That's What Frenemies Are For Read online

  That’s What Frenemies Are For is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Sophie Littlefield and Lauren Gershell

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  BALLANTINE and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Hardback ISBN 9781984817969

  Ebook ISBN 9781984817976

  randomhousebooks.com

  Book design by Diane Hobbing, adapted for ebook

  Cover design: Eileen Carey

  Cover illustration: Eileen Carey, based on illustrations by Bridgeman Images (woman on left) and Shutterstock (woman on right and sunglasses)

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Epilogue

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  About the Authors

  PROLOGUE

  Every woman of a certain age secretly hopes she’ll meet someone at a wedding—and not just because it makes a good meet-cute story. Kind of the opposite, actually. Emotions are already running high, and the drumbeat of one’s waning fertility is never louder than when the best man gets up and recounts some anecdote about the groom’s younger, wilder days, the moral of which is that standing before the crowd is a changed man eager to take on a mortgage and issue progeny, transformed by the love (and persistence) of a worthy woman.

  If she can do it, the still-single woman thinks, so can I.

  But here’s a little tip: funerals are where the real action is. In fact, I met my husband, James, at the funeral for one of the associate partners at the branding firm where I worked after college. I barely knew the deceased. I’d been pulled in on his project a month before he was T-boned in a rental car headed back to the Peoria airport after a pitch, and since everyone on the team was going to the funeral, I did too.

  James was at the funeral because he and the dead man had been in the same fraternity at UPenn. Later, he told me he’d been planning to bolt after half an hour at the reception, until he saw me signing the guest book. I was wearing a basic black Helmut Lang that did wonders for my ass. I don’t often wear black—but a funeral isn’t the place to stand out.

  James brought me a bourbon, neat, and told me I looked like I could use it before introducing himself. A gamble on his part, especially given the diamond ring on my finger, but I admired his boldness. Funeral talk, even among strangers, is more intimate than cocktail-hour chitchat at a wedding reception, fueled by skimpy flutes of champagne from which the bubbles are fast disappearing.

  Also, some girls just look best sad. For instance, my smile often looks uneven and insincere. But when my expression is serious, I’ve been told I look “tragic,” and obviously there is nothing more alluring than that.

  Every man likes to think he’s someone’s savior.

  * * *

  —

  Lydia Dickinson’s memorial service takes place at the Metropolitan Club, which is practically as old as the city itself, with a soaring marble entrance hall, gilded walls, scarlet carpets, and coffered and frescoed ceilings. It’s packed, which isn’t surprising given the fact that Lydia served on half the boards in both the city and Greenwich, and her husband’s private equity firm has made many of the wealthiest people here even wealthier. Also, their daughter has followed in her mother’s socially ambitious footsteps—Gigi McLayne knows everyone worth knowing on the Upper East Side.

  I’m among Gigi’s many friends who are here to support her. (Actually, in the interest of getting this story off on the right foot, let me clarify: I’m a former friend, and no one is really here to provide support. Any real grieving has been dispensed with between Mrs. Dickinson’s unexpected death and the reading of the will, and the real reason we’re all here is to avoid having our absence noticed and discussed behind our backs.)

  I smell Tatum Farris before she murmurs my name. Her perfume is Heure Exquise—I’ve heard her tell people she’s worn it forever, but I happen to know that she’d never heard of it before a grateful client brought her a bottle from Paris. I have a fraction of a second to arrange my features in an appropriate expression.

  I turn toward her as she reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze.

  “Such a tragic loss,” she murmurs sadly.

  “Tatum,” I say, pulling back my hand. “What a surprise to see you here. I wasn’t aware that you knew Mrs. Dickinson.”

  “Lydia came to my classes,” Tatum says defensively. “She was interested in the Kegan Diet and we bonded right away.”

  I regard her with suppressed fury. “Guess you dodged a bullet, then.”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

  That is a lie. Though the public story is that Mrs. Dickinson’s embolism came out of nowhere, everyone knows the truth. Seized by panic at the approach of her fortieth class reunion, Mrs. Dickinson forged her doctor’s signature on the medical forms for a brutal week of fitness and spa cuisine at River Rock Ranch in Arizona, and dropped dead during the first sun salutation. Given her sky-high blood pressure and sedentary lifestyle, it was a miracle she didn’t stroke out when Tatum first let her on a bike.

