The Sinful Lives of Trophy Wives Read online

  Maybe I could take some time off. Even a week would be good for my soul.

  “Did you eat something bad?” Ted asks after a rather loud and disgusting gurgle.

  “Excuse me?” I skim through the notes for the show.

  “You look like you’re scowling. That weird vein is protruding from your forehead again.” He points, leaning forward. “Right there. You don’t feel it?”

  After the injections, I don’t feel much of anything up there. But it’s certainly dickish of him to point it out.

  “And, uh, did Monique see you today?” Shielding his eyes from the lights, Ted searches the people milling about behind the camera. “She couldn’t cover those lines by your eyes? I’m sure the camera will pick those up. You might want to do something about that. Can we call her back in here?”

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

  The lines by my eyes couldn’t be as pronounced as he’s making them out to be. He’s a jerk, that’s all. An egotistical blowhard who, for God knows what reason, has hated me from the moment I transferred from a rival news station.

  Monique rushes over—Ted wasn’t exactly speaking quietly—and dabs powder on my face. “You all right, girl?”

  “Don’t I look all right?” I give her my biggest, brightest smile.

  “You look great. Remember: focus on what you need to do in this moment.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “You can address the trophy wife thing with Mason later.” She retreats behind the cameras and gives me a thumbs-up.

  “Trophy wife, huh?” Ted clears his throat awkwardly. “I think at this age you’re more of a participation trophy.” He snickers at his own joke.

  I whirl on him in my fabulous spinning chair. “How are you doing today, Ted? Boyfriend break up with you? Oh, that’s awful. Wardrobe couldn’t get your size right? Pants two sizes too small? Riding up in the crotch and making your peanut-sized balls shrivel away to nothing? Terrible. Hate to hear it. Do your fucking job, Ted, and leave me the hell alone.”

  “Whoa.” His eyes widen in horror. “PMS with a side of possession? Haven’t seen that look on you before.”

  I’ve had it with Ted’s attitude and the hot glare of the lights, and the way I’m always under pressure. It’s exhausting, and—you know what? I’m over it. I need a break.

  I meet Monique’s eyes and hear her say, “Oh no,” but I can’t stop now. Something’s gotten into me today and there’s no damming the flood of water now.

  “Ted, you’re a tool.” I stand so fast, my chair tips over behind me. “Fuck all y’all. Except you, Monique—you’re my girl. I’m out!”

  No one tries to stop me as I clear out my room, pack up the car, and drive out of the lot. I don’t know whether to be offended by that, or satisfied. I must’ve been so resolute in my decision—determination was certainly written all over my face—that everyone knew there would be no changing my mind. I’ll call tomorrow, of course, demanding a week—maybe a month—off.

  For now, I’m free. No job. No restrictions.

  On the drive home down the Embarcadero, I check my reflection in the mirrors and notice that my face looks ten years younger when I smile, so I do it all the way home. I roll the windows down, slide the moonroof back, and blast hip-hop until my speakers rattle. I’ve never felt more alive, more refreshed, than I do in this moment. Salt-N-Pepa and TLC holler through the speakers and I’m singing about pushing things and chasing waterfalls and feel like a teenager again. I haven’t talked to Mason yet. I’m going to surprise him—tell him I walked out, and it felt fantastic. He had a meeting tonight—won’t be home for another two hours.

  He’ll be so surprised.

  I stop by the store on my way home, something I haven’t been able to do in years. I pick up spinach, cucumbers, tomatoes, an avocado, cheese, olives, and crackers. I stroll through the aisles with new eyes, taking everything in. The people seem kinder in the evening, opening my doors for me, offering a cart. My steps feel lighter over the glossy floor. The checker even hit on me—and he was solidly in his twenties. I saw the flirty gleam in his eye when he asked if he could help me out with my groceries. I’m already feeling younger and more vibrant, the way I’m sure Brooke does. I feel instantly changed.

  I just walked out on my job.

  Can they tell?

