Page 13 of Mean Moms
“I called NYPD just now, and the officer I spoke with said that lots of times these guys have fake weapons,” said Art. “Someone recently got robbed outside Carbone—he lost an Audemars Piguet—and it turned out the man who did it was holding up a water gun that he’d painted black. We don’t know if this guy had arealgun. Plus, Morgan is concerned about the negative publicity—will people come to the spa if they know that something like this could happen?”
“Let us know how we can help,” said Frost. The other women allnodded earnestly. “And tell Morgan we’re sorry and we’re thinking of her.”
“Okay, gals, I’ve got other people to chat with,” he said. “Finish your drinks and please, please don’t make this a big story at drop-off tomorrow. Morgan is counting on you to be in her corner.”
Gabby gave him a thumbs-up.
“I need a real drink after that, not a glass of shitty white wine. Who wants to come with me?” said Ava. Gabby raised her hand. So did Frost. Sofia knew she should go—she needed to forge relationships with these women, not just for herself, but also for her kids and their future.
But all she really wanted to do was walk around the city alone. Perhaps find someone interesting to trail. It was something she’d been doing to various people—other moms, men she found attractive, women who were particularly stylish—since she’d arrived in New York. She’d walk about a block behind her target, careful not to get too close: Sofia, with her TV-star good looks, was certainly noticeable. Then she’d track them until she got tired, sometimes for just a few minutes, and sometimes for longer. She particularly liked to follow her new friends, which is how she’d come upon Frost and Morgan after the scooter accident. It made her feel closer to them, in a strange way, to shadow them unknowingly. Sofia hadn’t realized how much of her time previously had been taken up by spending money.
“Barry’s Bootcamp calls! I have to get up super early for a workout,” Sofia said now. “But next time.”
“I love that dedication to your hot bod,” said Gabby, Sofia hanging back as they left, waving goodbye. Frost gave Sofia the “call me” sign, and Sofia felt her cheeks warm with the glow of a burgeoning friendship.
Then there was a hand on her shoulder, and Sofia turned to see Art, his forehead shiny. His face was very close to hers and she could feel his breath, which was warm and wine-y.
“Did everyone else leave?” he asked.
“Yes, they just did,” said Sofia. A piece of his hair fell over his eye, and Sofia had the satisfying feeling, not unlike an orgasm or sneeze, of having reached a thing she’d been grasping for.
She’d trailed Frost home during the first week of school, or at least to where she’d thought was Frost’s home, to a new-looking building on Twenty-Second Street near Park Avenue. She’d googled Frost beforehand and had been impressed with all she’d found: she’d been an It Girl with famous parents. She was exactly the type of person who could introduce Sofia to the other wealthy women of New York. So later that day, Sofia had waited outside Frost’s building before pickup, hoping to run into her, which she had.
Looking again at Art, the straight line of his nose, his full, sensual lips, it all clicked. Right before Frost had exited her building that afternoon, a well-dressed Indian man had come out, passing Sofia, who’d turned her back toward the street so as not to attract his attention. She’d only gotten a glimpse of him, of his profile and the back of his head, but she was sure that the same man was now standing right in front of her—Art, Morgan’s husband.
“I’d better go home, I have to put the kids to bed,” Sofia said pleasantly to Art. He smiled at her, but not with his eyes. “I hope Morgan feels better and that Gertrude is okay. I’m glad we got our jewelry back.” He nodded and patted her back, his hand lingering for just a split second too long before moving on to a group of nubile young beauty editors.
What had Art and Frost been up to? Nothing good, clearly. Sofia knew about the risks of extramarital affairs, and she hoped it didn’tblow up in Frost’s face the way that it had in hers. She thought back to that Saturday, six months after she’d started sleeping with Michael. The kids were already out of the house, Carlos at soccer, Lucia at a birthday party. Sofia had been sitting in her bedroom, just out of the shower, thinking about Michael, as she often did. What was he up to? Was he missing her? JP and his father, Jorge, had been downstairs, about to leave for their weekly golf game at La Gorce. All seemed calm and normal. And then she’d heard JP yell her name. Then yell it again. “SOFIA,” he’d roared. She’d sat for just a moment longer, her heart sinking, sensing that everything was about to change. She’d walked down the stairs to the front foyer, to find JP in his best Nike Golf outfit, wearing those stupid Oakley sunglasses that she hated, holding a piece of paper. Next to him was Jorge, glaring, the wrinkles on his forehead almost comedically furrowed. JP threw the paper at her, passing her coldly on his way out, Jorge whispering “puta” as he slammed the front door in Sofia’s face. She’d read the note, her hands shaking.
“Sofia. I love you. You are my everything. I want to be with you. Love, Michael.” She’d blinked back tears, seeing her pink Birkin open on the console. Sofia still kept the note in her wallet, next to her two faded sonograms, a sad reminder that someone out there had once cared deeply for her.
Sofia went out to Reade Street now, wondering if Michael was thinking about her. They didn’t speak; one of the conditions of her pathetic alimony was that she cut off communication with him. The last time she saw him, right before she’d moved, he’d offered to come with them, to build his business in New York, to make a life together. But she’d been scared that JP would use Michael as an excuse to take away the kids, so she’d said no, sobbing. He’d understood. But Sofia second-guessed that choice every single day.
