IT WAS A FULL closet. That was not the problem. Actually, it was more than a closet, at eight feet by fifteen. With plush cream carpeting, adjustable track lighting, and its own temperature control, it was an actual room by any reasonable measure outside of Wilshire, Connecticut. Standing at its epicenter, surrounded by an absurd amount of clothing and footwear, and now overwhelmed by her own indecision, Sara Livingston wondered where else a room such as this would be demeaned to closet status. Only in Wilshire, Connecticut, it seemed. And it was keeping to scale with the six-thousand-square-foot house, the same one that had turned out to be unlivable after all and was now under construction. That was a whole other story. Closet? Room? What did it matter? That this closet-room was occupying her thoughts to such a degree was, she knew, one last (and entirely futile) attempt to distract herself from the task at hand.
She should have had it down after four months, the wardrobe choices for a Wilshire mom. Neat slacks, button-down shirt for school pickup. Black stretch pants with a T-back sports shirt for exercise classes (if she ever found time for them). And for the present occasion, the nursery school benefit, that evasive sexy formal. The trick here was the “sexy” part. She had the body for it—long legs, moderate height, a cute light brown bob, and healthy C-cup breasts (all hers)—but that did not help with the choices. Short skirt? Low neckline? Bare shoulders? Stiletto heels with lots of straps, shoes that cried out for attention, first to the ankle, and then, of course, to the leg? For once—Christ, is it too much to ask?—she wanted to fade into the backdrop, go unnoticed.
But for Sara, sexy formal was more complicated than it seemed. It was one thing to be sexy, and quite another to be slutty. To be slutty, or not, was currently the domain of a small clique of Wilshire women who had snatched it up as the latest fashion trend when they’d grown tired of seventies-retro. It was their trademark, a stake inside some invisible hierarchy that Sara did not fully understand. But it seemed to indicate that they had risen above the discretion of others in this town. If they wanted to wear thigh-high leather boots and thick black eyeliner to pick up their preschoolers, then by God, they were going to do just that.
This was her conclusion, after much analysis (and analyzing her new environment had risen to the point of obsession), that there was, in fact, an invisible hierarchy. It was not strictly based on wealth, though wealth was a prerequisite. Social connections seemed to be of equal importance, and getting them required a certain level of wealth. It was confounding to Sara, who had a degree in journalism from Columbia and, until moving to Connecticut, had thought herself a capable analyst of the world around her. Her pedigree aside, there was an art to rising through the ranks in Wilshire that still eluded her after months of astute and careful observation. She had stormed into this town with high expectations. This was a place of educated people, where even the stay-home moms were former professionals, well traveled, and in many cases, transplants from Manhattan like herself. They were just like her, and yet no matter what she did, she could not manage to be just like them. Every decision she’d made from day one had been wrong. First, it was the car she’d chosen. A red minivan. Minivans were, apparently, out. In were monstrous three-row SUVs: Lexus, Mercedes, Cadillac.
After the car, it was the choice of decorator, then the choice of everything the decorator had shown her. She’d gone with French country when old European was in, chunky white dishes when delicate china was back in favor. And the deer that roamed as freely as New York pigeons had devoured every flower she had planted. Now she had bare stems when everyone else managed to keep flowers.
She had adjusted her goals within the first month. Her new aim was modest. She had no need to be Rosalyn Barlow—Wilshire’s reigning queen—or even to befriend her, for that matter. What she now wanted was not to be noticed. And at the moment, that meant choosing something on the sexy scale that wouldn’t cross the line.
She loosened the sash of her silk robe as she walked to the built-in drawers containing her undergarments. She pulled open the drawer with the panties and thongs, and made the first decision of the night. Panties, no question. After fighting with her contractor over the price of crown molding, then driving two hours to pick out antique light fixtures for the new living room, and ending her day by spending more than sixty dollars on gas, she just didn’t have it in her to tolerate a string up her ass.