  Before heading home, I make a quick trip into the wine boutique and purchase a bottle of their most expensive red. I don’t even check the price. Then I pop into Chocolatier Azul and pick up their largest box of gourmet chocolates. Mason likes the orange peel chocolate laced with spiced rum, so I make sure our box has at least four of those. I prefer the mousse-filled chocolates decorated with patterns that look like lace. The prettier the chocolate, the better.

  And tonight is for celebrating.

  Thrusting my arm out the driver’s window, I wave to Malik at the gate, and fly down the street to our home. Looks like Brooke and Jack have already settled in. The moving truck that was here this morning has already gone. I’ll have to invite her over tomorrow. We can pop a bottle of champagne and have mimosas at Grounds & Greens to celebrate her new home and my sabbatical, when I’ll proudly become Mason’s trophy wife. I can introduce her to Georgia. I’ve never known Georgia to turn down mimosas.

  Our home is cavernous and quiet, but as I make my way through the rooms, lights turn on when they sense my presence. An orange and red glow emanating from the setting sun bleeds through the living room windows and streams over the foyer tiles, making them appear as if they’re on fire. In the kitchen, classical music cues on. The station is set to Mozart, Mason’s favorite. Within seconds, the home is full of warmth and sounds and I can’t wait for Mason to come home.

  I get to work quickly, pouring a hefty glass of wine before chopping the veggies and dumping them into an oversized bowl. I display the chocolates on the rock-cut crystal Tiffany plate Mason got me for Christmas last year and set it in the middle of our dining room table. As I’m pouring my second glass of wine and feeling completely satisfied with myself, lights sweep through the kitchen windows. The garage door opens.

  Mason’s home.

  I snap a quick selfie with wine in my hand, a smile on my face, and the delicious spread behind me. I select a dark, smooth filter. Perfection. #Datenight. #Mainsqueeze. My followers will love it. I’ll have a thousand likes within the hour.

  I fill a glass with Mason’s favorite rum and wait at the garage door for him to enter. The door opens. He’s frowning.

  “This is a surprise,” he says, pushing past me into the foyer. “What are you doing home?”

  My smile doesn’t falter. There’s nothing that can get me down tonight.

  “Well that’s a story to tell,” I say, watching him disappear into his office. “Let’s talk over dinner and drinks.”

  “Give me five minutes,” he calls out.

  I take the time to arrange the table, tame my hair—the windows-down thing isn’t the best idea after I’ve had my hair styled—and wait for him at the dining room table. Exactly five minutes later, he enters looking rested and refreshed, in a white polo, black slacks, and house slippers.

  He kisses me on the forehead. “Sorry I didn’t do that earlier. You took me by surprise.”

  “It’s all right.” I watch him sit across from me and eye the salad. “I’m glad you’re home.”

  “Me too. It was a long day. Four meetings, two liposuctions, and a reconstructed nose job. Mariah made this?” He sifts through the chunks of avocado. “I didn’t see it in the fridge earlier.”

  “No, I prepared it myself,” I say proudly, diving in. “I went to the grocery store and everything.”

  He knows this is a big deal. I don’t think I’ve stepped foot in a grocery store since before we were married five years ago. Our personal chef, Mariah, does all the shopping, prepping, and cooking. It definitely takes t
he load off my shoulders. But tonight, ambition got the better of me. And who knows? Maybe I’ll take on more of that role during my time off.

  “Look at you, being productive.” He smiles in that way that makes me tingly inside. “It’s good. I’m proud of you.”

  He’s so handsome when he’s playful, his dark eyes twinkling with mischief.

  “So tell me about your day,” he goes on, between sips of rum and bites of dinner. “How’d you manage to get off so early?”

  Setting down my fork, I temple my hands over the table in front of me and take a deep breath. “I walked out.”

  He stops chewing for a moment, and then struggles to swallow the food he’s shoved in his cheek. “What do you mean, you walked out?”

  “I sort of quit, I guess. On the spot.”

