The Good Life (3 page)

“I guess you’re going to make a joke of this like you do everything else,” he said, as he tightened his tie.

I silently hoped he would strangle himself with it.

“I’ve got to head to the office,” he said. “We’ll finish this conversation via email.”

And with that he walked back into the condo. A few seconds later I heard the door close.

I sighed and took another sip of my coffee.
This. Changes. Everything
.

I have always been prone to anxiety, but once I heard Caleb leave I was pretty sure I experienced a real panic attack. At first, I stayed on the terrace and waited for the punch line. Because this
had
to be a joke, right? Maybe someone at the firm dared him to play a trick on me. Maybe they were holding a
Punk’d
contest for a bonus check. Or maybe Caleb woke up today and felt like mixing things up a bit for a laugh. I tried to think of any possibility other than the truth. But deep down I knew it was real. Because, let’s face it, Caleb doesn’t joke around.

I slowly walked back into the condo and hoped he would pop out from behind a door and say, “Ha ha, got ya!” But it was quiet, super quiet. He really was gone. He really was ending this, us.

I stared at the door he had just closed, knowing that with it, he had closed the door on the last eight years of my life. He didn’t even give me a say in it. My perfect little world was broken without my permission. The future I had been planning was never going to happen. All of that time, all of the planning, wasted! Decisions had been made outside of my control-freak hands, and I couldn’t handle it!

I couldn’t breathe. I felt dizzy. I felt sick. I dropped to my knees in front of the door, covered my head with my arms, tornado-style, and tried to talk my heart into beating a little slower. I squeezed my eyes shut, took slow, deep breaths and waited for it to be over.

When I finally got myself under control I didn’t know what I should do next. Should I call the concierge for a cigarette and a Xanax and keep refreshing my email until I received further instructions? I decided to call for reinforcement before turning myself into a stereotype.

“What the eff?” That was Allison, my best friend since second grade, talking. She cut out swearing after she had her first kid in high school. She never cut out unprotected sex, though, and that’s how she ended up with two more before we could legally buy beer. Her kids were now practically old enough to babysit the kids that I would probably never have.

She probably wasn’t the best person to call. She married her high-school sweetheart, had three well-behaved kids that preferred to eat yogurt and apples instead of chips and cookies, and actually had a picket fence separating her yard from her neighbor’s. They started young, but they turned themselves into a near perfect little family and I doubted she could sympathize with me now.

“So he’s seeing someone else,” she said.

“He said he’s just not in love with me,” I said, defensively.

She snorted. “Of course he’s not going to admit it. You probably get more in the divorce if he’s cheating.”

“I think New York is a no-fault state.”

“You can’t just think these things. You need to
know
them.” She started giving me a list of tasks as matter-of-factly as if she were a divorce attorney herself. “You need a lawyer. ASAP. You need to know the laws and your rights. You might even think about getting a judge to freeze your assets before he starts hiding money, if he hasn’t done so already. You need to make a list of all property acquired during your marriage, not just your condo but also things like jewelry, artwork, timeshares, 401ks, stocks and bonds -”

“You know we don’t have a timeshare,” I interrupted. “Where are you getting this from?”

“The internet!” she said. “The same place you can get it from. You need to be proactive about this. You need to act like your old self again. You can’t just sit there and let it happen to you. It’s time for you step up and take charge, or his lawyer will eat you up and spit you out!”

She must watch a lot of court shows on TV.

I let out a huge, dramatic sigh. The more this was sinking in, the worse I felt about it. And what did she mean about me acting like my old self again? Since when was there an old self and a new self?

Allison must have sensed my need for comfort because her voice was more soothing when she spoke again. “Honey, I’m sorry. I know you called for a friend and not a lecture. Everything is going to work out eventually. It might take awhile, but it will be okay. You just need to CYA, if you know what I mean.”

“Thanks, Al,” I said. “I’ll start looking at lawyers now. I’ll talk to you later.”

I got out a pen and notebook and wrote down a list of things I needed to do.

Google divorce lawyers.

Google NY divorce laws.

Choose a lawyer and schedule a meeting.