  Tatum is wearing an honest-to-God Chanel bouclé. The suit may have been a hand-me-down from one of her clients, or it might have been a gift, but rest assured that the effect is calculated. If one had any doubts, the nearly translucent white silk blouse and five-inch peep-toe Louboutins ought to confirm it. Tatum thrives on that contrast, the razor edge hidden under layers of decorum.

  Also, Tatum is wearing a brooch I have never seen before. I squint at it, trying to decide if it’s real. Eight diamond-crusted platinum legs extend from a center moonstone to form a gaudy jeweled spider. It looks like a Schlumberger from the sixties, with the hallmark enamel detail.

  Following my gaze, she looks at the brooch and laughs. “Like it?”

  “A bit…macabre for the occasion, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she says, stroking the smooth surface of the moonstone. “I think it’s pretty.”

  “Sure,” I say, giving up the ruse, since it’s just the two of us. “Especially with that blouse and those shoes. I’m sure your goth mall fantasy is just the way Gigi wants her mother to be honored.”

  “I can’t believe you said that.” Tatum’s indignation is almost convincing. “Gigi’s one of my best friends.”

  A waiter passes with a tray and she taps him on the shoulder. The poor man nearly collides with a bystander as she leans in and favors him with an exquisite view of her cleavage, even though all she wants is a drink. That’s classic Tatum Farris, always bringing the biggest gun to every fight.

  “You can drop the act now,” I say. I can’t help myself, even though the only smart move is to stop talking. “You’ve got a lot of nerve showing up here considering that you’re really just the hired help.”

  “I’ve got every bit as much right to be here as you do,” she retorts. “I mean, when’s the last time you and Gigi even did anything together? Speaking of which, she and Coco and I found the most amazing little sake bar in the Village a couple of weeks ago. It’s great because nobody knows about it yet so you can actually have a conversation.”

  This from a girl whose biggest thrill used to be getting pulled out of a line at a club to serve as chum for big spenders. I hate her for worming her way into my circle of friends; I hate them for being careless enough to let her. Instead of gloating over my downfall, maybe they should stop and consider what I really am—a caution
ary tale.

  But I can’t afford to give in to defeat. It has been several days already since our very public humiliation, and James and I must show the world that we will endure. I had promised myself that I would ignore the sideways glances, the whispering, the snubs, but it seems I’m no longer a don’t-give-a-fuck kind of girl. Underneath my formerly confident façade, I’ve turned out to be as disappointingly insecure as everyone else.

  I hurry away from Tatum toward the bar, where I hope I’ll find James lubed to compliance and ready to go. He is standing with a man I don’t know in front of the enormous fireplace, pale and cowed, recent events having worn him down to the point of unrecognizability.

  I take his arm and give the stranger a curt nod. Across the room I see Tatum accepting a glass from a waiter. She turns and smiles at me. She is dazzling.

  Even now, I can’t quite quell the bitter shock of seeing everything I worked for, my dream, my masterpiece, taken away from me. And what a cruel irony that Tatum escaped unscathed.

  But then again, she’s a survivor. It’s in her blood.

  CHAPTER 1

  There is a particular species of shrew that injects a dose of anesthetizing venom into its prey so it can feed at leisure while the victim is still alive. Maybe it’s a kindness; more likely it’s just nature’s inclination to keep you still and compliant as disaster strikes. You only realize you’re fucked when it’s too late.

  Think about it: markets crash when investors are feeling fat and happy. Spouses leave when their jilted partners are convinced things are finally on the right track again. And when it’s your turn, there’s nothing you can do. You’re the mouse. That short-tailed shrew bearing down on you with an oily grin? That’s that old familiar bastard, fate.

  In my case, the early months of the new year passed in not-unpleasant monotony, our household bobbing along in the privileged waters of the Upper East Side. My husband worked hard and made a lot of money. I was a stay-at-home mom of two young children, a pampered wife with a busy social calendar, a sought-after friend with a reputation for the mildly outrageous.

  At least, I had been for a time, when everything I touched turned—if not into gold, at least into Instagram posts with hundreds of likes and invitations to every party worth going to and the fawning admiration of those on the fringes of my circle.

  Dear reader, allow me to give you a little preview of my story: I had it all, once, but I let it slip away. I’d been a golden girl all my life: rich, spoiled, attractive, confident, with a talent for cultivating envy. But as I reached the mid-point of my thirties, I grew sloppy or lazy or distracted—it’s hard to remember exactly why I stopped trying—and I lost my luster. People noticed; they drifted away. When I realized how far my star had fallen, I became desperate to fight my way back. Naïvely, I thought it couldn’t get any worse than to be irrelevant.