  He squints at me, as if that’ll help him understand. And then he sets down his fork. “You quit working today, or…permanently?”

  “Well I don’t know yet. I didn’t really say. I just left. But from the way I’m feeling right now, I’d like to take at least a week off. Maybe a month. I’m going to play it by ear.”

  “Did you find a better job?”

  “No, that’s not necessary. They’re not going to fire me. They need me, Mason. I’m simply going to demand a short sabbatical to recenter my priorities.”

  He chews slowly. “What do you plan to do during this…sabbatical?”

  I take a gulp of wine to soothe the sudden tick in my nerves. “I’m going to be a stay-at-home wife.”

  “But we don’t have children, Erin.”

  “Obviously, Mason.”

  “If you aren’t staying home to take care of children, what would you be doing with your time?”

  I smile sweetly. “We have a house to take care of.”

  “Erin, give me a break. You’re going to start vacuuming and dusting and mopping and cleaning bathrooms? You’ve got to be joking. It’s not that I don’t think you can do it, because when you set your mind to something, I know you can. It’s just—Erin, I don’t want my wife doing those things. You don’t need to.” His voice softens. “That’s why we work so hard, so we can enjoy our lives, rather than spend all our time dealing with stuff like that.”

  “I could take care of you,” I offer, thinking of Brooke and her smooth skin and flouncy dress and stiletto heels on a Monday morning. Slowly, swaying my hips a little more seductively than normal, I move around the table and plop myself on Mason’s lap. He squirms for a second, and then readjusts as I run my fingers through the fine, black hair on the back of his head. “If I didn’t have to think about work,” I whisper into his ear, “I could think about working other things.”

  He makes a low, throaty sound as he buries his head in my neck. “Well I certainly like the sound of that.”

  I nip at his earlobe. “We would actually have time together in the evenings.”

  “And if it didn’t work out,” he says softly, caressing my back, “you could always go back earlier than planned.”

  I peck his cheek. “I suppose I could, sweetheart, but why wouldn’t it work out?”

  “It might throw off my routine.” He goes in for a kiss.

  I pull away. “What routine?”

  He stares at my mouth. “All these years you’ve been working nights, I’ve come to like how my evenings play out. I come home to a quiet house. Dip in the pool and do some laps. Eat dinner. Have a beer. Watch sports. It’s nice.”

  “And me doing those things next to you wouldn’t be nice?”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth, Erin.” He gently nudges me off his lap and takes his plate to the kitchen. I follow him, desperate to see this through. “That’s not what I said.” He faces the sink as if he can’t even look at me. “All I’m saying is it’ll be an adjustment. I wish you would’ve said something to me about it first.”

  “I need your permission to take a break from working now?”

  “No, but we make decisions together. You should’ve consulted me.”

  When he finally turns to face me again and his jaw is set in frustration, I’m not sure I made the right choice in walking out. If I hadn’t been hasty, I might’ve been able to formally request time off. I’ve asked a few times before, and have been granted only a day off here and there. Nothing like what I’m thinking now. Perhaps we could’ve negotiated fewer hours working each day. I could review notes for the upcoming day at home, rather than at work. I could become a part-time broadcaster and a part-time stay-at-home wife. Maybe that would’ve worked out better?

  I can run through the options with the station in the morning.

  Folding my arms over my chest, I lean against the island. “The only thing is…the way I left, they might not want me to come back so soon.”

  “It was your damn mouth, wasn’t it?” He charges at me a step, and then stops. “What’d you say to screw things up this time?”

  “I told Ted he was a tool.”

  “Jesus,” he says, and smothers his face with his hand. “He is a tool, but I bet he didn’t take that well.”

  “That’s not all.”

  He peeks at me through his fingers.

  “In the heat of the moment, I might’ve said, ‘Fuck all y’all.’ ”

  Without a sound, Mason lowers his hand and stares at me with his mouth open. And then he bursts into a roar of laughter, bowled over, hands on his knees. He shuffles across the kitchen, barely able to breathe in his fit of hysteria, and lifts me off my feet.

