Page 48 of Mean Moms
Everything else.
Valerie Greg
And we’re supposed to give on top of that? And send our kids to sleepaway camp for $20,000 a pop? And Randall’s Island Fucking Tennis Academy for $15,000? And goddamn Russian Math for $10,000 a semester? And also buy an Atherton beach bag?? No. Just no. NO.
Dre Finlay
Valerie, I’ll offline with you.?
Chapter 13A Coffee Catch-Up!
The week after Frost’s disastrous art show, Belle, Morgan, and Frost sat in Frost’s colorful living room, on that funny pink couch of hers, sipping tea. Sofia had been so fully integrated into their daily lives that it felt strange to be without her. Like they were plotting something, which maybe they were.
Frost kicked it all off.
“So, guys…” She trailed off, adjusting her thoughts. Morgan picked up a cracker from a cheese board that Frost had set out and then put it back down again without taking a bite.
“I’ve had a very stressful, upsetting few days.” Frost was on the verge of tears, her lips pursed and her eyelids red. “You, too, Belle, I know.” Belle mournfully ran her hand through her new bob, which she’d had fixed up at by Jennifer Matos at Rita Hazan (Ask Morgan!). She felt naked without her hair, and still couldn’t believe what had happened. After the lights had gone out, Belle had felt someone tug her braid. She’d tried to whirl around, confused, but the person who did it was quick: snip, snip, snip, and her hair—heridentity—was gone, fallen to the dirty floor. Negative event cluster? No way. This was war.
“Tim is, um, well, we’re just taking a little time apart,” Frost said, her voice straining on “apart.”
“We were doing so well before, but as you can imagine, the, er, picture of me was too much for him.”
“Frost, I’m so sorry,” said Morgan. “If you want to share anything with us about who the picture was taken by, we are all ears. No one is here to judge you.”
Frost shook her head.
“There are no leads yet about who might have postered the walls and butchered Belle’s lovely hair,” Frost continued, her eyes starting to water. Ethel said Frost would recover, and that the collages could still eventually sell, but Ethel was putting her efforts on pause until the hoopla died down. It broke Frost’s heart. “The security cameras weren’t functioning properly,” Frost said. “The property manager thinks they were tampered with.”
“I saw him,” said Morgan. She was in a high-necked green sweater, the color bringing out her blue eyes.
“Who?” said Belle, leaning in. Belle was in a lacy long-sleeved dress, not of her own design. She’d shut down the Pippins Cottage Home website the other day. Her hair had been the last straw. She was defeated.
“Rodrick. Sofia’s driver. I saw him putting up the posters. I was waiting to tell you both until this meeting. It’s Sofia. It’s been Sofia all along. Maybe when Rodrick was working on the posters,Sofiacut off Belle’s hair. Did either of you see her afterward?” Both women shook their heads.
Frost wasn’t sure what to believe. She wanted to think that Sofiawas incapable of hurting them in this way, but everything was pointing toward her being the one. Sofia hadn’t explained why she’d been following Morgan, and while Frost wasn’t about to share that little tidbit with the group, it cast so much doubt in Frost’s mind.
Frost was still in shock about what had happened at her opening, all those months of toiling, of creating, only to be met with that humiliating end. Art’s picture of her for all to see. She’d thought about reaching back out to Sofia, answering her cryptic text, but she’d just wanted to have a clear head. She needed some distance.
“This is the perfect opportunity to discuss our plan going forward,” said Morgan.
“What would wedo?” said Belle. Over this past year, Belle, particularly, had suffered. Behind her back, “pulling a Belle” had become the current Atherton shorthand for failing. Your kid blew it at a tennis match? He “pulled a Belle.” You were the slowest in your spinning class that day? You “pulled a Belle.” Other parents were delighting in the fact that “perfect” moms like Belle and Frost had been met with such blows. So much for “the bonds of Atherton’s chosen community.” The various WhatsApp channels were lighting up with schadenfreude. Moms snickering to each other about Belle’s unwanted haircut. About Frost’s sexy (adulterous!) pose. No Lingua Franca sweatshirt was going to get her out of that one.
“So it was Sofia behind those horrible bugs?” said Frost, in her own world, not really following.
“Lanternflies,” Belle clarified, frowning. “Greg Summerly, the detective, mentioned that Sofia was the common denominator among, well, everything!”
“And the Hildy deepfakes? Sofia sent them to my son? And had someone hit me with a scooter? And rob us at Morgan’s spa? No way,” said Frost, an eyebrow raised. “I don’t believe it.”
“Yes!” said Belle. “Or, I don’t know, maybe the scooter was just New York being New York. Those things are crazy dangerous.”
“Sofia is a mother. She wouldn’t do that to Hildy,” said Frost. She was having a hard time wrapping her mind around these accusations. If Belle and Morgan were so sure, let them retaliate. Frost just wanted to mourn in peace and try to fix her marriage. Maybe she deserved this. She’d cheated, after all. She was guilty of that. Tim had been furious, livid, betrayed. He’d demanded a name and she’d refused. He said unless she told him who she’d slept with, he’d leave. And now he was gone. Staying in the Chelsea Hotel to get his thoughts in order, as he’d put it. And Frost was all alone and totally miserable.
The incident had sparked numerous newspaper articles, from theTimes(FORMER IT GIRL’S EXHIBIT VANDALIZED) to thePost(FROST TREVOR’S ART SHOW DEFACED BY MIGRANT. SEE THE NUDIE PICTURES INSIDE!). The already on-edge Atherton crowd was flipping out. Frost had received a few texts from moms saying they were considering moving to Connecticut or Westchester. The city was “dangerous.” Criminals were “everywhere.” “No one is safe!”
Just then, Alfred and King came bounding in, bringing with them a buzzy twelve-year-old-boy energy.
“Mom, Mom, can we play Fortnite now, please? Flora’s saying we can’t,” said King. He was tall and reedy, like Tim.
