The Good Life

Chapter TWO



I felt humiliated, unwanted and ugly, and I just wanted him out of the bathroom so I could wipe in privacy. As if reading my mind, he turned the faucet off (leaving little chin hairs all over the sink that I would have to clean up later) and said he was going to start breakfast, and I should join him on the terrace when I was finished.

Once he was gone, I stood up and looked in the mirror. I felt like someone slapped me across the face, and I kind of looked like it, too. My face was blood red with a mixture of embarrassment and anger. I could honestly say I had never felt more betrayed in all of my life and that was saying a lot.

The first thing I needed to do was make myself look better. Maybe if I looked better I would feel better. They say that looking good is a girl’s best defense, right? I didn’t know if that was true, but I knew I could not go out there and face the man who didn’t want me anymore while I was sporting bed-head, circles under my eyes and sagging boobs under my sleep cami. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t ridiculous enough to think that brushing my hair could save my marriage; but some time during the last ten minutes he had gone from being my occasionally loving husband to a total bastard, and I couldn’t let a bastard see me in such disarray. Even if he did just watch me pee.

Working quickly, I sprayed some sea salt texturizing spray into my hair to create waves and applied mascara and lip-gloss. I put on sexy panties and a push-up bra under my pajamas and followed the scent of bacon out to the kitchen.

We have breakfast on the terrace nearly every morning as long as the weather allows. Usually something simple like bagels and lox because Caleb has to get to work. On Sundays, though, we go all out. I make the eggs. I can make eggs about three dozen different ways thanks to the Food Network. Caleb is always in charge of the bacon. I don’t know what he does to make it taste so good, but his bacon is so tasty I can devour a whole plate even while watching Charlotte’s Web (sorry Wilbur).

Mornings on the terrace were always my favorite part of the day. We’d drink our coffee and read the papers. We were the rare couple who still read real papers – you know, the kind that gets ink on your fingers – instead of those on electronic gadgets. Caleb would sit with the Wall Street Journal and me with the New York Times crossword puzzle I struggled with every morning (I even finished it a few times!). We’d sit together in a comfortable and amiable silence before he’d kiss me goodbye and head off to work. I always thought couples who could sit quietly together were the good ones. Apparently I’d been mistaken.

It was a Thursday, but Caleb was making bacon anyway, which made the whole morning even more unsettling. Despite feeling sick to my stomach, I reached for a frying pan to start my eggs. He gently swatted my arm away.

“I’ll take care of breakfast. You sit down,” he said. “Your coffee is already outside.”

I stepped out onto the terrace where my coffee sat on the bistro table. We bought the loft about four years ago and the view from the terrace still took my breath away on a daily basis. It was a beautiful morning in the beginning of June and the sun was shining, making the surface of the East River look like a bed of Swarovski crystals. I could hear the traffic on the street below. One thing I’d always loved about Manhattan was that I was never alone. The ambient sound of the city always surrounded me – taxi cabs honking their horns, police sirens wailing, car alarms blaring – all a 24-hour reminder that I was not alone.

I sat down at the bistro and took a sip of my coffee. Yum – crème brulee creamer. There are few things in life better than coffee with a great view. Coffee with a great view and a cigarette was one of those things. I quit smoking last year to get my body healthy for a baby. In typical Roxie fashion, I made a huge deal of it by throwing a Quitters Party. I hung up posters of Richard Nixon, loaded up the CD player with Paula Abdul and Jay-Z, and had my guests beat the crap out of a piñata that looked like Sarah Palin. The bigger the spectacle, the more likely I was to stick with it because you can’t have a Quitters Party and not quit, right? But I could really have used a cigarette then. I was thinking about calling the concierge desk to see if they could send one up when Caleb walked out with a tray of bacon, eggs and toast. He set a plate in front of me but I didn’t make any rush to touch it. Am I really supposed to eat right now?

Caleb sat down across from me and cleared his throat. “I know this must come as a surprise to you,” he said gingerly.

I realized then that I hadn’t spoken yet since I’d woken up. It was probably better if I remained silent. That was probably true in most situations. Less words = less to use against me later. But there was one thing I had to know.

“How long have you been wanting this?” I asked in my sweetest, softest voice, hoping it would make him feel guilty. You know, the whole kill-him-with-kindness trick.

“That’s something I hope you can understand,” he said. “I don’t want this at all. What I want is for you to love me and for me to love you and for us to have a family and live happily ever after. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. He sounded like a prince from a Disney cartoon. FYI-Disney movies weren’t the kind I liked to emulate; too many damsels in distress and dying parents.

