‘Wow,’ the headband mom said reverently. ‘That sounds amazing. Have you ever tried tequila? I’m not a huge vodka fan.’
‘But that’s the best part!’ crowed the fur ball. ‘It doesn’t matter what you use – you can’t even taste it! And I haven’t noticed that any one type is easier on my vag than any other, so … as long as it’s not flavored, I think you can use whatever you have laying around.’
‘I’m trying it. This weekend. Wait – does that mean you would pass a Breathalyzer? Like, if no alcohol goes into your actual mouth, you should be fine, right?’
Emily was about to respond – they were raging idiots to think that alcohol absorbed through their vaginas instead of their stomachs didn’t have the same effect on their blood alcohol level – but she stopped herself. After ten days in Greenwich, Emily had seen the same faces over and over again. Telling people off in her favorite Starbucks was probably not the best way to go.
She glanced around. It was as though someone released a man-repelling chemical weapon at seven a.m. each weekday and didn’t turn off the spigot for a full twelve hours. The only men able to survive it were the ones older than eighty or too rich to even pretend to work anymore, but they didn’t spend their time in Starbucks. It was women as far as the eye could see. Women in their thirties, pushing strollers and chasing toddlers; in their forties, eking out every second before school let out at three; in their fifties, meeting for a cappuccino and a chat; in their sixties, accompanying their daughters and grandchildren. Nannies. Babysitters. The odd twenty-something who taught a local yoga or spin class. But not one damn man. Emily noticed how different it looked from L.A., where everyone was freelance and flexible and sort of working and sort of not. She missed L.A., but it was not missing her back. Olivia Belle had probably signed half the city by now.
Her phone rang and flashed MILES.
‘Em? Hey, sweetie.’
‘Hi. I’m so glad it’s you and not the bitch who just fired me.’
‘You got fired? Who fired you?’
Emily laughed. ‘Kim Kelly. In an email that wasn’t even intended for me.’
‘Kim Kelly’s a cunt.’
‘I appreciate the sentiment, honey, I really do. But can you not use that word?’
‘What, “cunt”? Since when does that bother you? You’ve been in Greenwich too long.’
‘Probably.’
‘Have you always hated “cunt”? How could I possibly not have known that about you? I mean, my God, we—’
‘Stop saying “CUNT”!’ Emily all but shouted into her phone, causing Elodie and India’s mommies to turn and stare. ‘What are you looking at?’ she asked them.
‘Me?’ Miles asked.
‘No, not you.’ Emily raised her voice and said into the phone, ‘I prefer “cooch.” As in, next time you want to get drunk, you should consider sticking vodka-soaked tampons up your cooch. That’s what all the cool moms are doing.’
This time the women, dumbfounded, exchanged a look.
‘What? Vodka-soaked tampons? What are you talking about?’ Miles said.
‘Nothing, never mind.’ Emily took a gulp of her now-cold latte. ‘So where are you now?’
‘Just got back from dinner to the hotel, which is insane. I can’t wait for you to see it.’
‘Yeah, me neither. The pictures look incredible.’
‘I’ll be back in L.A. a week from this Friday. You’ll be home by then, right?’
‘Of course. Unemployed, washed up, and humiliated. But home.’
‘Oh, come on, Em. Who even cares that Kim Kelly fired you? She’s a shit actress, anyway.’
‘She’s won three Oscars and two Globes. She was one of my best clients.’
‘She’s a hack. And getting older and fatter by the second. You, my love, are the queen of the crazies. I know it, and so does everyone else.’
Clearly he was trying to make her feel better, but it only made Emily desperate to hang up. ‘Miles? I’ve got to run. Miriam’s expecting me home soon.’
‘Okay. I miss you, honey. Remember, Kim Kelly is a bad car accident, and you’re lucky you escaped that one. I’ll see you in a couple more weeks, and I’ll take you out to cheer you up. Just remember – you’re a rock star.’
‘A rock star. Right. Check.’ She couldn’t remember feeling this down on herself, possibly ever, but then again, she’d never been fired by three big clients right in a row. She managed an ‘I love you’ before hanging up.
Then, as Emily went to close her laptop, another email came in. Camilla’s subject line said: Please read immediately.
The official firing email. Well, that had taken all of three minutes. ‘Fuck you,’ she said as she jabbed the ‘delete’ button without even opening it. Two women who had taken the table of the other moms – and who were also clad in head-to-toe Lululemon – turned to stare at her, mouths agape.
‘Mind your own fucking business,’ Emily snapped. ‘And just so you know, getting drunk through your cooch instead of your mouth will result in an identical DUI, which will inevitably force you to sell your house and change your name and move straight across the country, since no mommy around here will ever speak to you again. Even though they all do it too. Just a friendly FYI.’
Emily grabbed her computer bag and slung it over her shoulder. ‘Have a great day!’ she sang as she left, flashing just the quickest middle finger as she walked past their table. Making new friends was overrated. Especially in the suburbs.
MIRIAM
Miriam tiptoed back into her still-dark bedroom and slipped under the covers. It felt so supremely indulgent to crawl back in bed. Like when she and Paul had first met and would sleep until eleven on the weekends, venture out in their sweats to pick up coffee and bagels, and then head straight back to bed with their favorite sections of The New York Times. Now Wednesdays at eight-fifteen were the new weekend: Paul worked from his home office that day and made it a point not to start until ten, since most other days he was up and out early. She snuggled up with him, pressed her body against his, and inhaled. Something about his neck in the morning always smelled delicious.
He smiled without opening his eyes and murmured, ‘What did you do with our children?’
‘All three off to school. It’s just you and me. And Emily, but she doesn’t count. What do you think about that?’ She reached her hand under the covers and into the waistband of his boxers, but he turned away.
‘I’ve got to get up. An earlier-than-usual call today.’ He gave her a dry peck on the lips, headed into the bathroom, and closed the door behind him. A moment later, she heard the shower turn on.
Miriam kicked off the covers and sighed. She’d had the idea to strip off her stretched-out leggings and yogurt-splattered T-shirt before waking him and had even slipped into what qualified as lingerie after three kids and seven years of marriage: a sleeveless cotton nightshirt and no underwear. What more could the man want?
She followed him into the bathroom and appraised him as he stepped out onto the bath mat after his usual quick rinse. There was no denying it, he was still handsome: broad-shouldered and small-waisted, annoyingly so.