Guilty Wives (2 page)

JUST OVER THIRTY
minutes after leaving Bern’s airport, the jet touched down on the tarmac in Nice so smoothly it felt like we’d landed in butter. Or maybe it was the Champagne, already numbing my senses, coloring everything wonderful. Wonderful is what I had been promised. Wonderful is what all of us, for different reasons, needed. We needed to bathe ourselves in luxury. We needed a four-day dream.

“I am officially on vacation!” I announced to the group, taking the last swallow of my Champagne.

“It’s about bloody time, love!” Winnie reached across the aisle and grabbed my arm.

Serena, seated across from me in the small cabin, raised her empty glass and tossed her long blond hair. “
Bonjour,
Monte Carlo. And that, my friends, is the limit of my French.”

“Don’t forget
Chardonnay
and
Merlot,
” I added.

“Touché,” she said.

“See, your vocabulary’s getting better by the second.”

I looked around at my friends. How did I get so lucky? Serena Schofield, the Amazon blonde—a former U.S. Olympic skier who placed fifth in the downhill at Lillehammer. Bryah Gordon, born in Johannesburg under the oppression of apartheid, the youngest of our clan at thirty-one and the smartest by far, our resident encyclopedia on topics large and trivial, a beauty in her own right with flawless coffee-colored skin and kinky African hair cropped at her chin. And Winnie Brookes, of course, the exotic Brit, the Diva, we called her, as breathtaking as any runway model working today, who, most of the time, seemed utterly oblivious to her beauty.

Then there was me. Abbie Elliot. What these interesting and gorgeous women were doing with me was anyone’s guess. For all the complaints I had about leaving the States and moving to Switzerland, all I had to do was look around at these women to find a silver lining.

“I think for the rest of this trip, I’m going to speak with a British accent.” I turned to Winnie. “Bloody good show, love,” I tried, doing my best Monty Python imitation.

“And I’m going to be an American,” she replied. “Hey, how ya doin’? You got any countries we can invade?”

We got off the private jet—thank you, Serena—bathed in the rays of a welcoming, lowering sun. An SUV drove us to the area of the Côte d’Azur Airport marked
PRIVATE AVIATION
, where our bags were waiting for us inside.

“Do we have a car?” Winnie asked.

“A car? Cars are so pedestrian,
dahling,
” said Serena in her best Zsa Zsa voice, with a wink at all of us. None of us was poor by any stretch of the imagination, but Serena lapped us several times over. To know her, you’d have no idea how rich she was. She was as sweet and down-to-earth as anyone I knew. But this weekend would be different. She had money, and she clearly planned on spending it.

We followed Serena through a door that led out to a large landing pad—and a large, sleek, silver-and-gray helicopter.

“Serena, really!” said Bryah, with maybe a hint of nervousness. Bryah didn’t get out much. Her husband, Colton, was what you might call controlling if you were being polite. If you weren’t being polite, you might call him something else. The long and short of it was, Bryah had never been on a girls’ weekend like this.

“Why drive when we can fly?” Serena ran over to the helicopter and climbed in. I couldn’t believe it—but then again, I could. Money was no object, and Serena wanted us to live a fantasy for four days.

“You couldn’t find anything bigger?” I asked.

Once we were belted in, the helicopter lifted quickly, causing a minor rebellion in my stomach. But soon we were soaring over Monaco, and nothing else mattered but the sloping hills of the French Riviera, the blue expanse of the Mediterranean, dotted with yachts and sailboats heading back to port for the evening, and the pink-green sky, against which the sun was beginning its descent toward the horizon.

“Did you know that Monaco is the second smallest country in the world?” Bryah asked.

“Fascinating,” said Winnie. She and I made eye contact, suppressing smiles.

“Bryah, honey,” I said, patting her leg, “we’re going to have fun. Don’t be nervous.”

A mere seven minutes later, we were landing on a helipad by the beach. We unstrapped our restraints and waited for the pilot to open the door.

“Wait,” said Serena. She reached into her bag and removed three overstuffed envelopes, handing one to each of us. I opened mine and found a thick wad of euros.

“What is this?” Winnie asked.

“That’s fifty thousand euros each,” she said. “Gamble with it. Shop. Do whatever you want. Just promise me you’ll spend it.”

“Can I buy a car?” I asked. “A small island?”

“How about a movie star?” Winnie asked. “Think I can rent Brad Pitt for the weekend?”

“
Brad Pitt?
Too old, Win,” I said. “One of those younger boys. Zac Efron, maybe.”

“You want an athlete,” Serena suggested. “David Beckham. Rafa Nadal.”

“Rafa, maybe,” Win agreed.

We looked over at Bryah, who had remained silent. She considered the money, looked at Serena, and allowed a wry smile to play on her face. “You could get into a spot of trouble with this bit of money,” she said.

We all looked at each other, giddy and slightly intoxicated, relaxed and eager, and broke into laughter. Outside the window of the helicopter was Monte Carlo, the playground of the rich and famous. We were all stifled in our own way, mothers and wives living in our adoptive Swiss city, and these four days would be our chance to escape. To live someone else’s life.

“Bryah,” I said, “I think that’s the idea.”

