Family Pictures (6 page)

“I have far more up my sleeve.” Mark grins some more. “Chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast, for starters.”

Sylvie laughs. “Remember how she used to love them when she was little? The smiley faces?”

“Damn!” He slaps his thigh. “I thought I was so clever in remembering the strawberries, but I forgot the whipped cream. Don’t let me forget to pick some up on the way.”

They keep smiling at each other, each blissfully unaware that at that precise moment, Eve is on her knees in front of the toilet, three fingers reaching for the back of her throat, retching and gasping until finally,
finally,
the croissant, barely chewed, has entirely left her body.

*   *   *

The women are chatting away on the sofa, the men standing at the other end of the room admiring the view, an occasional burst of laughter drifting across the room.

Angie’s house is the diametric opposite of Sylvie’s. Despite the concrete and glass; the clean, simple lines; Sylvie, sipping her champagne and listening to the chatter, feels as comfortable there as she does in her own home.

Admittedly, she wouldn’t want to live there full-time, does not understand how Angie’s daughter can live there so neatly and tidily, or their nonchalance at entire walls made of glass, affording neighbors multiple and constant views of their lives, but each time she walks up the glass staircase and into the giant room that serves as kitchen, living room, family room, and study, Sylvie is instantly calm.

Angie tells everyone she is hopeless at anything to do with the home, cannot cook to save her life, could not choose a fabric if her life depended on it, but looking around at this room, Sylvie knows that isn’t true.

Angie may have paid Lars Bernal, decorator to the stars, to furnish the house, but she also gave him a stack of photographs torn from magazines, homes she wanted to emulate, rooms she admired, showing him exactly what sort of design would work for her.

Lars found the low-slung Balinese daybeds, big enough for a dozen people, covered in soft white pillows, but Angie was the one who e-mailed him pictures she took on vacation at Parrot Cay, with a note telling him these daybeds were exactly what she wanted.

Lars found the huge stone Buddha, who now casts a benevolent eye over the room from his perch in front of the windows, but only after Angie sent him a picture of a similar one. Angie found the hand-tinted black-and-white photographs above the modern fireplace, itself a simple rectangle in the wall, and guided Lars to replace the gas fire logs with polished river stones.

Obsessed by candles, Angie’s current fixation is Bamboo by NEST, the soothing smells of which arise from every corner, creating a haven of peace and tranquillity that slightly offsets the whirlwind that is Angie.

“Okay!” Angie raises a hand, casting an eye over to the coffee table, where the gifts are currently piled. “I know the polite thing to do is to wait to open gifts, but I’m a gift whore. Can I open them now? Please!”

“Would you?” Kirsty says in mock exasperation. “I didn’t want to say anything, but frankly I was about to take it home.”

“Can I squeal if I love it?” Angie reaches for a gift with a big grin as Simon comes over to refill their glasses.

“Uh-oh,” he says. “Girl time. I think I’ll take the men downstairs to do manly stuff.”

“
Manly
stuff?” Sylvie snorts. “Are you going hunting, shooting, and fishing?”

“We would if we were in Montana,” Simon says. “Speaking of which, I thought the four of us were going to go to that dude ranch? What-ever happened to that?”

“I’d love to go to a dude ranch!” Kirsty sits up. “I’ve always wanted to go! Can we come?”

“We should all go!” Angie says. “The problem is finding the right place.”

“Right place?” Simon shakes his head in exasperation. “It’s a dude ranch, my love. Not a Four Seasons. The whole point is to be rustic.”

“You can do rustic,” Angie says, “and we’ll do luxury. I know there’s somewhere out there where we’ll all be happy.”

“We should go to the ranch and let you guys go to a spa,” Simon says. “We’re not going to find a Four Seasons dude ranch. Hey, Mark!” He calls him over. “Dude ranch. What words come to mind?”

Mark wanders over. “Horses. Cowboys. Long days. Fun nights. Drinking. Great sleep. Good honest work.” He grins, leaning down to kiss Sylvie.

“Beans!” Donald calls from the other side of the room.

“Wieners!” adds Jon as they both crack up.

“Right.” Angie sits forward. “I agree. Horses. Cowboys. Cowboys. Cowboys. Hey, did I mention the cowboys? And chaps … mmm God, I find those things sexy.…”

“Really?” Simon’s face lights up. “I never knew that.”