“I know you must love me on some level,” he continued. “And I have love for you, too. I’m just not in love with you. There’s no magic here. We’re more like roommates than husband and wife.”

I was confused by this statement for two reasons. First of all, what’s wrong with roommates? Roommates are fine, especially when you can have sex with them and they make good bacon. Second of all, who is to say that roommates and a husband and wife of seven years aren’t one and the same? Did he actually go around asking married couples if there was still “magic” in their relationships? And which married couples would he ask? Surely not his coworkers and their a*shole wives!

“If you want magic we can go see The Quantum Eye,” I said, about the off-Broadway show. I was only joking to lighten up the mood a little. Divorce was way too serious of a topic for me.

He stood up, dusted toast crumbs from his shirt and set his napkin on the table. I knew he was angry even though he seemed calm and cool as ever. Caleb owned the ability to change his personality and demeanor according to his environment, like a chameleon of sorts. He was always very mild-mannered and polite when he was around me. But I’d seen him at work a few times, and he was completely different there. He was loud, fast and hungry. He treated his work like it was the last drumstick on the last turkey in the world and he was determined to sink his teeth into the meat before anyone else got to it no matter how much juice was left dripping down his chin. The transformation was quite scary, to be honest. If I was the overly paranoid type, I might wonder if the guy was a total sociopath and moonlighted as a serial killer. But I’m just an average paranoid type, and I knew his hunger for success was the reason I lived such a charmed life, so I didn’t question it.

“I guess you’re going to make a joke of this like you do everything else,” he said, as he tightened his tie.

I silently hoped he would strangle himself with it.

“I’ve got to head to the office,” he said. “We’ll finish this conversation via email.”

And with that he walked back into the condo. A few seconds later I heard the door close.

I sighed and took another sip of my coffee. This. Changes. Everything.

I have always been prone to anxiety, but once I heard Caleb leave I was pretty sure I experienced a real panic attack. At first, I stayed on the terrace and waited for the punch line. Because this had to be a joke, right? Maybe someone at the firm dared him to play a trick on me. Maybe they were holding a Punk’d contest for a bonus check. Or maybe Caleb woke up today and felt like mixing things up a bit for a laugh. I tried to think of any possibility other than the truth. But deep down I knew it was real. Because, let’s face it, Caleb doesn’t joke around.

I slowly walked back into the condo and hoped he would pop out from behind a door and say, “Ha ha, got ya!” But it was quiet, super quiet. He really was gone. He really was ending this, us.

I stared at the door he had just closed, knowing that with it, he had closed the door on the last eight years of my life. He didn’t even give me a say in it. My perfect little world was broken without my permission. The future I had been planning was never going to happen. All of that time, all of the planning, wasted! Decisions had been made outside of my control-freak hands, and I couldn’t handle it!

I couldn’t breathe. I felt dizzy. I felt sick. I dropped to my knees in front of the door, covered my head with my arms, tornado-style, and tried to talk my heart into beating a little slower. I squeezed my eyes shut, took slow, deep breaths and waited for it to be over.

When I finally got myself under control I didn’t know what I should do next. Should I call the concierge for a cigarette and a Xanax and keep refreshing my email until I received further instructions? I decided to call for reinforcement before turning myself into a stereotype.

“What the eff?” That was Allison, my best friend since second grade, talking. She cut out swearing after she had her first kid in high school. She never cut out unprotected sex, though, and that’s how she ended up with two more before we could legally buy beer. Her kids were now practically old enough to babysit the kids that I would probably never have.

She probably wasn’t the best person to call. She married her high-school sweetheart, had three well-behaved kids that preferred to eat yogurt and apples instead of chips and cookies, and actually had a picket fence separating her yard from her neighbor’s. They started young, but they turned themselves into a near perfect little family and I doubted she could sympathize with me now.

“So he’s seeing someone else,” she said.

“He said he’s just not in love with me,” I said, defensively.

She snorted. “Of course he’s not going to admit it. You probably get more in the divorce if he’s cheating.”

“I think New York is a no-fault state.”

“You can’t just think these things. You need to know them.” She started giving me a list of tasks as matter-of-factly as if she were a divorce attorney herself. “You need a lawyer. ASAP. You need to know the laws and your rights. You might even think about getting a judge to freeze your assets before he starts hiding money, if he hasn’t done so already. You need to make a list of all property acquired during your marriage, not just your condo but also things like jewelry, artwork, timeshares, 401ks, stocks and bonds -”

“You know we don’t have a timeshare,” I interrupted. “Where are you getting this from?”

