I followed her in my car to her house, a few miles from school. Her home looked like a house in a magazine, though much more elegant and stylish than the houses in the magazine I used to work for. It was a big old Georgian, rather grand, and filled with museum-quality mid-century modern furniture. On the walls were prints and paintings by famous artists.
Over the mantel was a photograph of two twin girls. I won’t say who the artist was because I never drop household names on this blog. I thought it was a strange choice to have at the center of your living room. But E. was proud of it, and it was way more interesting than anything I’d seen in our town. For a house in which a small child lived, the place was extremely neat, almost like a stage set. I was relieved when I saw that her son’s room was just as messy as my son’s room.
E. said that her housecleaner, M., was responsible for keeping things in such good shape. E. said she didn’t know what she’d do without her.
E.’s home-decorating choices would have pleased my late husband. Every knife and fork, every glass, every place mat and napkin had been selected with thought and care. I marvel at people like that. How they know exactly what to buy and how to make their homes so perfect. My husband had made those decisions for us, and I’d been glad to let him. My mom would have had plastic slipcovers over the couches, like her mom had, if my dad and I hadn’t teased her.
The boys went off to play. E. and I opened a bottle of wine, and we began the conversation that has lasted throughout our friendship.
She’d moved here a year ago. Her husband, who is British, works on Wall Street. She and her husband and son used to live on the Upper East Side. But she couldn’t stand the other moms, the playdates, the constant competition over who had more money and fancier clothes and who vacationed in more exclusive ski resorts and Caribbean islands. She and her husband hoped that life would be less stressful for them and healthier for their son in the country. And they were right. I think.
When she asked what my husband did and saw the look on my face, she said—before I had to say a word—“Oh, I’m so sorry!” She could tell that something tragic must have occurred, but she’d moved here too recently to have heard about the accident. So I felt that I was starting fresh and could choose when and where and what I wanted to say about my family’s catastrophe.
It was just before Thanksgiving when I told her. E. and I were watching the kids cut out cardboard turkeys and paste paper feathers on them when I told her my tragic story. She began to cry for my loss—tears of sympathy and grief. She told me she wished she could invite me over for Thanksgiving, but they were using her son’s vacation time to visit her husband’s mother in England.
“That’s okay,” I said. “Miles and I will still be here when you get back.”
And that’s how it’s been ever since. I admire E. for working hard and being a fabulous mother and trying to be a good wife and a good friend—and for doing it all not only with grace but also with glamour. And I know she admires my blog. I haven’t had a friend like this since I was in grade school. Only some people—the lucky ones—have a gift for friendship, and it turns out we both do. We finish each other’s sentences and laugh at the same jokes. We like the same Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movies. I read, or try to read, the detective stories she loves—when they aren’t too scary. My whole life seems brighter. I have more patience with myself and my son when I can look forward to sharing the everyday satisfactions and stresses with another grown-up.
On the surface we must seem very different. E. has a stylish, expensive haircut. I get my hair cut by a lovely young woman in town who used to work in the city, but sometimes I go between haircuts so long that my hair looks as if I cut it myself. E. dresses in designer clothes, even on weekends. Whereas I am more likely to order comfy stuff—long skirts and tunics—online. Yet underneath all that, on a much deeper level, E. and I are very much the same.
Naturally, she reads my blog, and she’s full of praise for my writing. For the bravery and generosity of what I am willing to share about the amazing adventure of motherhood. I tell her things I never even told my husband. It’s such a great feeling: letting go, after you’ve been keeping things bottled up inside for so long. To know that there is someone who will understand and not judge.
Having a friend like E. has restored my faith in our superpowers: the ability we moms have to be there for each other. We can be friends. Real friends.
And so I’d like to dedicate this blog to my best friend, E.
So here’s to you, E.
Love,
Stephanie
11
Stephanie
When I put up the link to my blog post about becoming friends with Emily, I tried not to read it. But I couldn’t help myself. And just as I’d feared, it made me cry.
There was one little thing I remember now that I hadn’t paid attention to back then. I remember Emily saying that the umbrella she gave me—the umbrella with the ducks, which I’ve now put away in a back closet because the reminder of those early days is so painful—was one of a kind. But when I got to her house that afternoon, I noticed, in the front hall, an umbrella stand in which there were a dozen duck umbrellas. It looked almost like an art piece. Of course I didn’t ask her about it at the time—we’d just met. And then I forgot about it. But now it makes me wonder. Was I already misunderstanding her, hearing her wrong? Was she lying about the umbrella? But why would she tell a lie that would be exposed the minute I walked in the door?
Anyway, that was the least of the things that bothered me. Reading the post, I felt horribly guilty. Because I was beginning—just beginning—to have feelings for Emily’s husband.
There is that period of time when you’re pretty sure you’re going to have sex with someone, though you haven’t yet. Everything is clogged with desire. Everything feels like that hot, thick air that weighs so heavily on your skin on the swampiest day of summer. Especially when it’s someone whom, for lots of good reasons, you’re not supposed to have sex with.
Maybe one problem with my marriage was that we never had that sense of anticipation, that gradual buildup of desire. Someday I will tell Miles all the reasons not to have sex on the first date. Like his mom and dad did. Though I won’t go into the specifics.
My first date with Davis wasn’t even a date. It was supposed to be an interview. We met in a coffee shop in Tribeca, near Davis’s studio. His firm was called Davis Cook Ward, which was his name, all three of them. His architecture and design career was going extremely well. He designed houses for rich people and, for fun, beautiful but affordable garden furniture from recycled materials. He’d designed some wooden furniture that was going to be featured in the magazine I worked for. We had coffee, then lunch. Then we went to his loft, where we stayed until the next morning, when I had to go back to my East Village apartment and get changed and go to the office.
My relationship with Davis was comfortable. It was fun. It was easy. But there was never a moment when I felt that I would die if I couldn’t have him. Maybe because I’d already had him. The long, slow, delicious waiting had ended before it began.
Or maybe my problem was that it was safe. Maybe I need that thrill of the forbidden, the taboo, that sense of doing something that I know is wrong.
One evening Sean came to pick up Nicky and stayed for dinner. During dinner, a violent thunderstorm began. I invited Sean to spend the night in the guest room instead of going out in the weather. And he agreed.