She gives him a withering look. “Not on you, babe. No offense. But the point is, horses and all the good stuff, plus massages, facials, hot tubs, and I’m sorry, but no beans and wieners. There has to be great food, right, Sylvie?” She looks at Sylvie for support, but Sylvie winces.

“I’m sorry.” She grimaces. “I want to agree with you, but I kind of think a dude ranch should be basic. I think it would do us all good to get back to nature and spend all day on a horse. I like the idea of pushing ourselves in that way.”

“I knew there was a reason I married you!” Mark nods approvingly. “Low maintenance,” he mutters to Simon out of the corner of his mouth. “It’s all about low maintenance.”

“Sweetie.” Angie lays a beautifully manicured hand on Simon’s arm. “I can be low maintenance. I can do hippie skirts and Birkenstocks. I can even do no makeup and frizzy hair. Would you like that, sweetie? You know how I look first thing in the morning? I can look like that all the time if it would make you happy.”

“God no!” Simon shouts in horror as everyone laughs.

“Don’t say I didn’t try.” Angie turns to Mark with a shrug. “Simon, can you just go and do your
manly
stuff. We have more important things to take care of,” and she reaches for the package closest to her as the men disappear.

*   *   *

“You can always return it,” Ginny Meyer, an old friend of Angie’s whom she hasn’t seen in years, winces as Angie turns the box in her hands, trying to figure out what it is. “In fact”—she reaches over to try to take it—“it’s completely wrong for you. I want to take it back and change it for something you’ll really love.”

“Don’t worry,” Angie laughs. “Whatever you’ve got, I know I’m going to love. The fact that you and Harold actually live here is gift enough.

Sylvie snorts. “Your e-mail had the words, ‘all gifts welcome’ printed at the bottom. I suppose Simon snuck in to write that?”

“How awful! He must have.” Angie’s hand flies up to her mouth in shock. “I would
never
do anything so rude.” She winks, pulling the paper off to reveal a box, which she first lifts and shakes slightly.

“Careful,” warns Ginny. “It’s fragile.”

“Ooh. I love guessing. Is it shoes?”

Ginny smiles. “No, as much as we both love shoes, it’s not. It’s something else you used to like, and the only clue is you can’t wear it.”

Angie opens the box, pushing the tissue paper aside to draw out a huge white porcelain mushroom.

Silence descends as everyone stares at the mushroom.

“It’s a mushroom!” Angie bursts out.

“A mushroom?” questions Laura.

“No, you don’t understand!” Angie is wide-eyed with excitement. “I’m obsessed! I’m seriously totally obsessed with mushrooms! This is amazing! You remembered!”

“As if I could forget!” Ginny laughs. “She came out sailing with us one time—”

“You should see their boat,” Angie bursts in. “
Sole Power.
It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you, but Angie spent the whole time engrossed in some book about mushrooms.”

Angie shrugs. “It’s my secret shame. I find the whole underside of the mushroom, the gills, fascinating, but, Ginny! I can’t believe you remembered!” She stands up and flings her arms around Ginny, who is now flushed with joy. “I’m putting this with my collection.”

“Are you kidding me?” Sylvie’s mouth is open. “How do I not know you have a mushroom collection?”

“I told you. It’s my secret shame. Secret’s out now. Come with me.” She beckons them to follow her up the open glass staircase to the master bedroom, where on a shelf is, indeed, a collection of mushrooms. They all start laughing as Angie lovingly places the mushroom in the center before turning to take in the view.

“Don’t you get freaked out with all that glass?” asks Laura.

Angie shrugs. “Let them watch. I’m a forty-something mother with spider veins and saggy boobs. Enjoy.”

“I couldn’t do it.” Kirsty shakes her head. “Caroline had the same windows, but she covered the whole thing up with shutters. Gotta tell you, I’d do the same. Particularly after the latest…” she stops.

The women all turn to her. “What? There’s more? No! What happened?”

Kirsty groans. “I’m not supposed to say anything.”

“Oh, please.” Angie grabs her and pulls her down to sit on the bed. “You can trust us.”

“I know, but we all had that talk about how we wouldn’t gossip.”

“I wasn’t there, but I agree,” says Sylvie. “It’s bad karma.”

“Only if you’re telling everyone,” insists Angie. “There’s a difference between random gossiping and gossiping with your closest friends. Okay, so I know we’re not all each other’s closest friends, but you three girls are my closest friends, so if we all swear never to repeat, then it’s sacred, right?”

