“Well, I’m not, am I? And you’re not due here till Monday.”
“Look, I’m sorry but he asked me to pack up some things.” I pointed to her purse and jacket, slung on the chair.
“I want you to leave. Permanently.”
Her expression wavered between defiance and fear. “Then let me put his clothes back. I’ve already laid them out.”
“Now.”
“Okay, I get it, but for what it’s worth, he’s doing the best he can. You don’t make it easy.”
“Did you discuss that with him in Vegas?”
She pulled on her jacket. “If it helps, I’m sorry. Sorry about everything.”
And we both knew what everything was. Shutting the door behind her felt empowering until I found my husband’s neatly rolled jeans, t-shirts, underwear laid on the bed next to his balled-up linen shirt and khakis. I shoved them back in the hamper where he’d obviously stuffed them after Vegas and before running off to Nicole’s.
I tossed back a Xanax, infuriated by Misha’s invasion, by Misha knowing what to pack, by Ethan conferring with her. By my humiliation. By my grief. As I pulled my LA itinerary from my satchel, Ethan appeared. “I suppose Misha called you,” I said without looking up.
“Of course she did. I was on my way here to meet her. She was only going to give me a hand with my stuff. You fired her.”
“Yes I fired her. I thought you were working all day, too.”
“That’s not the point,” he said.
I glared. “No, I guess it’s not. I can’t trust you, never have. In Priory Bay I thought about how much I need your support. And I come home to this. I’m working my ass off for us. Us, Ethan. I fly out again Monday. You couldn’t care less about me. I’m exhausted, sick of taking on all the responsibility. You’re only interested in the life I provide. Without my career you’d never be considered for a coaching job at that level.”
“I get it. I’m not good at anything.” He grimaced. “I need time without yelling, time to think. I can’t do it here. We can’t keep going with this toxic situation. You know we’re better apart. We’ve survived this long because of my baseball routine, not in spite of it.”
“That’s something Julian would say.”
“Not Julian, Emma. I didn’t fly home from Vegas; I flew home Thursday from St. Louis. I left the convention and went to Brucknerfield.”
“What the hell!”
“I stayed with Darby and talked to Maxine.”
“About us? Maxine told you to leave me?”
“No. Maxine listened. She told me to find myself.”
“Does she know you suddenly find yourself in another long-distance job, schemed out with Julian?”
“Maybe he sees things clearer than we do. You got your brass ring: status, money, the great apartment, the perfect life. Everything but the perfect man.” He pulled his suitcase off the shelf. “You scripted it; you worked for it. Congratulations. I mean that. You’ve worked your ass off. But you’ve managed to drive me three thousand miles away. Julian will fill the void.”
“That’s a half-assed thing to say.”
“Half-assed? It’s the smartest thing I’ve said in weeks.” He set the suitcase at the foot of our bed. “Look, I’m here because you said you wouldn’t be. Go on one of your berserk shopping sprees tomorrow. I’ll be here at eleven and gone by noon. I’ll pack while you’re out.” He grabbed his backpack of ball caps and left before I could argue.
I did not leave Saturday morning. Instead, Ethan entered our bedroom and found me reclining on fresh Pretasi sheets, in nothing but a thong he bought me in Cannes.
“Jesus, Emma!”
“You know how good we are together. How good I am for you. For us. You know our sex works magic.”
He yanked the sheet over me. “This isn’t Fantasyland or the south of France. You’re feeling guilty. It won’t solve anything. Don’t do this to yourself.”
“Don’t do this to me. I don’t care if it’s Misha or Nicole or both of them. You know the UK-C Garden performance ends my insane agenda. We can last that long, till my schedules more normal. I’ll get my life back; I’ll get our life back.” He picked up Jane Eyre from the bedside table. “Being on call twenty-four seven to a billionaire who buys majority interest in whatever strikes him will never be normal.” He put it down. “Does it ever, ever occur to you that my life matters?”
“One minute you tell me Julian’s doing too much for you, and the next you’re networking with him.” By then I was in the dressing room yanking on my clothes. I hopped into view, one leg in my jeans. “Julian waves his magic handkerchief, Paul Jacoby materialises. Voila, you’re giving up Iron Hills for California. The least you can do is talk to me about it.”
Ethan shot me a glance: *Talk so I get more of this? “Wake up Emma. What’s the word? Infatuated.* The longer this goes on, the clearer it is that Julian’s your answer.” He lowered his voice. “I’m not angry. We try and try and try but the two of you are like meshing gears. Same drive, same talents, same goals. I get it. I got it right out of the gate. You know I loved the perks; I loved the hype. But I’m in the way. I’m not being a martyr. It’s better for both of us if I’m out on the coast. It’s a clean break.” He left the bedroom before I finished zipping my pants, and called from the foyer, “I’ll get my clothes while you’re in LA with Julian.”
I swore, cried and swiped tears. I’m not proud of it, but after lunch at the corner bistro, I ricocheted down and across Madison, across and back up Fifth. Between Chanel, Jimmy Choo, Prada, and Gucci, I dropped six thousand dollars, returned to my empty apartment and drank my way through Chinese takeout in front of The Sopranos.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sunday, sadly sober, I paced from our Louis XVI chair to our foyer console, hugging myself against hot flushes and nuggets of truth. Clammy fear and raging impotence roiled, worse than my forced move to Brucknerfield, forced exit from home at eighteen, Marsha’s decision, Carmine’s deception, and Dad’s death combined. Operating on autopilot in Los Angeles wouldn’t do squat for me or Mayfair. Neither would be obsessing over every nugget Ethan dropped on me or every gesture Julian made. I had twenty-four hours to shake this off.
Monday afternoon I checked into The Sunset Towers and met Atticus for dinner at The Abbey where we discussed his plans for assisting Amanda Denton with the UK-C’s Mesmerise personal appearances later in the year. A good drag queen show, and too many martinis with the boys filled the evening. Before my buzz wore off I buoyed my spirits by contemplating relocating Mayfair Beauty to the west coast when Ethan moved.
Late Tuesday morning, fuelled by strong coffee and aspirin, I greeted Amanda at Saks Beverly Hills and brought her up to speed on Atticus. Checking on our market sales specialists blocked thoughts of Ethan while I obsessed over Julian. Even this favourite task took effort.
“By the way,” she said on the way to her car, “Any chance that meeting you’re out here for is Windy Hill or Wind—”
“Mill. Yes, Windmill Beauty’s making a pitch. It’s supposed to be on the down low, however.”
“Figures. Maureen McDaniel’s in my Pilates group. Nice enough with a classic New York City accent that’s hard to miss, especially when discussing your boss in a stage whisper. She said her husband was doing business with him. ‘so handsome, so British. You know he owns the UK-Connection and one of those NBA teams.’ Julian Petrenko is not a name you often hear in a Beverly Hills toilet stall.”
