When Life Gives You Lululemons (22 page)

“
Somewhat
attractive?” Alistair leaned over and whispered, “I know you love me. And my golden-bronze spray tan.”

She reeled backward, unsteady on her feet. When had she gotten so drunk? “You better be joking,” she said. Or rather, slurred.

He laughed and said something about being on vacation in the Caribbean without elaborating and then the hot blond waiter walked by holding a tray of drinks that may have contained only dirty glasses, but Emily grabbed one and downed the contents.

“Ah, the Caribbean. It's like everyone on earth who's ever gone to Harvard saying they went to school in Boston. When you press, they say Cambridge. It takes, like, five more tries until you can get them to say Harvard.”

“Yes. And then you can't get them to stop.”

Emily barked out an unselfconscious laugh that quickly turned into the kind of hysterical, uncontrollable laugh that made her sides ache. Alistair looked delighted with himself.

“I was in the British Virgin Islands, if you must know.”

“Ah, sailing in the BVIs. How original.”

He cocked his head. “How did you know I was sailing?”

Emily looked him up and down. “You're British, exceedingly preppy, and living in Greenwich. What else would you possibly be doing there? Taking cooking lessons?”

“Glad to know I'm a walking cliché.”

“We all are. Some of us are just better at hiding it.” Emily looked around for another drink, but it seemed like the waiters had stopped serving and had started dancing. With the guests. Like,
dancing
dancing.

“Unlike the rest of us, you don't strike me as a stereotype.”

“What do you know about me?” Emily said.

“I know you're confident enough to come to this party without a date but too hot to not have some sort of boyfriend or significant other waiting at home. Though for some reason you haven't so much as mentioned his existence. How am I doing so far?”

No, she hadn't mentioned Miles, but it was just too irresistible and delicious. This feeling of being wanted. Untethered. Sexy to someone other than your own husband. Besides, there was no harm in a little flirting. It wasn't like she was going to sleep with him.

“Go on,” she said.

“The real question is what are
you
doing here tonight?” he said. “What are you doing in Greenwich at all?”

“I'm helping out a client who lives here, so . . .”

“So you have no choice?”

“Right.”

“And you're not going to tell me who that client is or how you're helping him or her?”

“Correct.”

“Okay, then.”

“Can we sit for a minute?”

He nodded and she followed him over to a patch of empty floor cushions. A hookah was lit and wafting the most delicious-smelling smoke. “Tobacco, you think?”

Another good-looking guy with his shirt unbuttoned slightly too much leaned over from his own cushion perch, where he was fondling the upper thigh of a very young-looking girl. “It's hash. Just so you know.”

“Oh, really? Thanks,” Emily said, and put the hose down. She'd never gotten into drugs, despite making a concerted effort to like them when she was younger. After all, cocaine kept you skinny! But she hated the tweaked-out feeling after she came down from it and how impossible it was to sleep. She'd never smoked hash and was surprised when Alistair took the hose and inhaled so deeply that the coal ember lit up a fiery orange.

“Hmmm, maybe you're not a total cliché. I never took you for a hash smoker,” she said.

“Gap year in Egypt. I spent a fair number of weekends in Sinai, and smoking hookah was the local pastime. They shouldn't call this hash, though,” he said, exhaling the smoke languidly. “It's more like Jamaican beach weed. Super-chill, very relaxed. Like having a martini, nothing more than that.”

Hmm. A martini sounded perfect right about then. Their hands touched as he gave her the hookah, and she felt a jolt. The hash washed
over and she felt instantly relaxed, almost liquid, and there was none of that totally stoned or incapacitated feeling she hated so much.

His phone rang. “Sorry, I have to take this. I'll be right back.” He stood up and walked to the edge of the tent, near the bar.

Irritated that he'd answered his phone while they were sharing a moment, Emily shakily stood up and realized that she was now both drunk and high. And yes, she was starting to feel a little paranoid too. A bathroom break. That was what she needed. And not the wedding-level Porta-Potties with marble sinks and attendants they did here. She needed to be alone.

