The Good Life (2 page)

I can’t always predict how the supporting cast will behave. Sometimes they forget their lines or decide to adlib. But I
can
be prepared to turn things around if they start to go sour and that’s why I always have a trick up my sleeve. This girl does not like awkward silences or second act slumps!

I’ve been doing a pretty good job of keeping the pace so far. My life post-virgin has been better than I hoped for. I was voted “Best Laugh” and “Most Likely to be Seen Pushing a Car Down the Road” in my senior class superlatives. Both are less boring than “Most Likely to Succeed,” if you ask me.

I went on to a pretty good university where I grabbed the proverbial bull by the horns every chance I got, as well as the literal horns on the mechanical bull at City Limits Saloon in Raleigh, where I stayed on for 5.3 seconds.

I changed my major three times (Film, Journalism and Social Work), wrote a popular column for the school newspaper and was a DJ at the campus radio station during a primetime study hour slot. I never declined an invitation to a party and went somewhere tropical every year for spring break. I had lots of friends and lots of fun, which amounted to four years of great “footage” and ever-lasting memories. Isn’t that what college is all about? I mean, except for the learning and never-ending debt.

It was the beginning of my senior year when I met Caleb Golightly during Speed-Dating Night in the Morehead Lounge. (Yes, that’s really the name of the place. I am not making this up). I wasn’t looking for anything serious, but I couldn’t believe my luck when he introduced himself.
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
was my all-time-fave! Holly Golightly was my hero! And when he told me he intended to move to New York City after graduation, I decided not to meet with any of my other “speed dates” that night. He was the one.
That’s a wrap!

Caleb Golightly was a dorky grad student with an ambitious goal of becoming an investment banker in New York City after he got his MBA. I liked a guy with goals, no matter how far-fetched they might be, and I’d always been turned on by guys who were smarter than me – probably because so few of them existed.

Speed-dating night was the beginning of a whirlwind romance with lots of roses and candlelight and even some Boyz II Men during flashback hour on 90.1. Our passionate courtship led to a (totally prepared for) proposal back in Morehead Lounge, complete with a bended knee from him and a dramatic exclamation of surprise from me (one I’d been practicing in the mirror for nearly two weeks). I had a Photojournalism student waiting in the wings, so not only was a picture of the proposal in the school paper, but I now had a canvas print of the perfect memory on our mantle.

I became Mrs. Roxie Golightly three months after graduation. The ceremony was held in my hometown of Ann Arbor, Michigan, in front of two-hundred of my closest friends, acquaintances, former classmates, coworkers and neighbors, and a few people that Caleb knew, too.

I was a young bride, only twenty-two. I definitely showed my age when, after a little too much champagne, I stole the microphone from the DJ and burst into Frank Sinatra’s “New York, New York.” After my dazzling performance, I told all of my guests that Ann Arbor sucked and I was leaving and never coming back. I am not proud.

We moved to New York City after the wedding and spent the next few years living in a studio apartment in the West Village. A studio apartment in Michigan means you have a living room, kitchen and bedroom, but no walls to separate them. A studio apartment in Manhattan means you can cook your dinner on the stove, eat your dinner at the dining room table and then wash your dishes in the kitchen sink, without ever getting off the couch. It was tight, but I made the best of it by spending as little time there as possible. While Caleb’s full time job was
looking
for a job, I worked as a cocktail waitress at night and stayed busy during the day by exploring the city in my big black sunglasses, occasionally drinking Starbucks in front of Tiffany & Co. NYC wasn’t what I imagined it would be. It was even better!

What happened next is something I’d dreamed about, but never thought would really happen. I didn’t think Caleb would get his Wall Street dream job. Or that he would be really good at it. Or that we would eventually move from our closet-sized apartment to a two-bedroom condo in Battery Park City complete with doormen, concierge services and the most incredible views of the East River and Midtown.

He wasn’t an overnight success. He worked his butt off for several years before we bought the condo, and his hard work was worth it because every year he climbed higher and higher up the corporate ladder. And me, what have I been doing? Not too much. I watch a lot of ridiculous reality TV and cooking shows. I do a lot of shopping. I also take care of the condo. Granted, it’s very small, only 900 square feet plus the terrace (we have a terrace!), but I keep it clean. I also take care of Caleb, even if he doesn’t notice. I cook his dinners, pack his lunches, make sure his expensive ties match his expensive shirts, and the creases in his expensive pants are perfect. But the bottom line is that I do not have a job outside of the home, and this is why my friends call me a “kept” woman. I preferred the term “Trophy Wife.”