IT WAS ONLY
minutes before we were at the entrance of the Hôtel Métropole. It was near dusk and it looked like the light had been turned down on a dimmer switch. The air was warm and thick. Porters in gray jackets and hats took our bags and cheerily greeted us, first in German—mistaking the heritage of the blond Serena—and then in English.

The hotel was fabulous. We walked through an ivy-covered granite archway that made me feel as though someone should be trumpeting our arrival. The patterned stone path was lined with candles in ornate glass holders, potted Japanese plants, and tall, manicured pine trees that probably had a fancy name but looked like anorexic specimens to me. The hotel loomed before us, basking in the low light. The next thing I knew, I had a Champagne glass in my hand and the bubbles were tickling my nose as I drank and walked. Someone from the hotel was explaining about a recent remodeling, someone named Jacques Garcia, and I nodded importantly and said, “I love his work,” even though I had no freakin’ idea who he was. Winnie was sashaying in front of the pack, singing something and waving her arms, probably attracting the attention of all the male porters in her tight green sundress.

“So exciting!” Serena hugged me close and we clinked glasses.

The large, airy lobby smelled and looked like money, from the checkered tile floor to the skylight to the elaborate lamps hanging from the ceiling—picture candelabra covered with tents—to the guests, the men in tuxedos and many-thousand-dollar suits, the women in evening gowns and pearls.

“I could learn to like this,” I said.

“Schofield,” said Serena to the man at reception.

The man hit a few keys and said, “Simon?”

“Simon?”
The three of us said it in unison to Serena. Simon was her husband. Think: rich and dull. Nice enough, I guess, though I never saw the connection between those two.

Regardless, the point was that we were escaping this weekend. Four days, just for us—meaning no husbands. That meant something different to each of us, I thought, but something nonetheless.

“Buzz kill,” Winnie sang.

Serena laughed. “His assistant booked it for us. Force of habit, putting Simon’s name down.”

“I can’t wait to see this room,” said Bryah.

“Forget the room.” Serena clapped her hands together. “We’re going to the casino. I feel lucky!”

“Forget the room?”
Again, the three of us, almost in unison. We overruled her. We wanted to see this suite we’d heard so much about.

“Wow,” I said, as though it were a two-syllable word. The presidential suite, a double penthouse. They called it the Carré d’Or. It sounded like a perfume. It looked like a palace. Fresh roses everywhere. Complimentary Champagne and macaroons. Expensive artwork. A view of half of Monte Carlo. As I may have mentioned, I could learn to like this.

I didn’t come from money and I didn’t have any to speak of, by which I mean that Jeffrey and I were perfectly comfortable—but we had no summer villas, no private jets. And no complaints, either, by the way. Still, it differentiated me from the others. Winnie had grown up with money in London. Bryah and Serena had married into it. They’d probably seen penthouses like this one before, though the way they scattered like cockroaches to explore it, maybe this was above even their typical expense level.

It was the most opulent thing I’d ever seen. The lounge area, probably suitable for a helicopter landing, was all dark parquet with rich gold and maroon accents. The floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the Mediterranean and a terrace that called out to me. First, I took a peek into a bathroom—marble and sandstone, a delicious ivory-colored tub, a shower big enough for a small family—“Yes, that will do,” I decided.

Then I looked into one of the bedrooms, the front one, twice the size of mine in Bern, the walls decorated in flowers and light shades of green and opening to reveal a dressing area and table on one side. I directed the bellman to drop my and Winnie’s bags here; we’d be sharing this front bedroom, while Serena and Bryah would share the back one.

Then to the terrace. Winnie was already out there, cutting quite a figure as she looked out over the Monte Carlo Casino, the Mediterranean, and the pink sky beyond. The breeze carried her dark hair off her back.

“This terrace, alone, is bigger than my first apartment in Georgetown,” I said. “Twice the size.”

“I know, mate. It’s just lovely.” Winnie turned and opened her arms, as though she were showcasing herself. “Hello, Monte Carlo!” she said.

Serena popped her head into the room. “Get dressed, ladies,” she said. “We’re going gambling.”

LE GRAND CASINO’S
exterior displayed the triumphant, ornate architecture of royalty, a palace of gold. We passed a number of sleek foreign cars parked at the entrance and showed our passports at the door. (Citizens of Monaco, Bryah informed us, were forbidden from gambling in the casino.)

The atrium was adorned in gold; it had marble columns and sculptures in glass enclosures, and the double-height ceiling was open to the second floor. It felt like we were at the opera, not a casino. (The person who designed this casino, Bryah explained, also designed the Paris Opéra. We had to get some liquor in her fast.)

We paid our way into a private gambling room that had frescoed ceilings, lavish molding, and sculptures and paintings everywhere. The attire was jacket and tie for the men, gowns and cocktail dresses for the ladies. All of us except Bryah were wearing black cocktail dresses—Serena’s and Winnie’s were strapless. Bryah, on the other hand, opted for something gold and more conservative.

Bryah always covered up more than the rest of us. I thought I knew why.

Anyway. We were among Monte Carlo’s elite, the world’s elite—movie stars and athletes and speculators and Fortune 500 CEOs, wagering staggering sums of money, most for the pure sport of it.

