through the crowd of women who are sipping champagne and sporting charcoal masks until I find Elle.
“When do we get to take this off?” I ask her, pointing to my own gray face.
Claustrophobia is sneaking in with each passing second, and I need an escape from the mask. From the pretending. From what I’m about to do to all these women.
“I personally like my skin so tight I can barely speak,” Elle says, lifting her own plastic champagne flute to her lips.
I turn away from her and search the room for Claudia, Emily, or even Emma, who’s selling this product. Giving up, I scoot into the hall bath as another woman steps out. Her face is void of mud and all the foundation that she once had on. She’s prettier this way, without it.
The door clicks closed behind me, and I lock it before leaning against the counter. There are creases in the mask where my wrinkle lines break through. When did I get so old? It seems like yesterday I was in my twenties, going out drinking and dancing on a Friday night, then sleeping all day Saturday.
Some expensive-looking disposable towels are neatly fanned on the counter. I grab one and begin the process of removing the heavy coat on my face, being careful not to get any on my blouse or the counter.
It crumbles away, releasing the tension on my skin but not on my nerves.
When it’s all off, I peer into the mirror again, twisting my hair around my face and clipping it back. My skin feels firm and vibrant. I’ll be buying this charcoal mask.
I toss my towel into the little golden trashcan next to the toilet. Everything is shiny for these women. I can’t keep up, yet I can’t help wanting my own dazzling waste bin.
I step into the hall, then move slowly toward the stuffy, overfilled room.
“Is it true that she can’t have children?” a woman says. Instinctively, I stop in my tracks. “So sad. She clearly wants them, boarding on obsession.”
“Mmhmm. Doesn’t help that her husband doesn’t want them.” A familiar voice answers. “If you ask me, he’s probably messing around. A hot man like Camden … so many admirers. I know for a fact that she doesn’t give him what he needs.”
My blood runs cold and hot all at once. Charlie. She’s talking about me behind my back. While she gets in digs at me, I never thought—
“Hey,” Elle says, popping into view. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I nod vigorously. “Much better now that my face is free.”
Elle’s face is clean now, too.
“Do you think we’ll be putting makeup on next?” Elle says.
Her curiosity sounds genuine, but I know better.
“Who knows?” I shrug.
“Makeovers aren’t my thing,” she says, her voice louder. “Hiding behind all those fake layers to get others to accept you is a waste of time. No amount of makeup can cover up a resting bitch face.”
She throws a glance over her shoulder, smiling wryly at Charlie.
“I think we’ve done enough research,” I say sheepishly.
“Thank God,” she says, straightening her spine. “I thought we’d never leave.”
A tornado of embarrassment and gratitude for Elle’s admission encircles me. I want so badly to tear off Charlie’s head or have some witty response to deflate her story and turn the tables … but I could never confront her. The possible fallout from conflict is worse than the rumors she spreads.
Elle laces her arm in mine and pulls me past Charlie toward the door.
I climb into the passenger seat of Elle’s BMW and buckle up, then hug my purse.
Elle slides into the driver’s seat.
“That Charlie’s a fucking bitch,” she says, turning on her car and throwing it in reverse in smooth succession.
My brain bounces between two questions. What have I done wrong? What has Camden done to appear unfaithful? But then, I already know the answer, even if I have no definitive proof.
The memories from Charlie’s New Year’s Eve party last year hit me. They unfold, forcing me to relive that horrible, disorienting night. Her house was packed with people dressed to the nines, myself included, only everyone else seemed present, while I felt separate from my body, watching everyone and everything as if I were a ghost. Couples were dancing. Charlie’s husband, Billy, circulated through the crowd refilling drinks. Camden. With Charlie. Alone—together—at the far end of her long, dimly lit hall. Hidden—almost—in the shadows. Standing too close. Even if I could have reattached to my body, I was too shocked—too uncertain of what I was seeing—to say anything.
The moment is forever seared in my mind, tied with another memory from a month prior, when we were on our second cycle of fertility treatments.
To ensure our success, I’d had a procedure to remove the latest accumulation of endometriosis and confirm that the small cysts on my ovaries weren’t a problem. With no impeding endometriosis and negative biopsy results, the only issue was my irregular cycle and delayed ovulation. Camden even had his sperm checked, and his swimmers were in tip-top shape.
