Secret Lives Of Husbands And Wives by Josie Brown Page A

slim designer jeans and fitted jackets over tight tees. What better occasion is there to show off the results of a three-day-a-week Bikram yoga regime than a coffee date with the neighborhood DILF?
    Each of my friends is sipping her usual poison. For Brooke, it’s a nonfat green chai latte, while Isabelle guiltily tucks into a fully loaded mocha Frappuccino. Tammy is apparently already on her second double cappuccino; and Colleen, a follower even down to her choice of brew, mimics alpha-diva Margot’s pick: a grande caramel macchiato.
    I pray that Harry gets here soon, before they are too hyped up to pay him his due.
    Today I am too nervous for my usual triple venti vanilla nonfat latte, and settle for a Calm tea instead. Thank goodness only Brooke notices this. I expect she’ll tease me unmercifully when she and I regroup later this afternoon at after-school pickup, when we’ll do our own postgame analysis of Harry’s audition.
    I’ve just sat down with my tea when Harry makes his entrance. He is a study in casual elegance: white shirt under a V-neck cashmere pullover, and khakis with a razor-sharp crease. Does he hear the involuntary chorus of admiring sighs that greets him? I’m guessing not. Otherwise he’d be running for his life instead of sauntering over with that confident grin.
    As I jump up to make the necessary introductions, my cup of tea tilts and splatters my hoodie. Ever the gentleman, Harry quickly reaches for a spare napkin, but stops short of patting my breast dry.
    Margot’s smile is wicked. It wouldn’t surprise her in the least if a burn mark suddenly appeared, shaped like the letter A.
    To the other women, though, Harry is a savior, having brought with him a gift box: cupcakes from the Palo Alto Sprinkles just down the road. Ah, so
that’s
why he’s late! And knowing my friends’ loveof this particular treat, it was certainly worth the trip.
    “Can’t do coffee on an empty stomach. Besides, you girls are skinny enough.” He serves up these guilty pleasures with a chuckle before queuing up for his own preferred brew.
    I can’t help but marvel at his gamesmanship. Beating DeeDee in this messy divorce may mean winning friends and influencing frenemies. And if our little coffee klatch is any indication, both are in abundance here in the Heights.
    “
Mmmm
, not bad,” murmurs Isabelle. By the way she’s eyeing Harry’s well-toned backside, I take it she’s not talking about the coconut bourbon cupcake she’s just wolfed down.
    “Right, a real sweetie. What’s that saying again? Oh yeah: ‘Beware of strangers bearing gifts.’” Only Margot, suspicious as always, refuses to indulge. From her frown, you’d think the cupcakes’ icing was sprinkled with polonium-210. To make the point that she won’t allow Harry’s interview to be, quite literally, a cakewalk, Margot flicks a glazed coconut flake off Isabelle’s cheek.
    By the time he’s back at the table, Margot has nudged her reluctant minions into line. Now they won’t dare melt under the heat of his clear blue eyes or the warmth of his smile.
    The inquisition begins.
    My bet with Harry was that the women would wait at least half an hour before the grilling commenced.
    I am wrong. After only fourteen minutes of polite chitchat, in which Harry liberally sprinkles subtle compliments to each woman between questions about their children’s ages, the care and feeding of their lawns, and the sports teams their husbands worship, Isabelle murmurs none too subtly, “A shame. About you and DeeDee, I mean.”
    Harry’s smile turns down just slightly at the corners. “Yeah, I think so too. I guess it happens in the best of families.”
    Colleen takes up the baton. “Is it true that—well, that someone else was involved?” Then, all doe-eyed innocence, she adds, “Oh! I’m sorry! Look, really, don’t feel you have to answer that.”
    Liar.
    If he doesn’t answer, they won’t trust him.
    And if they don’t trust him, they