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‘Yeah, quite the drama,’ Emily said. ‘That headline this morning: “Most Hated Celeb: Rizzo Benz or Karolina Hartwell?” My God. I haven’t seen the press this excited since Harvey Weinstein.’
Karolina opened her mouth to talk, but she felt the now-familiar knot in her throat. ‘It’s been … hard. And confusing. I just didn’t expect it to be so vicious in Washington. Reporters … are …’
‘Staking out the house, I imagine?’ Emily asked.
‘Oh my God. They’re everywhere. I’ve never seen anything like this. Not when they thought I was having an affair with George Clooney pre-Amal. Not even when Graham was elected to the Senate. They were three deep at our home in Bethesda.’ She motioned to the front door. ‘Thank God for that hideous fence Graham had installed here.’
‘How is Harry?’ Miriam asked, sipping her tea.
Karolina shook her head. ‘I don’t know. Graham insisted we take an Uber from my mother-in-law’s house, and literally, a mob of people descended on us as soon as we pulled in. And you know what the first question was? “Are you drunk right now, Mrs. Hartwell?”’
‘They’re animals,’ Emily said knowingly.
‘Thank God we could pull directly into the garage, because I don’t know what would have happened if we had to walk through it. They literally mobbed the car. Harry was crying.’
‘Where was Graham?’
Karolina took a deep breath. ‘He couldn’t risk being seen with me.’
She told Miriam and Emily how she had tried Beth, her best mommy friend. The phone had rung and rung until finally going to voicemail, which wasn’t particularly strange: no one answered the phone these days. Karolina had felt self-conscious even calling. But when her first text had gone unanswered, and then two more, she’d started to feel a little queasy. That wasn’t like Beth, who joked that her phone was practically welded to her palm. Nearly two hours later, Karolina finally received a reply text: Cole may no longer play with Harry. Please don’t contact either of us again.
Karolina had gasped as though she’d been punched. For nearly a full minute, she’d struggled to catch her breath, wondering if she was having a heart attack. When her breathing had finally slowed to something resembling a normal rate, she’d fired off a group text to the mothers of the boys from the night before: Hi all. I’ll call each of you individually, but I just wanted to let you know that I was NOT drunk and last night was a huge misunderstanding. Your children were never in danger. Love, K.
The responses came back fast and furious:
We trusted you with our son!
How can you even look at yourself after what you did?
And the worst one of all, although it was the only message that didn’t include any angry exclamations:
Please, please, please: get some help. I’ve been there too. You can’t do this without the professionals and you’re deluding yourself if you think you can.
These four simply worded text messages had broken Karolina in a way that being pushed into the back of a squad car, feeling the rage of her husband, and spending an entire night in a country jail had not. Her phone slipped from her hands, and she succumbed to the sobs. These were her friends. Not the catty frenemies she’d made in her twenties. Not the New York society women who were alternately intimidated by her appearance and put off by her lack of pedigree. The group of women she’d met after they had moved to Bethesda had been easy from the start. Some of them worked, some of them didn’t; there was a big variety of education levels and backgrounds and income; most of all, they were all trying to raise their kids as well as they could manage and have some laughs along the way. No one cared that she used to be a famous model. No one cared that her husband was a senator. And certainly no one cared that she wasn’t Harry’s biological mother. They got together for birthdays and took the kids trick-or-treating and carpooled to softball practice. Their husbands shared beers during weekend barbecues. Their kids all mostly got along and treated one another’s houses as their own. It was easy. It was natural. And it was over. She felt ill.
Miriam’s hand on her arm brought Karolina back to the charmless living room where she sat with two women who didn’t despise her. ‘How long are you staying?’
Tears sprang to her eyes. ‘Graham says it’s better with me here in Greenwich, so that Harry doesn’t have all the stress of the media attention, but I don’t know.’
‘When was the last time you spoke to Graham?’ Emily asked.
‘Last night. I’m so confused. Do you know I actually asked Harry about that night?’
‘What about it?’ Miriam asked.
Karolina dabbed her eye with a tissue. ‘I couldn’t help myself. I asked if he remembered what I had to drink. He said he saw me having one glass of wine – I called it “mommy juice,” which he found totally humiliating in front of his friends. He even remembered I poured it for myself right after I gave the boys their Sprite, and he was worried that Graham would be upset because I’d opened a new bottle. What he could not answer was why there were two empty champagne bottles floating around the back of the Suburban when the police pulled me over.’
‘You don’t think it’s possible he and his friends got into it?’ Miriam asked. ‘I’m sure he’s a good kid, but he is twelve, and he wouldn’t be the first.’
‘Those boys weren’t drinking champagne. None of us were. And I begged for a Breathalyzer once the boys were out of the car, but the police are saying I refused. It’s a nightmare.’
With this, Emily slapped her hands in her lap. ‘I can’t stay quiet another second. Why are we all freaking out right now? DUIs are totally recoverable! If you just get in front of this, you can make it go away.’
