Authors: Jane Green
“Oh yes. Just when you think it can’t get any worse, it does.” I hear a noise in the basement and tell Lara I have to go, heading down to the basement where I find Buck glued to the TV, the entire screen of which is currently occupied by a picture of our house and a reporter speaking live on camera.
“His wife, Maggie, is described as a pillar of the community—” The reporter sweeps her hand to take in the house as the camera pans. “—and up until this past week, queen of the ladies who lunch out here on Connecticut’s Gold Coast. But it’s a far cry from where she grew up, in a humble blue-collar home—” I don’t hear anything else, for a picture of my childhood home suddenly flashes on-screen, more derelict and disgusting than it was then, chain-link fence in the front, a snarling dog leaping and barking at the camera.
I am not proud of myself for what happens next. Shame and rage combine to a force that is too overpowering for me to control, and before I even think about it, I’m running up the basement stairs to the front door and flinging it open, marching down the steps and straight to the reporter who is still speaking, live, into the camera, and my fury is pulsing through my body, a red vein of rage.
“How dare you!” I shout. “How dare you trespass on my property and embarrass my children. Get off my property now.”
The reporter is unfazed. “Mrs. Hathaway, did you know your husband was embezzling money?”
“Get the hell out,” I demand, searching for the police to help, but there are none to be seen.
“Can you at least tell us how you found out your husband has another wife and daughter?” the reporter continues in her smooth, professional, modulated tones.
“Get the fuck
out
!” Oh, sweet Jesus. Did I have to curse live on the air? Did I have to curse while standing in my graying bathrobe, my not-too-clean bra clearly visible, my hair, unbrushed and tangled, framing my fury as I advance to the reporter, ready to kill if anyone takes a step closer?
She backs down, and I take a deep breath, knowing my dignity will never be restored after this; knowing that all around town, women are glued to their televisions, cell phones in hand as they call everyone they know, eyes wide with horror—and thrill—at my public humiliation and downfall.
Me. The woman I used to think they had all aspired to be.
40
Sylvie
Sylvie hugs Eve good-bye and walks out of the room with a smile and wave, as if she is perfectly fine, waiting until she is safely in the elevator before collapsing against the wall, emotionally drained.
Eve has been begging and pleading all day for Sylvie to get her out of here. She is crying, screaming, wailing, hiccuping, promising to eat, swearing on everything she has that she means it: that this time will be different. The regimen they have agreed to with Dr. Lawson involves prescribed eating during the day, with intravenous feedings at night to ensure Eve gets the nutrition she needs, and Eve is terrified.
They are aiming, he said, for a weight gain of two to three pounds per week, which is when Eve started to lose it.
Sylvie cannot stand to leave her alone, but it is time for her first therapy, and Sylvie has to see Clothilde and figure out this financial mess.
Sylvie strides through the foyer of the clinic, digging in her purse for the car keys, not noticing a couple sitting on chairs by the door. The woman nudges the man, who jumps up and whips a camera out, taking Sylvie’s picture.
Startled, Sylvie is about to ask what on earth is going on when the woman approaches, holding out a tiny black tape recorder.
“Ms. Haydn? We’re from the
Star.
We understand your daughter has just been admitted to this rehab clinic. Is this collateral damage from her finding out about your husband?”
“What?” Sylvie’s voice is like stone. “How did you find out … I was here?”
“Is it true, then?”
“I’m not answering anything until you tell me how you knew I was here.” Someone who works here, an admitting nurse, someone. How could they have been so indiscreet?
“Facebook,” the woman admits. “Some of your daughter’s friends have been posting about it.”
“Oh shit.” Sylvie closes her eyes for a second, then turns on her heel and walks out the door, blanking the two reporters as if they had never existed at all.
* * *
She can’t go to Clothilde. Not until she finds out what’s on Facebook and gets it taken down immediately. Turning into the driveway, she sees a slew of vans by the house with antennas on top, scores of people milling around her house.
Reporters.
Shit.
She reverses quickly, driving straight to Angie’s, who opens the door before Sylvie has even parked the car.
“Where’ve you
been
? I’ve been calling you all morning.” Her usual smile is missing, her face deadly serious.
