Elizabeth the First Wife (9 page)

“Mom, you remember FX?”

“I was his mother-in-law, Elizabeth. I do recall him.” Oh, Anne
Lancaster was bowed, but she was not broken. My mother offered FX her hand to shake, literally holding him at arm's length. Yet despite her outward coldness, there was a twinkle of merriment in her eye. This was a huge PR score for her. FX accepted it graciously, saying, “Mrs. Lancaster, you've done a wonderful job here for a wonderful cause. Thank you for welcoming me.”

I had flashbacks of Cotillion circa 1989, me in a pink Gunne Sax atrocity and Timmy Van Eyke in a blue blazer two sizes too small shaking the bony hand of scary Mitsy Fairchild during the punch-and-cookie introduction portion of the evening.

I turned to my stone-faced father. “Dad?”

“Francis, what a surprise,” my father said, reaching out to shake hands with equal parts dignity and disdain. Even FX looked nervous. I quickly ran through the other introductions, ending with Congressman Ted, who saw every new face as a potential supporter.

Ted gave FX a big smile. “I'm a big fan.”

“As I am of yours,” FX countered.

Lies are the glue that keep a family together.

Just then, the photographer from the local society newspaper
Look Out Pasadena!
stuck a camera into the proceedings. “Can I get a Lancaster family photo now that you're all here? Congressman Seymour? Dr. Lancaster, please?” The cute young thing in the jaunty newsboy chapeau tried to corral the group. “Wow, FX Fahey. I can't believe I'm meeting you. Your
Icarus
movies changed my life. After seeing the very first one when I was like eight, I knew I wanted to go to film school and blow people's minds.”

And there you have it. Standing next to a member of Congress and a Nobel Prize winner, it was the actor who got the props. No irony was ever lost on my family. Bumble rolled her eyes and said, “Here he is, FX Fahey, agent of change.” Then she whispered viciously in my ear, “Don't think I hadn't heard. Sarah told me you were wavering. I hope you know what you're doing. Oh, and I have something I need to ask you later. Find me.”

“Okay, everybody look here please,” shouted Newsboy Cap, snapping the fingers of one hand above her head, while with the other she held the camera to her eye. “Big smile, Lancaster family. Big smile.”

Oberon & Titania FROM A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM

HER:
Queen of the Fairies and force to be reckoned with. Sassy, sexy, and proud. Uses her magic to get what she wants. Good dancer.

HIM:
King of the Fairies, but he likes the ladies. One of the original players who enjoys the sport of the chase. Not above using a little black magic to win over a woman. Can be a jealous jerk, but that only makes him sexier. Suspiciously close relationship to Puck.

RELATIONSHIP HISTORY:
Extremely turbulent. On again, off again, sometimes in the same scene. Custody battle over child/changeling. Epic fights that can upset the natural world, literally. Great make-up sex.

RELATIONSHIP LOW POINT:
Oberon uses his magic to make Titania fall in love with a horse's ass. Really, a guy named Bottom wearing a donkey head.

WHY THEY WORK:
Open marriage—very open. Use of performance-enhancing drugs. Barely clothed most of the time.

HIS HOTTEST LINE:
“Ill met by moonlight, Proud Titania.”

HER HOTTEST LINE:
“What angel wakes me from my flowery bed?”

SHAKESPEAREAN COUPLE MOST LIKELY TO:
Have a reality show.

WHO THEY REMIND YOU OF:
That couple who lived down the hall from you sophomore year who had huge fights, broke up, and then got back together. Then another huge fight, breakup, and reconciliation. Or Carrie and Big.

CHEMISTRY FACTOR:
4 OUT OF 5

Now that the Revelation by Fire portion of the evening was over, I was greatly enjoying the furtive glances and open stares from the other guests, so many of whom had doubted the “rumor” that I was once married to FX Fahey. I'd heard the whispers of disbelief more than once in my life when I was huddled in a bathroom stall at a bar/restaurant/reunion/wedding. My short marriage had become a sort of urban myth in Pasadena. But tonight, proof had arrived in a Prius, wearing a Dolce & Gabbana suit.

The crowd was the typical assortment of designers, money, and media, the sort of people who mixed easily in Pasadena. There was the old guard sporting their Bill Blass jackets over black or white pants, sipping wine and scanning for fellow country clubbers. The designers tended to be younger and hipper, but not so hip that they alienated their clients, who preferred Schumacher to steampunk. And the media was local, chummy, and in the bag for an event like the Showcase House.

