When he wasn’t yelling at me, Garibaldi loved to complain about his ex-wife. Like him, she’d been a successful lawyer, but she quit when they had their third child, and that, he asserted, was the beginning of the end. She went from being curious and opinionated to insular and dull. She couldn’t carry a conversation that didn’t revolve around something the kids said or did. Now, if he hadn’t been my boss, I would have pointed out that he should have put more thought into who would care for their children before having so many. But part of me, I’m sorry to say, understood where he was coming from. At the time, Oli and I had just started dating, and I loved how well matched we were in every way—the same illustrious academic pedigrees, the same kind of prestigious, demanding jobs. A power couple in training. At his department holiday party that year, when his mentor asked how we were coping with Oli’s grueling call schedule, he grinned with pride and said, Ava’s hours are even worse than mine.
What would Oli think if I were to give up my career to, I don’t know, write cookbooks? Following my husband to the Peninsula was one dangerous step closer to becoming a stay-at-home bore.
Now, looking back, I see all the things I got wrong, all my preconceived notions and mistaken assumptions. Yes, Maria is a stellar nanny, supremely competent and wholly caring, but I was so convinced of my own maternal shortcomings I placed her on a pedestal, certain she alone could ensure my son’s well-being.
And in the same way I’d underestimated myself, I’d underestimated my husband. He wanted me to be a successful, high-powered lawyer because that’s what I’d said I wanted. As you know, I’ve since come clean with him about, well, everything, and while he’ll need time to digest it all, there’s one thing I know for certain: whether or not I remain in law has zero bearing on where we go from here.
But I’ve gotten carried away. Enough about me. We’re here to talk about Winnie.
3
Despite Winnie’s urging, I didn’t call her after that humiliating dinner. Instead, I wallowed in my misery, envisioning ever more dire scenarios. My imagination spun out of control. Far worse, I realized, than Oli embarking on an affair with some fresh-faced nurse was for him to figure out he didn’t miss me at all, that he was perfectly content on his own.
I tried to put on a brave face. I threw myself into Henri’s preschool applications, which were due that week. Over and over I explained why this preschool was a good choice for my child (and you know as well as I that because it’s walking distance from our house wasn’t going to cut it). I expounded upon my parenting philosophies, detailed hopes and dreams for my kid’s early childhood education, unspooled a long list of his outstanding traits. Classical piano music aficionado. Gentle and enthusiastic petter of neighborhood dogs.
Nights I squeezed into Henri’s new big-boy bed because it was the only way to get him to stop crying for his papa—and because, let’s face it, it made me feel better, too. Countless times I composed the same message to Carla and Joanne but never went through with sending it. Even typing the words I think Oli’s leaving me felt perilous, as though I could somehow write it into reality. In short, I was a total and absolute mess.
It was at this, my most vulnerable moment, that Winnie sensed a business opportunity. Until this point, her primary objective had been to secure Oli’s aid for her ailing friend, Boss Mak. (Yes, everyone calls him that.) Now, however, sensing that she could take advantage of my fragile state (and my knowledge of tax law), she expanded her ambitions to recruit me into the fold.
That gray January morning, she called to see how I was holding up.
No, really, how are you? she asked, her voice thick with meaning.
The frayed cord within me snapped. Tears waterfalled from my eyes.
Ava? she said softly. Are you there?
I fought to steady my voice. Yes. A single syllable pinched so tightly, I gave up any hope of fooling her.
Are you okay?
No.
For a while she simply listened as I gulped air, trying to pull myself together.
Then she declared, He’s going to hate living on his own so much, he won’t last a month.
For some reason this made me laugh. I said, He signed a six-month lease.
Whatever. I still don’t think he’ll last more than a couple of weeks. Men are so helpless on their own.
He’s wasting money we don’t have.
The pause that followed told me this surprised her—transplant surgery is one of the highest-paid medical specialties—but we were still paying off grad school loans, the mortgage, Maria.
I added, But what can I say? I don’t make a penny.
This, I believe, is when Winnie saw her opening. She announced she was taking me to lunch. Naturally, I said I didn’t feel up to it, but she insisted nonetheless.
The Rotunda, the restaurant on the top floor of Neiman Marcus, was packed with tourists in designer sneakers, barricaded into their chairs by shopping bags, and ladies of leisure, checking their lipstick in tiny, gilded compacts. Winnie had yet to arrive. I was seated at a small round table next to a white woman who must have been in her eighties. The platinum bob, thick makeup, and nubby Chanel tweed couldn’t mask her wizened form. She sat alone before a plate of crudité and a martini, and all the strapping, bronzed waiters addressed her by name. From the way she flirted with them, I could tell she’d been a beauty once. I watched mesmerized as she cut a small square of celery, dipped it into a ramekin of ranch dressing, and chewed as though it were filet mignon.
Winnie arrived with her peacock-blue Birkin in one hand and a large silver shopping bag in the other—something she had to return, she said.
We nibbled oven-warm popovers while waiting for our chopped salads.
Winnie took a sip of ice water and said, A little independence in a marriage isn’t necessarily a bad thing.
I fiddled with the heavy silverware. It is when the independence only applies to one of you.
She lowered her voice. Do you have your own bank account?
My fingers jerked involuntarily, clanging my knife against my bread plate. What? We’re nowhere near that point.
Right, she said quickly. Of course not.
Our salads arrived, and I changed the subject. What are you returning?
Oh, this. She glanced down at her shopping bag. A Celine purse I really don’t need.
I gave a low whistle and admitted that I’d never understood the appeal of such expensive handbags.
They’re a waste of money, she cheerfully agreed. Ever since the global conglomerates bought up the heritage designer brands, prices rise and quality plummets.
So why do people keep paying?
The same reason your parents shelled out for Stanford when you could have gone to a state school.
I begged to differ. My undergraduate education had led me to a top law school and then to a top firm.
She kindly refrained from pointing out how long it had been since I’d practiced law. She said, The point is they’re status symbols. A Harvard degree is not so different from a designer handbag. They both signal that you’re part of the club, they open doors.
So what you’re saying is we’re all getting fleeced.
She shrugged. Some people really like clubs. She held up the shopping bag. But me? I’m returning this and taking a stand.
I shaped my hands into a bullhorn and aimed it around the airy dining room, saying, Attention, attention, shoppers of Neiman Marcus, you’ve all been duped, as Winnie teasingly rolled her eyes.
When the check came, she snatched it up.
Too loudly I said, Don’t be ridiculous. I can afford a damn salad.
The old woman at the neighboring table peered at us over the rim of her martini glass.
Winnie asked gamely, Are you enjoying your lunch?
Oh, yes, the woman said. I’ve come here every Tuesday for the last fifteen years. She tried to smile but her chemically paralyzed facial muscles could only form a grimace. To Winnie she said, I’ve seen you here before. You must be a regular, too.
No, Winnie said, I don’t live in San Francisco.
Oh, then I’ve mixed you up with someone else. There are so many Orientals around here, and they all spend, spend, spend. She looked pointedly at Winnie’s Birkin.
I shrank into the banquette, horrified, but Winnie remained composed. She downed the last of her espresso and said, There are over a billion of us. We are everywhere. Have a nice day.
Tracing our way out of the restaurant, I shook my head at Winnie, still dumbstruck.
She said, Old people are racist. My parents say stuff like that all the time and they’re much younger than her.
Her magnanimity made me seethe. Suddenly it was of paramount importance that Winnie take my side.