Better Off Without Him (Romantic Comedy) Read online

  “Aunt Lily,” I was breathing heavily, “you’re wrong. He was my best friend.”

  She shook her head. “No, Mona. You’re very lucky to have two best friends right here in this room with you. But Brian was never your friend. Brian never thought about anyone but Brian. He was always the most important person in the room. A best friend is someone you can call up in the middle of the night because you’re afraid or mad or in jail, and that person will drop everything to help. Brian wouldn’t even get up to answer the phone. He never once put anything or anybody ahead of his own needs. Didn’t you ever notice that? I mean, really Mona, you were married to him, what, twenty years?”

  I nodded dumbly.

  “And what I really didn’t like was how he never took you seriously,” she went on. “As a writer. We talked about it a few times, you know. He thought it was some little hobby of yours. He never respected all your hard work. He just liked going to all the award parties.”

  “Not true!” I yelled.

  Aunt Lily set down her glass and looked at me very seriously. “Dear Mona, I’m so sorry. But I bet if you asked him, he couldn’t name one of your books.”

  I looked at Patricia and MarshaMarsha, and something in their faces stopped my anger. Aunt Lily was right. Brian had been a lousy husband.

  I had never thought about it much, because he was very charming. We were always laughing together about something. He would stretch his legs out in front of him and start waving his hands around, and soon the whole room would be smiling along with him.

  He wasn’t big on helping around the house. Or running the girls to various sports events or rehearsals. He never had dinner ready if I came home late from the City, not even take-out. He never called anybody for anything, not the doctor, or our broker, or Ben Cutler. He didn’t walk the dog or feed the cat. He let me hire the cleaning people and the lawn people and the painting people and the snow-plowing people and he never bought me a birthday or anniversary card. There was always something attached to a beautiful bouquet, of course, but nothing was ever signed by him in his own hand, and I knew for a fact that there were standing orders with our local florist to automatically send those beautiful bouquets because I had given those orders myself years ago.

  What a bum.

  “But I loved him,” I said.

  “I’m sure you did, dear,’ Aunt Lily said sadly. “But it doesn’t look like he loved you.”

  “I think I need to rest for a few minutes,” I said slowly. Why on earth had I finished that last martini? Was I crazy? I had almost been sober after lunch, and now I was back in that let’s-spin-a-few-times-around-the-world’ mode. I needed somewhere quiet.

  I wasn’t going to get it. The back door slammed open, and I heard a familiar clomping. The girls were home already?

  “They don’t know yet,” I hissed to Aunt Lily, and I pulled myself upright and forced myself to stand straight as Jessica rushed into the living room.

  “Mom, did you really kick Mr. Arnold’s butt?” Jessica asked.

  Her face was beaming, her eyes bright, and she looked like she, well, approved of me. I shrugged. “Well, I guess,” I muttered modestly. “Where are your sisters?”

  “Late bus. Lauren has yearbook and Miranda’s chasing after some senior in the Spanish club. Did you really threaten to take Bernadette to the Board of Ed?”

  Ah, urban myth. “I thought about it.”

  “That is so cool.” Jessica dropped her backpack, which landed with enough force to cause a few priceless figurines on the fireplace mantel to jump. “Hi, Aunt Lily. Did Mom tell you what she did?”

  Aunt Lily stood and swept Jessica up in a warm hug. “No, dear, we didn’t get around to that yet. Let’s blow this pop stand and head for the den, and you can tell me all about it. Are your nails supposed to be that color?”

  Jessica grinned happily and trailed after Aunt Lily, pulling her backpack along behind her. I slumped back down on the couch and closed my eyes.

  “She’s right,” I said. “Brian was a shitty husband, and I had a miserable marriage.”

  “Well, no,” MarshaMarsha said. I opened my eyes and looked at her.

  “Every marriage is different,” she continued. “What you and Brian had worked for a long time. You’ve been very happy with him. What Lily said might have been true, but we all pay a price for what we want. You wanted Brian. If that meant running the show, you obviously never minded because you did it beautifully. You’ve been a great wife, even if he wasn’t such a great husband.”

