I had a complicated relationship with my life. I loved California and this neighborhood, but to look like I belonged here took a massive amount of effort. I did what I could at home, with DIY face masks and drugstore waxing kits, but some professional help was still required to fend off the assault of Father Time. And we couldn’t afford it.
I found a glue stick in Tatum’s room. I glued the wallpaper down and rolled it smooth with the tube. If only fixing the wrinkles on my face were so easy, I thought. Just dab some sticky goo on them and roll them out. If I could invent such a thing, I’d be a millionaire! At that point it seemed as likely a path to wealth as my husband selling another screenplay.
I put the glue stick back and made Tatum’s bed. She hadn’t slept in it—she’d slept with me the previous night. Tatum’s bed was unmade because her dad had slept there. He was going to be “up late,” he’d announced, “preparing for his big meeting” and “didn’t want to wake me.” Tatum was thrilled like she always is when Daddy “stays up working.” Which was a lot. Truth be told, he rarely slept in our bed anymore, and Tatum had the spot next to me pretty much whenever she wanted. We just didn’t always tell her so.
I wanted to help my husband succeed in his chosen career, but we couldn’t go on like this forever. At some point I would have to confront him, demand he get an actual paying job. But that day I had to fix a faucet.
So I put my failing marriage on hold, and hoped it wouldn’t grow as sorry as my sagging face and crumbling house.
CHAPTER 11
I saw her in the supermarket parking lot. She was loading groceries into the brand-new version of my Lexus. I noticed she got the highest trim—low-profile chrome wheels, and mahogany paneling to contrast the buttery-smooth camel interior. We always went for black on black because it doesn’t show wear.
Food shopping at ten o’clock on a weekday morning meant, like me, my new neighbor probably didn’t have a job. It was unemployed housewives’ hour. We shared the parking lot with a handful of nannies and the kids in their charge.
“Holly, hi!” I said, with a wave and a smile. She nearly dropped her watermelon. “Sorry! Didn’t mean to startle you.” Why does this woman always look like she just got caught with her fork in someone else’s dessert? She didn’t say anything, so I reintroduced myself. “Libby. I live across the street from you.”
“Right,” she said, nodding. “Sorry, I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Ummm . . . it’s the supermarket a mile from our houses, but OK.
“How are you liking the house?” I asked her, trying not to sound too envious. Andy and I had wandered in there when it was for sale. The previous owner had “lovingly restored” it, our friendly neighborhood Realtor had told us, and for once he wasn’t exaggerating.
“We like it very much,” Holly replied somewhat robotically. I wondered if she had a pole up her ass, or was just not a good conversationalist. I couldn’t help but notice she’d had her roots touched up and her hair cut in flattering waves around her face. I hadn’t had a haircut in two months and had resorted to covering my newly sprouted grays with hair dye I bought off the internet.
“We loved it when we saw it,” I gushed, hoping to flatter her into opening up to me. “That kitchen is to die for! Do you like to cook?” My eyes wandered over to her groceries—kettle chips with a Diet Coke chaser—and I immediately regretted the question.
“I like baking better,” she said, “but I don’t mind it.”
“I insist on having you all over for dinner,” I blurted. What is wrong with me? I was in no position to host a dinner party, my girls were in bed by seven o’clock. And compared to hers, my kitchen, with its parquet floor and yellowing appliances, looked like a junkyard. But I was crazy curious about her shiny new car, her shiny new locks, and the man I suspected was her shiny new boyfriend. And I couldn’t very well invite myself over to her house.
“I’m not with Evan,” she insisted, and I pretended I believed her. “Maybe your husband didn’t tell you . . . ?” She picked at her manicure, and I cursed my own nails, which I had chewed down to tiny nubs. I hated going to the nail salon. It embarrassed me to have my hands and feet massaged by hardworking immigrants who surely needed a massage more than I did. I didn’t think they were talking about me in whatever Southeast Asian dialect they were speaking, but their constant clucking made me and my white privilege feel like a pampered, spoiled brat. I don’t know when colorful, perfectly sculpted nails became part of the uniform worn by the respectable modern woman, but after keeping up with the trends—round nails, square nails, french, black, coffin—I was over it.