The One That Got Away (32 page)

Everyone was quiet, thinking. Then Sunita asked, “Should we just deny it was Abbey? Say the video was faked? Photoshopped or something?”

I rolled my eyes at this one but remained silent.

“No,” said Frank, sighing. Then he looked out the window and down at his watch. “But it’s noon already. Polls close in nine hours. Maybe we do
nothing
. Just let the clock run out and hope for the best.”

That was it. I couldn’t hold my tongue any longer.

“You can’t,” I muttered, shaking my head.

Frank heard and swung around. “What was that?”

His tone was patronizing and sarcastic, but I continued. “I said, you can’t ‘do nothing.’ Not with something like this.”

“Abbey, with all due respect, let us handle this.”

“I’m just saying that if you ignore this, it will only escalate,” I argued. “I mean, that’s why they’re called ‘viral videos.’ Unchecked,
they spread and spread, taking on a life of their own. And then what was gossip starts looking like the truth. And if the mainstream press then picks up on it…”

Frank’s cheeks turned the color of red wine and his eyes bulged. He looked like he was about to explode. And he did, letting loose a full campaign’s worth of disdain for Abigail van Holt: “I don’t tell you what color to paint your nails or where to eat lunch, so I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t try to tell me how to do my job. Especially after all the trouble you caused.”

I couldn’t believe he was speaking to me like this in front of my husband, or that Alex was letting him. But Alex seemed not to hear, lost in thought.

“Alex,” said Frank, trying to get his attention. “Alex!”

“Yes?”

“Let’s cancel the photo op of you guys voting. It’s our only option. We’ll avoid the press at all costs and pretend this never happened.”

The car pulled up outside the apartment. Frank hopped out and held the door, signaling me to leave. I scrambled out of the car and onto the sidewalk.

But just before the car door closed completely, Alex pushed it back open. “Abbey, wait.”

“Yes?”

“If we can’t ignore it, what should we do?”

I stood up straight and looked him in the eye.

“Face it,” I said. “Head-on.”

After much debate, we decided the best place to confront the issue of the video was at the Holy Trinity Church voting station, where Alex and I were scheduled to cast our votes—and where we knew there’d be at least some media in attendance for the obligatory
“candidate smiles, waves, and votes for himself” photo op. Normally, these standard photo ops were done first thing in the morning, but the morning’s rain had washed out Kelly Drive and backed up the Schuylkill Expressway so badly, the press had asked us and the other candidates to postpone until noon. Frank had agreed, but only with the promise of definite air time. In just this one instance, this morning’s rainstorm had worked in our favor.

So it was just Alex and me who crossed Rittenhouse Square and trotted up the wide steps of the church, me struggling to keep up with his long-legged stride. He hadn’t looked at me since our conversation in the Suburban, and he gripped my hand a little too tight. But—ever the gentleman—he held the heavy wooden front door for me, as well as the metal door that would lead us to the basement polling station. I figured he was either saving his full ire for later—or pushing it down deep in his gut, where it could fester for days. Maybe months.

We walked down a red-carpeted hallway with gray stone walls and the occasional purple banner, so regal compared with Father Fergie’s scuffed linoleum and painted cinder blocks. We were greeted by volunteers, excited to meet the candidate himself, and then led into the fellowship hall that housed the voting booths. As we walked in, we forced wide smiles, as if we were the two happiest people on the planet.

Inside the voting room we were met by a phalanx of reporters, and if there had been any question about whether the press had seen the YouTube video, this dispelled it. Usually this sort of staged photo op would warrant only a camera or two, and even then, the local affiliates’ B teams. But today, I saw many of the city’s most recognizable faces, including reporters from all four news stations, both the
Inquirer
and the
Daily News
, and our local news radio station. There were also some faces I didn’t know—bloggers, most likely.

It didn’t feel good to be proven right. I made a mental note to never read another gossip magazine again.

Still, I was glad I had coached Alex to fight this. Not just to defend my honor, but to stop this sordid snowball before it gathered even more speed. If Frank had gotten his way, and we had ignored it, who knew what kind of rumors would be circulating now? Next thing I knew, they’d be saying I was leaving Alex for Jimmy. And pregnant with his baby.

And whatever happened, at least this way we wouldn’t go down without a fight.