  Patricia nodded. “She’s right, darling. He’s the one losing here, not you. He’ll never find another woman who’s as accomplished and capable as you are. The man’s an idiot. He’ll probably figure it out for himself in a few months, when he has to start doing things like picking up his own dry-cleaning and remembering to take out the garbage.” She tilted her head at me. “This is a lot for one day. Brian is coming back tonight? Why don’t I hang around until then. You just rest for a while. I’ll deflect the girls.”

  I swallowed hard. “Thank you.”

  MarshaMarsha got up and looked at me. “The boys are going to start coming home. I’ve got to go. I’ve got eggplant parm in the freezer. I’ll have Joey run it over. The girls will want something hot for dinner, and Lily shouldn’t have to cook her first night. I’ll be by again tomorrow, okay?”

  I nodded, stretched out on the couch and closed my eyes. The room was still unsteady, and my lips were back to being slightly numb. My brain was racing, but thanks to all that vodka, I actually napped a little, hearing snatches of conversation that fit into odd, unhappy dreams. The cat curled against me, and I could have sworn Ben Cutler came in and kissed me on the cheek, but that may have been wishful thinking. I became fully awake quite suddenly when the room was turning dark and I could hear Brian’s voice.

  I jerked up from the couch, brushed down my hair, and tried to look like I was just sitting in the dark. He came into the room at a rush and angrily turned on the overhead light. I stood up and raised my chin proudly.

  “You called my mother?” he snarled.

  I nodded defiantly. Then, I crumpled just a little. I pointed to Patricia, who was standing right behind him.

  “It was her idea.”

  Brian’s eyes narrowed as he turned to look at her. “I should have known. Patricia, you are such a bitch.”

  She smiled. “Oh, darling,” she cooed. “I know.”

  Aunt Lily came downstairs. She had changed from her sensible shoes to sensible slippers. She looked at Brian coldly. “I never did like you,” she spat, then swept past him to sit by the fireplace, picking up a magazine from the side table and making quite a show of reading it.

  Brian clenched his teeth. “My mother called me at work. I can’t believe you told her.”

  “I just told her the truth, Brian,” I said.

  “We need to talk to the girls,” he snarled.

  I squared my shoulders. “No, Brian. You need to talk to them.”

  He wheeled around and headed back, yelling for the girls. I could hear protests coming from upstairs, but they all filed down and followed him into the den. I sat back down. Patricia sat with me. We waited.

  They were in there for almost twenty minutes when I started to worry. Why wasn’t anyone crying? Shouldn’t somebody have started throwing things by now? Weren’t they angry? Sad? I was trying to figure out how they were taking things when the doorbell rang. I got up, crossed the hall and opened the door. It was Dominique.

  My jaw dropped open. She was standing very stiffly, her tiny body wrapped like a sausage in a black suit, her very blonde hair swept up into a perfect twist.

  “I got tired of waiting in zee car,” she said. “Is everyzing okay?”

  Now, in my novels, I know exactly what to say when the Other Woman has the balls to make an appearance. When Millicent Dupree realized that she actually loved her husband of three months, the silent but devastatingly handsome Geoffrey, Earl of Marchkirk, and when Millice
nt came face to face with Syllabyne Combs, the Earl’s former mistress, Millicent put that Syllabyne whore in her place with a few scathing observations of character and one well-appointed insult. Amanda Sinclair, newly engaged to Wentworth, Duke of Briarcliff, sent Justine Rutledge, who had very serious designs on the duke, scampering off after a war of words that went on for two and a-half-pages. So, in theory at least, I knew the long and short of it. Looking at Dominique, however, I couldn’t think of a single word to say. Lucky for me, I had Patricia and Aunt Lily.

  Patricia went into her Junior League mode. I could tell by the stiffening of her neck and the way her jaw clenched. She let loose a barrage of words that sounded spiteful and insulting, but, since they were in French, I had no idea what they were.

  Dominique, on the other hand, understood completely, because she went white.

