When Life Gives You Lululemons (21 page)

“Damn right you will. Think long and hard about whatever secret of his you're keeping right now. Is it in your best interest?” She glanced at her phone. “I'm out. I have a highlights appointment in the city in an hour.”

Karolina looked up in surprise. “Wait. Are we really doing this Utah thing?”

“We sure are. I'll text you all the info.” Emily gathered her things and tossed off a wave, saying, “Remember. Don't answer your phone if you don't know who's calling. Don't put anything in an email or a text
that you wouldn't want plastered on the front page of the
Post
. And go get a cheeseburger! Call you later!”

Before Karolina could say another word, Emily was gone.

A Greenwich mom with a slight twist on the classic uniform (Athleta jacket paired with Lululemon leggings and headband instead of the full double L's from head to toe) approached Karolina's table.

“Hi, sorry to interrupt, I just wanted to say—”

“I have to leave,” Karolina blurted out. Avoiding eye contact, she too grabbed her coat and headed toward the door, but not before the woman murmured to her friend, “I was just going to compliment her bag.”

Christ, you're losing your mind
, Karolina thought. Maybe a trip to the desert was exactly what she needed.

E
mily marched down the wood stairs as well as she could in four-inch heels to the freezer across the kitchen, pulled out the Tupperware of Carvel cake, and dumped it in the garbage.

“What the hell are you doing?” Miriam yelled. Immediately she heard a child's footsteps above her. “Matthew! Back in bed! Everything's fine. Mommy didn't mean to scream!” she yelled again, and miraculously the footsteps stopped.

“Just try and tell me you weren't going to eat that the second I left.” Emily shook her head. In the week since Emily had been back from L.A., she'd walked in on Miriam shoving food into her face at night at least three times. Once had been leftover kid mac and cheese, and Emily had almost vomited.

“Please.” Miriam sounded exhausted. “Not everyone is meant to look like you. Why don't you try having three kids in three years.”

Emily snorted. “Fat chance.” Emily did a little twirl. “How do I look?” Her LBD was tight and short, but neither excessively so, and it had the most subtle cutouts right at the waist, making her midsection look even tinier than usual. The chances of her getting in a bathing suit were small, but just in case she ended up drunk enough and the party was more fun than she expected, she had packed a tiny, elegant Eres bikini in a Ziploc bag in her clutch.

Across the kitchen, Miriam also pirouetted. She wore actual elastic-at-the-bottom-and-not-in-a-cool-way sweatpants from what looked like the 1990s, a massively oversize men's undershirt, and those fluffy grandma socks. “How do I look?”

Emily forced a smile and remembered the old Miriam, the Miriam of Manhattan: slim, put together, professional, totally on top of her game. Where had that woman gone? Did it mean she was depressed? Emily made a mental note to inquire sensitively—or as sensitively as she could manage.

“Well, I'm off. You sure you don't want to come to this thing?”

“What, and miss the newest
This Is Us
?” Miriam laughed. “When are you back?”

Emily grabbed her clutch and her rabbit-lined leather coat and walked into the mudroom. “They're here, I'm leaving! Have a great night with your Netflix and your binge!” and she stepped out into what felt like a wall of cold air before climbing gingerly into the backseat of the waiting Audi sedan.

“Hiiiiii!” Ashley squealed from the front. “Oh my God, you look A. MAZE. ING!”

“Thanks, you too,” Emily said, trying to sound like she meant it.

“Emily, this is my husband, Eric,” Ashley said, grabbing him by his sport-coated arm.

Eric backed the car out of the driveway and revved the engine more than was necessary. “Nice to meet you. Ashley has told me all about you.”