When it was our turn to vote, Alex let me go first. I wanted to stay behind that flimsy blue curtain forever, but I pushed the button for an all-party ticket, hit the “Cast Your Ballot” button, and exited the booth. A moment later, when Alex emerged, he grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the waiting crowd. The reporters stepped closer as well, hoisting television cameras, opening notebooks, and thrusting microphones under our chins.

I could feel my neck getting blotchy with nerves. Sitting on your own couch in your own apartment talking to an on-the-make CNN reporter was one thing. But confronting a wall of Philadelphia media as they jostled one another for space, their expressions aggressive and accusatory, was terrifying. Luckily, Alex took charge.

“Wow. All of you came just to watch Abbey and me push a button? We’re honored, really.”

A few polite chuckles. He was following the script exactly as I’d coached:
Open with a joke. Use my first name. Don’t mention the video directly, but also make light of it, as if it is so ridiculous, it’s not worth anyone’s time. In short, defuse it before anyone even gets the chance to lob a question.

Alex continued: “It’s been a long journey to get to today. Lots of ups and downs. But nothing, and I mean nothing, will stop
me—stop us—from what we set out to do. And that’s get to Washington to fight for Philadelphia families.”

The strategy worked. The
Daily News
asked Alex what he thought his chances were. WPVI-TV’s newest cub reporter pitched him a softball about the economy. And a graying old veteran from the
Inquirer
, who had been reporting for the paper long before “viral videos” became news—long before the Internet, even—asked about an upcoming tax reform proposal in the House. Alex fielded these easily and then started to make motions toward the exit. My hopes soared, and I was beginning to think we might escape without any direct questions, when someone yelled, “Just one more!” from the back.

The group stepped to either side, exposing the culprit. It was Jeremiah Lehane, a gossip blogger whose ThePhilth.com site was our local version of TMZ.

He smiled creepily from beneath his dirty black baseball cap and looked squarely at me: “Been to any good bars lately, Mrs. van Holt?”

I felt the color drain from my face and my throat go dry. Also, Alex’s hand tightened on my own. Though whether in anger or solidarity I couldn’t tell.

“I know what you’re referring to, and it’s ridiculous,” interjected Alex, trying to remain calm. “You are trying to make something out of nothing.”

Jeremiah smirked. “Nothing? Yesterday morning, you and your wife were on CNN pretending to have the perfect marriage. And then a few hours later she was cuddled up to some other guy at a dive bar in Chinatown. You gotta admit that if anything, it doesn’t paint the best picture. Ain’t like any ‘fairy tale’ I’ve ever read!”

He was throwing my own words back at me. What an asshole.

“I don’t care what it looks like to anyone. My wife is not running for office—I am. And my wife can eat and drink anywhere, and sit
down next to anyone, she wants. The real story here, and what most Philadelphians care about, is helping their families to…”

He was blocking and bridging to another topic. Great.

But Jeremiah had opened the door, signaling to the others that the elephant in the room could now be acknowledged. The cub TV reporter interrupted him with a blunt “So you two aren’t getting divorced?”

Alex stiffened for a second, then gathered himself. “Of course not,” he said. “Our marriage is fine.” He put an arm around my waist and pulled me close. “Better than ever. Isn’t that right, doll?”

He looked over at me, his eyes a tad wider than normal. As if he wasn’t quite sure he could trust me to say the right thing. But I did.

“Absolutely,” I said, looking past the cameras into the crowd. “It’s perfect.” I forced my most brilliant smile.

While I stood, flashes popping off, I noticed a woman in a bright yellow raincoat scribbling furiously in a little notebook. Her pencil tip snapped off and she scrambled in a big black purse for another, frantic. Beneath her parka she wore a half-buttoned maroon cardigan sweater and a rumpled skirt over rubber boots. Her hair was still damp from the morning’s rain, or perhaps from sweat, and it clung to her bare face in little strings.

I stared at her, realizing that even though I didn’t know her name or what paper she represented, I recognized her immediately. I knew all about her. She was a tired, overworked, underpaid, frazzled working mother trying desperately to get the story, get back to the office, finish it, file it, then pick up the kids by five and get dinner on the table by six.

She was the woman I used to be. And to look at her made me feel like such a phony. Like such a liar.

In those few seconds, I decided enough was enough. I had to set the record straight. And unlike the disastrous speech at the Friends
of Lafayette tea, this time, words wouldn’t fail me. This time, I would say what I wanted to say.