  “Non,” she whispered.

  Patricia moved her shoulders in a decidedly Gaelic gesture. Then, the real bombshell fell. Aunt Lily, coming up behind, also said something in French. Her accent, I could tell, was not as perfect, and Aunt Lily’s lips actually moved when she spoke, but the effect was still pretty good.

  Dominique visibly shrank. She took a few steps back. Then she turned and ran back into the car. Brian’s car. The Mercedes.

  “What did you say?” I asked.

  Patricia smiled evenly. “I told her that there was a law in this country against husband-stealing and that if you pressed charges she would be sent back to France.”

  “Really?” Oh, that was rich.

  “Yes,” Aunt Lily said. “And I told her I did it to my husband’s mistress. Had her deported back to Poland.” She shook her head. “I wouldn’t believe such a thing, but Dominique certainly did.”

  I was still laughing when Brian came bustling into the hallway, clasping his hands and looking rushed.

  “What’s so funny, ladies? And did I hear the door?”

  “No, no door,” I sputtered. “How are the girls?”

  “Fine, just fine. I really have to get going, so – “

  “Wait.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “Why are they fine?”

  “Ah, well, I just explained to them – “

  I marched back to the den. My daughters were all on the couch, watching American Idol. They did not look upset.

  “Why aren’t you upset?” I yelled.

  Miranda hit the remote, silencing contestant number three. “What’s to get upset about, Mom? Obviously, this is what you and Daddy want, although I can’t understand why you’d be so willing to let this family fall apart, so what’s the point…”

  She was blaming me. Of course.

  “Brian!” I yelled. He came, somewhat sheepishly, into the room. Obviously, he had been hoping for a quick escape. “The girls seem to think,” I said coldly, “that this is something we both want.” I was looking at him hard. He was starting to blush.

  “Ah, yes. Well, I told the girls that things had been not right for some time.”

  I was biting my lip. “Did you tell them I had no idea that things had not been right?”

  “No.”

  Lauren looked interested.

  “What else did you tell them?” I asked. I was chewing the other side of my lip now.

  “Just how, well, you know, people grow apart and that you and I had talked about this and you didn’t disagree with me moving out.”

  I had to hand it to him. That wasn’t exactly a lie. He just left out a whole bunch of other, relevant parts. “Did you tell them about Dominique?”

  “Who’s Dominique?” Miranda demanded.

  “So, you didn’t. Okay then, did you tell them that I didn’t know we had any problems until this morning?”

  “Who’s Dominique?” Miranda asked again.

  “Did you tell them that I was sailing along thinking everything was fine while you were carrying on behind my back?”

  “Daddy?” Jessica looked shocked. “But you said you two just drifted apart.”

  I was in Brian’s face now. I might have been screaming. “Did you tell them I didn’t disagree with you because you just walked in, packed up your things, and told me we were finished without giving me a chance to even give you an argument?”

  Brian looked disgusted. “See,” he said, “now they are going to be upset. You just had to get your two cents in, didn’t you?”

  If I had owned a gun, I would have shot him.

  “Brian,” I barked at his departing back. He turned. “Name one of my books.”

  He frowned. “What?”

  “Name one of my books. I’ve published twenty-seven books in the past eighteen years. Name one.”

  He looked at me like I was a crazy person. “What the hell are you talking about? I don’t know the names of any of your stupid books.” Then he walked out.

  I couldn’t look at my daughters. The blood was running through my body so hard and fast I could barely hear beyond the rushing in my ears. I closed my eyes and took several deep breaths. Then I looked over at my three little girls.

  Jessica was white. Lauren was in tears. Miranda looked pissed.

  Miranda spoke. “I can’t believe he’d do that to you,” she said in a small voice.

  And for the first time in that long, long day, I thought that maybe, just maybe, we’d be all right.

  Chapter Four

  When I awoke the next morning, there was a warm, unfamiliar presence in the bed. I opened one cautious eye.

