Roman Crazy (2 page)

W
HERE HAVE YOU BEEN?”

“Well hello to you, too. I guess you're not dead. Jesus Christ, with the nine calls, four emails, and more ASAP texts than I can count, I wasn't quite sure what to expect,” my best friend huffed good-naturedly. “Nice to know you're still breathing.”

“I wouldn't have called, emailed, and texted if I weren't still breathing, Daisy.”

“Don't you Daisy me in that tone. Did you forget I was in Patagonia?”

“As in the clothing company?”

“As in Argentina; remember, I told you I was going for work, and then you sang songs from
Evita
for several minutes? Also, don't sing anything from
Evita
. For any amount of minutes. Anyway, Patagonia. Do you know how far away from literally everything that is? Look at the tip of the earth and move a smidge to the left. There's barely electricity there, let alone a quality cell signal.” I had to hold the phone away from my ear slightly, as she was really getting worked up. “I was on a flight
back that took a thousand years, got home, fell into bed, and am just now surfacing. I barely know what time zone I'm in.”

Argentina.
Evita
. I did remember that.
Now
. I've been so wrapped up in hastily scheduled appointments with a divorce attorney I spaced out on it.

Wow. Divorce attorney. Never thought I'd be here.

Really? You never thought it?

Thank goodness I didn't have to answer that question right now. Daisy was still chattering in my ear about time zones and kids not being allowed in first class on transatlantic flights. Topics she was uniquely qualified to discuss.

My best friend, Daisy, was an architect, and currently living in Rome. She specialized in the environmental side, retrofitting, green technology,
making old buildings work in the modern world without sacrificing the integrity of the original shell
. I spied that last part on her business card on one of her few trips stateside. She traveled the world, met exciting people, was fiercely loyal to her friends, and one of my favorite people ever.

“I'm trying to kick the last of the jet lag out of my system with a jog, so I'm finishing up a run through the Borghese gardens. It's blissfully empty of tourists at this time of day so I figured I'd call now. So, what's with blowing up my phone?”

“I'm leaving Daniel,” I stated simply, dropping the bomb as I handed off the keys to the valet and headed into the country club to meet my mother-in-law. She had her housekeeper call me to request a meeting. On her turf. She didn't actually say that, but it was certainly implied.

“Wait, what? You couldn't have said what I think you said.”

“You heard me. I'm leaving Daniel. Or, I should say, technically,
left
.”

Grinning wide, I passed the greeter who held the door
open. The answering smile I got back was thin at best. No doubt I was on some sort of blacklist, considering the word must already be out about the marital difficulties of one of their most prestigious members. Daniel's family had belonged to this club since its inception. Naturally, the tribe was rallying around one of their own.

The two college kids at the coat check seemed to want to come out from behind the counter. To stop me perhaps? But their manners kicked in, and I strode with purpose past them. The greeter in the pro shop, however, scurried behind the desk and got out of sight.

Chickenshits.

“Hold on, just hold on a minute,” Daisy asked, sounding out of breath. “Lemme stop.” I pictured her then, jogging along the cobblestoned streets with her skintight yoga pants, turning handsome Italian heads with every stride. “Oh, Avery,” she sighed. She was never a big fan of Daniel, not even when we started dating back in college, but she never would wish
this
upon me.

“Yep.” Glancing around the Sunset Lounge for my guest, I explained. “Well, more accurately, I tossed all of his shit into the pool.”

A woman admonished me with a Waspy how-dare-you look, while her husband turned
up
his hearing aid. I took a seat at the bar in the lounge and waited.

“You didn't!” Daisy cried, still breathing hard but with a definite tone of excitement in her voice. “In the pool?”

“Oh, I did, and it was glorious.”

“Okay, but what the hell happened that made you leave him?” She paused a moment. “Wow, that's weird to say.”

“What, that I left Daniel?” I found that once I said it, I
wanted to repeat it. And often. I left Daniel. Good god damn, it had a nice ring to it. I sang it like Ethel Merman in my head. I rapped it like Eminem.

