I guess Wilma was right about something tonight.
CHAPTER FOUR
IN NEED OF A FLY SWATTER
“DOES THE GRAY paint look yellowish to you?” I pace in front of a square of fresh paint on a wall in the master bedroom.
Troi twists and leans, examining the swatch from multiple perspectives. “It’s definitely skewing on the sallow side.”
“I knew it. I could have sworn it had blue undertones when I selected it. No matter. I’m heading to the paint store. Come with me.”
Troi cocks his head. “Now?”
“Yes, now. I need a break from the cacophony of the plumbers sawing and banging the pipes.”
“You wouldn’t by chance want to put on something less, hmm, aging-modern-dancer-turned-meth-cooker before we leave?” His hands flutter judgmentally at the plaid flannel shirt sans sleeves I’m wearing over a pair of yoga pants. “And the hair. Shouldn’t you wait until after your appointment with Jeremy before you venture beyond the apartment?”
I press my palms against my roots. “Leave me alone, Troi. I’ve relinquished the demands of presenting myself as the billionaire’s wife. You need to lower the standards you hold me to. Besides, Jeremy and Ben are in the middle of a terrible fight, and they refuse to be in the salon on the same day. Jeremy can’t fit me in until the end of next week.”
With a pout, Troi reaches his arms toward me. “Come here, you. I’m sorry. I’ve been a very mean boy. You’re beautiful no matter what you wear. No one knows us here. Parading in public dressed in schmattas could be fun. Wait for me while I change into a less appropriate outfit.”
I rest my head on his upper arm. “I forgive you. But don’t go changing. We have to leave now. I’m becoming homicidal listening to this racket.”
Troi may have raised my self-conscious tendencies, but they recede while we walk down Broadway. I blend right in with the people we pass. It’s freeing to become anonymous and unburdened by the expectations people used to place on my appearance.
Half a block before we reach the paint store, I freeze.
Troi pretends to be thrown backwards from the sudden stop. “What’s the deal?”
I point to a black Bentley parked in front of a hydrant.
He purses his lips. “Brandon isn’t the only person in Manhattan with a Bentley. You sure it’s his?”
I pull him into a shop’s recessed entranceway to avoid being discovered. “The license plates are his. Oh, and in case I need further proof, that’s Eddie.” Eddie, Brandon’s chauffeur, walks around the car to open the passenger door. “I can’t look.”
I choke on the tendrils of dread sprouting within my chest. The dread commands me to avert my eyes, but my curiosity regarding who is in the car won’t let me. If it’s Brandon, I won’t care. But if it’s his new wife, I have to see whom he left me for.
I thought things had been fine in our marriage. I was everything I believed he wanted in a wife: young, tall, blonde, sophisticated, and comfortable in myriad social situations. We understood each other and never lacked for conversation. Disagreements were rare. Our last tiff, shortly before we split, was about starting a family. I was ready, but he suggested we wait a few years. I gave in to him as I always did.
And then he dumped me because he had knocked up a girlfriend I didn’t know he had. He rejected me, and now an unnamed bimbo is leading my life.
I clutch Troi’s hand like the banister of an icy staircase, watching the car door with trepidation. A pale blue slingback alights on the curb. Slender fingers tipped with blue polish wrap around Eddie’s outstretched hand. Chestnut waves of hair crest the top of the door.
I gasp. Not loud enough for her to have heard, but still, she turns in our direction and adjusts her sunglasses.
Troi wags his finger. “Oh, no she didn’t!” I imagine the fins of a frilled lizard fanning around his reddened face.
Tugging his hand, I say, “Quick. Let’s pop into the shop before she notices us.”
I duck under his arm as he holds the door for me. Racks of twee children’s clothing surround us. I struggle to pretend to be interested in such wares while I wait for Brandon’s new wife to disappear into another shop.
I peer through the window only to spin away from it. “Troi, she’s coming in here. Help!”
He plucks an armful of onesies from a rack and beckons me to follow him. “It won’t look like we’re snooping in the back if we’re carrying clothing. We’ll hide in a dressing room until she leaves.”
I scamper behind him, drawing the curtain closed. “Keep an eye on her, please.”
Troi pokes his head through a small opening between the curtains. “She’s still at the front of the store. Now she’s hugging the clerk. Now they’re talking.”
We strain to listen to their conversation. First come the effusive greetings shared between people who care less about each other than they dare to admit followed by words about a client having the item in the size she wants. The talking stops. The slap of leather soles against the polished wood floor grows louder. I hold my breath.
“Can I offer you any assistance?” the clerk asks from the other side of the curtain.
I adopt the voice of a bad Lauren Bacall impersonator. “We’re fine, thanks.”
“I believe your partner selected our animal friends onesie in a size six to nine months. Are you planning on buying it? I have another customer looking for the same size.”
Troi passes me the garments, and I hand them to the clerk without opening the curtain. A hanger catches the curtain’s side hem. Like Toto unmasking the Wizard of Oz, I inadvertently reveal our existence.
“Emma? And Troi? Imagine running into the two of you here!” My former friend Giselle cranes her neck, peering into the dressing room. “Who’s trying on clothing? Neither of you have a child, I’m sure. Do you think you are small enough to fit into children’s clothing?” While she laughs, her eyes perform a venomous takedown of me.
I catch a glimpse of the frayed shoulder seams of my shirt in the mirror. My messy bun, whose color is heading into brassy territory, doesn’t improve matters. I should have heeded Troi’s advice before leaving the house.
He steps in front of me. “How perfectly droll! Emma, isn’t it hysterical that she thought we were trying on clothes?”
I stare at him, my eyes wide. “Uh, huh,” I say with a slow nod.
His hands illustrate his tale in a flurry of movement. “My cousin gave birth to what I insist is the cutest baby to be born in New York this year. Tell me you know of one more precious.” Giselle’s face belies no urge to contradict him with prideful news of her own precious baby. “Emma and I are here buying the little sweetie her fall wardrobe. But no sooner did we walk into the shop then I felt a horrible sting on my derrière. Can you imagine the audacity of something so unworthy appearing unexpectedly and then hurting me? I dragged Emma to the changing room and forced her to examine my backside for signs of an unwanted swelling or rash. I appear to be fine but consider what poor Emma had to endure. All because of a worthless pest. And what brings you here?” He beams with unwarranted goodwill.
“I, uh, am buying a little pressie for a new mommy friend of mine. And I’ve been dying to visit my dear friend Elise’s store.” Giselle gives a subtle, stern glance to Elise, probably advising her not to blab a word about Giselle being the mommy in question. She must have no clue we saw her arrive in Brandon’s car.