The Sinful Lives of Trophy Wives Page 2

  As the agent pushes open two oversized doors simultaneously and stands back with a smile, the room washes in light. The bedroom is enormous, with a cathedral-like ceiling, a chandelier in the center, thick crown molding, and a window with a sprawling view of the Pacific Ocean and Golden Gate Bridge.

  “Before we go any further, I need to hear about these rules,” Jack presses. He’s standing in the center of the room with his arms folded over his chest. “What are they and who makes them?”

  The agent turns, her blond hair falling over her shoulder. “It’s about the front of the home, mainly. Grass can’t be longer than two inches. Garage doors cannot be left open for longer than five minutes at a time. Cars must be parked in the garage overnight—not in the street or the driveway. No music over seventy decibels. Things like that.”

  Nodding, Jack seems to chew over her words. “Those aren’t too cumbersome. Who makes them?”

  “The Presidio Terrace Homeowners Association. It’s run by a few of the wives in the community.” She checks her phone. “Erin King, who lives across the street, is the president. Georgia St. Claire—I’m sure you’ve heard of her from the news—lives next door, to your right, though you can’t see her home from here. She’s the secretary.”

  “Why would we have heard of Georgia St. Claire?” he asks. Then he repeats the name, thoughtfully. “St. Claire. Is she married to the governor?”

  “No, no, nothing like that.” The agent lowers her voice as if telling a delicious secret. “She’s the Black Widow.” When Jack stares blankly, she prattles on. “Oh, it’s just a nickname the press has given her. She’s had two husbands pass away in the last ten years, and some say she’s killed them. She’s already lined up her next future dead husband too. Got engaged this summer. Robert Donnelly is still alive for the time being, but there are bets as to how long that’ll last.”

  Talk about morbid gossip. I’m all ears.

  “I don’t know that I want my wife associating with a husband-killer.” The corners of Jack’s mouth kink up in an attempt at a smile. “What if that kind of behavior rubs off?”

  “Mr. Davies, I’m sure that’s not the way it works and—”

  “That was a joke,” he says flatly. “Brooke wouldn’t dare associate with someone nicknamed the Black Widow.”

  But I don’t even know her. How could I say who I would or wouldn’t hang out with? Surely I’ll make up my own mind. And it’s not like Jack will be around to police me.

  “There’s more of the house to show you: the gym, the upstairs office, a handful of other bedrooms. If you’ll follow me?” The agent glances at me out of the corner of her eye, and then continues the tour. “I wouldn’t let Ms. St. Claire’s presence sway your decision to purchase the home, Mr. Davies. I can assure you there are plenty of reputable women on the street for your wife to associate with.”

  I was wondering how long it would take for them to leave me out of the conversation completely. It’s as if I’ve become invisible, a ghost walking the halls. I must have a talent for disappearing in plain sight. I’m impressed with the agent, actually. Within my husband’s inner circle it usually takes only a few minutes to start ignoring me, and she’s nearly finished giving the tour. Points for making an attempt.

  After she’s shown us everything the magnificent home has to offer, Jack moves the conversation to other couples on the street. He covers the husbands’ occupations and the length of time each couple has lived in the community. Listening intently, though pretending not to care, I stand in the backyard near the pool, relishing the warm California sunshine on my cheeks.

  “All right, Brooke,” Jack says with a tone of finality. “Sounds like you could make some friends in the neighborhood.” He’s at my side again, though this time he doesn’t touch me. Clearly he’s interested in the home and ready to negotiate. His demeanor has completely changed. It’s all business now. “You’ll be happy here. You can get involved in the board too, if you’d like.”

  Realistically, we’ll be here only a year tops before we move on to the next best house in another enticing neighborhood. Moving is in my nature, and the thought of putting permanent roots down in a place like this has the blood freezing in my veins.

  I smile brightly, playing the part of a billionaire’s wife, and nod enthusiastically. He nods decisively in return.

  “It’s done,” he tells the agent. “I just have a few other questions for you, about the security system. Brooke, I’ll meet you at the car.”