Write down everything we own?

Figure out where I’m going to live (since I can’t afford this place on my own).

Figure out how I’m going to start affording things on my own (ie: get a job)!

Oh gosh. It was all way too much to think about. I picked up my phone again. But I didn’t call lawyers. I called Hope. Hope was my New York best friend. We met about seven years ago when we both worked as cocktail waitresses in the same martini bar downtown. The name Hope seemed so gentle and passive, but she was actually a hardcore chick. Allison tried to think reasonably and logically, and I knew I could count on Hope to do the opposite.

“That mother fucker!” she yelled. Hope does not have kids. “Where is this coming from? He must be fucking someone else.”

Whoa, déjà vu. Does there always have to be someone else?
“He said he’s not in love with me, and there’s no magic.”

“That’s a bunch of bullshit!” she was still yelling. “If he wants magic, I’ll be happy to pull a rabbit out of a hat and shove it right up his tight ass! He’d probably love it!”

That is why we were such good friends. She said the things out loud that I kept in my head.

“I hope he knows you’ll get half of everything,” she continued. “You were the one serving drinks to support his ass when he was broke and jobless and living off a dream!”

“Really?” I kind of thought I’d be thrown out on my butt with maybe a few hundred a month in alimony.

“Oh yeah! You don’t need to worry about a thing, girl,” she said. “except which beach you want to have dinner on tonight.”

“What beach?”

“It’s a beautiful day and I’ve got the night off. Let’s get the hell out, girl. Sounds like you need it.”

I gasped when I realized what she meant. “Hamptons?” I asked, hopefully.

“ROAD TRIP!” she screamed. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

I hung up the phone and squealed like an eleven-year-old girl reading a copy of
Teen Beat
magazine. See what I meant about Hope?

If we were going to the Hamptons, I needed to shower. I practically skipped to the bathroom. While I was in there I did something I hadn’t done in nearly a week. I shaved my legs. I was going to have to start acting like a single girl again, one who kept an extensive daily maintenance regime. I needed to start plucking, waxing and exfoliating like it was my job. I needed to make sure my bras and panties were sexy and matching at all times because single girls never knew when they were going to be taking off their clothes. I couldn’t ever leave the house without make-up, smooth, shiny hair and a pair of high heels. There would be no more yoga pants and ponytails! Speaking of shoes, I should probably buy myself a new pair of heels to commemorate the occasion.

I’d have to let Hope know we were stopping for shoes before we left the city. I needed some retail therapy, and it might be the last time I could afford the good stuff. Once I was poor and divorced I’d probably have to do my shopping on Canal Street. Even worse, I’d be buying shoes and handbags two aisles away from the produce section. I tried to shake the terror from my head as I pulled back the shower curtain and threw on my cashmere kimono-style robe. It had been a Christmas gift from Caleb last year. Maybe a robe for Christmas should be a clue that your husband doesn’t want you anymore. He went to a lingerie store filled with bustiers and garter belts, and he bought a robe! At the time I thought it was a great gift. Now I had to wonder if I’d missed a huge neon warning sign.

Hope was waiting for me when I got out of the shower. She has a key to the condo in case of emergency. I have a tendency to lose, I mean, misplace things.

She was standing in my living room pointing at the notebook I had left on the coffee table.

“What is that?” she asked. Her face was scrunched up with disgust. You’d think there was a used condom on the table.

“Just a list I was working on.”

“I can’t believe you’re writing in a notebook. With a pen even.” She picked up the notebook and gave it a good examination like she’d never seen one before. “I almost feel like I’m in a history museum.”

She was always getting on me about being “technologically challenged.” She can’t believe that I don’t have an iPhone or an iPad or an iWhatthefuckever. I do have a Blackberry, isn’t that good enough? Writing things down with a pen is a lot faster and more therapeutic than trying to type something on a tiny touch-screen keyboard.

I snatched the notebook out of her hand and walked away, towards my bedroom. She followed me.

