Page 45 of Mean Moms
Best,
Greg Summerly
Greg Summerly, private detective, was not Greg Summerly, private detective. There was a real Greg Summerly, private detective. He lived somewhere in Florida and had a small, picture-less onlinepresence, enough so that if you googled the name, you’d think that these two men were one and the same. But they weren’t.
This Greg Summerly was in fact Jed Goggins, an out-of-work actor, who’d been approached by an anonymous employer on TaskRabbit, where he’d listed himself as an aspiring thespian/handyman for hire. An inquiry had come in for some kitchen cabinet installation. He’d replied that he was available and had gotten this response: “Are you up for more? Maybe something risky that taps into your acting skills? I pay well, let me know.”
Jed was up for whatever. He’d moved to New York right before the pandemic, with a BFA in acting from the University of Minnesota, hoping to make it Off Broadway, or Off-Off, or maybe even get a walk-on role onLaw & Order. But when he’d arrived, he’d realized that his chances of any of this were basically zero. Less than zero. He had a couple auditions before the world shut down in 2020, and had been scraping by on odd jobs since, as a handyman, as a “man with a van,” as a dog walker on the Upper East Side. Anything to pay his rent, which was $700 a month (he shared an apartment in Astoria with two other guys his age). He’d given up on acting but didn’t have an alternate plan. He was stuck, broke, and finally about to move back to Minnesota, into his parents’ house, to work with his dad, a local contractor, which he felt was a fate close to dying a painful, sad death.
The TaskRabbit emailer had offered him $30,000, in cash, to impersonate a private detective. It involved meeting with a few wealthy people, listening to their complaints, and then going his merry way. That was literally it. For $30,000! For that amount, he’d be able to stay in New York for another year, at least. Maybe he’d be able to get into Actors’ Equity. Maybe, with that runway, something might finally open up.
So he’d ridden up in private elevators, to enormous, fully decorated places that someone like Jed thought only existed in magazines. People actually lived like this! Jed couldn’t believe it until he saw it with own eyes. Even the cats looked rich. The families had maids, or “housekeepers,” as they called them, and patterned wallpaper in their bathrooms, and art that probably cost more than Jed’s parents’ house.
And they wanted Jed’s, er, Greg’s help. They were desperate for it. Strange shit was happening to them—accidents, email breaches, other stuff that Jed didn’t even really understand—and they were counting on this Greg Summerly person to figure it all out. Sometimes, Jed felt guilty about it, but then he’d set himself straight: he wasn’t a bad guy, he just needed cash, and these people had loads of it. This was just some kind of game to them, like a grown-up, twisted version of Life, and Jed was happy to play his part for a price. He was an actor, after all.
So Jed had asked questions, furrowed his brow when needed, wrote details in a notebook, pretending, pretending. The role of his life! Sometimes their kids would walk in, demanding this or that, speaking to their parents as peers, which blew Jed’s mind. He’d laugh to himself comparing these “moms” to his mom, who’d worked as a manager at Home Depot while also making sure there was dinner on the table and the homework was done and that Jed and his brother got to hockey practice on time at 5:30 a.m.
Jed had no clue who his employer was; they communicated via TaskRabbit only. For all Jed knew, he or she was one of the people he’d spoken with, using him as a cover. There was one woman, the one who looked like a Latin movie star, who seemed different from the rest. Speaking to her was the only time he’d felt an iotaof regret. She resembled them, but she wasn’t of them. It made Jed feel bad, tricking someone like that. But this wasn’t a long-term gig. He’d go back to dog walking soon. Picking up shit on the sidewalk as these assholes passed him by without a second glance.
Chapter 12An Exhibit Opening!
Sofia Perez was not a criminal mastermind. She was just a mother who’d been forced to move from her home, from her state, with all the uncertainly that comes with a messy divorce. She was trying to forge a life for herself, a life in which she didn’t have to depend on her vindictive ex, JP, or worry about him trying to take her children away. And, so, yes, she’d become close to the women at Atherton for a reason other than companionship (though she did enjoy that part, particularly with Frost). But no, it wasn’t so that she couldstealtheir money, or somehow blackmail them into giving it to her (though she did have information which could help with that, too). She needed the mean moms on her side because she needed customers.
Because… Sofia Perez was about to become a travel agent! After a quick online course, she’d joined a company called Omni Travel group as a luxury travel adviser, specializing in Florida and the Caribbean. It wasn’t a salaried job—she’d earn commission. For that reason, she’d done everything in her power to break into the Atherton world. She knew rich women well enough to know thatonce one of the moms hired her, the rest would follow, not wanting to be left out, or to be seen as doing the wrong thing. She could book trips for all of them. It was a perfect plan.