  As he takes her by the elbow and leads her back into the house to talk business, I take in my new backyard. Flowering bushes and walkways leading to hidden places and fountains and birdbaths. It’s going to be peaceful here. I can feel it. Following a tiny shaded path on the left side of the house, I tiptoe from one stone to another, beside towering ferns that take my breath away. The path leads me out front, near Jack’s and the agent’s cars. A few houses down, a blond woman scoots along her driveway on her hands and knees. She’s holding something and from here, it appears as if she’s edging her lawn with scissors. Odd, I think. What’s she going to do next? Measure the blades with a ruler?

  I’m waiting for her to do just that when a woman directly across the street yells, “Good morning!”

  She takes a break from unloading groceries from the trunk of her Tesla to enthusiastically whip her arm back and forth over her head. I can’t remember what the real estate agent had said her name was, but I like her immediately. “Are you looking or buying?”

  “Buying,” I holler back, and then check over my shoulder for signs of Jack. He’s nowhere to be seen. “My husband’s inside finishing up the details.”

  “Oh, how exciting!” The woman strides confidently across the street without a single teeter on her heels. Her platinum-blond hair, a stark contrast against her black pencil skirt and matching jacket, blows in the breeze behind her as she approaches and extends her hand. “Allow me to introduce myself properly, then. I’m Erin King, president of the Presidio Terrace Homeowners Association.”

  “My name is Brooke,” I say, shaking her hand. “Brooke Davies.”

  “Let me just say, right off the bat…your husband is a genius.”

  I squint, perplexed. “You know Jack?”

  “Not personally, but I doubt there’s a single person in Silicon Valley who doesn’t know of him. Besides, not many can afford this neighborhood, and people of his magnitude love the privacy it offers. I recognize you from the news,” Erin says. “They like to bring up your husband’s nasty divorce and his hasty marriage to—well, to you. Kids?”

  “No, not even on the radar.” I try not to sound upset by her probing into our personal life. “You?”

  “God, no.” She makes a scrunched face as if she’s tasted something gross. “Mason hates kids. Loathes them. That’s why we moved here. No children on the street.”

  “Is that because people aren’t allowed, or—”

  She laughs sweetly. “Oh, that’s not part of the community’s bylaws or anything. Can you imagine? Limits to procreation.” She laughs harder now, and I wonder if she’s on a mood-lifter. “Most people who can afford these homes are older, so their kids are already grown and out of the house. Except for me, of course. I’m thirty-five. I would assume you’re in your early twenties, but I won’t dare ask. Have you met her yet?”

  “Who?”

  “Georgia.”

  “No, you’re the first one I’ve met on the street.”

  “Oh, you have to meet her.” She clasps her hands over her chest. “You’re going to die when you realize how sweet she is. Not like the media makes her out to be. Everyone thinks she killed her husbands, and I mean everyone. Have you heard anything about her?”

  I shake my head. “Not much.”

  “I’m sure the agent told you some things.” She moves closer, invading my personal space. I resist the urge
to back up. “Georgia’s been married twice. Her first husband died shortly after they were married. She pretended to be devastated, but we all know the truth about how she really felt. Took her only a year to find husband number two. Seems like it’s easier to find a second spouse than the first. Well of course your husband would know all about that. You don’t mind my talking candidly, do you?”

  “No, not at all.” I fold my arms over my chest guardedly, though I can’t help but smile. I love her fast chatter and the ease of our discussion. I don’t feel like I could say anything wrong to Erin. She’d simply eat up any mistakes in the conversation and bury them with beautiful new words. “It’s no secret that my husband had a bit of…overlap in his relationships.”

  “Overlap.” She nods, grinning ear to diamond-dangling ear. “I like that. Anyway, the second time, Georgia married for money, just like the first. She was miserable from the start. I didn’t think she’d marry again. I mean, she certainly doesn’t need the money at this point. But then she found Robert—the guy she lives with now—and she simply adores him. They’re getting married next week.”