The bra would be more difficult. Low-cut padded, low-cut push-up, strapless, crisscross, lace, cotton, nylon. Going braless was not an option, though she imagined one day after she’d mastered this universe and risen sufficiently among the ranks, it would be, and would go nicely with the fuck-me boots and black eyeliner. Ugh!
She was hanging up the robe when she heard the voice through the open door.
“What time is this thi—?”
Nick Livingston was in midsentence when he noticed his wife, nearly naked under the bright lights.
“Oooh laalaa.”
Sara managed a smile as her husband entered the closet, his hands reaching out for her, and a look on his face that belonged to a teenage boy seeing his first pair of tits. He was almost in a full-on grope when she gently pushed him away.
“We don’t have time, honey,” she said in a playful way, the way she might if she actually had an ounce of energy to be interested in his advances.
“Come on, Sara. We could christen the closet.” He reached in with his head and kissed her neck, then ran his hand along the inside of her thigh.
Sara studied his face for the signs of kind deception. Could he really feel this way after three years and one demanding toddler? But what she saw instead was a handsome forty-one-year-old man who was turned on at the sight of his wife. Bright blue eyes, dark hair, the deadly combination that had lured her from her life into marriage and motherhood, and an easy way that was as foreign to her as it was seductive. He pulled her to him with a soft hand against her bare back, and she closed her eyes, hoping to be transformed, transported from this place to another she could hardly remember. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she let out a sigh.
“It’s a closet-room,” she muttered into the fold of his collar, and he laughed out loud, making her believe that he was still her comrade though he had been raised in Wilshire and had returned to it like a fish back to water. “It’s a little early for a christening. Did you see all the work they didn’t do today?” Sara started to pull away, her mind turning to Roy the Contractor and his piss-poor construction crew that was taking them for a ride and prolonging her daily misery of living in dust and chaos.
She waited for him to respond, to tell her that he saw it, too—that it was horrible, and of course, how could a person think of anything else when there was such trouble underfoot? She had her list of complaints, which she wanted to unleash into the space between them, and she waited for him to extend the invitation.
But none was forthcoming. Instead, Nick released his arms from around her waist and said nothing, though his disappointment and bewilderment stopped her from saying more. She felt her shoulders drop.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, holding him again, and he squeezed her tighter. The feel of his cool starched shirt against her bare skin made her feel exposed beyond her apparent nudity, and it was surprisingly sexy. She reached for his belt and released the clasp. “Let’s christen the closet.”
Nick hesitated, confused by the third mood shift in the scope of mere seconds, but she only kissed him harder, forcing out of the room the worries over the house, her clothing, and dishes and other nonsense. They fell to the floor, her bare body under his against the soft carpet.
He reached for the buttons on his shirt, but she pulled his hands away. “Leave it on,” she whispered. “Leave everything on.” She reached down and unzipped his pants, then pulled him inside her as her legs wrapped around the small of his back. With the lights glaring down upon them, Sara kept her eyes open, finding their image in the mirror that covered the length of the inner door. Nick in his suit, her beneath him on the floor in a moment of unexpected abandon was like a bolt of electricity short-circuiting the wires in her head. She could almost imagine that they weren’t in Wilshire at all.
Reaching her hands around her husband, she grabbed hold of him. “I love your ass,” she said, losing herself in a kind of passionate irreverence that felt forbidden in her new life. She wet his ear with her tongue and smiled as he moaned.
“Oh, Christ! Say that again. . . .”
“I love your ass . . . your rock-hard, massive ass. . . .”
“Christ!”
He was gone, and she was quick to follow, an unusual occurrence of late. Something about her private defiance, even for a few stolen moments, had lent a heightened sense of excitement, like screwing in the backseat of a car. It was a strange rush. Good, she thought, though she was equally disconcerted because it had nothing to do with her husband. Her mind felt as foreign to her as the thongs that rode up her butt all day long.