“Where do you think I’ve been?” Sylvie snaps. “I’ve been admitting Eve into rehab and planning to go and see my mother, but I can’t. The press have gotten hold of the story.”
“I know.”
“What do you mean, you know?”
“Because it’s all over the fucking news.”
“Oh, Jesus. Is it bad?”
“It’s worse for the other one. She’s being portrayed as a snooty social-climbing bitch. ‘Superior’ and ‘cold’ are words I remember.”
“She doesn’t sound superior. She sounds devastated.”
“Sylvie, have you seen any of this stuff?”
Sylvie tilts her head. “Only a tiny bit. I couldn’t watch.”
“Did you see his house?” Angie shakes her head. “It’s insane! It’s fucking huge! What the—? Who the hell is this man? This other Mark is all Porsches and diamonds, and she’s all Chanel and this crazy moneyed lifestyle. This isn’t the man we know at all.”
Sylvie sits down. “Do you think he still has money?”
“I don’t know. He’s certainly been spending it. Not on you, though. God. When I think what a hard time he gave you over that jacket you wanted last year. What was it? Two hundred dollars? Three hundred?”
Sylvie shrugs. “Something like that.”
“And she’s swanning around in sable bloody coats. I could kill him.”
Sylvie closes her eyes and sits back, leaning her head on the pillow. “I’m just so tired. I have no idea what’s next. First Eve and her anorexia, now my mom with a stroke, and the pièce de résistance, my sham marriage and lying, cheating husband. I keep bracing myself for what’s next.”
“Nothing’s next.” Angie sits next to her. “Don’t you know? Bad things always come in threes. That’s it. Those are your three. Now it’s nothing but good all the way.”
“That’s hardly likely, given the press are camping on my doorstep. I can’t even go home. And presumably, they’re looking to expose everything in my private life. Angie, I don’t know how I’m going to survive this.”
“Don’t be overdramatic,” Angie tuts. “That’s my job. You’re going to be fine because you’re a survivor. And thankfully, unlike the other one, who has clearly spent her life trying to hide her humble beginnings, you have no secrets. What are they going to find out about you? That you’re an obsessive gardener? That you make great candles and have been known to stay up all night doing so? Big fucking deal.”
“What if they start asking people in town about me? What if they’re already interviewing mothers at school?” Sylvie shivers in horror.
“What are they going to say? That they don’t know you well, but you seem lovely? The only person who knows you well is me, and I’m certainly not going to say anything—” She is interrupted by the ring of the doorbell. “Be right back.”
Downstairs, Angie opens the door to find a lone reporter, notebook in hand, on her doorstep.
The reporter opens her mouth to speak, but Angie, her most charming smile on her face, gets there first.
“Take your notebook and pen,” she says, “and shove them up your ass. And yes, you can quote me on that.”
* * *
Upstairs, Sylvie is on the phone, scribbling notes on a pad. She finally says good-bye, turning back to Angie, as white as a sheet.
“Who was that?” Angie sits next to her.
“The bank.” She is numb. “They’re foreclosing on the house. The mortgage hasn’t been paid in months.”
“I can’t believe it. Oh God. What did you tell them?”
“I…” Sylvie opens her mouth to speak, but can’t find the words. “I couldn’t say anything. I feel too sick.”
“How much is owed?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”
“First mistake. What’s your monthly mortgage?”
“I have no idea.”
“God, Sylvie. Promise me you’ll never get into this situation again?”
“If I ever get into this situation again, I’m killing myself.”
“I mean with the finances. I just mean you have to have an understanding of where you are financially.”
“But Mark handled—”
“No. He
mishandled.
”
“But it was his money.”
Angie barks with laughter. “Because he stole it?” She lets out a heavy sigh. “I know, I know. You didn’t know he stole it, you thought he earned it, but even so, you are his wi— You
thought
you were his wife. It’s a partnership. Do you think of your house as Mark’s house?”
Sylvie shakes her head.
“Exactly. It’s your home. Both of you. It’s the same with money, and as a partner, you need to know where you stand. I’m the worst person with figures in the whole world, but I force myself to go through the credit card statements, and I know exactly what’s coming in and going out. How else do you think I know I can afford to splurge on designer handbags?”