Sofia should have been feeling optimistic. But instead, she was fully freaked out. Because Sofia had seen something she knew she shouldn’t have: Morgan Chary meeting with Sofia’s driver, Rodrick, in City Hall Park, the night of Belle’s pop-up party. The same guy who drove Sofia’s children to school in the morning, the one whom JP paid to keep an eye on the family. Were Morgan and JP in cahoots somehow? What did Morgan want from Rodrick? He’d always been a bit of a jerk, but Sofia had chalked that up to his loyalty to JP.
Since then, Sofia had been following Morgan around every chance she got, trying to figure out how everything—or nothing—was related. She’d trailed Morgan to Whole Foods on Houston, to restaurants in Tribeca, to Thyme & Time and Atherton and back again.
At first, nothing had struck Sofia as suspicious (beyond the number of Tracy Anderson classes Morgan took). But then, yesterday, at around 4:30 p.m, Morgan had left her town house on Grove Street and walked east. She’d made her way across Washington Square Park as Sofia hung about a block behind, stopping every now and then to make sure Morgan couldn’t catch sight of her. Sofia had thought Morgan might be heading toward Atherton, for yet another PA something-or-other. Instead, she’d turned on Third Avenue and kept walking uptown until she’d reached Twenty-First Street, turning left and then stopping in front of a pretty prewar doorman building. Morgan disappeared inside and Sofia hadn’t waited for her to come out. She’d texted herself the address and then hurried away, grateful she hadn’t been caught.
Later that night, after the kids were asleep, she’d googled thebuilding, turning up the usual StreetEasy listings (a $4.5 million three-bedroom; a $2 million one-bedroom bargain). Lower down she’d found an article about the building on Curbed, a New York City real estate website. The story was focused on the sale of one specific apartment, but buried in the text Sofia found an illuminating aside—“The building is also home to artists and musicians, as well as an apartment owned by the prestigious Atherton Academy, which is used as the residence (and quite a perk!) for its headmaster.”
An Atherton apartment! So Morgan had been visiting Dr. Broker. Rodrick, Dr. Broker… Morgan was up to something fishy, and Sofia was determined to figure out what.
“You will encounter evil.” The psychic’s words followed Sofia as she arrived at Frost’s art exhibit opening. It was on the far West Side, on Twenty-Seventh Street and Tenth Avenue, the location of the old Bungalow 8. Sofia had taken the C train up from Tribeca, as she couldn’t afford an Uber and there was no way in hell she was asking Rodrick, of all people, to take her anywhere.
Sofia entered the low, squat brown building. It looked nearly derelict, but Sofia knew that was all part of the show.IT GIRLS, BY FROST TREVORread a small sign welcoming Sofia in. She opened the heavy door, keen to get out of the drizzle, to see the old club converted into a chic exhibition space. Frost’s collages hung in zigzags along the exposed brick walls, the faces illuminated by track lighting, giving each an otherworldly appearance. Sofia had arrived early for moral support, and there was already a smattering of attendees inside, sipping champagne and admiring the collection.
Sofia spied Frost in the center of the small group, in a stunning teal silk jumpsuit, her red hair spraying out in wild waves. Her eyes were lined in black; her lipstick like blood. Sofia had never seen her look as beautiful as she did at that moment.
Sofia grabbed a champagne from a nearby tray and walked through the exhibit, stopping in front of each collage and studying her friend’s work. Young women, most of whom Sofia didn’t recognize, posing in old, blown-up photographs that Frost had decorated with seemingly random objects. A dirty shoe glued on. Some paint streaks here and there. Pictures from a fashion magazine sewn into the scenes. Sofia didn’t understand any of it, but she murmured appreciatively anyway.
A couple whom Sofia didn’t recognize walked past, the man with an oversize monocle hanging from a chain attached to his suit, the woman makeup-less other than sparkly bright blue lipstick.
“This feels very now,” said the woman to the man. “We’re past MeToo, beyond the gender wars, in the second Trump administration, flying by the fifth—sixth?—wave of feminism. She’s commenting here on all of it.” The man nodded solemnly.
“The portraits draw me in, but then the objects repel me. It’s that push and pull that she’s captured brilliantly.” He spoke in a loud whisper that Sofia understood was meant to be heard. The duo floated past, and Sofia spied Frost momentarily alone, looking overwhelmed. Sofia hurried over to her, heels clacking on the stone floor, embracing Frost in a warm hug. Frost smelled like Blush by Marc Jacobs, her signature scent.
“This is so wonderful, Frost, really,” said Sofia. “You are so talented! I can’t believe it. A true artist.” Frost beamed before pulling away abruptly.
“I have to speak to you about something.” Frost’s voice was urgent. “It’s important. Morgan and Belle think you’ve been up to something. Thatyou’rebehind what’s been happening at Atherton. You can’t tell them I told you.”
“Me? I haven’t done anything at all!” said Sofia, flabbergasted.
“Sofia, I… I saw you,” said Frost, eyes downcast. Sofia’s heart fluttered but she tried to keep her composure.
“Saw me doing what?” she said.