Once we settled into our life together I started preparing for my next role: MILF. I wasn’t pregnant yet, but I was planning. I had a list of baby names. I had a board on Pinterest filled with ideas for the nursery decor. I had an unpublished baby registry at Pottery Barn Kids just waiting to go live. I’d even gone as far as making a big-to-us-but-small-to-them donation to a prestigious preschool. From what I heard, Manhattan preschools were a real bitch to get into, and I was hoping to get a leg up by making donations every year. Right now we were still considered middle-class compared to the crust of the Upper-East Side, but I figured by the time our baby was ready for preschool we’d certainly be sending the kid off to school in pinstripes.

A baby.
That
was supposed to be the next step. Not a divorce! Even during our nastiest arguments or the longest stretches of dullness, divorce was never an option. Not because we’re the happiest couple on Earth, or because I’m super religious or anything, but simply because I don’t like to admit when I’ve made a mistake. Especially when that mistake was made in front of two-hundred people, several of whom told me to slow things down and not get married so young. I figured if I had chosen to go against the advice of my family and friends, it was my own fault, and I deserved nothing less than to suffer in this gorgeous loft with breath-taking views!

So no, I hadn’t taken the time to plan an ideal divorce, and now I was caught with my pants down – literally! As dumbfounded as I was by the morning’s topic of conversation, all I could think about as I stared at the tile on the bathroom floor was Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt.

They were America’s sweethearts. I was disappointed and crushed when they announced they were divorcing. Okay, maybe “crushed” is a bit dramatic, even for me, but there was a moment when I doubted if happily-ever-after existed outside of fairy tales. Then I saw a photo of them looking sweet and romantic on a Caribbean beach that was taken just one day before they announced their separation. Those pictures seemed to soften the blow a little. There was no better way to say goodbye to each other than by walking hand-in-hand on a warm sandy beach. At that time I told myself if ever I was to divorce, I was doing it up as classy as they did.

Is it too late to book a vacation?
I wondered, as I looked at the grey sweatpants and old cotton panties that were pooled around my ankles.
This is definitely not Anguilla.

CHAPTER TWO

I felt humiliated, unwanted and ugly, and I just wanted him out of the bathroom so I could wipe in privacy. As if reading my mind, he turned the faucet off (leaving little chin hairs all over the sink that I would have to clean up later) and said he was going to start breakfast, and I should join him on the terrace when I was finished.

Once he was gone, I stood up and looked in the mirror. I felt like someone slapped me across the face, and I kind of looked like it, too. My face was blood red with a mixture of embarrassment and anger. I could honestly say I had never felt more betrayed in all of my life and that was saying a
lot
.

The first thing I needed to do was make myself look better. Maybe if I looked better I would feel better. They say that looking good is a girl’s best defense, right? I didn’t know if that was true, but I knew I could not go out there and face the man who didn’t want me anymore while I was sporting bed-head, circles under my eyes and sagging boobs under my sleep cami. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t ridiculous enough to think that brushing my hair could save my marriage; but some time during the last ten minutes he had gone from being my occasionally loving husband to a total bastard, and I couldn’t let a bastard see me in such disarray. Even if he did just watch me pee.

Working quickly, I sprayed some sea salt texturizing spray into my hair to create waves and applied mascara and lip-gloss. I put on sexy panties and a push-up bra under my pajamas and followed the scent of bacon out to the kitchen.

We have breakfast on the terrace nearly every morning as long as the weather allows. Usually something simple like bagels and lox because Caleb has to get to work. On Sundays, though, we go all out. I make the eggs. I can make eggs about three dozen different ways thanks to the Food Network. Caleb is always in charge of the bacon. I don’t know what he does to make it taste so good, but his bacon is so tasty I can devour a whole plate even while watching
Charlotte’s Web
(sorry Wilbur).

