The Trophy Wives Club Page 9

  “Faithful. What does that even mean in Hollywood? That the alimony checks come on time?”

  Chapter 6

  I woke up this morning and gazed at my enormous wedding ring in an entirely new light. Being in a cheap motel, which accepts cash payment, it wasn’t a great light either. In the back of my naïve mind, I always believed the woman with the biggest diamond was the most loved. In my case, it was about being the lead dog at the golf club. I never was good at math, and in this equation, I was downright ignorant. Or as Lindsay might say, dumb as a hamster. But today, I realize the size of that ring actually does give me power. I’m going to sell it and embrace my singleness.

  I scamper out of bed to the mirror and try to yank the sucker off, but it won’t come off for anything! I unwrap the minisoap and lather up my finger under the running water. “Come on, come on!”

  Great. I think my hand is swollen. It looks like an uncooked chicken sausage topped with an obnoxious, gleaming diamond in the center. Not attractive. I lather up again, getting a good, sudsy layer of bubbles and grunt again as I try to pull. Nothing.

  I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror that’s covered with someone else’s toothpaste splatterings. Ewww. But what I notice, besides that, is my eyes look their normal size.

  I didn’t cry myself to sleep last night for the first time in months. From the time Jay went international, traveling to Monaco without me and, I guess more importantly, with Rachel. My eyeballs don’t look like they’re wrapped in two slices of raw bacon. That’s progress. I do wish, however, I’d had my eyelashes dyed before I became an overnight credit risk. It looks like I’m sporting albino spiders—a fashion risk.

  The motel phone rings, and I take my soggy finger and dry it on a board stiff towel. “Hello?”

  “Haley, is that you?”

  “Yes, who is this?”

  “It’s Bette, dear. From last night.”

  “Hi…Bette.” I gaze at the phone. “How did you know where to find me?”

  “Lindsay told me where you’d checked in. I must say, it’s not a very good neighborhood. Do you need a place to stay, dear?”

  “Um no…thank you. This place is fine. Free toothpaste and everything. My first settlement check should be arriving soon, and I’ll move then.” Yes, I have the financial ability to move now, just not the will. What if I run into someone I know? I shouldn’t have told Lindsay where I was staying. I don’t want to admit I have all this cash and no credit in my name.

  “You’re probably wondering why I called you so early.”

  It crossed my mind. “No, it’s nice to hear from you.” Anyone actually.

  “We do this silly little thing,” she goes on. “I’m almost embarrassed to tell you how it got started, but we were sitting around one evening, and we started lamenting how there just wasn’t enough time in the day to do it all. Then, someone brought up how Jesus took time to wash the disciples’ feet…and well, we have this monthly tradition where we meet at a pedicure spa and have our nails done and fellowship. There’s no religious significance to it, it’s just a chance for us to gab. I wanted to invite you for next week.”

  “Oh—”

  “It’s on Tuesday afternoons. We meet at Perfect Nail in Brentwood. Do you know the place? On San Vicente?”

  “I do.” I look down at my sausage finger. “Maybe I’ll come.”

  “Two o’clock, next Tuesday. We hope to see you there. Do you have a cell number, Haley? So I don’t have to track you down if you change motels, and I do advise that you consider changing to a hotel. A young woman like yourself should be in a hotel, where the access to the rooms is limited.”

  “Yes, ma’am. But I’m afraid Jay may turn off my service any day. I’ll need to restart it.”

  “You do need to restart, Haley. Write down my number, in case you need anything.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Haley, quit being so ridiculously stubborn and write down my phone number. Don’t make me come down there!”

  “Let me get a pen.” I fumble at the desk. “Go ahead.”

  “It’s 310–555–5674.”

  “I’ve got it.” I scribble down the numbers, knowing I will never have any use for it but worried that I don’t want to suffer Bette’s wrath and have her come get me either.

  “I’ll call to remind you about the foot-washing ceremony.” She laughs at her little joke, as though a church group getting pedicures is scandalous in nature. “Take care, Haley.”

  “You too, Bette. Thanks for calling.”

  Maybe the Trophy Wives Club helped in its own way. It felt good getting invited to something again. Remember the days when everyone would get an invitation to a birthday party, and you’d be sitting there envelope-less? That’s been my life in Hollywood. I suppose that’s why I learned to throw such great parties—so I’d actually get to attend. Anyway, Lindsay really did seem to have some good information on renegotiating. I’ve made an appointment with Hamilton for next Tuesday.

  My ring finally comes off and leaves a red indent where it sat for so many years. It clinks into the sink, but since it’s so huge the catch stops it. The gem sits at the bottom of the scratched porcelain bowl, and I can’t help but marvel at the dichotomy.

  I rinse it off and hold it up to the mirror, watching it glisten under the fluorescent lighting that makes me a sallow shade of yellow. The diamond is incredible. No one can fix this situation but me. I ran Jay’s life. He didn’t just run mine.

  And yet I’m here whining about not having a cell phone? Who picked the plan in the first place? The ring holds dozens of possibilities.

  “I’ll say one thing for you, Jay, you sure knew how to buy jewelry.”