Nick was happily oblivious as he rested on top of her, catching his breath. “I love this closet-room,” he said.
Sara smiled, then kissed his neck as he nuzzled into hers. She fought to make conversation from thoughts that were spinning recklessly in her head. “Is this another suburban secret? Having big closets for doing the deed?”
Nick laughed, relaxed. Contented. “After that, I think it will be from now on. Let’s just burn that bed. I mean, who needs it?”
They stayed there for a while, and as the time passed, Sara grew increasingly unnerved. Beyond her altered state and the abduction of her entire being by alien forces, she felt the question coming.
“Do you think we did it? Did we make a baby?”
He was so careful to hide his anticipation, his growing worry that they might be joining so many of their peers who couldn’t have a second child, and the fact that he was being considerate felt like a giant knife of guilt plunging into her.
“We’ll see.” Her tone was encouraging but also dismissive, and Nick quickly changed the subject.
“I’d better get my rock-hard ass in the shower so we can be on time.” He kissed her and got up from the floor.
“Thanks.” Sara smiled as she stood up, pulling the robe around her. She watched him turn the corner, heard the shower come on. Still, she couldn’t move from where she stood. Her head was swimming—drowning, really—in a dull, unrelenting anxiety. Finally, she ran her hands briskly across her cheeks and turned toward the enemy she had been so terrified to face. Embracing the sense of defeat fully now, she pulled on clothing, shoes, jewelry.
“I’m going down,” she yelled into the bathroom as she walked past their bed, ignoring the blue-and-green flowered spread, the one that matched the pale yellow walls and plaid draperies. Shit. She didn’t even like French country.
Walking quickly to outpace the thoughts that were following close behind, Sara made her way to Annie’s bedroom across the hall and peeked her head inside.
“She’s asleep.” Their Brazilian nanny, who went by the name Nanna, was standing by Annie’s bed, looking over the small child.
“I was going to kiss her good night,” Sara said.
“Oh,” Nanna answered, her face taking on a hint of pity. “You’re too late.”
Sara felt a vise around her temples as she nodded and forced a smile. “We won’t be late.”
Nanna smiled back and nodded but did not leave the room. And as Sara hurried down the hall to the back stairs, she closed her ears to Nanna’s soft humming. She focused instead on gathering her belongings and fitting them into her clutch purse—keys, phone, lipstick from her other bag. She reached the kitchen and caught a heel in the plastic that covered the floor. Pulling off her shoes, Sara passed through the room to the back hall, where she set the shoes on top of more plastic, this time covering the antique pine benches that no one ever sat on and were, of course, very last year. The powder room door was closed, though this did little to keep out the dust and other debris from the tearing down of walls and floors in the neighboring rooms, and she fought not to notice as she went inside, closing herself in. She flipped the toilet lid closed and sat down, hanging her head between her knees, face in hands. She wanted to cry then, for so many things, but she held it back. There was nothing to be done tonight. Not about her marriage, her child, her ripped-apart, poorly decorated house, or her red van. Or the fact that she could not find one moment of happiness in a life with a two-million-dollar-a-year price tag, the life her husband slaved to give her.
Tonight, she would go to the party, an important party. She would make nice, safe conversation and look for the cheapest auction item to help a school that needed no help. She would drive home with her husband, force herself to say nothing about the people who silently judged her, then pray for sleep. And in the morning, when her head was clear, she would think about what was wrong with her life. And if she found nothing, she would think about what might be wrong with her.
She took a breath and opened her purse. There was a hidden compartment with a zipper, which she opened slowly, methodically. She pulled out the contents—a round case with the multicolored pills that were keeping her body from becoming pregnant, fooling her husband. She flipped it open and checked the ones already taken. Then she popped out the one scheduled for this day. It was a tiny little pill, but the lie that it implicitly held was undeniable, and as she dropped it on her tongue and began to swallow it down, she could feel it sticking in her throat.