‘Go away?’ Karolina asked. ‘Have you turned on a television or opened a newspaper in the last three days?’
‘Yes, I get it. The former face of L’Oréal and current wife of New York senator Graham Hartwell gets busted for driving drunk. Big fucking deal! You didn’t kill anyone. That would be way harder. The kid factor complicates things a little, I admit, but let’s keep the focus on what’s important: no one got hurt; no one died; no one even crashed. This is all a lot of hysteria for nothing.’
Karolina saw Miriam give Emily a look telling her to shut up. She remembered enough about Emily to know that was unlikely. And besides, when Emily phrased it like that, it didn’t sound quite so horrific.
‘Go on,’ Karolina said.
Emily shrugged. ‘I’ll tell you what I would tell a client. No one cares if you were drunk or not. You need to apologize for having a problem and putting children at risk. You’ll definitely need to do thirty days inpatient somewhere – the optics for that are just unbeatable, especially when we tip the press off ahead of time – but there’s one in Montana that’s downright fabulous. Like an Aman.’
‘Thirty days inpatient? Like rehab? But I don’t have a drinking problem!’
‘That’s totally irrelevant,’ Emily said, glancing at her buzzing phone. ‘There’s a protocol people follow, and this is it: everyone loves to forgive a repentant sinner. Look at Mel Gibson. Reese Witherspoon. John Mayer. Graham’s affair complicates things a tad, but it’s nothing that can’t be dealt with. They’ll forgive you too.’
‘His … affair?’ Karolina whispered.
‘I’m just assuming. Am I wrong?’
Karolina sat quietly for a minute and then said, ‘If he is, it’s with Regan Whitney.’ Karolina could see Miriam’s face register shock before she tried for a more neutral expression. Was she surprised that Graham might be cheating on Karolina or just surprised that it might be with the young, beautiful and polished daughter of former President Whitney? Karolina’s suspicions were based solely on a handful of texts she’d seen that were more suggestive than actually incriminating. That and the fact that he’d lost all interest in sex over the past six months.
‘She’s not nearly as pretty as you,’ Emily said authoritatively. ‘Not even close.’
‘She’s nearly a decade younger than me,’ Karolina said. ‘Does she really even need to be pretty?’
‘No,’ Miriam and Emily agreed simultaneously.
‘Being connected is more appealing to Graham than being pretty,’ Karolina said flatly. ‘Anyway, right now Trip advised us to keep quiet. Supposedly he’s working the phones on my behalf, and he thinks we have a shot at getting the charges dropped.’
The sound of a buzzer broke the silence.
‘That’s the gate,’ Karolina said. Her mind flashed back to the hordes of camera crews and reporters camped outside their Bethesda home. ‘You don’t think the police have let them through, do you?’
Thankfully, the neighbors on either side of the Hartwells’ house had complained about the disruption from the paparazzi, and the Greenwich Police Department had very thoughtfully closed the road to all traffic except those who could prove their residence and their invited guests. It was the only thing saving her sanity.
Miriam jumped up from the couch. ‘Where can you see the gate camera? The kitchen?’
Karolina merely nodded. It was starting to feel like she would never escape this nightmare.
‘It’s just two Girl Scouts!’ Miriam called. ‘Can I buzz them in?’
‘No cookies at a time like this!’ Emily called back. ‘The last thing she needs is an endless stream of empty calories!’
Karolina took a sip of water. ‘I guess not even the cops can say no to Girl Scouts.’
Miriam walked back in and shot Emily a disgusted look. ‘I buzzed them in. You can’t refuse a cookie solicitation, it brings seven years of bad luck.’
‘Oh, well, we sure wouldn’t want that,’ Emily said. ‘I mean, not with how gorgeously everything seems to be going right now.’
This time Karolina burst out laughing. She was crazy and emotional, and her life was spiraling completely out of control, but damn, it felt nice just to laugh. ‘Bring on the Samoas. This girl is ready to eat!’
7 (#ulink_f8207d14-bea7-5175-8f58-30d20a4a5e5f)
Vodka and Tampax: A Match Made in Greenwich (#ulink_f8207d14-bea7-5175-8f58-30d20a4a5e5f)
EMILY
‘Emily! Half-caf skinny latte for Emily!’ The Starbucks barista had a ring through the cartilage of her left ear and a line of small silver cuffs all the way up her right one. Emily wanted to hug her for merely existing in Greenwich without either a blond bob or a pair of Sorel Joan of Arctic boots.
‘Thanks,’ Emily said, grabbing the cup and beelining back to her corner seat before one of the women trolling for tables snagged her spot.