“The internet!” she said. “The same place you can get it from. You need to be proactive about this. You need to act like your old self again. You can’t just sit there and let it happen to you. It’s time for you step up and take charge, or his lawyer will eat you up and spit you out!”

She must watch a lot of court shows on TV.

I let out a huge, dramatic sigh. The more this was sinking in, the worse I felt about it. And what did she mean about me acting like my old self again? Since when was there an old self and a new self?

Allison must have sensed my need for comfort because her voice was more soothing when she spoke again. “Honey, I’m sorry. I know you called for a friend and not a lecture. Everything is going to work out eventually. It might take awhile, but it will be okay. You just need to CYA, if you know what I mean.”

“Thanks, Al,” I said. “I’ll start looking at lawyers now. I’ll talk to you later.”

I got out a pen and notebook and wrote down a list of things I needed to do.



Google divorce lawyers.

Google NY divorce laws.

Choose a lawyer and schedule a meeting.

Write down everything we own?

Figure out where I’m going to live (since I can’t afford this place on my own).

Figure out how I’m going to start affording things on my own (ie: get a job)!



Oh gosh. It was all way too much to think about. I picked up my phone again. But I didn’t call lawyers. I called Hope. Hope was my New York best friend. We met about seven years ago when we both worked as cocktail waitresses in the same martini bar downtown. The name Hope seemed so gentle and passive, but she was actually a hardcore chick. Allison tried to think reasonably and logically, and I knew I could count on Hope to do the opposite.

“That mother f*cker!” she yelled. Hope does not have kids. “Where is this coming from? He must be f*cking someone else.”

Whoa, déjà vu. Does there always have to be someone else? “He said he’s not in love with me, and there’s no magic.”

“That’s a bunch of bullshit!” she was still yelling. “If he wants magic, I’ll be happy to pull a rabbit out of a hat and shove it right up his tight ass! He’d probably love it!”

That is why we were such good friends. She said the things out loud that I kept in my head.

“I hope he knows you’ll get half of everything,” she continued. “You were the one serving drinks to support his ass when he was broke and jobless and living off a dream!”

“Really?” I kind of thought I’d be thrown out on my butt with maybe a few hundred a month in alimony.

“Oh yeah! You don’t need to worry about a thing, girl,” she said. “except which beach you want to have dinner on tonight.”

“What beach?”

“It’s a beautiful day and I’ve got the night off. Let’s get the hell out, girl. Sounds like you need it.”

I gasped when I realized what she meant. “Hamptons?” I asked, hopefully.

“ROAD TRIP!” she screamed. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

I hung up the phone and squealed like an eleven-year-old girl reading a copy of Teen Beat magazine. See what I meant about Hope?

If we were going to the Hamptons, I needed to shower. I practically skipped to the bathroom. While I was in there I did something I hadn’t done in nearly a week. I shaved my legs. I was going to have to start acting like a single girl again, one who kept an extensive daily maintenance regime. I needed to start plucking, waxing and exfoliating like it was my job. I needed to make sure my bras and panties were sexy and matching at all times because single girls never knew when they were going to be taking off their clothes. I couldn’t ever leave the house without make-up, smooth, shiny hair and a pair of high heels. There would be no more yoga pants and ponytails! Speaking of shoes, I should probably buy myself a new pair of heels to commemorate the occasion.

I’d have to let Hope know we were stopping for shoes before we left the city. I needed some retail therapy, and it might be the last time I could afford the good stuff. Once I was poor and divorced I’d probably have to do my shopping on Canal Street. Even worse, I’d be buying shoes and handbags two aisles away from the produce section. I tried to shake the terror from my head as I pulled back the shower curtain and threw on my cashmere kimono-style robe. It had been a Christmas gift from Caleb last year. Maybe a robe for Christmas should be a clue that your husband doesn’t want you anymore. He went to a lingerie store filled with bustiers and garter belts, and he bought a robe! At the time I thought it was a great gift. Now I had to wonder if I’d missed a huge neon warning sign.

Hope was waiting for me when I got out of the shower. She has a key to the condo in case of emergency. I have a tendency to lose, I mean, misplace things.

She was standing in my living room pointing at the notebook I had left on the coffee table.

“What is that?” she asked. Her face was scrunched up with disgust. You’d think there was a used condom on the table.