  “Y’all?” he blurts, laughing into a snort. “You’re not southern!”

  I smack him on the shoulder. “I know that, Mason, it just came out!”

  I squeal as I kick to be released, but he doesn’t let me down. He carries me upstairs hollering “fuck all y’all” in between hoots of laughter. And when he drops me onto our bed and we strip out of our clothes, we have the best sex we’ve ever had. Somewhere between orgasms two and three, I swear I acquired a southern accent.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ERIN

  TUESDAY

  This is not my usual morning routine.

  I would usually make a cup of coffee and scurry off to my office, where I would run through emails while watching the morning segment. Mason would read his paper in the kitchen and then head up to shower. Before leaving for work, he’d pop his head into my office and blow me a kiss goodbye.

  Today, though, I’m perched on one of the stools at the kitchen island, reading an amazing self-help book downloaded onto my e-reader, and tipping back my first cup of coffee, when Mason enters. I’d been anticipating this moment—when Mason would stride into the kitchen and say “good morning” and kiss me on the cheek and we’d gush about how wonderful it is that we can be together this way. He’d ask what I’m reading, I would ask him the same, and we’d hold hands across the table until he had to leave for work.

  I’ve dreamed about how these days would go, when I could give him my full attention in the mornings…

  Only he doesn’t say a word as he marches through the kitchen and pours a cup of coffee without acknowledging the fact that I’ve brewed enough for both of us, thank me very much. Rustling the newspaper to the sports section, he splays it open on the table. Then he plops in the nearest chair—the one where he’ll sit with his back to me—and flips furiously through the pages, pausing only to drink from his steaming cup.

  “Happy Tuesday,” I say, moving to join him. My cup makes a loud clanking sound when its bottom rim hits the table. “How’d you sleep?”

  “Good.”

  I wait for him to say more. When he doesn’t, I grab my phone and my book and sit at the table across from him. “What are you reading?”

  “The newspaper.”

  Arranging the mug and book just so, I snap a picture of my morning view, with Mason’s head buried in the paper, and vibr
ant streams of light cascading through the windows. I choose a filter that whitewashes everything in a pure glow. #Morningvibes. #Lovemylife.

  After checking my text messages and missed calls—nothing from the station, but it’s still early—I glance over at Mason, who’s remained unmoving, and silent. My phone pings with new likes.

  “I’m reading Get Out of Your Mind and into Your Life,” I say, feeling a flush of warmth on the back of my neck. “It’s really great. Talks about how, as humans, it’s in our nature to overthink things, but that causes our lives to be full of stress, and our relationships to be strained.” I tuck hair behind my ear in a way that’s not at all fidgety. “It gives tips and tricks on learning how to slow down and just be. Really experience each moment as it’s presented to us.”

  “Mmm.”

  “I can’t remember the last time we had the morning all to ourselves this way,” I say, beginning to sweat. “It’s nice that I get to be out here with you, isn’t it? No more hiding away in my office. No stress.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Don’t you think?”

  On a burdened exhale, he flattens his hands over his newspaper, causing the shirt to strain across his chest. “Erin, what are your plans for today?”

  “I wanted to read a bit longer,” I say excitedly. “Maybe have another cup of coffee with you. Then Georgia and I are going for a walk. Thought I’d introduce her to Brooke, the woman who moved in across the street. Have you had the chance to meet her?”

  “Not yet.”

  “She’s married to that famous tech guy who, about this time last year, was caught up in that scandal about his wife and his mistress. She’s the mistress-turned-new-wife, if you can believe it. Anyway, after that—who knows? Maybe breakfast at Grounds & Greens, or a pedicure. And you know Georgia’s going to need help with something having to do with the wedding. She’s down to the wire and can’t possibly do everything herself. She’ll probably need my help with a few last-minute things. Don’t forget, tonight’s the party.”