“Oh, man, what have I done?” Christy lamented. “I’ve been so busy obsessing about not being important to the world that I forgot how important Michael and I are to each other. I’m such an idiot.”
“You said it; I didn’t,” Ali offered, glancing up to catch Christy’s reaction.
It was Renata’s turn to roll her eyes. “Ali, didn’t your mother teach you that if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all?”
“No,” Ali said. “My mom always says mean things about people. Now shut up or you’ll regret it, loser.”
“Ali, don’t tell Renata to shut up, and don’t call her a loser,” Christy said.
Ali stood up and yelled at Christy. “You’re not the boss of me. I can say whatever I want.”
“No, you can’t,” Christy said in a calm tone. “If you want to stay in my house, you have to be civil.”
“This isn’t your house. It’s my dad’s. And when he gets back, he’s gonna leave you like he left my mom. You’ll see. You’re not good enough for him. Knowing Dad, he’s got a new girlfriend already.”
Christy took a deep breath. She got right in Ali’s face. “Listen,” she said evenly. “I’m here. And I’m here as long as I choose to be. So get used to it. If you get in the way, you’ll be hurting yourself, not me.”
“How dare you…you gold-digging wack job! That was verbal abuse.” She turned to Renata. “Did you see what she did? She threatened me. You’re a witness. I’m calling my mother.” Ali ran out of the room.
“Here, use my cell phone,” Christy said, tossing it after her. She shook her head and resumed packing.
Renata looked at Christy sympathetically. “Don’t worry. You can get Michael back. He still loves you. Just wear something all see-through and fluffy to bed. The same thing happened on The Cosby Show once, and Cliff took Claire back.” Or maybe it was Mr. French who took Mrs. Beasely back, she thought.
Christy looked up and smiled at her new love adviser. “Well, that’s good to know. If Claire can do it, so can I.”
Renata reached into Christy’s suitcase and pulled out the overwashed New Balance T-shirt she had been wearing to bed recently. “This is not what I’m talking about.”
“Oh dear, you’re right. I won’t need that.”
Christy spent the four-hour journey to Aspen obsessing about her life and her marriage to Michael. What happened to her vow to put all her energy into becoming a world-class wife and mother? Was she even capable of that? When did she stop putting Michael first? Why did she think she needed to reinvent herself? How could she have let herself get out of shape? Did she look as fat as she felt? Or did she look average? Was it so bad to be average? If she got back into shape, could she become eye candy again? Was it shallow to care about her looks when her life was falling apart? Had that doctor who spoke at the New Trophy Wife lunch had work done? Should she get work done? If so, what? And so it went, all the way to Aspen.
Christy asked the taxi driver to drop her off in town. She wanted to find that luscious lingerie store she had walked past last time she and Michael were here. Let’s see, which way were we walking, she thought. West, toward the mountains. Yes, there it was: Anabella’s. Christy stopped to admire the lace-and-silk teddies in the window. The store had the loveliest lingerie she’d ever seen, except for Paris of course. She remembered the day she and Michael had gone shopping at Alice Cadolle on rue Saint-Honoré, the most amazing couture lingerie store in the world. Michael couldn’t believe anyone would pay $700 for a bra, until he saw Christy’s breasts showcased in such a magical undergarment. He insisted she take four. Then he bought her a beautiful black see-through teddy and a lace-and-pearl thong. They’d gone right back to the hotel to put it to good use.
Christy walked inside and set her suitcase in the corner. A mother and daughter were examining push-up bras. Looking around, Christy vowed to wear sexy clothes to bed every night. When did I start wearing T-shirts? She tried to remember. She picked out a few French lace chemises to try, a garter belt, some stockings, and a couple of camisoles. The saleswoman showed her to a dressing room.
Whoa! This was some kind of fitting room. The only lighting came from candles. The walls were red, and an elegant Persian carpet covered the floor. There was a daybed that looked like it belonged in a high-priced bordello.
Let’s see, what shall I try first? She went for the transparent lace nightie. After taking everything off, she slipped it over her head. The neckline plunged in a deep V and the fabric left nothing to the imagination. She gave herself a thorough appraisal. This isn’t so bad. I can’t be more than a size eight, maybe ten.
She heard a muffled voice in the next dressing room, and a man responded, followed by bedroom laughter. Wow, they let couples in here? I’ll bring Michael. He would love this. Wait. She knew that laugh. Without so much as a thought, Christy bolted out, walked next door, and barged inside. There was Galit, all six feet of her, facing the full-length mirror in a black G-string and sheer teddy, her sinewy ass inches from where Michael was sitting. He was still dressed, but obviously aroused. His pants spoke for themselves.
Michael sensed Christy before he saw her. He turned around. His mouth opened. His eyes widened. His penis deflated.
“She is your girlfriend,” Christy said. “I was right.”
“No, no, no, she isn’t,” Michael said. “We were shopping for lingerie for you. I
