Page 44 of Sleepover

“No, I know, I mean—but he can be my practice guy, and then I can date a lot and buy a lot of sexy clothes and shoes.”

“With Trevor’s money,” Hattie adds. “You should keep a separate account with Trevor’s alimony money and use it for all the things you know would piss him off, like strappy sandals and vibrators and dates with other guys. Use your writing money and the child support for food and Madden’s stuff and saving for college.”

I laugh. “Do you do that?”

“If I ever actually received an alimony check I would do that,” she says.

She doesn’t talk much about her ex-husband. He was a jerk when they were married—borderline emotionally abusive and completely uninvested in her life or the kids—and now he barely sees the kids and is a complete deadbeat financially. To be fair, Trevor’s rolling in money between his investment banking job and Helen’s modeling work, but it isn’t like Hattie’s ex is broke, just a loser.

“How is the writing going, by the way?” Hattie asks.

“It’s great,” I say. “I think the fact that I’m willing to write pretty much anything has helped me out. I mean, I have the areas of focus and that helps me market—medical, scientific, tech—but I’ve been taking other work, copywriting, social media and blog content, whatever, and even without Trevor’s money I think Madden and I would be fine.”

Which is a great feeling, obviously. It’s not PC to admit it, but I had a moment of sheer terror when Trevor said he was leaving. I had no idea whether I could make it on my own. He’d been supporting me for the last eight years, my writing jobs had dwindled to hobby level, and mixed in with all the hurt and anger was this thin, thready panic—I can’t be a single mom!

But it turns out I can, and I’m pretty damn good at it.

“Have you done anything with the divorce book yet?”

“No.”

“Come on, Elle, it’s good! You should try to get it published. Or get an agent. I have a friend who wrote a book about organizing your kitchen that wasn’t one-eighth as cute or funny as your book and she wrote a proposal and sent it to an agent, and blammo! She’s a bestseller.”

“I don’t think it usually works like that,” I say dryly.

“Well, you won’t know if you don’t try, will you?”

“Guess not,” I say, which I know is code for I’m not planning to try, but she can believe it means You’re right, Hattie! I should try! if it’ll let her sleep better at night.

I unstrap myself from the beautiful shoes. Midway, my phone buzzes, and I pull it from my pocket.

Picture or it didn’t happen.

Hattie says I need to see your face the first time you see me in the dress.

I’m dying over here, Elle.

Wait till you see the shoes.

Hattie’s face appears above my phone screen. “Quit sexting and let’s go find something that’ll really blow his mind.”

At Victoria’s Secret, Hattie and I take dressing rooms side by side.

“Oh, geez,” she mutters. “I don’t even know how to put this on.” There’s a rustle of clothing and then, “Yeah. No.” More rustling. “That’s more like it.” She whistles softly. “Maybe that’ll help. Elle. Can I confess something?”

“Sure.”

“I have had some really bad sex in the last few months.”

Laughter bursts out of me, and I think I hear someone laughing in the dressing room on the other side of me. It is so like Hattie to start this conversation in a semipublic place.

“I think men are watching too much porn,” she laments. “I’m not a bicycle pump.”

There’s definitely laughter coming from the other dressing room. I’m biting back my own. “Hold that thought, Hattie. We’ll discuss it at lunch.”

Meanwhile, I’ve donned a barely there dusty-pink G-string and teeny-tiny lace demi-bra. And I’m staring at myself in the mirror, pleased with the result.

I grab my phone. You’re really going to like what I have on now.

Tell me????

There is not very much of it. And it is pink. That is all I can say.

I hate you right now. Jonah is home and I can’t even go upstairs and *imagine* for myself.

Maybe tonight?

Are you volunteering to help with the imagining?

I decide to leave him hanging—or, um, its opposite—for a bit on that question.

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