Kirsty leans forward, a flush to her cheeks with the excitement of repeating the tidbit she had been so desperate to share. “So you know Caroline and Bill split up last week?”

“What?” Sylvie is shocked. “I didn’t know!” She turns to Angie. “Did you know?” Angie looks guilty. “Why wouldn’t you tell me something like that?”

“Because”—Angie puts her hands on her hips—“I was trying to do what you told me to do and not pass on gossip. Furthermore, given how much I can’t stand her, I was trying to pray for her and bathe her in healing white light instead of cackling with joy over karma being a beautiful thing.”

“Point taken. So what happened? I thought she had the perfect marriage?”

“So did everyone, until Bill was caught not just having an affair, but”—Kirsty pauses for dramatic effect—“sexting!”

“What?” They all gasp excitedly. “What does that even mean?”

“Where to start?” Kirsty sighs. “He’s been sleeping with a ton of women, and”—she looks from one to the other—“most of them are pretty … let’s just say …
skanky
.”

“No one we know, then,” Angie says. “I swear”—she solemnly holds her hand to her heart, looking at each woman—“on Simon’s life, I was not one of the skanky ho’s.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but we’re all way too old. He’s been picking up all these twenty-something ‘dancers,’ and yes, there are quote marks around that word.”

“Strippers?” Sylvie asks as Kirsty nods. “Nothing’s more elegant than a man’s midlife crisis,” Sylvie sighs.

“Especially when said party girls slash strippers are dumped by wealthy married banker boyfriend who they think is about to leave his wife and kids for her.”

“Hell hath no fury.…”

“Exactly. So current party girl—who, by the way, looks more like a hooker as far as I’m concerned, and
please,
what kind of man must Bill
be
to find straw-bleached hair and huge fake tits attractive—?”

“A normal man,” Angie says dejectedly.

“Point taken. Party girl, Tara-Jo, has been tweeting her fury, all the details of their sexual escapades, and explicit pictures and texts that Bill had ‘sexted’ her. Gone viral. All over Twitter.”

Sylvie’s eyes are wide. “Are you serious? That’s horrific.”

“I know! But these pictures are unbelievable.”

“You’ve seen them?”

Kirsty grimaces. “I know. I’m a horrible person. But everyone at tennis was talking about it and I couldn’t not look. It’s like a car crash. You know it’s horrible, but a part of you can’t tear your eyes away.”

“What are the pictures?”

“Bill’s … you know. Huge.”

“Erect?”

Lara nods.

Sylvie snorts and shakes her head. “You know what? I don’t believe it’s him. There’s no way Bill would do something like that. He’s the straightest person we know.” She thinks of Bill—big, bluff, and hearty. A former baseball star, he’s a family man through and through. He coaches Little League. He has three small sons and an uppity blond wife with a superiority complex. “No way,” Sylvie says. “It’s a mistake.”

“Mistake
this.
” Kirsty slides her iPhone over to Sylvie, whose eyes widen again as she finds herself looking at a picture that is very definitely Bill, and very definitely not what he would want his family to see.

Or anyone else, for that matter.

“That’s horrible.” Sylvie places the phone on the table, screen down, but not before catching a glimpse. “What a stupid,
stupid
man. How could he have sent pictures like that to anyone? What’s the matter with people? You think it’s just kids who don’t realize the implications of sending out an explicit photograph. How could a grown man be so stupid? What was he thinking?”

“The
little
head was clearly doing the thinking.” Angie raises an eyebrow.

“Not so
little,
” adds Kirsty. “I can’t believe it’s all over Twitter. I swear, if anything like that happened to me, I’d never show my face again. Caroline is so humiliated, she’s talking about moving. Can you imagine? She only found out when she got some anonymous note in her mailbox saying there was something about her husband on Twitter she may not know about.”

“Who the hell would do that?”

“Probably this girl. Rough, huh?”

Sylvie shakes her head once more. “It’s worse than rough. It’s tragic. I’ve never liked Caroline, but nobody deserves this.”

The others go quiet.

“I know what you mean,” murmurs Kirsty. “She’s snotty as hell, but I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.”

“I agree,” sighs Angie. “I never thought I’d say this about her, but my heart is going out to her right now.”

“So where’s Bill?”

“Moved into a hotel. Some of the guys have seen him, but not Jon.” She looks at Sylvie. “I bet he’ll call Mark. Don’t they hang out together?”