She sipped her coffee and tore herself away from a photo of Olivia and Rizzo lunching at a brasserie in the East Village, instead scrolling through a list of designers to approach last-minute for Kim Kelly. Kim Kelly, the actress made famous by risqué roles (read: willingness to take her clothes off anytime), was having a dress crisis. Kim was Emily’s first client after Runway and remained, to this day, her craziest. The SAG Awards were less than two weeks away, and according to Kim, the Proenza Schouler Emily had commissioned for her was a ‘total fucking nightmare.’ Nearly ten years of dressing the woman had taught her to expect this behavior at least fifty percent of the time – but she was annoyed by the total about-face. Kim had loved the dress at her first fitting a few weeks earlier, twirling in front of the three-way mirror, giggling to herself. The shoes were Chanel, the jewelry Harry Winston, and the only thing left to source was the perfect beaded clutch – hardly a difficult task. Emily’s phone buzzed with yet another hysterical text from Kim.
Will you look at this? Total fucking nightmare, Kim had written.
Emily squinted at the iPhone picture of Kim looking exactly the same in the dress as she had two weeks earlier: gorgeous. Nightmare? WTF? You look like a Disney princess, only hotter.
I look like a wildebeest. You know it, I know it, and soon everyone who watches E will know it!
Stop! This is Proenza we are talking about it. They don’t do wildebeests.
Well then they fucked up this time b/c I am huge. I can’t wear this. I won’t.
Okay, I hear you, Emily typed, although apparently she said this out loud, because one of the women sitting next to her turned and said, ‘Excuse me?’
Emily looked up. ‘What? Oh, sorry, not you. I’m not hearing you.’
The woman turned back to her friend, only now Emily couldn’t help listening. She sneaked sideways glances as both women pulled out their phones and opened their calendar apps.
‘So, yeah, it would be great to get them together. I can’t believe it took until first grade to get them in the same class! Elodie can do Wednesdays. Does that work?’
‘No, Wednesdays aren’t great. India has fencing. How are Mondays?’
‘Mmm, Mondays are tough. I have to drop my older two at swim, get back to the school to pick Elodie up from violin, and then take all three of them to this healthy-cooking class they’re taking together. What about next week?’
The woman shook her head. ‘We’re in Deer Valley next week. I know, I know, I shouldn’t be pulling them all out of school right after Christmas break, but Silas is insistent. I was, like, “But, honey, we’re going to Vail over Presidents’ Week. Can’t we go somewhere warm?”’
Her friend nodded. ‘I hear you. Patrick is the exact same way. I had to fight tooth and nail for Turks in February. The only place he wanted to go was Tahoe. I was, like, “Enough Tahoe! You are not eighteen anymore. It can’t just be all about your boarding! The kids need to swim outside at some point this winter.”’
The ping of an incoming email was the only thing that dragged Emily back to reality. She clicked open the email from Kim Kelly and began to read.
Camilla,
I tried again, exactly like you said, and I CANNOT work with her anymore. I love Emily, you know that. She’s done great things for me over the last decade, but she’s lost her edge. I don’t know how anyone with eyes could think I look good in this total fucking nightmare of a dress. And now she says I have to find something RTW because there’s not enough time?????? RTW to the SAG Awards, are you fucking kidding me? I’ve been hearing great things about Olivia Belle. Can you get in touch with her and see what her availability is for the next 24 hours? And please write to Emily and let her down easy. I like her, I really do, but it’s time for me to move on. Fire her nicely, please. Xx KK
Without even realizing it, Emily was blinking at the screen and then rubbing her eyes. Camilla was Kim Kelly’s manager, and it couldn’t be more obvious what had just happened. It took only a split second to decide whether she should wait for Camilla’s email or write directly to Kim.
Kim,
While it’s obvious you didn’t have the nerve to fire me yourself, I don’t happen to suffer from the same condition. So I will gladly tell you straight to your face that the problem isn’t the dress or the designer or me. It’s you. Namely, your raging eating disorder that allows you to think that at 104 pounds and a size two, you look like a wildebeest. I hope you get help before it’s too late. I’m sure Olivia Belle will be the *perfect* fit for you.
Sincerely,
Emily Charlton
She punched ‘send’ without rereading it. Good riddance, she thought. But then the deflation. The dread. Another client lost to Olivia Belle. Another humiliating and high-profile firing. Another step closer to having to shutter her business altogether. She fired off a quick, slightly panicked email to Miles, giving him the update, but she had no idea what time it was in Hong Kong.
Next to her, the women had given up on trying to schedule a playdate. They had somehow segued into an uninhibited conversation about vodka-soaked tampons.
‘I mean, I’ve, like, read that the college girls all love it. But I can’t bring myself to actually do it,’ the mom of Elodie said. She had on workout wear, head to toe: running shoes, yoga pants, a performance fleece, and a reflective headband, topped off with a down vest.
Her friend wore a variation of the exact same outfit, only she had swapped out the headband for a knit hat with a massive fur ball on top. This woman – India’s mommy – leaned in and said, ‘Oh, it’s amazing. OBs definitely work best because of the no applicator. All of the buzz, none of the calories!’
‘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.