  My father always said this rock could choke a horse, and whether or not that’s true, it can’t go down a cheap motel sink. Big stones have their privileges, but sadly one of them is not, she who has the biggest stone is loved the most.

  I unwrap one of my outfits from the dry cleaner and slide into some fuchsia wedges I bought last spring at Bloomingdale’s. My hands look like Scarlett’s been out doing field work again, but I haven’t got time to fix them. I think about checking out of the motel, though I don’t know where I’ll sleep tonight, but Bette’s words suddenly brought up Thelma & Louise for me, and I imagine it isn’t the best place for my budget. Especially without Louise.

  Maybe I’ll go higher end tonight after pocketing a little cash from the ring. I have to admit, I’ve been taking pride in being the victim. Driving a bucket of bolts rental car, staying in the cheap motel, it all makes Jay look like a bigger jerk, and I think I’ve derived a little pleasure from that scenario.

  Arriving at Rodeo Drive feels different when you’re not in a Porsche. I must admit, I never shopped here, even with money. It felt like such an obnoxious waste of money, and I never was into name brands. I suck in a deep breath and press the button to enter an estate shop. They check me out and decide I look innocuous. My hands are trembling under the weight of this task.

  I’m buzzed in (I dressed well knowing I had to get in). No ratty tennis shoes today, though I couldn’t feel much more ratty myself. To enter a high-end jewelry store by oneself tells a tale no one wants to tell. The shop is incredible, filled with baubles and precious gems from decades and centuries gone by. I have to wonder if each piece tells the story of a great love affair or a cold marriage of status. The classical piano in the background makes you believe it’s the former, but of course, that’s their job—to sell jewelry, am I right? Who wants to buy anything from a trophy marriage gone awry?

  “Good morning, Miss. Are we looking for anything in particular today?” A man with an English accent greets me. He’s Indian and has a strong, Bollywood chin. He could make a tax bill read aloud sound elegant. He’s wearing a silk tie and a sharp suit, most likely from Europe.

  “I’m wondering if you might help me. I’m here to see if there’s some interest in my wedding ring.” I hold up the ring.

  �
�Do you have papers with it?”

  I nod and pull the gold envelope from my handbag. It contains all the GIA information on my diamond and a diagram of the stone, showing its flawless credentials. He looks it over and back at me. “You know I can’t pay you what this is really worth. Maybe an auction might be the better avenue for you.” He hands the jewel back to me.

  I shake my head. “Too much effort.” Too much humiliation. “I’m anxious to get rid of it privately.”

  “There are some fine auctions in town where your name needn’t be announced, and they might be able to make special arrangements to do this quickly.”

  “The diamond is quite famous among my husband’s colleagues. I prefer to do the transaction this way if you don’t mind.”

  “If I can just examine the piece, my manager can create an offer and you can let us know if it’s agreeable to you.” He takes out his professional loupe and gazes into the diamond. “There’s not a flaw in this diamond. I thought perhaps the GIA technician missed something.” He sounds amazed.

  “There is, it’s just very slight. You’ll see that on the documentation. It’s not visible to the human eye.”

  “It’s barely visible with the loupe. It’s a gorgeous stone.”

  “The diamond’s nearly flawless. There’s just a giant flaw in the man who gave it to me.” I laugh lightheartedly, refusing to acknowledge the pain underneath. “She weighs about 110 pounds.”

  “Well, you know what they say. Some men compensate with big cars, others with big diamonds.” He smiles. “Do you mind if I take the ring back to the manager? I know he’ll be quite anxious to see it. It’s not often we see a diamond of this size in the cushion cut without flaws.”

  “No, take your time, I’ll just look around.” I wander through the glass cases, focusing on the elegant jewelry and electric sparkles coming from the backlit boxes. The security guard, a giant black man with a gun, smiles at me, and I smile back. I glimpse at all the unspoken promises here in the form of sapphires, rubies, and, naturally, diamonds. The cases are sparse, to allow a connoisseur to appreciate the fine Victorian, Edwardian, and Art Deco pieces.

  I gaze at it all like a museum, admiring the beauty of the artwork but knowing its acquisition wouldn’t change my life one iota. I think everyone should be wealthy at least once for that very reason, so you know if you’re not content poor, you will not be content rich.

  Lying in the back of the case like a sick afterthought, I spy Jay’s wedding ring, and my heart pounds. I bend over the case and squint to see if it’s really his ring and I see the engraving I had placed inside the ring. To my beloved. Always. The thought that he beat me here gives him the last word. A last word I’m not willing to let him have.

  The Englishman comes out of the back room, his mouth straight. He holds up my ring, now shined to perfection, it glimmers like the North Star on the darkest night. “I cleaned it for you.” He hands it back to me.

  “Did you get a price?”

  “I did, but I can’t ethically allow you to sell it here. It’s worse than I thought. You need to take it to auction. My boss is only willing to pay $12,000 for the ring; it has to be worth at least $20,000 at auction, $50,000 retail. My price is barely what a pawnshop might present you.”

  “I have to rent an apartment this afternoon, and I need what money I have to save for a down payment. I’m blathering, but I’m not proud, I need the capital. Just give me the money.”