  “Really?” I look up into Georgia’s windows for signs of life. Not a curtain breathes against the glass. “That’s great. Once I’m settled, I should send her a congratulatory bottle of champagne.”

  “Oh, she’s going to love having you live next door. Just a heads-up: they’re getting married on Saturday, so things are going to be crazy around here the next few days. I’ve never seen Georgia this happy. Even through all the wedding-planning madness she’s got a smile cemented on her face. Robert’s really into his yacht, but he treats her like a queen, as I’m sure your husband treats you.”

  Sure. Like a queen. Locked in a palace.

  “What about your husband?” I need to turn the tables before tears gather in my eyes. “What does he do?”

  “Mason’s a plastic surgeon. He’s responsible for these,” she says, pointing to her full lips, “and these,” she adds, tapping her cheeks, “and getting rid of all of these lines.” She traces an imaginary line from one side of her forehead to the other. “I don’t like to boast, but my husband is brilliant.”

  Judging from the perfect roundness of her breasts, I’d wager he took care of those as well, though I don’t ask. I had mine done last year, and the doctor went a little fuller than I’d originally wanted, but Jack is happy, which means I am too.

  “Well you look amazing,” I offer. “Good enough for the movies.”

  “That’s what I do. Not movies, but television.” She drags her hair over her shoulders and squares up to me. “Erin King, KFLAG evening news. That’s how I recognized your face. I did a special on you during last year’s Tech World Conference. Your husband gave the keynote.”

  “You’re a news broadcaster? That’s amazing. I could never talk in front of bright lights and a camera. I prefer the shadows.”

  She tilts her chin to catch the sunlight. “It’s taxing at first, having to be perfect all the time, hitting all the right angles and saying all the right things, but I find, with practice, it simply becomes a part of who you are.”

  “I understand completely.” Behind me, the front door closes. “It was great meeting you, Erin. Since we’re going to be neighbors soon, I look forward to continuing our conversation another time.”

  She’s across the street before Jack rounds the corner, and for that I let out a huge sigh of relief.

  “What do you think?” he says once we’re inside the safety of his car. “Do you love it? Is there anything about that homeowners association that strikes you as strange?”

  I think about the rumored husband-killer, the bubbly gossip Erin, and the woman cutting her lawn with scissors.

  Tilting my chin to catch the light, the way Erin had moments before, I say in my sweetest voice: “I love it, darling. I wouldn’t change a thing.”

  As he backs out of the driveway and we pass the home next door, where the rumored husband-killer lives, I wonder if she’s about to marry a man who pretends to be strong in public, but desperately requires his wife’s opinion in private. Or maybe he’s a man who demands perfection at all times, or at least the impression of it.

  Above all else, I wonder if she’s already plotting her future husband’s death.

  I’ll have to bring over a tray of cookies and find out.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ERIN

  MONDAY EVENING

  I love my job, I love my job, I love my job.

  Staring into the mirror backstage at the newsroom, I smooth the fine lines around my eyes and wonder if it’s time for another laser treatment.

  “Look at these things. They’re huge, and they weren’t here yesterday,” I tell Monique, my stylist. She’s working a straightening rod like it’s a magic wand. “Do you see these lines? They showed up out of nowhere. Should I be worried?”

  Monique doesn’t even entertain my concerns. The station must pay her well. “You’re beautiful, Erin. I don’t know what’s gotten into you today. You’ve been talking about your ass since you walked in. Now your face?”

  I meet her gaze in the mirror. “The house across the street from mine is being purchased by a tech industry mogul and his new toy.”

  “Ah,” she says, whipping that wand through my hair. “That explains it.”

  “That explains what?”

  “The sudden concern that you’re past your prime.”

  “You know,” I say defiantly, “that’s not even it. I don’t care about my age—it’s merely a number like everyone says. But this woman—she can’t be more than twenty-eight or so—looks, I don’t know, I guess she looks fresh, and I look tired.”

  “It’s because she’s a mistress,” Monique says flatly. “That’s her job. She’s supposed to look fresh, otherwise she won’t catch fish. No one wants sour bait.”

