“Hi, Lacey,” Janey Radner ventured. “It’s nice to see you.”
I smiled politely, plucking at the long-sleeved red jersey dress Emmett insisted I wear, with a red-and-jet- bead lariat and killer heels. It had been so long since I’d worn a skirt or heels, it had felt almost alien to slide them on, like a skin I’d shed a long time ago. But now I was glad I’d slipped into one of the nicer outfits Emmett had purchased for me. I wanted to combat those insistent “dumpy sweatsuit and snake tattoo” rumors.
Dorie cleared her throat nervously. “Um, Lacey, I’m running a little behind on another appointment. It will take me a little while to finish up. Do you want to maybe have a manicure while you wait? Judy’s free. Or we could just reschedule.”
Judy Messer, a sweet girl I’d gone to high school with, waved at me from the rear of the shop. “Sure, my hands are a wreck. Are you okay, Dorie?”
Dorie insisted she was fine, but I couldn’t help but notice the way she kept angling me away from the shampoo station, pushing me to the rear of the shop. When Shelly, the shampoo girl, gently raised the chair up and began toweling the client in question’s hair, I realized it wasn’t just another woman, it was the other woman. Beebee, in all her bronzed and lacquered glory, shot me a triumphant look as she was led to Dorie’s station and seated. I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach. The scent of perm solution roiled across my nostrils, making me dizzy and nauseous. The roar of the dryers grated on my eardrums. My grip on my temper was getting more tenuous by the second.
“What the hell is she doing here?” I demanded.
“Getting a trim,” Beebee said, smirking at me. “You might consider it, honey, you’ve got some split ends showing. Now, exactly who the hell do you think you are, showing your face around here again?”
I smiled and stretched my hand out as if to offer a friendly shake. She flinched dramatically, as if I’d taken a swing at her. I rolled my eyes. “I know it must be difficult for you to keep track of all of the wives of the married men you’ve slept with, so I’ll help you out. I’m Lacey, Mike’s wife. You’re living in my house, sleeping in my bed, oh, and, driving my car.”
Over Dorie’s shoulder, I saw Pam Hamilton watching our exchange with glee. Behind her, Felicity Clark was pretending to read a magazine, but was obviously memorizing every word and expression.
“Someone doesn’t like being replaced,” Beebee singsonged in a silly Betty Boop voice that made me want to smack her.
Distress raised Dorie’s voice by two octaves as I took a menacing step toward her rack of scissors. “I’m so sorry, Lacey,” she whispered, pushing me away from Beebee toward the manicure station. “She started coming here right after you left town. Her usual appointment is on Thursdays, which is why I booked you for today. But then she came marching in ten minutes ago and demanded a shampoo and updo for some fancy dinner thing Mike’s taking her to. I thought I could squeeze her in before you got here.”
“What the hell, Dorie?!” I exclaimed. “I’ve been coming here for years! You did my hair for the junior prom, for God’s sake!”
“I know,” Dorie said, chewing her lip. “But with Mark working for Jim, I need to keep the Terwilligers happy, Lacey. I can’t make a fuss.”
“Lacey, I think you need to calm down,” Felicity told me. “You’re making everybody uncomfortable.”
I whirled on Felicity, and it was on the tip of my tongue to tell her that she’d be just as upset if her Karl paraded Margie Wannamaker through the salon. Or to tell Pam that everybody knew her hubby, Larry, and Bruce Gibbs don’t really go “camping” once a month, unless you count shacking up at the DeLuxe Inn for two days as “roughing it.” Emma Powell, who was smirking at me from under the dryer, had the bad fortune to have married a man who gave a stripper at Tassles more than five thousand dollars from his 401(k) and a used Honda. And he paid to have some of her tattoos removed. I could wipe the smug expressions from their faces with just a few well- chosen words, just like I was knocked off my own smug little pedestal all those months ago.
Hell, I could tell Beebee that Mike came crawling back to me, begging me to butter his toast and scratch his back again. That little tidbit would be circulated on the kitchen circuit by dinnertime.