It was still hot outside, though the sun was setting. Her mind wandered to the man with the gun, and she reached back into her memories, trying to pull his voice out of everything that was jumbled up inside. But there was nothing. She stopped in front of the Jacadi next door, pretending to window-shop for tiny blazers while using the glass reflection to size up potential targets. A well-dressed Asian couple passed by. They were around Sofia’s age, likely Tribeca locals heading out to a date night. Boring. Next came two teen girls, their long straight hair swinging, in matching baggy pants and tops that ended way above their belly buttons. Sofia shuddered to think of Lucia in such an outfit, but also knew that times had changed since she was a girl, when her father would send her upstairs to change if her bra strap was poking out of her tank top. “Puta,” Jorge had called her. Whore.
Sofia let the girls walk by. Then she saw two twentysomething women in evening gowns, their makeup carefully done, chatting with each other about something juicy. Perfect. They continued toward the subway stop at West Broadway. Sofia teetered off after them, careful to stay out of view.
Chapter 5A Bouquet of Newly Sharpened Pencils!
Belle Redness had just had the worst week of her life. The whole family had gotten lice—lice! It had started with Miles, predictably, with that shaggy Alpaca hairstyle he refused to get trimmed. Belle had noticed him scratching his head after school, the telltale sign, and had forced Ivanna to search his scalp thoroughly as Belle held the flashlight, bracing herself. They’d seen the tiny insects crawling everywhere, not even trying to hide, flaunting the fact that they’d taken up residence in her son’s hair like a crew of uncooperative squatters. Belle swallowed a scream, trying her best not to scare the shit out of Miles. First came the lanternflies, then came the lice. Was God punishing her for something?
“Mom, what’s happening?” Miles had said. He was cradling Belle’s phone, checking NFL scores.
“Does he havelice?” said Hildy with disgust. She’d walked in, her hoodie pulled over her head. “Your turn, sweetie,” Belle said, her stomach roiling with queasiness. Hildy had looked at her mother with alarm.
After finding nits in Hildy’s hair, Ivanna had checked Belle,combing through Belle’s thick, heavy mane. It felt good, like getting a wash at the salon. But then Ivanna squeaked, stopping the search midcomb.
“I’m sorry, Miss Belle,” said Ivanna quietly. “I see them. Lots of them.” Her head hadn’t felt itchy beforehand, but at that moment Belle’s scalp had felt like it was on fire. She’d had to sit on her hands not to scratch, for fear of drawing blood.
Belle had immediately called Licenders, the premier delousing service (Ask Morgan!). They’d arrived that evening, a pair of competent middle-aged women in vaguely medical-looking uniforms and full face and hair masks. First, they’d checked the rest of the family—Jeff and Ivanna had nits, as well—and then treated them all with a onetime hair mask. The duo spent the rest of the night, the night of Morgan’s Thyme & Time opening party, delousing the house, washing all the sheets, pillows, towels, and Hildy’s old stuffed animals in superstrong chemicals, Belle following them around as they worked, encouraging them to do more, more, more. The price for the treatments plus the house extermination was an even $3,000, though Belle would have literally paid half a million if they’d asked.
The worst part was, she’d had to alert Atherton—school policy dictated it. She’d had the thought to just… not. Mainly because she didn’t want Dr. Broker to know that she had lice, as silly as that was. But she’d be in deep trouble with the administration if someone found out. She’d reluctantly emailed that night, a long, wine-fueled note about their “lice journey” that she knew Nurse Weiss, a jokester who loved to dress up as viruses for Halloween, would find funny.
The next morning, an alert went out to both Miles’s and Hildy’s grades, letting the other parents know to be on the lookout for lice, but not who the afflicted family was. Belle instructed Hildy and Miles to keep it quiet, bribing them with unlimited screen time. She didn’twant to be associated with lice! Belle’s hair was herthing. No, no, no. So far, so good. No one had found out, not even her friends—she’d told Morgan that she couldn’t come to her opening party because of a childcare issue and was peeved. She’d missed all the drama. She secretly hoped that the robbery might ruin Thyme & Time’s chances for success. It annoyed Belle when her inexperienced, frankly unqualified friends launched companies with their husbands’ money. (Yes, sure, Belle was using her father’s money for Pippins Cottage Home, but that was different.) It was happening more often. Dre Finlay with her girly, low-calorie Tequila brand, Titas. Elisa Brown with Explosions of Cute, a high-end baby clothing rental company that had launched and shuttered within six months after it became clear there wasn’t a market for vomit-stained mini-Burberry. Couldn’t they all just add on a few more hours of volunteering? Shouldn’t Morgan just stick with “Ask Morgan”? She was very good at that.
At least Belle was now lice-free, and on her way to Ava’s theme party, stuck in traffic on Sixth Avenue on their way to University Place. Belle had planned to leave their apartment earlier, but her makeup artist had taken her time, and now they were late, and it was making Belle crazy. She really didn’t want to offend Ava, whose support for Pippins Cottage Home she was still banking on. Lately, Belle had been letting herself daydream about the possibilities for The Dress. She had fantasies of the line selling out on the first day, of walking down the street in Tribeca and seeing woman after woman wearing her design. Maybe she’d land a profile inVogue! Maybe Meghan Markle would be photographed wearing it! “Belle Redness, fashion entrepreneur.” It had such a nice ring to it.
“Can you drivefaster, please,” Belle pleaded with Fred.
