’t. Come to think of it, the swim with the shark was
this
year on
this
island. I’m
still
that girl, I just took a little break from myself.

Fuck him.

The sky was impossibly blue and there was no sign of a cloud anywhere. It was one of those perfect days you only get in Hawaii, that wonderful kind of hot only the islands can provide. As I broke a sweat, my legs settled into a very comfortable gait. I don’t remember ever feeling so loose or so strong. Every step was freeing, every breath invigorating. There was no strain, no fatigue, no pain, just the rhythmic beating of my heart accompanied by the crashing waves on the beach. Overhead, gulls were singing and in the distance a Polynesian song was playing. It was the most peaceful, perfect, beautiful, Zen experience I have ever had. I was fully one with the sky and the sea and the earth. And with every step I took and every beat of my heart, I heard the same words in my head, again and again.

Fuck him.

I haven’t any idea how much time passed as I ran; I would have run forever, but eventually my body needed fuel. I could feel it begin to cry out for water, for food, and I remembered I hadn’t eaten any breakfast at all. The timing was perfect, as I was approaching what appeared to be a gorgeous hotel, so I just ran straight in through the front doors, through the lobby, and found a restaurant out by the swimming pool. I wasn’t even breathing heavily as I asked for a menu. I wanted the healthiest food they had, the healthiest food imaginable. I felt as though I wanted to eat the earth.

“May I have fresh fruit, please,” I asked a very pleasant waiter who came to take my order, “and nuts if you have them, and granola, and lots of cold water.”

“Will this be a room charge?” he asked.

“No, I’m not staying in this hotel.”

He asked where I was staying and I told him, and then I asked how far apart the hotels were.

“I’m not sure exactly, miss,” he said. “I can get the exact distance if you’d like.”

“If it isn’t too much trouble.”

A moment later he was back with the most beautiful plate I’ve ever seen, a huge platter piled high with ripe grapefruit, pineapple, berries, and assorted other explosively colorful treats.

“I asked at the desk,” he told me as I sank my teeth into a mango. “They say it is about eighteen miles from your hotel.”

I finished chewing and looked up at him.

“Excuse me?” I said.

“Eighteen miles,” he repeated. “That’s what they said. How long did it take you to drive here?”

“I didn’t drive,” I said, “I ran.”

“Wow, pretty long run,” he said, “nice way to start the day. Enjoy your lunch.”

Lunch?
I thought.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“Almost noon, miss.”

I had been running for three hours.

“Thank you very much,” I said.

I devoured everything on that platter and loved every bite of it. I ate berries and figs and raisins, almonds and walnuts and macadamia nuts, mango and pineapple and coconut, and I drank a pitcher of ice water, then asked for another and finished that one as well. When I was done, I leaned back in my chair and let the sun bathe my face. I wanted to run some more, or maybe swim. I just needed to digest for a few minutes first. Then the pleasant waiter was back, humming amiably as he cleared the table.

“Would you care for anything else?” he asked.

The sun felt so good on my cheeks.

“Yes,” I said, without opening my eyes. “Are there any rooms available in this hotel?”

BROOKE

I GUESS I DON’T say a lot of things that surprise people.

I’m a mom, and as a mom I guess I mostly say things that people are expecting to hear.

No, Megan, you may not sleep over at Parker’s on a school night.

Yes, Jared, you must finish the asparagus if you want to have a fudgesicle.

I’m also a wife, and I don’t suppose Scott is very often surprised with most of what he hears me say.

Sweetheart, we are having dinner with the Ronsons on Friday. Don’t forget she’s pregnant but you’re not supposed to know.

If we’re going to do it, lock the door, the kids are probably awake.

I also play tennis with a group of girls three times a week, and our conversations aren’t that shocking either, I would say.

I’m seconds away from getting my period.

I swear if she makes one more comment about my colorist I am going to serve the ball directly into the back of her head.

So, I almost never get to see a look of complete surprise on anyone’s face. And, really, there’s something a bit awful about that. I don’t suppose anyone wants to be known as “predictable.” I pride myself on being dependable, but I never want to be predictable, because that feels about a half step away from boring.

Thus, I can honestly say there was something thrilling about the look on Pamela’s face when I said to her: “Next week, I want you to photograph me naked.”

At first she didn’t speak. Then she blushed, and shook her head a bit as if to clear her ears.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “What?”

“I want you to shoot me naked.”

She paused again. “Wait a minute, darling,” she said, “which of us do you mean would be naked?”

And then we were both giggling, in a way I don’t get to giggle very often anymore. We giggled the way Megan and her girlfriends do when I accuse them of having crushes on one of the Jonas Brothers, or on the supercute boy a grade ahead of them, with the curly hair. We giggled like lifelong girlfriends, which actually we are not: I have only known Pamela for four years, since the night I had to keep Scott from punching a woman in the face.

Pamela is a generation older than I, and one of the core friends every woman needs to have. You know what I mean. First, every woman needs a sister, and if she does not have one then she needs a friend who is like a sister: one who cares for your children as though they are her own, and will tell you in the car if you have too much blush on. Then there is the friend who knows everything that is going on, who keeps you up on all the gossip, whether it’s by telling you
Brad and Angelina are really split up this time and she’s engaged to her astrologist,
or
Susan came home and found Richard in the hot tub with Anna Demetrio; apparently, they had bathing suits on but, please, that is beyond inappropriate.
Every woman needs that friend, too. And then, most important, every woman also needs a friend who is like a mother, but one she’ll actually listen to. When my mother tries to tell me I am making a mistake, half the time I go ahead
because
she has questioned me. But every woman needs a friend who will tell you when you are about to go wrong:
Don’t feed your children tilapia, it has too much of the bad Omega-6s and not enough of the good Omega-3s. Don’t stay in that hotel: there is nothing for the kids to do and it’s a twenty-minute walk to the nearest decent restaurant. Don’t try the Metamucil wafers, they don’t make you regular, they make you stuffed and bloated.
That’s a core friend every woman needs.

Pamela is that friend to me. She is older and worldly and provides the perfect sounding-board; I can’t recall ever needing advice and failing to get it from her. She’s also the best photographer in Greenwich, which doesn’t hurt, either. That’s how we came to meet her. We bought her, or we tried to. And then she felt bad that we didn’t and let us have her anyway. I should explain.

It was a fund-raiser at the school, and I told Scott we had to pick one silent-auction item and make sure we won it. He selected a session with Pamela, a renowned photographer, so we’d finally have professional photos of the kids and, as he put it, “a decent-looking holiday card.” All evening long he was staked out at the auction table, quickly raising any bid that topped ours. When there were about thirty minutes remaining, it became clear it was down to Scott and one other man, a pleasant-looking fellow with older kids. I watched Scott and this man go back and forth, raising each other and staring each other down as though they were playing high-stakes poker. (Men can be so funny; they were only raising it $20 each time, but the drama was such that I thought one might eventually slap the other across the face with a white glove.) The final blow was delivered by my husband when it was announced that there was one minute remaining. With a flourish, he took the pen and raised the total by $200. The other fellow looked at the bid, looked at my husband, and nodded his head in a respectful concession. It was over. Scott had won.

Then the announcer began the countdown. “Ladies and gentlemen, the auction will be closed in ten seconds. Nine, eight, seven, six, five . . .”

To my horror, a garish-looking bottle blonde with enormous boobs sauntered up to the bid sheet. She scooped up the pen and wrote something down, just as the announcer reached “one.” Then she walked quickly away, her ass swaying tauntingly in too-tight white jeans.