The Ex-Mrs. Hedgefund by Jill Kargman

anything worse. I loved being married. The only thing Tim and I ever fought about (aside from radio stations and my clandestine relationship with Kiki) was my desire for one more kid; he liked our small nest as is and I would have loved another nugget, but I felt blessed to have Miles and Tim—our little family cocoon was so safe. I couldn’t even fathom being back in the bar scene or at some Grolsch-stinking incubus of a party. I rarely, if ever, got nostalgic about those years. Maybe because I know I never missed any opportunities, and my life was pretty much right where I’d hoped it would be at thirty-four candles.

6
    â€œWomen might be able to fake orgasms, but men can fake whole relationships.”
    â€”Sharon Stone
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    A few weeks later, in February, Tim and I were going on our weekly date night. Well, it had been weekly originally, but in the last year it had devolved into monthly, since Tim was traveling so much for work. I got my hair done and went to meet him for a drink first at the Knickerbocker Club.
    But when I got there, I found him seated in a club chair by the fire with none other than Mark Webb, his UVA buddy from St. Anthony, their quasi frat. Mark was now the ultimate hedge fund guy, and when I walked in, he was showing Tim his new watch. Everything about Mark, from his tie to his custom shoes, was, in a word, slickster. He was unbelievably attractive, but in that exaggerated way that was too manly man, too chiseled, like Gaston in Beauty and the Beast . He had the cocksure swagger of some kind of superhero (Hey, darlin’: Snow Queen Vodka, rocks, no fruit), but he was just, quite simply, rich. Filthy rich. Thirty-nine, he had never married, but bragged incessantly of his conquests and sexploits. Stewardesses on private jets, his trainer at E2 (the ten-grand-a-year fitness club), and countless slashies—models- slash-actresses. Slash-waitresses.
    â€œSo the new 650 series is what you have to get—” pronounced Mark.
    â€œAre we looking for a new car, honey?” I probed.
    â€œNot this second, no, but Mark always knows the latest on it all.”
    He sure did. Here’s the thing about the hedgie guys—there’s always the newest, greatest, must-have new thing. Down to cuff links.

    For Mark’s thirty-fifth birthday, he had rented out the Puck Building and had an over-the-top black-tie meltdown. Caviar and champagne were everywhere, exotic dancers with feathered headdresses that rivaled Vegas, the DJ from Studio 54, Tiffany party favors, and cringe-inducing lap dances from the New York Knicks cheerleaders.
    As a married woman, I sometimes found it vaguely threatening how much he spoke to Tim about his colorful sex life. It went beyond the obnoxious observations everywhere we went (“Holy shit, look at the cleave on that chick, that’s a fucking cup-holder between those babies! I could stash my Corona in there! Or somethin’ else, heh-heh.”). It was a general toxic pull away from the domestic tranquility of marriage. Even when it wasn’t about T ’n’ A (which was rare), it was always something about jetting off to JazzFest in New Orleans, or Vegas for the weekend, or his wild adventures, such as bungee jumping off cliffs in rural Peru—escapades that I knew Tim missed since we’d had Miles.
    â€œSo, Holly,” Mark said, leaning in conspiratorially. “You got any hot friends for me?”
    â€œWell, my friends are all married now—”
    â€œOh, come on, none? What about that chick Frances? She was smoking.”
    â€œShe’s engaged.”
    â€œBummer, man! Hey—guess who I just saw on the street coming over here?” asked Mark with a glint in his eye. “Heidi Klum. Man, what a fucking fox.”
    â€œYeah, she’s gorgeous,” I added in agreement. “She’s had three kids and she looks amazing!”
    â€œTHREE kids?” said Mark, with a