  Fred. Right. Fred had often asked to be let up on the bed, but Brian always said no. During the times when Brian had been away for extended business trips, I had not given in because I knew that Brian would be back and Fred would face even more disappointment. Last night, Fred got the invite.

  As a sleeping companion, Fred was commendable. He didn’t snore. His legs didn’t twitch. When I snored, he didn’t shake me on the shoulder and insist I turn over on my side. He didn’t steal the covers or get up three or four times to pee. He didn’t fart and stayed on his side of the bed. He had it all over Brian.

  I smelled coffee and knew that the previous day had not been some bizarre Kaftka-esque nightmare. Brian, in the twenty years we had been married, had never made the coffee.

  I got out of bed and stumbled across the hall to the bathroom. On the way back, I caught a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror beside the dresser and almost had a stroke. I looked awful. My first thought was, God, no wonder he left.

  I forced myself to take another look, then began to process my figure logically. I usually didn’t look this bad. My eyes, for instance, were only bloodshot because of all those Carmichael Martinis. That was also why my skin looked so pasty, except for the red splotch on the side where the sheets had bunched up beneath my cheek and left an imprint. Normally, my hair was carefully brushed, not sticking straight up on one side.

  I squinted. A few years ago, my eyelashes completely disappeared. They could be coaxed back with two or three applications of black/black mascara, but without that, my face looked lash-less and bland. Not quite this bland, but still.

  I pulled back my lips in a forced grin. There was not a forest of pine growing between my teeth after all. It just felt that way. The Carmichael Martini again.

  I threw back my shoulders. I had always been proud of the fact that I had only gained ten pounds in twenty years of marriage. Of course, redistribution had become a bit of a problem. My arms were not sleek, but rather rounded, almost puffy. But then, Liz Taylor, in that scene in A Place in the Sun, where she first meets Monty Cliff playing pool, and she’s in that gorgeous white dress with her arms and shoulders bare, well, her arms aren’t very buff either, but you don’t even notice because of all that cleavage. I’ve got cleavage too, but, without proper support, my breasts sag so badly that unfettered, my nipples hover about four inches above my waistline. I’m naturally short-waisted, by the way, but it’s still a pretty impressive drop.

  My thighs rub together. And my butt wobbles.

  I stepped back from
the mirror, hoping that a little distance would improve the situation.

  It didn’t.

  But I clean up well. I had a head shot done a few years ago, for a conference or some such nonsense, and boy, did I look good. Black and white, with the light just right on my eyes, which are, with enough mascara, my best feature. My cheekbones looked sculpted, my chin and jaw line firm, my dark hair beautifully styled, my smile seductive. Almost Ava Gardener. That old-fashioned, glam look.

  Not that morning, however.

  I smelled bacon. I suddenly remembered Aunt Lily had offered to get up and make breakfast for the girls so I could, as she put it, sleep off all that Grey Goose. But I felt the need for normalcy, so I slipped into sweats and slouched downstairs.

  My daughters were all sitting around the table, smiling and chatty. As I rounded the corner and entered the kitchen, silence fell. They all looked guilty, torn between the bliss of eating good, hot food that someone else prepared for them, and the knowledge that this was day one of Life Without Father.

  Aunt Lily had found the waffle maker in the appliance graveyard that was my pantry, and the kitchen smelled of baking and hot grease. I began to salivate.

  “Good morning,” Aunt Lily said cheerfully, thrusting a mug of hot coffee at me. “One waffle or two?”

  “Two,” I mumbled, sipping gratefully. “How is everybody this morning?” I asked, feigning real interest in something other than the prospect of crispy bacon.

  “We’re fine, Mom,” Lauren said, smiling bravely.

  “Did you return my outfit?” Miranda asked.

  “Can I go to the sleepover?” Jessica also asked.

  Oh, my wonderful kids. So much for being devastated by their parents’ break-up.

  “Yesterday,” I reminded them coldly, “I was a little distracted, so I didn’t get the chance to do what I had planned to do. Hopefully, today will be a more normal kind of day, and I’ll be able to attend to all your needs. If not, you will all just have to deal, okay?’