Page 36 of Mean Moms
And honestly, she was too busy to deal with yet another Bellemeltdown. Because Frost Trevor’s dream was about to come true: she was about to become arealartist. She’d shown Ethel her work after that initial phone call, hosting her at Frost’s apartment on Twenty-Second Street. Ethel had arrived dressed in vintage Yohji Yamamoto—an oversize black tent dress—and pink eyeglasses, her long gray hair in a slick braid. Frost, who never got intimated, had been intimidated, showing Ethel her collages shyly, carefully watching Ethel’s face, wrinkled in an attractive, artistic way, for reactions.
“Young lady,” said Ethel finally, pulling her glasses off to reveal large, blinking blue eyes.
“I like these. They are… thought-provoking, striking, and I think people will want them for their homes. I’m going to sell them, if you don’t mind,” she’d said. “Though I know you don’t need the money.” She’d cracked a wry half smile. Well, Ethel was right about that, but Frost didn’t care. To be validated for something that wasn’t her father or mother, her looks, or her husband was thrilling. She’d had a dawning, disturbing thought that she’d never been so happy in her entire life. Maybe when her sons had been born, one right after another, that final push to get King out of her body, the hormones and fear and love and panic assaulting her all at once. This was close.
In a nod to the exhibit’s theme, they’d chosen to repurpose the old Bungalow 8 on Twenty-Seventh Street, now abandoned and tenant-less. “This place is a shell of its former self, just like the women in your work,” Ethel had said as they’d toured the dilapidated club. (Perhaps Ethel didn’t remember that Frost had incorporated herself into a few of the pieces. Or maybe she did.) Frost had brought Sofia along for the visit, and it amused Frost to watch Sofia gingerly stepping over the exposed wires in her stiletto boots. “I love it,” Sofia kept saying, about nothing in particular.
Frost had been spending lots of time alone with Sofia over the pastfew months, the four friends operating more as two separate duos. There wasn’t a schism or anything like that—no one was fighting, no feelings had been outwardly hurt. That Frost knew of, at least. But Frost was having a hard time stomaching Belle’s depressive pall and baseball hat–conspiracy theories, and Morgan’s hardcore Morgan-ing: obsessing about Thyme & Time, barely eating or drinking anything, being chipper but no fun at all.
There was something intoxicating about making a new best friend in your forties; it reminded Frost of falling in love. She craved Sofia’s presence the way she used to crave a new boyfriend’s touch. She wanted Sofia tolikeher, and so when they were together, Frost became the best version of herself: witty, stylish, go-with-the-flow. The person she used to be when she was younger and unattached, not the woman she was currently, navigating a troubled marriage and nearing a possible midlife crisis.
Frost looked over at Tim now, in the back of their chauffeured SUV. They were headed to Friendsgiving, at the Cains’ apartment on Pearl Street. Tim and Frost were in the middle row, and Sofia was in the back, in a blond wig and a Samantha Jones–inspired belted trench coat (and nothing else). Tim, for his part, was dressed as Steve to Frost’s Miranda, and it made Frost laugh to look at him, in his sleeveless Puma B-ball shirt, small, wire-framed glasses, cargo shorts, and low-top Converse All Stars. Tim had embraced the challenge, even buying his outfit himself after doing internet research on the character. Frost grabbed his hand in hers and he turned to her and smiled.
“Looking hot, Hobbes,” he joked, pinching the sleeve of Frost’s gray blazer, part of the skirt suit she’d chosen to wear as Miranda, the one from the famous “he’s just not that into you” episode. She was planning on saying that line to people all night.
As much as Frost loved a party, she was anxious going into theevening. Even the pulsing pop music (Cher’s “Believe,” at Sofia’s request) wasn’t quite enough to clear the murky, what-else-could-go-wrong feeling hovering over Atherton like an impending storm. Belle was convinced that there was a sicko out there who’d found them together in an Instagram photo and was trying to ruin their lives, one by one, like in a David Fincher film or something. Tim wasn’t so sure—“Don’t bad things happen to bad people?” he’d joked to Frost the other day.
“Belle and Morgan aren’tbad,” Frost had said defensively. “And what about me?” Little did Tim know. They were sitting in their living room on a pink Bellini sofa, having a drink before dinner, discussing how the search to find the man who’d scootered into Frost had reached a dead end. To push it forward, Frost would have had to make an official police report, and based on the detective’s meager findings, she’d decided against it.
Spending alone time together was something Frost and Tim had been trying to do regularly, on the suggestion of their couples’ therapist. She’d set her vodka down on her Mario Lopez Torres wicker grasshopper side table, its antennae pointing right at her. Why had she purchased that piece, again? At the time, she supposed, she’d thought it was cute. Now it just looked creepy.
“Oh, come on,” said Tim. He was sipping a scotch, one of the expensive ones he’d bought at auction.
“You know how I feel about Belle and Morgan,” Tim continued. Tim thought Belle was a rich, whiny daddy’s girl, and that Morgan was a fake-happy pain in the butt. “Anyway, it seems you have a new best friend. And I like this one!”
Frost wondered if her friends would be annoyed that she and Sofia were arriving at the party together. Probably, though neither would ever admit it.
The car pulled up to the Cains’ building, a shiny glass tower facing the waterfront. Tim helped both women down from the car, and when Frost saw how strikingly glamorous Sofia looked in her coat and wig, she instantly regretted her more humorous choice of unflattering workwear. To complete her look, Frost had a stylist pin her red hair under to resemble Miranda’s shaggy short cut.
“Ugh, I don’t look like Miranda, I just look like a dowdy lesbian,” Frost whispered to Sofia as they were waiting for the elevators to take them up.
“I’m a lesbian, and I heard that!” It was Gabby Mahler followed by Ava Leo. “Hello, Frost, hello Frost’s shadow, Sofia,” said Ava with a smirk. Sofia scowled at her. Gabby had curled her short blond hair and was wearing a cropped white T-shirt, a purple button-down tied around her waist. Ava had mushroomed her bob—as if she’d stuck her finger in a socket—and was in a graphic T-shirt and a black suit vest.
“I think I know who you two are…” said Frost.
“Party on, dudes!” Ava and Gabby interrupted in unison, collapsing into a giggling fit. They were both carrying electric guitars.
“Who are you?” Sofia asked.
“All we are is dust in the wind, dude,” said Ava solemnly.
“Bogus!” said Gabby. They couldn’t stop laughing.
“I don’t understand this costume,” said Sofia. Ava rolled her eyes at her—it was the second time in so many minutes that Ava had been rude to Sofia. Ava wasn’t particularly nice to anyone, but there was a pointed dismissiveness to her interactions with Sofia, which Frost assumed was classic female jealousy. How boring.
“We’re Bill and Ted! From the movie!” said Gabby, snickering still. Sofia shrugged.
“Guess it didn’t make it down to Miami,” Sofia said with a sweet smile. “Or maybe you guys are way older than me.”
“Burn,” said Gabby, elbowing Ava.
David Chung then entered the lobby, dressed as Abraham Lincoln in a top hat and long beard, a bit player fromBill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure.
“Welcome to Friendsgiving, guys,” said David. “Or should I say Samantha and, um, Miranda, and what’s your name again, Tim? Sam?”
“Steve,” said Tim, in his best high-pitched Steve voice.
“This hat is making my scalp itch,” said David with a grimace.