I shimmied out from under Alex’s arm and stepped closer to the bouquet of microphones. “Actually, I’m not sure ‘perfect’ is the right way to describe our marriage. I’m really not sure
how
to describe it. But I can tell you, perfect isn’t it.”

The room went silent; I could hear my own breathing. My hands trembled but I kept talking, partly to the woman in the yellow slicker and partly to myself. “
I’m
not perfect either. In fact, more often than not, I’m a mess. My kid is so spoiled she slapped me. My mother-in-law thinks I’m certifiable. And my husband, God bless him, doesn’t know
what
to think of me. Sometimes I don’t think he even knows who I am.”

I looked over at Alex. His smile was fixed but his eyes were worried about where I was going with this. Mine probably were too, since even I didn’t know. Only, I knew I had to keep going, or forever hold my peace.

“So let me tell you exactly who I am. I am just the same as any of you. Trying to raise my kids right. Trying to be a good wife… daughter… mother. Trying to keep all the plates in the air, day in and day out, only instead of PTA meetings and job interviews, I’m juggling campaign events and fund-raisers and interviews. With all the city watching.

“But sometimes I get tired. Sometimes I say and do the wrong thing. Sometimes I feel sorry for myself, even though I know I shouldn’t. Sometimes I want to give up and throw in the towel. Or have a good, long cry.”

I took a deep breath. “And sometimes, like all of you, I just need a break. Need to get away from everything, sneak off, and steal a few minutes to myself. To sit on a barstool, have some friendly conversation, and down a nice, cold beer.”

No one spoke. Or moved. It was if they didn’t know what to do.

Neither did I. All I knew was that I had lifted the veil on Abigail
van Holt and shown the world the real woman underneath, and it felt good. Especially when I saw that the woman in the yellow raincoat was smiling at me. I smiled back. My only regret? That Jules wouldn’t see this. But then again, the cameras had been rolling the whole time. Maybe she would.

Only, Jeremiah was not so easily thwarted. “But, Mrs. van Holt, what about the guy in the bar? Who was he?”

The question sent me reeling. For the past two hours, I’d been so fixated on crisis control and fixing my screw-up, I’d forgotten there was another person involved—Jimmy. What if he had seen it? What if it was causing problems in his life too? What if he felt used, like a pawn in a political game? And worse—what would he think about what I was about to say?

The guy. The guy. Who was the guy?
It should have been simple. But for me, the question was so complex.

“The guy” was a guy who would be mortified to be caught in a video “canoodling” with a married woman, who would probably never live this down to his family and friends. He was a guy who always offered a kind word, some commiseration, maybe even a joke or two, whatever the situation called for, even when he was dead tired, and even when he might have wanted a moment alone. He was a guy who made people feel special—or, always made
me
feel special—and never asked for anything in return.

That was the guy. My guy.

As I stood there in Holy Trinity, I silently begged the man I had promised to have and to hold, for better or worse, until death do us part, to forgive me for what I was about to say. It didn’t matter if it was meant in part to protect him from the jackals; I still felt more unfaithful at this moment than I had when I first slept with Alex days ago.

I leaned into the microphones and lied: “He was no one.”

W
hat the hell happened?” gasped Bobby Bacco as he gazed from the door of the bathroom into my closet. He and his brother, Francis, had been doing my hair and makeup for tonight’s post-election party but had yet to see the rock star–style trashing I had given the closet earlier.

“Jesus,” added Francis. “It looks like you got robbed. Or a tornado came through.”

I stood behind them in a towel and strained to find an excuse. But after the long day, my mind was blank.

Luckily, both men just sighed and waded in. I had completely forgotten about what I had done, but looking around now, I was as shocked as they were. The room was like a designer debris field, fabric strewn and twisted, shoes upended and scattered from their partners, a lone G-string caught on the chandelier. Except for Alex’s side. His beautifully tailored suits and polished shoes were still lined up perfectly.

“I… I had a little trouble figuring out what to wear this morning,” I said finally.

“A little trouble?” asked Bobby, looking back at me. “This is more like a… a… couture crime scene.”

He leaned down to poke a wrinkled Armani jacket for signs of life.

“Why didn’t you Skype us?” cried Francis. “There was no need to do this to these… these innocents.” He scooped up a beaded Reem Acra sweater, held it close, then shushed it like a baby.

