Page 51 of Mean Moms
“I almost forgot: I had a nice, long conversation with a friend of mine from Florida, Andrea, who I hadn’t spoken with in a while,” said Sofia now, her face brightening. “I told her my kids were at Atherton, and she mentioned she knew someone there, a woman named Morgan Chary! Isn’t that funny? She even said that she was the one who’d told you about me, years ago, and also that you two had a gossip session a few weeks before I left town. She really couldn’t remember the details.” Sofia lowered her voice. “I think she might have a drinking problem, if you know what I mean.”
Morgan felt her heart quicken. Was she going to faint? Shit. Fucking Andrea, that stupid lush, had such a big mouth.
“That’s so funny,” said Morgan. “I certainly know Andrea. Her husband does some business with Welly, so we occasionally get seated together during work dinners. She’s lovely. But I don’t remember speaking about you!”
“Huh,” said Sofia. “I have to run around and get everything set. People will be here in no time! I love your clam head, by the way. So fun. Like a big vagina.” Sofia smiled at Morgan, a large, fake smile, and swished off, leaving her thrown.
But Morgan had no time to dwell on it, because she had things to do, and a timeline to stick to. And Morgan was always on time.
Belle Redness wasn’t sure about any of this. She wasn’t sure about this scheme that Morgan had concocted. She wasn’t sure that Sofia deserved it. And she definitely wasn’t sure about her costume—a red, Anita Zmurko-Sieradzka dress, with a large bump near the shoulder, like a fabric tumor, and no armholes at all, trapping all of her limbs inside the garment. She’d had to hobble out of the car; Fred had dropped them off on Hudson, but the building’s entrance, it turned out, was actually on Desbrosses, and so Belle had to hop like a kangaroo across the sidewalk. Surely not the strangest scene in New York at that very moment, but perhaps in the top ten.
This costume had been a mistake. Even Jeff, who rarely gave her any sartorial feedback, had lightly advised her to change.
“Babe, you won’t be able to move. It’s a party. How will you hold a drink?” he’d said to her as they were leaving. “I do love your new hair, even if it’s not what you wanted,” he added kindly, giving her a quick hug. Jeff had been supremely nice to Belle recently, and she did appreciate it.
He was in a much more reasonable outfit than she, a black leathersuit, plus a penguin head that he was holding (when he’d put it on, he’d felt claustrophobic, so she’d compromised and said he could just carry it all night, and maybe wear it for a couple of pictures).
Belle felt like hopping back to the car and going home. She didn’t want to face the other moms, sighing with sympathy about everything that had happened to her. Belle was starting to hate Atherton, now that she was no longer on top. Being an outcast was no fun, and if Belle had learned anything this year, it was that she probably should have been better to everyone when she’d had the power. Belle was not a deeply introspective person, but even she could see that she’d been a bitch. Hildy had been right.
Belle and Jeff took the elevator up, just the two of them, not speaking to each other as they traveled to the party. Belle was thinking about Dr. Broker, whether he’d be there, what she’d say to him. She hadn’t spoken to him one-on-one since the night of Friendsgiving, the night her friends had caught them in the closet. Belle, so angry at Frost, about The Dress, about everything, had run into him on the second floor of Clara’s apartment, after she’d doused Frost with that drink. Dr. Broker had been sipping an espresso martini, those adorable friendship bracelets on his wrist. She’d been in such a state, so stressed and embarrassed and not feeling like herself. He’d grabbed her wrist and dragged her to Ozzie Cain’s room, into that closet, which smelled of a twelve-year-old’s dirty socks, plus Axe body spray. He’d tried to kiss her, but she’d ducked, wanting to but not wanting to, which is when Frost had come in and saved her.
Thank God for Jeff, she thought, looking over at him now in the elevator, holding that stupid penguin head, a decapitated bird out of a depressingPlanet Earthdocumentary. She wished she felt comfortable broaching the topic of marriage counseling with him,but she couldn’t bring herself to. It was lodged inside her throat like a chewy piece of Balthazar steak.
