Wife 22

6:01 P.M.: Answering her cellphone (something she will later regret)

“Yes, of course I want to go to a movie about a beautiful French woman who owns a banana plantation in the Congo who is eventually macheted to death by the men she used to employ,” says Alice Buckle, a forty-four-year- old mother and wife who unfortunately still doesn’t have a bikini body even though she’s lost eight pounds recently (the truth is, 130 pounds at forty-four looks very different from 130 pounds at twenty- four). “I’m looking forward to having a man with extremely long legs knee my chair for the entire show,” says Alice.

6:45 P.M.: AlBu spotted hyperventilating

It-girl Alice Buckle circles around and around the mall parking lot looking for a spot, muttering “get the hell out of my way, cow,” to all the people who are also circling around the mall parking lot looking for a spot. “What the hell, I’ll just park illegally,” cries Alice. “It could be worse,” she laughs gaily, as she runs to the theater. “This could be opening night for Toy Story 8.”

6:55 P.M: AlBu in enormous line at ticket counter

“It’s opening night for Toy Story 8,” reports Alice Buckle.

7:20 P.M.: It-Girl Alice Buckle crawling over a bunch of old people in her not-ready-for-bikini body to get to the seat her best friend, Nedra, saved for her

“You just missed the best part-where the son was conscripted into the Hutu army,” says Nedra.

7:25 P.M.: AlBu fast asleep

9:32 P.M.: AlBu spotted pulling into neighbor’s driveway mistaking it for her own

AlBu’s night vision is impaired. Her mood darkens, worrying about early-onset macular degeneration. Mood improves after listening to “Dance with Me” by Orleans in the car. “This reminds me so much of high school,” she cries, then she really begins to cry. “It’s so unfair. How come French women look so good without makeup? Maybe if every woman in America stopped wearing makeup we’d all look good, too. After a few months, that is.”

10:51 P.M.: AlBu goes to bed without washing off her makeup

“It was a magical night, but I won’t lie. Being an it-girl is exhausting,” admits Alice as she crawls into bed. “Roll over, darling, you’re snoring,” she says, tapping her husband on the shoulder, who promptly licks her on the face. “Jampo!” Alice cries, gathering up her tiny dog in her arms. “I thought you were William!” It’s hard to be angry at the dog for kicking her husband out of bed when he’s so cute and spirited to boot. The two snuggle up together and in a few hours, Alice wakes to find the nice present Jampo has left on her husband’s pillow.

“Excuse me, but are you planning on buying that magazine?” interrupts a young saleswoman.

“Oh-sorry.” I close the Vogue, smoothing out the cover. “Why, do you want to look at it?”

She points to a handwritten sign. “You’re not allowed to read the magazines. We try and keep them pristine for people who are actually buying them.”

“Really? Then how are you supposed to know if you want to buy them?”

“Look on the cover. The cover tells you everything that’s inside.” She gives me a dirty look.

I put the magazine back on the rack. “This is exactly why magazines are dying,” I say.

That night, while the kids are cleaning up after dinner, I announce to William that something about cookies is wrong with my computer and will he please come help me. This is a lie. I’m perfectly capable of getting rid of my own cookies.

“Peter can help you,” he says.

“It’s easy, Mom. All you do is go to preferences and-”

“I’ve already tried that,” I interrupt. “It’s more complicated. William, I need you to take a look.”

I follow him into my office and shut the door.

“It’s no big deal,” he says, walking to my desk. “You click on the apple, then go-”

I unbutton my jeans and slip them off.

“To preferences,” he finishes.

“William,” I say, stepping out of my panties.

He turns around and stares at me and says nothing.

“Ta-da.”

He has a strange look on his face. I can’t tell if he’s appalled or turned on.

“I did this for you,” I say.

“You did not,” he says.

“Who else would I do it for?”

What was I thinking? This is completely backfiring. Isn’t sudden bikini-line grooming one of the sure signs that your spouse is cheating on you? I’m not cheating, but I am flirting with a man who is not my husband who has just admitted I bring him pleasure, which has brought me pleasure, which has resulted in a sudden surge in my libido, which has led to the first bikini wax of my life. Does that count? Is it possible he knows?

William makes a strange sound in the back of his throat. “You did it for you. Admit it.”

I begin to shake. The tiniest little bit.

“Come here, Alice.”

I hesitate.

“Now,” he whispers.

We proceed to have the hottest sex we’ve had in months.

55

58. Planet of the Apes.

59. Not much. Well, hardly ever. I don’t really see the point. We have to live with each other, so what’s the use and honestly, who’s got the energy? We used to, in the early years. Our biggest argument happened before we were even married, and it was over me wanting to invite Helen to the wedding. I told him it would be a nice conciliatory gesture-she probably wouldn’t come, but inviting her was the right thing to do, especially since we were inviting almost all of our colleagues from Peavey Patterson. When he told me he had no intention of inviting a woman who called me a whore (and who seemed to hate him vehemently) to his wedding, I reminded him that technically I was the other woman when she called me that name, and could we blame her for hating us? Wasn’t it time to forgive and forget? After I said that, he told me I could afford to be generous because I’d won. Well, that so infuriated me that I took off my engagement ring and threw it out the window.

Now, this wasn’t a ring from Zales, this was my mother’s engagement ring that had been in her family for years, brought over by her mother from Ireland. It wasn’t worth much-it was one small diamond flanked by two tiny emeralds. What was priceless about the ring was its history and the fact that my father had given it to William to give to me. There was an engraving inside the band. Something terribly sweet, probably bordering on saccharine, that I can’t recall. All I can remember is the word “heart.”

The problem was we were in the car when I threw the ring out of the window. We had just left my father’s house and were driving past the park in Brockton when William made the comment about me having won. I just wanted to scare him. I hurled the ring out the window into the park and we proceeded to speed by, both of us in shock. We drove back and tried to pinpoint the spot where I had thrown it, but even though we searched through the grass methodically we couldn’t find it. I was devastated. Each of us secretly blamed the other. He blamed me, of course, for throwing the ring. I blamed him for being so coldhearted. The loss of the ring deeply unsettled both of us. Losing, or in my case, throwing away, something so priceless before we had even started our lives together-was this a bad omen?

I couldn’t bear to tell my father the truth, so we lied and told him our apartment was robbed and the ring stolen. We even planned what to say if he asked why I hadn’t been wearing it at the time. I took it off because I was giving myself a facial and didn’t want to get the green gunk caught in the delicate filigree setting, which I would then have to root out with a toothpick or a dental probe. I have since learned that when lying, it’s best not to offer up any details. It’s the details that do you in.