But just as my lips parted to launch my opening attack on Felicity, I remembered feeling that sick, queasy sensation of my world spinning off its axis. And I tried to imagine going through that with other people around, with a room full of women I knew. And I couldn’t do it.
“Why don’t we all just admit that we have problems?” I asked, shaking my head. “My ex-husband is nailing this bimbo. He moved her into our house, gave her my car. Hell, I’m pretty sure those are my shoes she’s wearing. And how exactly is that my fault? I didn’t do anything to encourage it. I wasn’t a bad wife. I had a bad husband. Why don’t we just admit that we married the wrong men? Hello, my name is Lacey, and I married an asshole. Why is that so hard? Whatever happened to sisterhood? Why can’t we just be honest and support each other? Well, obviously Beebee’s out. But why can’t we just admit to each other that our lives aren’t perfect? That’s all I did when I wrote that newsletter. I admitted that my life, at the moment, sucked. And if that scares you, or sickens you, I’m sorry. But you might want to ask yourselves why.
“Dorie,” I said, turning to her. “Finish Beebee’s hair. I’ll come in the same time next Wednesday if you’re free. That should keep us from any unpleasant passing encounters.”
Dorie smiled shakily. “That should be fine.”
I walked out of the salon with my chin up, my heels clicking on the floor as the silent patrons watched me. The moment
I stepped out the door, the buzz of voices rose like a swarm of angry bees.
I’d almost made it to my car when I realized I’d actually walked over to my old Volvo, the car Beebee was now driving. Crap.
“Don’t you touch my car!” Beebee shrieked, scrambling out of the salon door with a wet head and a nylon cape tied around her neck.
“I wasn’t going to,” I sighed and spotted a half-dozen faces pressed against the salon window, watching us. “I just forgot you were driving it now.”
“Don’t you play dumb with me,” Beebee hissed. “What do you think you’re doing, just waltzing around town after what you did to me and Mike?
“Beebee, I know you’re upset. I mean, after all, I did call you a whore in a public forum. But I would just like to point out that you did sleep with my husband. So, really, I think that makes us even. So if you don’t mind, I’m going to climb into my car and leave with some dignity intact.”
“Oh, spare me, you wives always climb up on your high horses, getting all righteous and offended, like it’s not your fault your husbands sleep around. You know, Mike wouldn’t have come after me if you were keeping him happy! That’s why men leave women like you for women like me. You’re dull. You’re uptight. You’re so worried about keeping Mommy and Daddy happy that you can’t keep your man happy. You’re useless in bed. And then you’re surprised when he goes looking for something else.” Her eyes narrowed and she smiled nastily. “He told me you’re so frigid, you would just lay there like roadkill.”
Okay, that did sting a little bit.
Even with grinding teeth and my fingernails biting little half moons into my palms, I managed to smirk at her. “So how many times have you had to fake it for him?”
“That’s none of your -” she hissed before she caught herself. “You’re never getting Mike back. Do you hear me?”
“I don’t want him back!”
“I don’t believe you!” she yelled.
“I don’t care what you believe. That’s the crazy thing about having your life derailed. It means you have nothing left to lose. I’m not even that angry with you anymore, Beebee. If you’re happy with my hand-me-downs, more power to you. If anything, I owe you a big fat thank-you for showing me what kind of man my husband really was. I’m not going to thank you, because, again, I think you have no redeeming value as a person, but the temptation is there.”
“I love him,” Beebee said simply, in a voice that made her sound so much younger. “I know that probably doesn’t matter to you, but I do. And I don’t want to lose him.”
I stared at her. This was a different Beebee than the unnaturally colored, husband-stealing she-beast I’d come to picture in my head. Her face was clean. Her hair was damp and slick against her skull. There were actually tears shimmering in her eyes. She looked… bare, somehow, vulnerable. And scared.
Of all the emotions bubbling through my chest at the moment, the one that caught me by surprise was pity