“Is that so?”
Emily wondered what could possibly be included in Ashley's summary. After that horror of a sip 'n' see Miriam had dragged her to, Ashley had glommed on to Emily like a desperate freshman. She had friended Emily on Facebook, followed her on Twitter and Instagram, and had invited her to join Snapchat. If all that wasn't irritating enough, she'd taken to emailing and texting Emily daily with all sorts of asinine updates on things going on around town. Emily had deleted most without reading them, but the invitation for that night had caught her eye:
POOL PARTY!
it blared. Zachanda was throwing the fete at his or her house and promised a very special surprise. Back in Greenwich for nearly a week, heading to a practically dry state in two days, Emily hadn't hesitated to accept. Yes, it was likely the party would be boring and WASPy, with the women on one side of the room, wearing Lilly Pulitzer and talking workouts and children, and the men on the other, humble-bragging about the new car or boat or plane they'd purchased. In Los Angeles everyone would be jockeying to talk to such-and-such studio head or the agent who'd just signed the hot new star. Douchey people were douchey everywhere. But she couldn't deny that there might be someone interesting to meet from a business perspective. Besides, she hadn't left Miriam's house in days. If worse came to worst, she'd Uber home and call it a night, but at least it would get her out of that house for an hour.

“So, who is Zachanda?” Emily asked, more to make conversation than because she actually cared. “Male or female?”

“Oh, Zachanda?” Ashley said with a laugh. “It's not one person, it's two. Zach and Amanda.”

“Wait—on purpose? Like they think they're Brangelina?”

Ashley giggled. Her blond bob bobbed just so. “They're not movie stars, but they sure are A-list billionaires. Trillionaires, maybe.”

Eric, who had been silent while stealing occasional and not subtle glances at Emily in the rearview, scoffed. “Hardly. He's done well with his fund. Very well. But he is nowhere close to being a billionaire.”

“Okay, fine, then. Multi-multimillionaires. Like, hundreds of millions of dollars,” Ashley said.

Emily rolled her eyes. What was it with people around here counting everyone else's money? There was no shortage of wealth in L.A. or New York, but it just didn't seem so all-defining. She would sooner take a job at
Runway
than live in a town where bored housewives sat around all day calculating each other's net worth.

After what felt like an eternity in the car, driving around dark streets flanked on all sides by gated mansions, they pulled up to the largest one. A security guard who wore a dark suit and a Secret Service–agent earpiece checked their IDs at the gate while a second guard supervised. There were two more at the main house near the valet stand, and a fifth who checked licenses one final time at the door.

“Ohmigod, did you see that? The last one has a gun!” Ashley whispered. Emily immediately smelled the alcohol on her breath. Nice. Nothing wrong with a little pregaming. She regretted she hadn't done the same.

A uniformed maid escorted them through the triple-high foyer and through the kitchen, past a staff the size of a busy midtown restaurant, and out to the backyard. A massive tent was lit by assorted string lights and jewel-toned glass lamps, and heat lamps made it feel like they were in Marrakech during the summer and not New England in winter. Huge woven floor cushions and poufs in every imaginable color took up much of the floor space, and they were draped with what appeared to be silk and cashmere throw blankets. Elaborate glass hookahs with ornate gold-painted designs and sweet-smelling charcoal burbled all over as guests inhaled on their pom-pommed tubes and silver-plated mouthpieces and exhaled the smoke in long, languid streams.

The centerpiece of the tent was a kidney-shaped pool whose water was lit a sexy red color and looked to be kept at such a high temperature on this cold early-March night that actual steam rose from its surface. No one was swimming or even dressed for it, but Emily had a feeling people would end up in the pool sooner than later. She swiveled once more to take it in, determined to tune out Ashley's insipid prattling, and she had to admit: this place was a blow-away. It was as though they'd stepped
through a time-space warp and into an authentic underground Moroccan hammam. There was no Lilly Pulitzer. No pearls. No business suits. Just a few dozen beautiful people sipping hand-mixed mint mojitos and smoking hash mixed with apple-flavored tobacco and laughing and relaxing and flirting.

“You picked the perfect party,” Ashley said as she surveyed the room.

“My God. This was . . . not what I was expecting.”

“Yeah, Zachanda always throws the best parties. Last year they brought in professional porn stars to do a cabaret show and give private lessons.”

Emily's mouth dropped. “You're lying.”

“I'm not! It sounds sketchy, but it was actually super-fun. I'm just saying you picked the right party to come to without your husband. It's generally understood at a Zachanda event that you say goodbye to your significant other at the beginning of the night.”