  I lost my way. And then I lost my nerve. And then I made a mistake.

  * * *

  —

  It was a chilly evening in May, and James and I were attending our daughter’s lower school play at the exclusive Graylon Academy on the Upper East Side of New York City, where our children would soon be finishing kindergarten and second grade. James had been working around the clock on a new deal, a former nursing home in Chelsea that his firm was turning into luxury condos, and I’d ordered him to take a night off and come to the performance. You don’t show up to such an event without your husband unless you wish to answer for it all night. Managing our husbands is one of the skills on which we judge each other.

  I had asked our nanny to stay late and watch Henry, our younger child. I’d already dropped Paige off at the school to get ready for the play, in which she had a minor role as a mushroom. The play was a morality tale about inclusivity, as far as I could tell, told through vegetables.

  Benilda’s contract was for 8:00 A.M. to 5:00 P.M. each weekday plus additional hours “as needed,” for which we paid her extra. James had asked me several times why we couldn’t cut back on her hours now that both Henry and Paige were in school. James didn’t grow up here—he’s from Allentown—and he could be insensitive to the fact that certain things simply weren’t done. Our compromise was to ask Benilda to take on the housekeeping and laundry, which allowed us to let our twice-a-week housekeeper go.

  At work, James had no problem managing a staff of eleven. But Benilda—with her thick black bob cut precisely jaw length, her acid-washed jeans, the rapid-fire conversations she had on the phone in Tagalog with her daughters—could reduce him to silence with a single “Not so fast, Mr. James.”

  This, in fact, was what she said as we were leaving, our contribution for the evening’s charity collection in my hands, a stack of women’s thermal underwear still in the Gap bag. “Not so fast, Mrs. Julia. Take this for school.”

  She handed me a small box wrapped in shiny, cheap paper I didn’t recognize. I’d always encouraged Benilda to help herself to my gift-wrap closet: before the holidays I mailed her packages to her daughters in Sorsogon myself.

  “What’s this?”

  “Paige wanted to buy her own gift for poor kids. We went to CVS. She used her birthday money.”

  I was torn between pride in my daughter and resentment that Paige had confided this wish to Benilda and not me. Lord knows I’d tried to foster a generous spirit in her, but empathy tends to be in short supply among eight-year-olds.

  “What is it?”

  “Nail polish kit. Deluxe kind with six colors.” Benilda nodded with satisfaction. I had no choice but to take the box from her. “They wrap for free!”

  In the Uber, James brought it up. “I thought we didn’t let Paige wear nail polish?”

  I rolled my eyes. “It’s the school that doesn’t allow nail polish. Which is all the more reason for her to want it. But it can’t go in the collection. There was a very specific list. Practical things.” Socks, phone cards, notebooks. Clothing in plus sizes. All of it to be donated to our sister school in the Bronx.

  “So what are you going to do? Toss it in the trash in the ladies’ room?”

  James could only ask such a question because he never had to deal with dilemmas like this. To him it was amusing.

  But I had an even better solution. I simply left the nail polish in the Uber, a black Escalade so new it smelled like the showroom floor. Maybe the next rider would have a creative idea for it. Or a young niece. No longer my problem, at any rate.

  Our driver dropped us off around the corner from the school on Madison Avenue; the street in front of Graylon was as crowded as any weekday pickup. The evening’s highlight was the play, but there was also the sister school collection and a silent auction. Graylon Academy never missed an opportunity to squeeze a few bucks from the parents on top of the fifty thousand dollars per child we paid for tuition every year. Missing these events did not go unnoticed. Few parents dared risk it.

  “Jesus,” James said, surveying the line to check in, snaking out through the open doors from the lobby. I could make out Hollis Graves at the desk, flipping through her spreadsheets, checking people’s names off the list.

  “Yes, well, welcome to my life.” I shouldn’t have said it. It was petty and not even accurate. It was true that I served on a lot of school committees and put in a ton of volunteer time, but many of my duties were fairly pleasant, involving lots of wine-drenched “planning” lunches. And I’d learned to avoid the worst tasks—you wouldn’t find me sitting at a desk checking off names under the glare of all these parents’ impatience.

  We stood in line, not speaking. Behind us were Emery Souza and her mother-in-law. I said a perfunctory hello, but things had been cool between me and Emery since she ran against me for treasurer in the PTA election two years ago and won.