By now I knew that the Baccos’ overdramatic shtick was part of the service they provided, but tonight I was not in the mood. I was exhausted from the emotional roller coaster of the day, and I really just wanted to be alone. Trying to hurry them along, I plucked a simple black ponte knit dress off the floor and asked, “So, how about this?”

“Another night, maybe,” said Bobby, back to the business at hand. “But even if Alex loses, you’re not going to a funeral. Something more fun.”

I pulled out a short, sparkly number with fringe, a sarcastic smile on my face.

“Definitely not,” replied Bobby, not realizing I was joking. “Not after today, missy.” He scanned the dresses and pulled out a slate blue A-line Victoria Beckham dress. It was so prim and ladylike, I knew right then that they had both seen the video. I nodded my head in approval and understanding. From now on, there was only one “look” we’d be shooting for: demure.

I dropped my towel and the two men helped me into some lingerie and a slip, and as I felt their cold hands on my arms and legs, I realized that it had become perfectly natural for me to be naked in front of them. To them, I wasn’t flesh and blood, but a window that needed dressing. But then I remembered the extra pounds I’d put on recently and sucked in my stomach.

They pretended not to notice, their indifference to weight fluctuations an important part of the stylists’ code, but I saw them exchanging a glance. Luckily, the dress zipped up easily. They snapped on a Tiffany T bracelet and some chunky platinum earrings, rolled a lint brush over my torso, and placed a pair of black patent Christian
Louboutin heels in front of me. I stepped into them dutifully and turned to face the brothers.

Suddenly, Francis let out a little gasp. “What about a bag?”

“I don’t care,” I said. “Anything is fine.”

He looked aghast. “Oh no, no, no. This is a big night. You need something really special.”

He perused my shelf of bags, a finger to his lips, rejecting a woven Bottega Veneta, a boxy black Balmain, and a petite cream Chanel, until he arrived at the orange-and-brown box at the end of the shelf. His expression turned reverent.

He lifted it down and set it gently on the marble-topped dressing table. He took off the lid, brushed aside the tissue paper, and using just his fingertips—like an archbishop lifting a jewel-encrusted crown from its pedestal—brought out the red Hermès Kelly bag.

“Hello, gorgeous,” he said, addressing the bag in a hushed tone.

“Don’t you think that’s a little much?” I asked. “I want voters to like me.”

“Who gives a shit about voters now?” said Bobby. “Polls are closed.”

“No, she’s right,” said Francis. “What about four years from now? If we’re going to get to the White House, she’s got to be careful.”

White House?
I wasn’t sure I was hearing correctly.

“Look at all those photos of Hillary Clinton. Do you think she would have worn those awful padded headbands if she’d known she’d have to see them again and again for the next thirty years? You have got to start thinking about your look now.”

I continued to stare, gob smacked.

“Don’t look at
me
like that,” said Francis, offended. “
You’re
the one who always talks about it. You and Mirabelle.”

As I continued to process, Bobby jumped in. “Ha! I never thought I’d ever hear those words—‘you and Mirabelle’—together. God, how you used to hate her.”

“She still does,” added Francis. “She just doesn’t want to piss off the golden goose!”

“What?” I asked, interrupting.

“Well, sure, darling. If Mirabelle quits funding you guys, you’re going to have to get out there and beg,” he said, swatting my behind. “Even more reason to look amazing.”

Mirabelle “funded” us? My face reddened under its NARS blush. The room suddenly felt smaller. And warmer. I pulled at the neck of my dress, but Francis slapped my hand down with a scowl. He slipped an iPad mini out of his jacket pocket and held it up to take a photo.

Bobby joined his brother behind the iPad and the two men chirped in unison, “Smile like you mean it!”

As I forced a smile and waited for the digital click, I flashed back to the last time I’d heard this catchphrase from the Baccos: a little over a week earlier, when they had styled me for the Ballantine Ball. At the time I’d assumed they were photographing the moment because it was such a special occasion. But now it occurred to me that this might be something they did whenever they styled Abbey van Holt.

I was suddenly curious about what else Francis’s iPad held.

“May I?” I asked him, nodding to the device.

“Sure,” he said, then hesitated, cautioning, “but it’s too late to change your mind about the outfit.”

“I won’t. Promise.”

He handed me the iPad and then turned to assist his brother in straightening the closet, hanging clothes back up and reuniting shoes with their mates.