Eric had already taken off without a word. “Wait—this is a
swinger
party? You brought me to a fucking
swinger
party?”

“Of course not!” Ashley sounded offended. “We're not swingers. Nobody
cheats
. You just flirt a little.”

“Porn stars giving private lessons?”

“To couples, silly! To spice up their sex life. Like, a tutorial. But we're not swingers.” Emily leaned in a bit closer. “Although I'd be lying if I said there weren't rumors.”

“Rumors? Don't be an idiot!” Emily said. She lowered her voice when she saw Ashley's hurt expression. “This town has a reputation,” she said, though she wasn't entirely sure that was true.

Ashley waved her hand. “Every suburb has those rumors. And no one ever knows anyone who actually swings.”

Emily couldn't stop staring at a waiter's tight jeans. Was there any chance it was actually body paint and not denim? Was it humanly possible for someone to be that gorgeous and straight?

“Ma'am?” the waiter said. His Southern accent was as thick as honey.

This snapped her out of her daydream.
Ma'am?
“Excuse me?”

“I was wondering if I could get you a cocktail, is all?” He brushed a flop of blond hair off his forehead and grinned to reveal dimples. Of course.

“You called me ‘
ma'am
.' ”

“Pardon?”

Ashley placed her hand squarely on the waiter's chest and leaned in so close Emily was certain she was going to kiss him. “Sweetheart, we would looooove cocktails,” she sang in a god-awful imitation of a Southern drawl.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Stop saying ‘ma'am'!” Emily shouted.

“Don't mind her,” Ashley said, literally batting her eyelashes. “Bring us whatever you think is best. But make them both doubles, please.”

He feigned tipping a nonexistent hat, flashed his dimples again, and headed toward the bar, which was tucked discreetly in the back of the tent and featured three bartenders, two female, one male, all total knockouts.

“Mmmm,” Ashley said, scanning the scene. “I love it here.”

“I can't believe this is a Monday night.”

“We know how to have a good time in Greenwich,” Ashley said, giving her a playful poke in the side that made Emily want to smack her. “Come on, I'll introduce you around.”

Emily allowed Ashley to take her hand and lead her around the tent, rattling off everyone's biographical facts. Mom of five, ran eleven marathons, was screwing around with her tennis instructor. Bald but amazingly funny dad who used to have his own show on Comedy Central; rumored cocaine problem; big family money. The stories seemed to get longer and less interesting until Emily had sucked down the last of her third mint mojito, at which point things took a noticeable turn for the better. Emily looked around and realized the party was in full force. When had that happened? A pair of models wearing only mermaid tails
glided through the water, perfect breasts bobbing in unison while everyone watched but pretended not to. Someone had built and lit a gorgeous bonfire right outside the tent doors. Couples were draped across cushions and poufs, legs entwined, making out. European lounge music and hundreds of candles and burning incense added to the sexy boudoir vibe. Some people were dancing, and others were easing their way into the pool. Ashley had gotten caught up in some inane conversation about volunteer opportunities, and Emily had sneaked away, heading toward the bar for her next mint mojito, when she heard a familiar voice behind her.

“Why, look who we have here.”

She knew who it was before turning around, but she couldn't ignore the little leap she felt in her chest. He looked familiarly rumpled, only this time in a pink shirt with rolled sleeves and a pair of well-worn jeans. His tan was spectacular and, come to think of it, problematic for March. It would be such a turnoff if he tanned. He couldn't possibly, could he?

“Please tell me you were sunning in Saint Barts and not at Beach Bum,” Emily said, eyes wide, hopeful she'd pulled off appearing not too thrilled to see him.

“What, this?” Alistair said, motioning to his forearms. “What about this isn't natural?”

“Oh, I don't know, just that it's March and there's slush on the ground and this must be the grayest, most depressing place on earth right now. Not that you'd know it from looking around here.”

“Don't judge me because I have a lovely woman named Allegra who comes to my house once a week and spray tans me in my basement.”

Emily stared in horror. “Just when I was beginning to find you somewhat attractive . . .”