  “Is that what I am?” I squeal. “Sour bait?”

  “Not you, calm down.” She taps me on the head with the brush, and then checks the clock. Another few minutes before I’ll have to head out. “What I mean is, her only worry in the world is staying hydrated, working out, eating right, and looking good so she can catch a man.”

  Dropping my hands in my lap, I look up at Monique. “But I want to do all those things too. Can’t I do all that and have a career?”

  “Maybe some people can.” She shakes her head definitively. “But you? Absolutely not. You give everything to your job. It’s who you are. And that’s not a terrible thing, Erin. You dive wholeheartedly into whatever venture is in front of you. That doesn’t make you sour bait. It makes you decisive, a go-getter. You’re vicious, Erin. You’re a freaking piranha!”

  “I—I’m a what?” I whirl around in my chair. “Out of all the fish in the sea, that’s what I am? A piranha? Those things are hideous. I don’t want to be that ugly thing.”

  I want to be like Brooke, young and naïve and fresh-faced. I want to turn heads with my tight body. People say the good years fly by, and man, they aren’t kidding. I used to be that way…and I’m not sure what happened.

  Monique pinches her eyes closed. “You know what I meant.”

  “Ted and Erin, you’re due on set,” someone calls over the speaker.

  “Why does his name always come before mine?” I wonder aloud as Monique finishes up. “Have you ever wondered that? Ted and Erin, Ted and Erin, never Erin and Ted.”

  “What’d you eat for lunch today? Something spicy?” Monique stands back to admire her work. “You need to focus, Erin. Seriously. Forget the mistress. Forget Ted. Focus on what you need to do.”

  That’s just it. I don’t know if I can. As my chest grows tight, I wonder about the last time I had a facial. Maybe that’s why Brooke’s face is so flawlessly smooth. I bet she clears her schedule for her skin care routine while I’m stuck here in the studio. I should get a massage. Not one of Monique’
s pitiful shoulder rubs either. But I’m constantly thinking about the next show, the network’s schedule, the ratings, my followers on social media. If only I had all the time in the world to focus on what really matters: me.

  “I could be a trophy wife if I had the time,” I say decidedly.

  I could be like her.

  “Of course you could, Erin,” Monique says, leaning against the hair station. “But would you really want to?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Does a shark want to be an eel?” Lifting her brush as if it’s a beacon of truth, she says, “Hell no, because he’s too busy chomping things, causing massive bloodshed, and swimming around to intimidate all the smaller fish. He doesn’t have time to be thinking about what an eel’s up to. He’s a shark. That’s all he knows.”

  I hear what she’s saying. We each have our role to play, and it’s easier to look at another woman and think about how easy she seems to have it. Working mothers can fight guilt over not staying home to raise their children, and stay-at-home mothers often wish they had ten minutes of adult interaction so their only conversation of the day didn’t revolve around Timmy’s potty schedule. But it’s only fantasy. We’re only seeing the downfall in our own lives and comparing it to the glossy veneer of someone else’s. Is that why I can’t stop thinking about Brooke? Because I want to rewind the tape and go back to when Mason and I were first moving into the neighborhood, the future sprawled out in front of us?

  Is it so terrible that I want to have it all? A fulfilling job where I’m respected, and also plenty of time to be at home working on my house, my health, and my marriage?

  I don’t know that I’d want to be a trophy wife permanently. It’s only that suddenly things seem unbalanced, as if I’ve been neglecting the aspects of my life that Brooke seems to have perfected.

  By the time I’m on set, the heat of the lights making me sweat, cameras cued up, Ted beside me doing his disgusting throat exercises, a realization settles over my shoulders like a heavy cloak. I want to spend more time with Mason, working on us, to go back to the way things were before. I want to have the time and energy to wake up in the morning and have coffee with him before he heads to the office. Maybe we wouldn’t fight so much if I didn’t spend every waking second worrying about my upcoming segment. This job definitely ages people. I think it has something to do with the glare of the lighting.