This streamlined the plan—produce healthy follicles by taking Letrozole at the beginning of my cycle, monitor with ultrasounds, then induce ovulation with an hCG trigger injection. The rest was simple, thanks to Camden’s healthy sperm. There was no need for IUI; we could inseminate the old-fashioned way with three days of sex after trigger. Camden was especially fond of this since he’d struggled with producing a sample and had to go to the sperm bank several times before he could.
I wasn’t surprised when the first round didn’t work, because Dr. Foltz had warned me it could take multiple rounds—but we could keep at it for as long as I’d like.
With hope carrying me, I’d spent time in the would-be nursery, painting and putting up shelves. The room was scarce, so I went to the basement, first to the far corner where I stored a couple of totes that my mom and stepdad brought me before they moved up the coast. I collected my old teddy, a soft gray sweater, and white booties from my infancy. Unfortunately, everything else was gender specific or displayed my name or face.
I went into Camden’s storage room and found a small box labeled childhood on the back shelf. Inside were all sorts of trinkets that I could use. Some were blue or said boy, but mostly the box held things that would integrate into my design. I thought I’d check the other blank boxes to be sure that I didn’t miss anything. I started with the box just below, but it only held a large box filled with an eclectic array of jewelry. That was when I heard Camden overhead, coming home from the gym. I brought the small box to the nursery, using what I could from it.
When I pulled him into the room, floating with the excitement that filled my chest, my plans for a happy surprise quickly disintegrated. He packed up his things with rigid, disturbing movements, then barely spoke to me for weeks. A month later, at Charlie’s Christmas Eve Party, I observed his lovestruck grin and gaze of admiration that were once reserved for me fixed on her. His punishment for my disrespect.
Amidst the turmoil of my mind, a faint pleasure arises. Elle defended me.
“Why would she say that shit anyway?” Elle says angrily. “You’d think that with the way she gossips, she’d throw out the side piece’s name—or proffer a guess. Unless …”
I look at her, and she glances my way. She must read my expression like a book because her eyes soften briefly before her jaw tightens, and she returns her focus to the road.
“Fucking Charlie,” she says quietly.
“I don’t know for sure—”
“What you do know is enough,” she says firmly. “And if it extends past Charlie’s efforts, then your husband’s a fuck—”
“Let’s not go there. I don’t want to know,” I tell her, defeated by the situation.
I lean my head back against the cool headrest and look out the window. My stomach drops as Elle takes a sharp corner like she’s still aggravated, but she doesn’t push, allowing a quiet to settle in the car.
“Listen,” Elle says, interrupting the silence as she veers around another corner. “I could feed you a bunch of bullshit. Tell you she’s jealous. Remind you she has a bunch of snotnose children running amuck, pulling shit out of their diapers and smearing it all over her walls, but it won’t help. What will help is that knowing it gives you an advantage. She fucking owes you. She’ll be like any other fake-ass woman, trying to make up for her gossip by supporting you. That means supporting your new business—our business—in a big way.”
“Maybe,” I say, not convinced.
I know how competitive Charlie is.
“She probably overheard me pitching our business to someone else. We’re going to step on her toes, highlight jewelry that she didn’t make,” I explain. “I’m about to remind our friends of the jewelry that they’d rather be wearing instead of buying her cheap—”
“You know her cheap-ass shit was derived from you?” Elle asks. “Okay, not you, per se, but you, indirectly. From the day we met.”
“I don’t think—”
“When did you say she started making jewelry?” she asks.
“August,” I say, not sure where she’s going.
“After. You. Met. Me. At the country club. In the bathroom.”
A warmth grows within me.
“You’re right,” I say, nodding. “I didn’t start this. She did.”
“She owes you, after today’s bullshit. If she doesn’t volunteer her loyalty and support, you’ll demand it. Own it, Olivia. Don’t let her treat you like shit and get away with it.”
I don’t answer. She’s right, but I can’t do that. I’ve hurt Charlie’s feelings. I didn’t talk to her about my plans like a good friend would. This is my fault. Even if it isn’t, demanding her loyalty would have consequences that I’m not willing to unleash.