Page 36 of The Yes Factor

“Oh my God…” I am completely mortified. It’s one thing for Ethan to “sow his oats” when he’s out of town or when it’s with people I don’t know. It’s another thing entirely when it’s my best friend.

“He seemed so perfect in every way, your very own Hugh Grant, that I just chalked it up to sloppy drunkenness. In hindsight, I should have told you about it a long time ago. It was a mistake for me not to. I’m sorry, Liv. I guess we were both wrong about him.” Bex pauses in deep thought as she wipes the condensation off her Bloody Mary glass. “Listen, I know we’re bff’s and I want you to visit me all the time, hell, I want you to move in, but you have to admit it’s a little crazy that you just dropped everything to come here. You can’t run from your life over there, Liv. You have to face the truth about you and Ethan. Things can’t go on like this. You know that, don’t you?”

I wipe the tears from my eyes. I feel sheepish for dumping all of this on Bex right now. She had dinner last night with a felon, for God’s sake.

“Maybe I will just move in with you.” I signal to the waiter to bring over another mimosa, doing my best to move on from what’s become a very difficult and painful conversation.

“And one last thing.” Bex points to the Chanel. “I hate that purse.”

“I hate it too!” I say, half-laughing, half-choking on my tears.

* * *

“That was sooo good. I love brunch life! You know, this whole mimosas on a weekday thing is great. I don’t want it to end.” I lean over and clumsily hug Bex as she’s craning her neck to see if the road is clear to pull away from the valet stand and into traffic.

“Hold on, I’m trying to drive here. How many did you have anyway? Four?” she says to me in mock reproach, adjusting the rearview mirror and joining the stream of cars on Wilshire Boulevard. “I love it, too. We’re lucky to have this time together, even if we haven’t been lucky lately. Reminds me of the good old days. Before all this life and marriage crap got in the way.”

“I miss those Southern boys!” I wail, feeling a little tipsy. It’s not just the mimosas, I’m strangely elated after telling Bex about my problems with Ethan. And also after what she told me about him. I feel lighter, like the burden and internalized shame that’s been smothering me is finally starting to evaporate. “So, where to next?” I clap my hands. “What about the Grove? I really need to find some new jeans.”

“The Grove.” Bex sneers. “That’s amateur hour.”

* * *

After a twenty-minute drive through twisting streets, we pull into a strip mall somewhere off Ventura Blvd.

“No valet? Guess this isn’t a popular place.”

“Just you wait. It’s very popular.” Bex hops out of the car. “Come on.”

Behind the small storefront of Encore Couture is a mosaic wonderland of designer labels. Layer upon layer of red soled stilettos that retail for upward of five hundred dollars a pair line one part of the wall. Toward the back, a jungle of fur coats hangs next to a beveled glass display case of handbags straight from the pages of Vogue. An adjacent round table is packed two feet high with stacks of designer jeans in every shade imaginable. There’s even a small bargain box tucked away in a corner simply labeled Miscellaneous Cashmere and Silk.

“What is this place?” I say, my eyes slowly scanning the store, hardly believing the Aladdin’s den of upscale loot. “It’s like the aftermath of Carrie Bradshaw reading Marie Kondo.”

“It’s incredible, I know.” Then in a half-whisper as if we’re in a holy place of worship, Bex continues. “This is the place everyone knows about, but nobody talks about. Holmby Hills socialites come in here to hock their vintage Dior, as if they need the money, and every Oscar nominated starlet comes here to find a gown that no one else will have. This is where a Best Actress nominee got that vintage Halston for last year’s ceremony.”

“So how do you know about this place?” I wonder when Bex—who I had to warn not to wear sweats to the airport—developed such an affinity for high fashion.

“Remember Bernice, my mother-in-law from hell? She had two amazing vintage Gucci dresses. Let’s just say that when Patrick and I were married I borrowed them and after the divorce ‘forgot’ to give them back.”

“Bex! You didn’t!”

“I know, it’s terrible, but I don’t feel guilty. She never wore them, just kept them in storage. So I borrowed them, brought them here, and then Maddie got to go to volleyball camp and science camp. Patrick was being so difficult and we were still hashing out the divorce settlement. I was pinching pennies wherever I could.”

“More like pinching Gucci.” I marvel at her tenacity. “So does Maddie still want to be an astronaut?”

“Who knows. All she talks about lately is wanting to be a YouTube star. I don’t even know what that means! Anyway, put your stuff in here.” Focused on the mission at hand, Bex takes my Chanel bag and turns it upside down, shaking its contents into a plastic Target bag she’s pulled from her own purse.

“Bex…” I say, finally realizing what she’s up to. “Bex, what are you doing with my bag?”

“Do you really want to carry around this albatross of adultery any longer?” she hisses. “I can’t believe you let him see you with this thing. Does he think he can just buy himself out of betraying you?”

She’s right. I know she’s right. I watch her stroll up to the very soigné sixty-something woman behind the counter and start talking about the purse. I turn around and mindlessly riffle through the bargain box, pulling out random sleeves of ridiculously thick cashmere sweaters and slinky silk scarves. I don’t want to explain anything about the purse to the store clerk. Now that Bex—God bless her—has told it like it is, I’m almost ashamed of myself, the way I so easily accepted Ethan’s infidelity or simply chose to ignore it, like a buzzing bee that I’d hoped would go away and not sting me. If Bex only knew about everything else…I scrunch up the cashmere sweater in my hands and squeeze it hard like a stress ball. I don’t have to tell Bex everything all at once. But I know deep down that I can’t keep living my life the way I am now.

“Oh no, sweetie, that’s a sad color.” A woman in a bright purple ’80s jumpsuit with a glittery belt takes the pale gray balled up sweater from my hands. “This is California. Look outside! Blue sky, yellow sun. Here.” She drapes a fluorescent Pucci style scarf around my head and nods with approval. “Oh yes. This is so Talitha Getty with a dash of Isadora Duncan. Now, give me your yacht face. You’re looking starboard, the Mediterranean wind blowing across your tanned skin, you’re dreaming about the Italian deckhand and wondering if this is the summer your eighty-nine-year-old billionaire husband will finally keel over with a heart attack.” She laughs wickedly. “Now, what else can we do with you?”

“I’m not here for shopping.” I pull the scarf from my head.

“Honey, we are all here in this life for shopping.”

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