“Just a list I was working on.”

“I can’t believe you’re writing in a notebook. With a pen even.” She picked up the notebook and gave it a good examination like she’d never seen one before. “I almost feel like I’m in a history museum.”

She was always getting on me about being “technologically challenged.” She can’t believe that I don’t have an iPhone or an iPad or an iWhatthef*ckever. I do have a Blackberry, isn’t that good enough? Writing things down with a pen is a lot faster and more therapeutic than trying to type something on a tiny touch-screen keyboard.

I snatched the notebook out of her hand and walked away, towards my bedroom. She followed me.

“I get to pick out your clothes!” she said and headed for the closet. Ordinarily I would never let her pick out an outfit for me. Hope, with her pink and purple highlights in her blonde hair, has a very unique and eclectic style that seems to work great for her, but I didn’t think I could pull it off. I won’t even wear black with navy, while Hope can wear orange plaid with blue stripes and make it look good.

In most areas of my life I was a rule breaker. But when it came to fashion, I took those taboos seriously. I did not want to be one of those people pictured in the Don’t section of the fashion magazines with a black line across my eyes. But being in my room and looking at the bed, I suddenly didn’t care about clothes anymore. I felt like I was caught in a tailspin of dread.

I grimaced and told her I was going to blow dry my hair. I needed to get out of that bedroom because I was starting to feel like my chest was caving in. To think I slept in that bed with my husband only hours before and had no idea he didn’t love me anymore; it didn’t make me feel so hot. I tried to be strong about all of it and not fall onto the floor in a big heap of patheticism (hey, it’s in the Urban Dictionary – look it up if you don’t believe me). But I couldn’t face the room. Not yet. So if Hope wanted to dress me up like a homeless vagabond, I’d let her – as long as I didn’t have to go back in that room.

Hope appeared at the bathroom door just as I was finishing with my hair and handed me a black and white polka-dot bikini and a yellow bandeau sundress. I would never wear a halter under a bandeau top. It’s a conflict of interest at best and a tan line disaster at worst! But I could probably put up with that minor discrepancy if she had picked a bikini that actually fit me.

“I haven’t worn this bikini in years,” I told her. “There’s no way it’ll fit.”

She put her hands on her hips. “Why is it still in your drawer then, hoarder?”

Sometimes I had a hard time getting rid of things, especially clothes. I seemed to develop a sentimental attachment. The bikini in question was special to me because I bought it for my college senior year Spring Break trip to Cocoa Beach. That was the last trip I’d taken without Caleb and the bikini represented freedom, fun, youth and pina coladas. I bet the fact that I saved this particular bikini for all these years, but couldn’t even tell you what swimsuits I wore during our honeymoon in Cabo would prove quite interesting to a psychotherapist.

I smelled the bikini top to see if I could catch a whiff of suntan lotion. Nope. It was long gone, along with those perky boobs, my tongue ring and my delusional optimism.

I shrugged sheepishly. “Sometimes I like to pull it out and reminisce about being young and skinny.” I handed it back to her.

“It’s stretchy.” She pushed the bikini back into my hands. “Put it on.” It was an order, not a suggestion.

Ten minutes later I was prancing around in front of the full-length mirror in the bathroom. It fit! There was some extra softness around my hips and a mini-muffin top above the bikini bottom, but it fit. What a boost to my self-esteem!

“How’s it going in there?” Hope asked from the other side of the door.

“Great!” I yelled back. “I’m Rebecca Dunbar-ing!”

Rebecca Dunbar was the wife of one of Caleb’s coworkers. She had been a cheerleader for an NFL team back in the nineties and couldn’t seem to let go of it. She had a gigantic picture in her living room of herself in her cheerleading uniform from back then and she thought it was cute to burst into cheers at company get-togethers. Her husband told Caleb that she wears her uniform around the house and literally cheers him on during foreplay. And rumor has it that she showed up to her son’s first t-ball game in full uniform, pom poms and all, and did a complete routine on the sidelines. Basically she is the joke of the entire firm. I’ve told Hope all about her; about how I actually feel sorry for her. She’s got a good husband, two cute kids and a home in Greenwich, Connecticut, but she’s so desperate to hold on to her past that she’s clinging to her cheerleading uniform as if it’s the only life jacket left on a sinking ship.

I guess you could say the polka-dot bikini was my new lifejacket, but that was okay with me. Unlike Rebecca Dunbar, I actually was on a sinking ship, and I was just glad I had something to keep me afloat.