“Angie?” Sylvie, who has nodded in agreement even as she zoned out, brings her attention back to her friend. “Where in the hell am I going to live? How am I going to pay for anything?”
“We’re not going to let you live on the streets.” Angie covers Sylvie’s hand with her own. “Worst case, you’ll come and stay here until we figure it out. We will figure it out, I promise. Get the financial information together, and we’ll talk to Simon. For all you know, there’s a ton of money in a hidden account. You need to find everything you can get your hands on and access his accounts. We’re all assuming there’s nothing there, but how do you know? Isn’t it far more likely he has a secret account?”
Sylvie’s shoulders drop as she sighs. “Three weeks ago, I would have said Mark was the last person in the world to keep any kind of secret, bank account or otherwise. The worst part is how stupid I feel. How stupid I must be that I didn’t realize my husband had a whole other family. All those times I couldn’t get hold of him, or he’d disappear, and even though I’d have this feeling something was up, I let myself believe his excuses were real. That’s the worst thing. I’m so ashamed, I can’t stand it. This was my husband. The man I knew better than anyone else in the world. What the hell does it say about me and my judgment? How am I ever supposed to trust anyone ever again?” She groans. “How can I have been so stupid?”
“If you were stupid, we were all stupid,” Angie murmurs. “Every single one of us. Simon’s a financial genius, and he didn’t doubt Mark for a second. The day we found out, he was so shaken up, he sat at the kitchen table for the entire day without moving and went through almost an entire bottle of vodka.
No one
knew. No one even suspected.”
“I just don’t understand why. Why did he do it? What kind of man looks you in the eye, knowing he’s lying? Knowing he’s going to hurt you?”
“You could ask him,” Angie offers.
“No.” Sylvie shakes her head vigorously. “I won’t do that. I refuse to see him. He’s ruined our lives, and right now I don’t even want to look at him.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“No idea. But he can’t leave the state of California until his trial.”
“He hasn’t tried to contact you?”
Sylvie pauses. The phone has rung a few times, mostly late at night, a blocked number, and Sylvie has let it go to the machine, suspecting it is him, not wanting to hear whatever explanation he may have come up with.
“He has, hasn’t he.”
Sylvie explains about the late-night calls.
“Next time, pick up,” Angie advises. “Even if you have to pretend, find out where the money is. He must have something. You have to find out. Promise. Please?”
Reluctantly, Sylvie nods.
“As to why he did it, God only knows,” Angie says sadly. “Simon said he saw a show recently about love frauds, men who do what Mark did, who were described as sociopaths and narcissists. Except they all stole money from the women they defrauded, which isn’t the case here. Maybe he really was in love with two women. Maybe he couldn’t make a choice? Or wanted to leave his first wife but couldn’t leave his kids?”
“But why
marry
me, then? Why not just have me as his partner?” Sylvie bursts out. “Why break the law?”
“Given his recent arrest, breaking the law doesn’t seem to be of huge importance to Mark, does it.” Angie raises an eyebrow.
“I wish I understood,” Sylvie says, pressing her fingertips around her eyes, a headache starting to form. “God only knows how Eve’s going to deal with this. This is the last thing she needs right now. I don’t even know where to start in dealing with that.”
“You don’t have to.” Angie leans forward. “That’s what the therapists are there for. Truly, she’s in the best possible place. There’s nowhere safer for her to work out her stuff than where she is.”
Sylvie stands up and extends her hands to the ceiling in a big stretch, knowing Angie is right, even if she doesn’t quite believe it herself.
“You’re going?” Angie asks. “Are you ready to deal with the press?”
“No. You’re coming with me.
You
can deal with them.”
Angie grins. “That’s my girl. Nothing I like better than a good fight. And if I curse like a madwoman, they’ll never air it. Would it be sick to say I’m looking forward to this?”
“Yes. Entirely.”
“I won’t say it, then,” she grumbles as the two women walk down the stairs.
41
Maggie
When we were selling our first home, I delighted in getting the house ready for potential buyers. I bought armfuls of fresh flowers before every viewing, ensured cinnamon dough was on hand to bake in the oven, filled the house with irresistible smells of home, lit fires and scented candles.