“Roulette,” said Serena. “You can’t come to Monte Carlo and not play European roulette.”

This was something I knew. I didn’t gamble much, but when I did, it was always roulette.

The European roulette wheel had thirty-seven individual pockets, numbered zero through 36. Half the numbers were red and half were black. The bettor simply had to guess in which space the bouncing ball would stop. You placed your bets on a board. You could bet on individual numbers; on a block of two or four numbers; on the first twelve, second twelve, or third twelve; on numbers 1 through 18 or 19 through 36; on an odd number or even; on a black number or red. The payout varied with the degree of risk. Winning on an individual number obviously had the biggest payout, thirty-five to one, whereas betting that a number would be red, for example, was only a two-to-one payout because you had a fifty-fifty chance.

Serena took a seat and put down fifty thousand euros, which drew the attention of the other three players and a small crowd behind them. Each of the players—an Indian in a tuxedo, a heavyset Italian with a beard and ponytail, and a young woman who appeared to be American—looked at Serena, trying to place her. A movie star? An heiress?

“She’s an international drug smuggler,” I told the woman with the Italian, a bleached blonde with a long, curvy body.

The croupier—the dealer—gave Serena fifty yellow chips, each chip representing a thousand euros. Serena placed five of them on the number 5, her finish in the downhill in the Winter Olympics.

A straight bet. A bad bet. Terrible odds. The Indian bet reds. The Italian took 1 through 18. The American placed a corner bet, centering her chip at the intersection of squares 31, 32, 34, and 35.

The croupier spun the roulette wheel clockwise and said, “No more bets.” He dropped the ball into the wheel in the opposite direction of the spin. The ball bounced against the tide as the wheel spun, finally landing in the pocket for 19.

“Nineteen, red,” said the croupier. The Indian doubled his money. Everyone else lost. Serena lost five thousand euros—roughly six thousand American dollars. That was a trimester of boarding school in New England for one of my kids.

“Place an outside bet,” I said to her. “Bet a column, or odds or evens or a color.”

“Bor-ing.” Serena put another five chips on 5.

“You have less than a three percent chance of winning,” said Bryah.

“Oh, let her play. Best of British, Serena!” Winnie said.

“No more bets,” said the croupier.

Our drinks arrived. Cosmopolitans for each of us. To me, the vodka tasted better than the Champagne. The bubbly goes to my brain too quickly.

“Eleven, black.” Good news for everyone but Serena.

“You can’t keep putting five thousand down on a single number,” I said.

“You’re right.” Serena winked at me. She put ten chips down on the 5.

“No more bets.”

Serena raised her glass to me in a toast.

“Twenty-two, black.”

Serena put another five down on 5.

“No more bets.” The ball tripped and danced around, ultimately settling in the pocket numbered 6.

“Six, black.”

“I’m getting closer,” said Serena. I’m sure that was great consolation after having lost twenty-five thousand euros in the space of ten minutes.

The Italian put two chips down on square 5 as well and smiled at her, his eyebrows dancing. But then he put five chips on reds to cover his stupid inside bet.

“No more bets.” The croupier did his thing and the small ball did its little jig.

“Thirty-four, red.”

A crowd had begun to gather behind our table. The blond American, throwing money away on thirty-seven-to-one odds, dropping five thousand euros a pop on the number 5.

Soon, Serena had depleted her fifty thousand euros and laid out another fifty for the croupier. People behind us mumbled. I doubt it was flattering talk.

This was classic Serena, always seeking a competition, always sizing herself up against others, never shrinking from a dare. This, I knew, was what she wanted from this weekend, something wild and risky.

I stood behind her. Winnie was talking with a tall man who looked Spanish. Bryah was on her next Cosmo and lightening up, now cheering Serena on instead of explaining the crappy odds to her.

“Sticking with five, then,” I said, my hand on her shoulder. It was her money. Who was I to tell her what to do?

“Sticking with five.” Serena reached back and patted my hand.

It didn’t get any better for her.

“Seventeen, black.”

“Twenty-four, black.”

“Seven, red.”

People began to applaud with each bet Serena placed. I didn’t know if it was encouragement or ridicule, but she had drawn quite a crowd.

“You think I’m crazy.” Serena looked back at me.

I bent down and kissed her cheek. “I think you’re wonderful.”

“Love you, sweetie.” She was down to her last ten chips, her last ten thousand euros. She put five down on 5.

“Fourteen, red.”

The crowd reacted with audible disappointment. I’d been wrong. They admired her spirit, if not her strategy. They were doing the same thing we were doing on this trip, living vicariously through others, watching this woman take wild risks.

Down to her last five chips. “Do I change?” she asked me.

“Do you believe in it?”

She paused. “I believe in us.”

I leaned down to her. “Then bet on us. The four of us.”

“Madame?” the croupier asked.

Serena looked at me and smiled. She bet her last five chips.

On the number 4.

Another audible reaction behind me. What was she doing? Why change now?

The roulette wheel spun. “No more bets.” The ball danced one last time for us.

The crowd went up in a roar.

“Four, black,” said the croupier.