Doing her absolute best to appear collected and sober, Emily made her way to the house. Just before she walked into the brightly lit kitchen, still buzzing with staff, Ashley intercepted her. “You okay?” she asked.

“I'm fine!” Emily said, peeved to have been caught.

“There are bathrooms outside, you know, and they're gorgeous.”

“Can you leave me alone? For, like, five seconds? Just not keep track of me?”

Ashley wheeled back. “I was only making sure you were okay.”

Emily turned and headed for the stairs, again trying to appear like she knew where she was going. At the first bedroom she came to—a young boy's room, judging by the outer-space theme—she crept over the plush rug and into the bathroom, which featured glow-in-the-dark stars and a toilet that lit up blue when it sensed her walking near it. Exhausted from the effort of trying to appear sober, she practically fell onto the toilet lid and focused on controlling her breathing. There was no denying it now: the spins had taken over.

A knock on the door made her sit straight up. How long had it been? A minute? An hour? She called out, “Just a minute,” as she hoisted herself up and considered splashing some water on her face, but a familiar voice came through the door. “Emily? You okay in there?”

“I'm fine!” she sang out, wondering how he had found her.

The door cracked open. He popped his face in, grinning. “Can I come in?”

“Um, hello, stalker.” She stood and braced herself on the sink. “No, you can't come in.”

She was relieved he didn't listen to her, and when he shut the door behind him, they were in near-darkness save for the glowing stars and the comet night-light.

“I came back and you were gone.”

“I needed a moment.”

“Apparently. It took me forever to find you. I thought you'd left.”

“You know, that sounds like a good idea. It is about time I left.”

“What, and miss all the action downstairs? You should see the scene down there. It's like a strange cross between the staff dance cottage at Kellerman's and the Box in the East Village. With a little Middle Eastern opium-den vibe thrown in for good measure.”

They both froze as they heard a noise come from the other side of the door. A rustling of some sort, which stopped almost as soon as it started.

“Probably someone checking to make sure no guests are hiding in any of the bathrooms,” Alistair whispered, stepping closer to her. He pushed his body firmly into hers. She could smell him, a combination of sweet-apple tobacco smoke and hashish mixed with expensive cologne. And although she didn't want to, she could feel her body react.

She knew a hundred percent that he was going to kiss her. There was no question anymore, not with them standing in a strange dark bathroom, the lower halves of their bodies pressed together so tightly that she could feel everything. By whispering into her ear and rubbing his cheek against her own, he was merely teasing her by delaying the inevitable. She knew this. Could sense it. How long had it been since she'd been this close to a man other than Miles? She did the math: six years. No one was awarding her any ribbons for best wife—or him for best husband—but she had kept her vows of fidelity and never cheated on him. When, after what felt like an eternity, Alistair reached down to take her chin between his thumb and forefinger and tip her face up toward his, she was physically desperate to kiss him. But the moment
his lips touched hers, the sensation of it—not at all unpleasant, just so
different
from what she was used to—pulled her from her languid, sexy buzz and sobered her right up.

Suddenly she was clearheaded. The spins were more like sways, and that syrupy-body feeling she'd gotten from the hash had dissipated. All she knew was there was a strange guy—a hot one, yes, but still not her husband—pressing in to her, and it didn't feel right. She pushed him away with flat palms on his chest.

“I can't,” she whispered.

“You can. You want to.”

“I don't. Let's go back downstairs.”

There was a crash from the other side of the door, and they froze again in the darkness.

“What do we do?” Emily asked.

“I guess we just have to wait for them to leave,” he whispered before pinning her back against the sink and kissing her neck.

Had she groaned audibly? Her entire body was screaming for him, but there were a million thoughts she couldn't ignore. Her husband, for one. And the fact that they were about to be caught in a super-compromising position despite the fact that nothing exceptionally awful had actually happened. She needed some time to think.