Pierce DeVine was holding court near the deep blue pool; even though I could only see him from behind, I'd recognize the shape of his perfect head anywhere. When I dropped off the signed contract and the first of many checks, he told me he only committed to a guest bathroom in “the House” this year because, and I quote, “Those committee ladies will bleed a designer dry. Let somebody else do the kitchen for free.” (Charity work really brings out the best in people.) Presumably, Pierce used his third eye to sense the presence of a movie star, because he turned, mid-conversation, to acknowledge us with a namaste gesture. I bowed my head in return, before realizing how ridiculous I must have looked.

I spotted several Divorced Dads in the crowd checking me out with new interest. These were the men my friends had set me up with because, as Shelly Bixby told me, “It's hard to find someone on the first go-round at your age.” True, Shelly, but I was child-free, which I thought put me in a “more single” category than a man with two kids in grade school. Unfortunately, there weren't many men in Pasadena who'd had the good sense to divorce before they procreated like I did, so I made a few mistakes before I figured out that dating a divorced dad meant never getting to say, “I don't care about youth sports.”

I caught the eye of one ex named Minot Stewart, or as I liked to call him, “the law firm of Minot Stewart.” Minot was, in fact, a lawyer who was also very earnest and in way over his head with his two children on their every other week. His first wife left him for her trainer, which was so '90s it was almost too pathetic to believe. But he did have excellent manners and a healthy smile, which went a long way in my book. For the first few weeks, it looked like Minot might be one of the few Divorced Dads who could separate dating and parenting. We had a honeymoon period in which he barely mentioned travel-team tryouts or summer-camp plans. My first encounters with his daughters, Zoe and Chloe, were brief, fun, and enjoyable. Look at me, I thought—instant family!

But then Minot started treating me like a nanny, calling me from work on Friday to pick up his girls and get them to softball because he was “stuck on a phone call.” Or asking me to buy gifts because the girls had to go to a birthday party and I would know what to get the birthday girl better than he would. I ended the relationship after one terrifying Saturday morning at a petting zoo with Zoe and Chloe while Minot “played golf with a client.” (Really, if I wanted to be abandoned on a weekend morning for the golf course, I'd have to sign a prenup first.) I liked kids; I just didn't want to date them. When I broke it off, his first words were, “Does that mean you can't cover ballet practice on Thursday?”

But my loss was kindergarten teacher Suzy Badalian's gain. She swooped in and snagged Minot on the rebound, scoring a ring the next Christmas. A kindergarten teacher was the perfect choice to schlep his girls to ballet.

Now, happily married and self-satisfied, Suzy and Minot were trying really hard not look at FX and me as we weaved through the crowd. I busted them with a big wave in their direction.

My favorite reaction of the night was the neck-craning double take executed by Muffin O'Meara O'Malley, creator of four perfect children and a line of cashmere spa wear (Double O'M) that had just been sold into Neimans. Muffin had graciously set me up with not one but two of her banker husband's partners, mainly out of pity with a touch of politics. (Her husband wanted a face-to-face with Congressman Ted.) The setups had failed miserably, and the face-to-face had never happened, partly because I was too lazy to follow up with Ted and partly because I wanted to punish Muffin a little bit for taking the lead role in Pippin away from me in eleventh grade. We'd been mutually avoiding each other for months.

But tonight, Muffin was all graciousness and charm. After recovering from her initial reaction, she rushed over to greet me, bussing me pretentiously on both cheeks, then grabbing FX's right hand in a double-clutch pump shake. Without letting go, she
informed us that she had just returned from London, where everyone was talking about the Washington movie. What one had to do with the other, I wasn't sure, but FX humbly accepted her praise, then exited to the bar with a gentle bow.

Muffin forced her death grip on me. “Oh, you bad girl. No wonder it didn't work out with George or Ramesh. You've been recycling, as the kids say.” I was pretty sure the kids didn't say that, but I smiled conspiratorially. Arriving casually with my famous ex-husband was exactly the sort of personality rehab I needed in this town. I'd gone from Still Single to Still Happening in an instant.

“That's me, Elizabeth the Bad Girl. Who doesn't feel good about recycling? Excuse me, Muffin. I see that Bumble needs an intervention, and that's what sisters do for each other!” And with that I was off to rescue Bumble, who'd been cornered by one of the Showcase neighbors, who was a large donor to her husband's campaigns. Her previous career in PR had served her well in her relatively new role as the wife of a congressman. She did a lot of the Stand & Nod and the Smile & Laugh, as well as the Stare in Adoration, all performances she had perfected while representing celebrities. Currently, as Bumble stood listening to helmet-headed Adelaide Martin, she was performing the Agree & Move On, which was executed with lot of nodding and a steady stream of “Uh-hmmns.”