I knew eventually the rage would segue into sadness, but for right now, I was cruising on sheer anger. I wondered idly if others could get a contact high . . .

Speaking of high, my usual Bloody Mary appeared in a tall glass. And on the side, along with my celery, came an encouraging smile from the female bartender on the other side of a mile of polished mahogany. The first sign I'd seen since arriving at the club that someone, anyone, might be on my side in all this.

“Don't back down,” she whispered, and lifted her chin toward the door.

Looking as though she had just stepped out of Fashion Week, there stood my soon-to-be ex-mother-in-law. Her chignon was low, her tits were high, and her smile was lethal. Oh, and she sparkled. Not from being a wonderful person who emitted positive energy, but because she was iced in so much jewelry. In fact, it looked like she was wearing
all
of her jewelry. At once.

Somewhere in the world, Mr. T sighed in envy.

“Bitsy is here. I'll call you back,” I whispered.

“No, no! Don't you dare! I've got to hear this! Put me on mute! I'll listen in, very secret agent. Or teenagers. Or teenage secret agents! We could be—”

“Oh, would you hush,” I said, rolling my eyes but muting it nonetheless. Setting the phone on the bar, I turned to meet the firing squad.

“Avery,” she said, her sharp blue eyes narrowed at the bartender.

Sitting up straighter on the stool, I sipped my drink. “Can I get you something?”

She sniffed a bit, looking down her long patrician nose at the stool, but in the end decided to actually take a seat. Settling onto it with a graceful air, she turned to me and Botox grinned. She must have just had an appointment. Everything south of her hairline was stiff, smooth, and unmoving. The sun streamed in from behind me, lighting up her neck, ears, and fingers.

“Heading to the pawn shop?” I quipped, taking another sip. The bartender snorted loudly from her perch sliding wineglasses into the rack.

Another crippling “grin.” “You know, I never much cared for your equivoque.”

This. This right here. Equivoque. Who the hell used words like that? With that opening volley, however, I could tell it was one of
those
conversations. It reminded me of when we first met at Thanksgiving dinner my sophomore year at BU. I was so nervous. Crippled by anxiety because they were
the
Boston Remingtons and I was dating, and doing some decidedly dirty things with, their precious son. My family's no slouch, don't get me wrong, but it's like comparing Mark Cuban with Bill Gates. There's money and then there's
money
.

“Yes, I'm sure Daniel was thinking of my
equivoque
as he was giving it to his secretary,” I answered back, just as haughtily.

“I always forget how funny you think you are, Avery. Daniel always was fond of your sense of humor,” she said, wrapping her jewel-encrusted hand around the glass of chardonnay that appeared. Her expression told me she was singularly
un
amused by my quick wit.

With a flick of the wrist, she dismissed the bartender, getting down to business.

Displeasure tried—to no avail of course—to furrow her brow. Her brow may never move again. But it was clear she was
ready to say what she came here to say. “Things happen in a marriage. In all marriages. It surprises me that you would take this to heart. To throw in the towel so quickly over something like this.”

“Something like this? You mean catching him with the secretary isn't towel worthy in your world?” I asked incredulously.

She took a sip of her chardonnay, looking around the room unconcernedly. We could have been discussing soufflé recipes for all the emotion she was showing. “It's your world, too. Don't forget that Remingtons don't get divorced.”

“Bitsy, I'm not sure why you've come today, but I can assure you, if it has anything to do with taking Daniel back, I'm uninterested.”

“I've come to
explain
a few things.” She shifted in her seat, tilting her body away from the prying eyes that were gathering.

“Do you see this?” She pointed to her replica of the Heart of the Ocean around her neck. A ten-carat or more platinum, diamond, and Burmese sapphire necklace. “I received this from Daniel's father.”

“Okay?”

“You see, I received it
after
I found out that my husband's tennis instructor was working on more than his serve.”

Oh
.