“I get to pick out your clothes!” she said and headed for the closet. Ordinarily I would never let her pick out an outfit for me. Hope, with her pink and purple highlights in her blonde hair, has a very unique and eclectic style that seems to work great for her, but I didn’t think I could pull it off. I won’t even wear black with navy, while Hope can wear orange plaid with blue stripes and make it look good.

In most areas of my life I was a rule breaker. But when it came to fashion, I took those taboos seriously. I did not want to be one of those people pictured in the
Don’t
section of the fashion magazines with a black line across my eyes. But being in my room and looking at the bed, I suddenly didn’t care about clothes anymore. I felt like I was caught in a tailspin of dread.

I grimaced and told her I was going to blow dry my hair. I needed to get out of that bedroom because I was starting to feel like my chest was caving in. To think I slept in that bed with my husband only hours before and had no idea he didn’t love me anymore; it didn’t make me feel so hot. I tried to be strong about all of it and not fall onto the floor in a big heap of patheticism (hey, it’s in the Urban Dictionary – look it up if you don’t believe me). But I couldn’t face the room. Not yet. So if Hope wanted to dress me up like a homeless vagabond, I’d let her – as long as I didn’t have to go back in that room.

Hope appeared at the bathroom door just as I was finishing with my hair and handed me a black and white polka-dot bikini and a yellow bandeau sundress. I would
never
wear a halter under a bandeau top. It’s a conflict of interest at best and a tan line disaster at worst! But I could probably put up with that minor discrepancy if she had picked a bikini that actually fit me.

“I haven’t worn this bikini in years,” I told her. “There’s no way it’ll fit.”

She put her hands on her hips. “Why is it still in your drawer then, hoarder?”

Sometimes I had a hard time getting rid of things, especially clothes. I seemed to develop a sentimental attachment. The bikini in question was special to me because I bought it for my college senior year Spring Break trip to Cocoa Beach. That was the last trip I’d taken without Caleb and the bikini represented freedom, fun, youth and pina coladas. I bet the fact that I saved this particular bikini for all these years, but couldn’t even tell you what swimsuits I wore during our honeymoon in Cabo would prove quite interesting to a psychotherapist.

I smelled the bikini top to see if I could catch a whiff of suntan lotion. Nope. It was long gone, along with those perky boobs, my tongue ring and my delusional optimism.

I shrugged sheepishly. “Sometimes I like to pull it out and reminisce about being young and skinny.” I handed it back to her.

“It’s stretchy.” She pushed the bikini back into my hands. “Put it on.” It was an order, not a suggestion.

Ten minutes later I was prancing around in front of the full-length mirror in the bathroom. It fit! There was some extra softness around my hips and a mini-muffin top above the bikini bottom, but it fit. What a boost to my self-esteem!

“How’s it going in there?” Hope asked from the other side of the door.

“Great!” I yelled back. “I’m Rebecca Dunbar-ing!”

Rebecca Dunbar was the wife of one of Caleb’s coworkers. She had been a cheerleader for an NFL team back in the nineties and couldn’t seem to let go of it. She had a gigantic picture in her living room of herself in her cheerleading uniform from back then and she thought it was cute to burst into cheers at company get-togethers. Her husband told Caleb that she wears her uniform around the house and literally cheers him on during foreplay. And rumor has it that she showed up to her son’s first t-ball game in full uniform, pom poms and all, and did a complete routine on the sidelines. Basically she is the joke of the entire firm. I’ve told Hope all about her; about how I actually feel sorry for her. She’s got a good husband, two cute kids and a home in Greenwich, Connecticut, but she’s so desperate to hold on to her past that she’s clinging to her cheerleading uniform as if it’s the only life jacket left on a sinking ship.

I guess you could say the polka-dot bikini was my new lifejacket, but that was okay with me. Unlike Rebecca Dunbar, I actually
was
on a sinking ship, and I was just glad I had something to keep me afloat.

CHAPTER THREE

When Hope finished packing my overnight bag and reserved us a rental car on her iPad, we hopped into a cab and headed straight for my haven – also known as Barney’s New York.

I didn’t always feel this good about shopping. I’ll never forget my first time in a top-of-the-line designer store (which shall remain nameless, as I don’t need a lawsuit on my hands on top of a divorce).