I retreated to a corner of the closet with the iPad. On its home screen was a pink folder icon labeled with my name. I tapped it and a window opened with the picture Francis had just taken. I swiped it away to find a photo of the night of the Ballantine Ball—me
wearing navy satin and diamonds, as well as the shell-shocked look of a woman who had just woken up in a stranger’s life.

Finding the word “All,” I clicked to bring up the entire contents of the folder and watched as the screen filled with dozens and dozens of tiny photos, each labeled with a date going back nearly a decade.

I was holding a “look book” of Abbey van Holt’s life, a high-fashion catalogue of couture dresses, exquisite shoes, elaborate updos. And yet it wasn’t the clothes I was interested in.

With a shaking finger, I scrolled through the thumbnails until I found the earliest photo in the file—more than ten years ago—and tapped it open.

The thumbnail bloomed open into a photo of a decade-younger me, ears still double pierced, hair long and loose, eyebrows untidy. She had the dazed look of someone in a mug shot, like a debutante being booked on a DUI.

The clothes and hair were different in the next photo, but the expression remained the same: a little startled, as if I’d just been ambushed by paparazzi.

I began swiping faster and faster and found images of me wearing a flowered sundress; a serious-looking suit; jeans and braids (some sort of charity hoedown?); an embroidered cerise sheath; a green suede pencil skirt, crisp white blouse, and tall brown boots; and a lovely gray chiffon gown, its beaded bodice reflecting light in white pinwheels.

Viewed in quick succession, like a child’s flip-book, the photos showed my transformation from the newlywed Abbey into the thinner, sleeker, more polished version—one with the poise of a moneyed heiress, the confidence of a future congressman’s wife. It was impressive to behold, even a little awe-inspiring. But it was also unsettling, as if with the transformation came a curse: the woman in the photos slowly morphing into something inanimate, like a marble statue.

I lingered on the photo dated “October 18th,” taken just days before I tumbled down Nordstrom’s escalator and fell headlong into Abbey van Holt’s life. In the photo, she was elegant as always, in a Valentino red silk cocktail dress and black satin pumps. But the uncertain look of her earlier days was gone, replaced by a weary resignation.

And something else.

I enlarged the photo to its maximum amplification so I could peer closely at Abbey van Holt’s gray-blue eyes—the only parts of her that hadn’t been touched or tweezed or tweaked by the Baccos, and Botox, and self-tanner, and personal trainers. The only parts of her that remained unchanged.

I knew those eyes. They were mine.
Ours.
Knew the look in them too, though it took me a few moments to find the word to describe it.

Loneliness.

“Finished with that?”

It was Francis—suddenly appearing beside me—making me jump. I must have looked ashen, because his eyes widened with concern.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “I told you; we’re not changing the dress. It photographs great.”

“No. Yes. I mean—the dress is fine. I’m fine. Can I just have another minute?”

His lips formed a disapproving pout. “Just one—you’re late as it is.”

He grabbed the iPad, then left to join his brother cleaning up in the bathroom.

I looked around the now-tidy closet, clothes and shoes returned to their proper places, order restored. I ran my fingers along the row of clothes on padded hangers, setting the satin and silk sleeves rippling like a wave.

I shut my eyes and leaned my forehead against the dressing mirror’s cool glass, steeling myself for the night ahead. And suddenly knew, with the spooky intuition of a twin, that Abbey van Holt had done the same—on more than one occasion. I understood then, at some primal level, that she and I were the same.

This time it didn’t take as long to find the word for what I was feeling toward her: sympathy.

I opened my eyes. Saw her looking back at me from inside the mirror. For a few heartbeats, neither of us moved. Then I silently swore to her—to both of us—that things were going to change.

“All done!” the Baccos shouted from the bathroom. I followed them out to the living room, the suitcase wheels rumbling on the hardwood, and walked them to the door.

“Good luck!” said Francis, giving me an air-kiss.

“See you Friday!” added Bobby with a wink.

“Actually, boys, before you go—I want to tell you something.”

Their heads cocked in unison.

“Thank you for everything. I really appreciate your hard work—”

“Don’t mention it,” said Bobby. “Our pleasure.”

“You
are
our favorite client,” added Francis.

“Was. I
was
your favorite client,” I said. This got their attention. I took a breath and broke the news: “With the election over, I won’t be needing you guys anymore.”

Their mouths dropped in shock.

It was a small step, but for the first time in forever, I knew it was in the right direction.