as it looks. I can’t think of a more perfect couple than you two. You put the rest of us to shame.”
“Hmph.” The more I thought about us, the more worried I got. Viv had been right. Married couples did drift apart and maybe Bree was giving him something I’d stopped gladly handing out long ago. Would it have hurt for me to ask him about his Fed book once in a blue moon? Not that his cheating could be justified. . . .
“I’m sure there’s a rational explanation. Did you ask him?” Elaine said.
“Well, that would be the logical thing to do, wouldn’t it?”
“Unless you were trying to trip him into an admission of sorts.”
“Why would I do that?”
She shrugged. “I dunno. If I found condom wrappers in Gerry’s pockets, I might consider laying a trap. But then, that’s me. Men, I’ve come to see, are the enemy, whether they’re husbands, bosses, or mouthy teenage sons.”
That was just talk. Gerry and Elaine had a fabulous relationship. “I did try to call him, and he didn’t answer, even though I know for a fact he’s at the office . . . with her.”
“Bree?”
I nodded.
“I personally think young women should be confined in convents until they have the permission of older women.” Elaine was about to criticize the forwardness of the younger generation when the door slammed and Chloe appeared in a pale beige swing coat to match her pale beige shoes and pale beige headband. With her frosted blond hair she gave the impression of a human iced latte.
“Ladies?” She zoomed right in on those Oreos.
Elaine swiped her feet off the table and slipped them into her navy pumps. “Hey, Chloe. What’s up?”
“Your feet,” she said, “on my antique Queen Anne.”
The only reason Chloe didn’t get along with Elaine was because Elaine was, for lack of a more flattering word, zaftig, and with generations of hefty Szabos in her past, Chloe feared fat people like they were contagious diseases.
“I’ve got clients coming in twenty minutes.” She adjusted the black Coach bag swinging from the crook of her arm. “It’d be nice if this place didn’t look like a frat house.”
She handed me her daily “to-do list” and marched across the room into her office, giving the door another slam.
Elaine stifled a giggle. “Does she know what dumps frat houses are? A frat house! I bet she’s never even stepped inside one.”
“If she had,” I said, turning on my computer,“she wouldn’t admit it.”
“I swear, that’s your biggest problem right there.” Elaine pointed to the white door marked with a brass plaque that read CHLOE SYKES in ornately cursive lettering. “If you didn’t have to focus all your energy on keeping her mentally stable, you’d be happier and so would your marriage.”
Aha. “So you think my marriage isn’t happy.”
“Listen to me, girlfriend. I think you’re not happy. But being a typical woman, you put on a happy face and pretend to be.” She got up and picked the list out of my hand. “Look at this. Three follow-up calls, a write-up of her meeting Susan and Dick Weinstein, and—I can’t believe it—a re-measure of the Andersons’ kitchen. Tell me why this couldn’t wait until Monday.” She let the list flutter to my desk. “And you’ve got a party to throw tonight. That woman has no soul.”
“No, but she does have my paycheck.” Picking up the phone, I started to dial the Andersons to ask if I could stop by in half an hour.
Elaine yanked the telephone cord out of the wall. “Stop it.” Checking over her shoulder to make sure Chloe couldn’t hear, she whispered, “You need to call Madeleine Granville right now.”
“Now?”
Elaine recently sold a house to a New York television producer named Madeleine Granville and, since then, had been trying to talk me into doing the redecorating for her as a way of jump-starting my own design business. A pipe dream, really, although one I couldn’t quit obsessing over.
“I happen to know she’s
“Hmph.” The more I thought about us, the more worried I got. Viv had been right. Married couples did drift apart and maybe Bree was giving him something I’d stopped gladly handing out long ago. Would it have hurt for me to ask him about his Fed book once in a blue moon? Not that his cheating could be justified. . . .
“I’m sure there’s a rational explanation. Did you ask him?” Elaine said.
“Well, that would be the logical thing to do, wouldn’t it?”
“Unless you were trying to trip him into an admission of sorts.”
“Why would I do that?”
She shrugged. “I dunno. If I found condom wrappers in Gerry’s pockets, I might consider laying a trap. But then, that’s me. Men, I’ve come to see, are the enemy, whether they’re husbands, bosses, or mouthy teenage sons.”
That was just talk. Gerry and Elaine had a fabulous relationship. “I did try to call him, and he didn’t answer, even though I know for a fact he’s at the office . . . with her.”
“Bree?”
I nodded.
“I personally think young women should be confined in convents until they have the permission of older women.” Elaine was about to criticize the forwardness of the younger generation when the door slammed and Chloe appeared in a pale beige swing coat to match her pale beige shoes and pale beige headband. With her frosted blond hair she gave the impression of a human iced latte.
“Ladies?” She zoomed right in on those Oreos.
Elaine swiped her feet off the table and slipped them into her navy pumps. “Hey, Chloe. What’s up?”
“Your feet,” she said, “on my antique Queen Anne.”
The only reason Chloe didn’t get along with Elaine was because Elaine was, for lack of a more flattering word, zaftig, and with generations of hefty Szabos in her past, Chloe feared fat people like they were contagious diseases.
“I’ve got clients coming in twenty minutes.” She adjusted the black Coach bag swinging from the crook of her arm. “It’d be nice if this place didn’t look like a frat house.”
She handed me her daily “to-do list” and marched across the room into her office, giving the door another slam.
Elaine stifled a giggle. “Does she know what dumps frat houses are? A frat house! I bet she’s never even stepped inside one.”
“If she had,” I said, turning on my computer,“she wouldn’t admit it.”
“I swear, that’s your biggest problem right there.” Elaine pointed to the white door marked with a brass plaque that read CHLOE SYKES in ornately cursive lettering. “If you didn’t have to focus all your energy on keeping her mentally stable, you’d be happier and so would your marriage.”
Aha. “So you think my marriage isn’t happy.”
“Listen to me, girlfriend. I think you’re not happy. But being a typical woman, you put on a happy face and pretend to be.” She got up and picked the list out of my hand. “Look at this. Three follow-up calls, a write-up of her meeting Susan and Dick Weinstein, and—I can’t believe it—a re-measure of the Andersons’ kitchen. Tell me why this couldn’t wait until Monday.” She let the list flutter to my desk. “And you’ve got a party to throw tonight. That woman has no soul.”
“No, but she does have my paycheck.” Picking up the phone, I started to dial the Andersons to ask if I could stop by in half an hour.
Elaine yanked the telephone cord out of the wall. “Stop it.” Checking over her shoulder to make sure Chloe couldn’t hear, she whispered, “You need to call Madeleine Granville right now.”
“Now?”
Elaine recently sold a house to a New York television producer named Madeleine Granville and, since then, had been trying to talk me into doing the redecorating for her as a way of jump-starting my own design business. A pipe dream, really, although one I couldn’t quit obsessing over.
“I happen to know she’s
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