hadn’t known that Kenny had stopped fighting because he no longer cared.
Looking back now, Gracie could see a distinct pattern in Kenny’s repellent (to her) fashion choices, parallel to the demise of their marriage. First, there was the switch from loafers to tennis shoes, even for work.Then he traded slacks for jeans. Ironed jeans, yes, but jeans nonetheless. Gracie had even pointed out to Kenny, helpfully, that jeans are never meant to be ironed, that’s the first sure sign of middle age. The second, third, and fourth being the need for reading glasses, Mylanta, and a new wife. Then there were the Hawaiian shirts. Kenny was searching for a “look,” searching for something to make him stand out from the Armani-Prada-Hugo Boss-clad, contract killer studio crowd. He became the Madonna of the payor play populace. The fashion gambit paid off—he was soon known as the “casual exec,” he became friends with the younger, up-and-coming crowd, the video directors who became film directors, the TV actors who were transitioning into celluloid.Why would her husband want to hang out at home with his wife and three-year-old daughter? The very people who reminded him he was getting older? Of course it made sense that he wanted out. It’s a wonder, she thought, that he didn’t leave earlier.
Gracie went to her daughter’s room and curled up on the tiny bed next to her and played with the shiny blond tendrils of hair covering half her face, always covering half her face because Gracie couldn’t bring herself to cut her daughter’s crazily perfect hair, and wondered what she would say to her in the morning. “Daddy’s not coming home,” maybe. Or: “Daddy’s got an earring and he doesn’t like us anymore.” Graciewould figure something out. And then, some time after that, Gracie would figure out her new life.
Tequila vapors echoed through her head, forcing her into a twitching, unsettled sleep. Too late, Gracie realized that what the female bartender at a particularly uneventful agency party (oxymoron) told her was true: Tequila is the only alcohol that is a stimulant.
The final thought that drifted into her brain haunted her sleep: Gracie had become a Starter Wife.
3
ONE HUNDRED (AND TWO) CLUES THAT YOUR HUSBAND IS UNFAITHFUL
R OSES. T HE ASSHOLE SENT one hundred roses to someone who wasn’t his wife. Someone who wasn’t his dead mother. Someone who wasn’t his daughter. How did Gracie find out about the roses? Her florist.
Gracie, like all Wives Of in L.A., had a favorite florist—a messy, expensive relationship fraught with emotional potholes. The florist/client relationship was closer in her world than the hairdresser/client relationship.The right florist could be called on night and day—and often needed to be on standby. Gracie had at least three occasions a week in which to send flowers: someone’s grandmother died, someone had a baby, this person got promoted, that person got demoted, this producer has a movie opening, that producer’s movie reached 100 million,this actress is having (more) (cosmetic) surgery, that actor is having a nervous breakdown, so-and-so’s in rehab, it’s the star’s brother’s wife’s birthday.
The list was endless.
Gracie’s florist, a human nerve ending with concert pianist’s fingers and a head as smooth as an eggshell, called the next morning asking how she liked the flowers, letting her know how to take care of them—he prided himself on the lengths he would go for that extra “personal touch.”
“Darling, they could last over a week with distilled water, and only distilled water, and one aspirin,” he said, hyper as a whippet. “Did you have a dinner party last week? I heard you had a dinner party last week, you know you’re supposed to call me for your dinner parties, naughty girl, are you cheating on Raymondo?”
“I’m the one who needs an aspirin,” Gracie told him, unconsciously squeezing the phone like a lemon. Her forearm started
Looking back now, Gracie could see a distinct pattern in Kenny’s repellent (to her) fashion choices, parallel to the demise of their marriage. First, there was the switch from loafers to tennis shoes, even for work.Then he traded slacks for jeans. Ironed jeans, yes, but jeans nonetheless. Gracie had even pointed out to Kenny, helpfully, that jeans are never meant to be ironed, that’s the first sure sign of middle age. The second, third, and fourth being the need for reading glasses, Mylanta, and a new wife. Then there were the Hawaiian shirts. Kenny was searching for a “look,” searching for something to make him stand out from the Armani-Prada-Hugo Boss-clad, contract killer studio crowd. He became the Madonna of the payor play populace. The fashion gambit paid off—he was soon known as the “casual exec,” he became friends with the younger, up-and-coming crowd, the video directors who became film directors, the TV actors who were transitioning into celluloid.Why would her husband want to hang out at home with his wife and three-year-old daughter? The very people who reminded him he was getting older? Of course it made sense that he wanted out. It’s a wonder, she thought, that he didn’t leave earlier.
Gracie went to her daughter’s room and curled up on the tiny bed next to her and played with the shiny blond tendrils of hair covering half her face, always covering half her face because Gracie couldn’t bring herself to cut her daughter’s crazily perfect hair, and wondered what she would say to her in the morning. “Daddy’s not coming home,” maybe. Or: “Daddy’s got an earring and he doesn’t like us anymore.” Graciewould figure something out. And then, some time after that, Gracie would figure out her new life.
Tequila vapors echoed through her head, forcing her into a twitching, unsettled sleep. Too late, Gracie realized that what the female bartender at a particularly uneventful agency party (oxymoron) told her was true: Tequila is the only alcohol that is a stimulant.
The final thought that drifted into her brain haunted her sleep: Gracie had become a Starter Wife.
3
ONE HUNDRED (AND TWO) CLUES THAT YOUR HUSBAND IS UNFAITHFUL
R OSES. T HE ASSHOLE SENT one hundred roses to someone who wasn’t his wife. Someone who wasn’t his dead mother. Someone who wasn’t his daughter. How did Gracie find out about the roses? Her florist.
Gracie, like all Wives Of in L.A., had a favorite florist—a messy, expensive relationship fraught with emotional potholes. The florist/client relationship was closer in her world than the hairdresser/client relationship.The right florist could be called on night and day—and often needed to be on standby. Gracie had at least three occasions a week in which to send flowers: someone’s grandmother died, someone had a baby, this person got promoted, that person got demoted, this producer has a movie opening, that producer’s movie reached 100 million,this actress is having (more) (cosmetic) surgery, that actor is having a nervous breakdown, so-and-so’s in rehab, it’s the star’s brother’s wife’s birthday.
The list was endless.
Gracie’s florist, a human nerve ending with concert pianist’s fingers and a head as smooth as an eggshell, called the next morning asking how she liked the flowers, letting her know how to take care of them—he prided himself on the lengths he would go for that extra “personal touch.”
“Darling, they could last over a week with distilled water, and only distilled water, and one aspirin,” he said, hyper as a whippet. “Did you have a dinner party last week? I heard you had a dinner party last week, you know you’re supposed to call me for your dinner parties, naughty girl, are you cheating on Raymondo?”
“I’m the one who needs an aspirin,” Gracie told him, unconsciously squeezing the phone like a lemon. Her forearm started
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