The family had been down in St. Barths over break, staying at the Cheval Blanc, their favorite, and it had been so nice to get away from the city, away from the chaos, the failure, and the creepy stalker (Sofia?). Belle had nearly felt like Belle again, lounging in an Eres bikini, sipping Aperol spritzes. Hildy had been in a better mood, too.
“I’ve moved on,” Hildy had said to Belle at one point. “The nude pictures aren’t of me, everyone knows that. And Alfred and King did apologize.” They’d been lying in a cabana on the beach, Belle flipping through oldVogues and Hildy on her Kindle, reading one of those dragon books she loved. Miles was splashing around in the ocean, and Jeff was off at a yoga class.
“I’m glad, honey,” Belle had said.
After a pause, Hildy had spoken again. “Mom, I’m sorry about Pippins Cottage Home, but maybe it was a sign you weren’t meant to be a fashion designer.” Belle had been surprised. That possibility hadn’t even occurred to her. But she’d sat with it. Was Hildy was right about… everything?
“Jeff, I love you,” Belle said now. She hadn’t even meant to say it aloud. She was seized with worry that her non-affair would somehow come out. Her friends had seen them together! Jeff and his penguin head looked over at her, confused. “I forgot to tell you—that new detective emailed me that he found something interesting. He’s going to call to discuss tomorrow,” Jeff said. The elevator doors opened into the party.
Sofia and the Atherton PA had outdone themselves, turning Sofia’s loft into an upside-down wonderland, filled with objects that were either way too big (wineglasses the size of water jugs) or toosmall (miniature chairs, which guests were using as purse-holders). The main area was flanked in what looked to be large picture frames, nearly the height of the ceiling, and there were life-size taxidermic animals; a seven-foot-tall bear holding a whiskey, a hawk, dangling from the ceiling, its skinny bird neck covered in Mardi Gras beads. The cumulative effect of the place was disorienting, like you’d unwittingly taken shrooms. Belle and Jeff walked away from each other, Belle on a mission to find Morgan, to make sure everything was going the way it was supposed to go.
But first she saw Frost, standing alone near the bar, in a fishnet dress, a freaky-looking raven hat on her head. She looked stunning, as always.
“Uh-oh,” said Frost, smiling at Belle like it was the old days. “We’re near a bar—do I need to duck? Are you going to pour another martini on me? Never mind, I see you don’t have any arms to throw a drink with.”
Belle snorted. “That was a onetime thing, you know that,” she said, relieved to inject some levity into the situation. “Speaking of, can you help me sip a vodka? I don’t have any hands.”
Frost flagged the bartender, who was wearing a gladiator costume, his chiseled abs exposed by an armor crop top, and then held the full cup of alcohol gingerly to Belle’s lips. She slurped it like a baby. “Hits the spot,” said Belle, feeling the familiar closeness with her friend returning.
“I really do love your new hair, even if you didn’t technically choose to go short. It’s so cool,” said Frost.
Ava and Gabby waltzed over, each wearing a large orange ball around her body, stretching from neck to their knees, with tentacle-like structures protruding out. The getups were covered in black polka dots. They seemed delighted with themselves, twirling to showoff, crashing into everything as they did, a happier couple than most of the spouses in attendance.
“Do you know what we are?” asked Ava, the line of her bangs even sharper than normal, as if someone had taken a ruler to them. Belle and Frost shook their heads no.
“We are a Yayoi Kusama painting come to life!” said Gabby. “She’s a famous ninety-five-year-old Japanese artist. And shemadethese costumes for us. Can you believe it?” Knowing how much money Gabby spent on the theme parties, Belle could.
“I love this red thing,” continued Gabby, caressing Belle’s dress. “It’s like you’re a sexy sausage.” Ava laughed. Belle wanted them to scram.
That’s when Belle saw Dr. Broker passing by, in jeans and a white T-shirt that saidDALÍ.
“Hey, Dr. Broker, come here!” called Gabby, pulling him over by the arm. He looked uncomfortable to be there, not making eye contact with the women, sipping his drink instead of chatting. He was usually so smooth. Belle wondered if she was making him antsy. She felt like an idiot in her armless dress.
“Dr. Broker, my good man,” said Gabby. “First question: How are we doing with the Atherton Fund?”