Her phone beeped with a text message from Ashley.
Where r u? Entire cast of hamilton here incl lin-manuel. Performing soon. Don't miss it!!!

“What? I feel like I'm losing my mind. Am I losing my mind?
Hamilton
is here?”

Alistair nodded. “Last year they flew in Serena and Venus to play a private exhibition match on their tennis court. The year before that, they had all the industry's top porn stars come do ‘demonstrations.' Or ‘lessons.' Or whatever they called it. This year is on a Monday because Broadway is dark and they got the entire original cast to come and perform three numbers. We really should go down there.”

“I really didn't expect this in a . . . a
suburb
.”

“Shhh.” He pressed his finger to her lips. “We'll stagger ourselves
at the stairs so no one sees us walk down together, okay?” He opened the bathroom door and Emily followed him out to the bedroom, where she promptly tripped and nearly fell on what felt like a dead body on the darkened floor.

“You okay?” Alistair whispered at the exact same time a woman's voice—not Emily's—asked, “Who is there?”

“Wait, hold on a second,” said another male voice.

By this time Emily had pulled herself off the body and lit the flashlight on her phone. It took a second for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, but she could make out that there were two bodies on the floor, not one, and neither was dead. In fact, one looked very, very familiar.

“Emily?” The man's voice was pleading, desperate.

“Yes?”

“This is not what it looks like.”

Alistair must have found the overhead light switch, because abruptly they were bathed in light from the hanging planets, and it was easy to see that it was exactly what it looked like. In the middle of some grade school boy's shag carpet lay a young woman with her denim skirt hiked around her waist. Ashley's husband's very naked and very white ass covered the girl somewhat but didn't conceal quite enough real estate: not only was she naked, but Eric was wearing a condom. With blue glitter. And some sort of spiky latex bits sprouting in seemingly random directions.

Emily burst out laughing. Perhaps not the best reaction when you literally fall over your friend's friend's husband having (protected!) sex with someone other than your friend's friend, but come on—this was too good.

“Emily. Please. Ashley would—” He rolled off the girl, and everyone averted their eyes for a second until he managed to pull his pants back up. The girl didn't make a single move to cover herself. If anything, she may have been stretching for effect.

“Eric, I don't know anything about you or her or your marriage, and guess what? I don't want to. Nothing. Nada. I've got ninety-nine problems, but your drama isn't one of them, okay?”

Eric looked skeptical.

Alistair reached over and pulled her arm. “Why don't we give them some privacy?”

Emily followed him out of the room but not before she saw the look of realization dawn on Eric's face. Which was shortly followed by delight.
That cheating asshole
, Emily thought. If he thought he had something on Emily, he was going to bitterly regret it.

Emily was sobering up, but the party was off the hook. All pretenses of control and good behavior were gone: everywhere people were grinding, making out, dancing, and gyrating. Someone had killed most of the lights, and the hookah smoke had turned the tent into a virtual hotbox.

“What are you doing?” Alistair asked as Emily furiously typed into her phone.

“Getting an Uber. I'm done.”

“Done? But the
Hamilton
cast is just about to start.”

Emily looked at him and raised her eyebrows. “This place is crazy. You people are all insane.”

“Hey, don't group me in with them.”

“You
live
here. You
are
them.”

Her Uber was five minutes away. She couldn't decide what was more appealing at that moment: calling Miles to hear his voice and confirm for herself that she'd done the right thing, or making a huge ruckus in Miriam's kitchen in hopes of waking her so she could tell her every single unbelievable detail about the entire night. Well, perhaps not
every
. But most.

“I'm going to wait out front,” Emily said.

Alistair gave her a strange look and shrugged. “Never a dull moment with you, is there?” he asked.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Not a thing. Have a good night, Emily Charlton. See you around sometime.” Then, without another word, he gave her a dry kiss on the cheek and walked away.