Tucking her blond hair behind her ear, she revealed at least a three-carat diamond earring. “These were after the au pair was released from duty. Incidentally, she was sent back to London, where these were purchased.” She tittered, pleased with herself.

Ticking off one ring at a time, she explained in her own way.

Every bauble was an affair. Every gemstone the equivalent of hush money.

A giant art deco Colombian emerald was thanks to an indiscretion in Las Vegas. A pavé diamond and white-gold swirl from a gaffe in Chicago. An impropriety in Paris resulted in a cushion-cut canary diamond.

“Powerful men like Daniel and his father have
needs,
Avery.”

I always hated the way she said my name. Hearing it sneered while discussing her husband's womanizing was even worse.

“There are all kinds of women, Avery, all kinds. And some are more . . .
suited
 . . . for these needs.”

“What exactly are you saying?”

Cracking the tiniest of smiles, she drove her point home. “He's already purchased your gift. He'll be bringing it shortly. You'll learn to live with it. You're certainly not the first wife to turn a blind eye to her husband's extracurricular activities.”

I had nothing to say. I did, however, drink half of my Bloody Mary in one enormous gulp. She went on. “Jewelry is always first. Then a new car. Apartments and vacation homes in faraway places are after that, perhaps Provence or Saint Moritz,” she explained with a hint of excitement.

I immediately remembered her house in the south of France. Oh my goodness.

Penis gifts. They were penis gifts.

You know how there is that Hallmark list of suggested gifts for what to buy for anniversaries? I wondered if there was a ranking system for philandering.

Standing, she patted my hand with her forty pounds of priceless gems. I sincerely hoped she had a bodyguard waiting in the wings to escort her home.

“I'll see you Sunday.”

She actually thought I'd attend brunch! She felt quite sure she could swoop in, explain these new rules for a happy home,
and sparkle right out of here, secure in the knowledge that I'd follow suit.

In walked Daniel, wearing a freshly tailored suit in my once-favorite shade of blue. He air-kissed his mother on her cheeks and smiled. All veneers and confidence. She'd teed me up, and he now was here for the hole in one.

Scooping up the phone from the bar, I told Daisy, “Round two.”

I dropped it into my lap, facedown.

“Baby,” he said softly, looking both handsome and pathetic at the same time. “We need to talk this out.” He sat down next to me, his hand reaching out to touch my bare arm. The second his skin touched mine, a familiar feeling spread through me.

Maybe it was comfort from being with him for so long. Spending so many years with someone, you adopted a certain sense of contentment. Looking at him, he was so handsome, so put together and the safe choice. Perfect for this life, but . . .

Where was that guy I'd loved? The one who took me for Indian food on our first date even though he was allergic to it? The one who brought me pudding when I had my wisdom teeth out sophomore year or the guy who screamed “
That's my girl!  
” when I crossed the stage at graduation? Was he ever that guy? I hated that everything I thought I knew about him and our life was now in question. Untrusted and tainted.

A very small part of me considered taking him back in that instant. How easy it would be, to forgive and forget it all. To learn to live with the pattern of guilt and then a gift. Realizing in twenty-five years that I'd become Bitsy, a shell of what I was and being content with living with the knowledge that I'd never been enough. The echo of her explanation reared its bedazzled head. What had felt like comfort for years now felt like an uncomfortable
sweater: itchy and tight and smothering. A knowledge that my skin was even aware of, that I didn't have a clue who my husband really was.

I remembered the secretary. The hair pulling, the sweaty, rough-and-tumble sex that he was having.

Ignoring him, I picked up the phone and pretended like he wasn't even there.

“Daisy, you still there?”

“Jesus Christ, yes I'm still here, what happened?”

“What happened?” I laughed darkly. “Hilary happened.”

“Clinton?” she asked incredulously. In spite of the chaos about to rain down on my personal life, I couldn't help but laugh a little.

“Hilary, his secretary. She prefers administrative assistant, but I think once I found her and Daniel having the down-and-dirty sex, she pretty much gave up the right to a preferred name. Although I have a few preferred names running through my head right now.”