Mornings on the terrace were always my favorite part of the day. We’d drink our coffee and read the papers. We were the rare couple who still read real papers – you know, the kind that gets ink on your fingers – instead of those on electronic gadgets. Caleb would sit with the
Wall Street Journal
and me with the
New York Times
crossword puzzle I struggled with every morning (I even finished it a few times!). We’d sit together in a comfortable and amiable silence before he’d kiss me goodbye and head off to work. I always thought couples who could sit quietly together were the good ones. Apparently I’d been mistaken.

It was a Thursday, but Caleb was making bacon anyway, which made the whole morning even more unsettling. Despite feeling sick to my stomach, I reached for a frying pan to start my eggs. He gently swatted my arm away.

“I’ll take care of breakfast. You sit down,” he said. “Your coffee is already outside.”

I stepped out onto the terrace where my coffee sat on the bistro table. We bought the loft about four years ago and the view from the terrace still took my breath away on a daily basis. It was a beautiful morning in the beginning of June and the sun was shining, making the surface of the East River look like a bed of Swarovski crystals. I could hear the traffic on the street below. One thing I’d always loved about Manhattan was that I was never alone. The ambient sound of the city always surrounded me – taxi cabs honking their horns, police sirens wailing, car alarms blaring – all a 24-hour reminder that I was not alone.

I sat down at the bistro and took a sip of my coffee.
Yum – crème brulee creamer.
There are few things in life better than coffee with a great view. Coffee with a great view
and
a cigarette was one of those things. I quit smoking last year to get my body healthy for a baby. In typical Roxie fashion, I made a huge deal of it by throwing a Quitters Party. I hung up posters of Richard Nixon, loaded up the CD player with Paula Abdul and Jay-Z, and had my guests beat the crap out of a piñata that looked like Sarah Palin. The bigger the spectacle, the more likely I was to stick with it because you can’t have a Quitters Party and not quit, right? But I could really have used a cigarette then. I was thinking about calling the concierge desk to see if they could send one up when Caleb walked out with a tray of bacon, eggs and toast. He set a plate in front of me but I didn’t make any rush to touch it.
Am I really supposed to eat right now?

Caleb sat down across from me and cleared his throat. “I know this must come as a surprise to you,” he said gingerly.

I realized then that I hadn’t spoken yet since I’d woken up. It was probably better if I remained silent. That was probably true in most situations. Less words = less to use against me later. But there was one thing I had to know.

“How long have you been wanting this?” I asked in my sweetest, softest voice, hoping it would make him feel guilty. You know, the whole kill-him-with-kindness trick.

“That’s something I hope you can understand,” he said. “I don’t want this at all. What I want is for you to love me and for me to love you and for us to have a family and live happily ever after. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. He sounded like a prince from a Disney cartoon. FYI-Disney movies weren’t the kind I liked to emulate; too many damsels in distress and dying parents.

“I know you must love me on some level,” he continued. “And I have love for you, too. I’m just not
in
love with you. There’s no magic here. We’re more like roommates than husband and wife.”

I was confused by this statement for two reasons. First of all, what’s wrong with roommates? Roommates are fine, especially when you can have sex with them and they make good bacon. Second of all, who is to say that roommates and a husband and wife of seven years aren’t one and the same? Did he actually go around asking married couples if there was still “magic” in their relationships? And which married couples would he ask? Surely not his coworkers and their asshole wives!

“If you want magic we can go see
The Quantum Eye
,” I said, about the off-Broadway show. I was only joking to lighten up the mood a little. Divorce was way too serious of a topic for me.

He stood up, dusted toast crumbs from his shirt and set his napkin on the table. I knew he was angry even though he seemed calm and cool as ever. Caleb owned the ability to change his personality and demeanor according to his environment, like a chameleon of sorts. He was always very mild-mannered and polite when he was around me. But I’d seen him at work a few times, and he was completely different there. He was loud, fast and hungry. He treated his work like it was the last drumstick on the last turkey in the world and he was determined to sink his teeth into the meat before anyone else got to it no matter how much juice was left dripping down his chin. The transformation was quite scary, to be honest. If I was the overly paranoid type, I might wonder if the guy was a total sociopath and moonlighted as a serial killer. But I’m just an average paranoid type, and I knew his hunger for success was the reason I lived such a charmed life, so I didn’t question it.