  “I’m afraid I won’t let you sell it here.” He puts the ring in my hand and closes my grip. “I’ll give you the name of someone reputable, and they’ll handle it quickly and discreetly.” I nod and place the diamond ring on my hand. The money from the car will have to do for now, but then I focus on Jay’s ring again, and something snaps.

  “Excuse me, can I see this ring here in the case?”

  “The man’s ring?”

  I nod.

  “It’s Van Cleef & Arpels, very tasteful. Brushed platinum. Comfort fit. It has a Ceylon sapphire in it; a very rare one, which was the original owner’s birthstone. It makes it quite unique. Is there someone you’re thinking about for the piece?”

  “No. I mean, there was. I used the money I’d saved for college to buy it once upon a time. How much is it?”

  He looks me over. “It’s fifteen hundred.”

  “I’ll take it.” Again.

  “Will you need it sized?”

  “It fits him now.” It dawns on me how I came in here to make money, and I’m leaving with a purchase I can’t pay for. “I’d like to sell my ring here, and purchase this with the money you’ll give me for my ring.”

  “I’ve already told you, Miss—”

  “Cutler. Mrs. Jay Cutler. The customer is always right, correct?” Perhaps sadistic and slightly vengeful, but always right.

  He leans over the glass counter. “I’ll have a check cut for you this afternoon and an agreement to sign, but you must know what I think of this. I’ll not have it on my conscience.” I slide my ring off and he puts it into a small envelope and labels it. “Let me give you a receipt for the ring before you go.” He pulls Jay’s ring out of the case. “Take this ring. Trust me, you’ve more than paid for it.”

  I clasp my hand around Jay’s ring. “Really?”

  “Come back after two for your check.” He writes on a carbon piece of paper and rips off a receipt for me. “Bring this with you when you come. It’s a pleasure doing business with you.”

  I clutch the piece of paper and the ring. “Who may I thank for this?”

  “Nigel. The name is Nigel George.”

  “Thank you, Nigel; your kindness means a lot to me.”

  “I do wish you’d wait to sell that piece. It’s an incredible stone and though Mr. Cutler may not be my favorite client, he certainly has good taste in rings. And wives.”

  “He’s traded down, I’m afraid.” This makes me giggle.

  Nigel laughs aloud. “He has, and should he come in here, I’ll make certain to help him accordingly.”

  “Oh yes, please do. Make sure her ring is just one-tenth of a carat smaller than mine. Better yet, try to sell that one to him, I doubt he’d remember he already paid for it once.”

  “Wait on this. Please.” He holds up my ring. “You would receive quite a bit more money for it at auction.”

  “Money never solved any problems for me, Nigel, it only created new and more elaborate ones. This amount will get me back on my feet.” I hold up the receipt. “I am suddenly my own boss.”

  Nigel puts Jay’s ring in a fancy velvet box, and I shove it into my purse. “If you change your mind,” he says, with his brow lifted, “you have thirty days to return the funds from your diamond.”

  “Like a high-end pawnshop?”

  “That deal is only valid for you, because I don’t take advantage of my customers. You’ll remember that someday when you’re back on your feet.”

  And with that accent, I find myself hoping he would take advantage. “Thank you, Nigel.”

  “Like I said, it’s been my pleasure, Mrs. Cutler.”

  “I don’t usually like that name for myself, but in your accent, it sounds quite natural.”

  “May God bless you, Mrs. Cutler.”

  Did he just say what I thought he did? We share a moment, and I feel my confidence bolster just an inch or so. I walk toward the glass door, and I swear, I’m just about to walk into it, thinking about that English accent and the weird encounters with everyone talking about God. No one talks about God in this town unless it’s followed by a curse word. The security guard catches me and puts me back on the right path by stepping in front of me and opening the door.

  “Thank you,” I say, looking back at Nigel. My face flushes fuchsia like my shoes as he smiles at me. Clearly, my head is still in the clouds—ever so slightly.

  As of this afternoon, Haley Cutler is back. And she’s ready to shop!

  Chapter 7

  Against my better judgment, which indicates I have some, and I�
��m not certain that I do, I drive by the house…My house…My former house…Jay’s house.

  I’m in my junker, the rental car. I’m sure there are neighbors calling the police right now because a car worth less than $45,000 has entered the neighborhood, and I’m no one’s maid. Red Alert! Red Alert!

  When I was a child, I used to wonder what it was like to live in a house like this. How anyone cleaned it! (My mom informed me people who owned houses like that had maids.) I couldn’t imagine the luxury of having someone else clean your house. It was unfathomable to me—and perhaps why I never learned to clean myself. Maybe I did have aspirations to be a trophy wife.

  I pull up to the quaint gate, created to look like a home-style white picket fence, but as it slides into the property-surrounding wall, it’s apparent to all, it’s an iron security gate, not small town Americana. I punch in the security code and it’s just as I suspected. Without someone (me) to tell the staff to change the number, it’s still the same. Which I actually take as a compliment. At least Jay isn’t worried about me returning and stalking him. Though since I am here, maybe he should be.

  As the gate slides open smoothly, my conscience tells me to turn around, but I always listened to my conscience, and look where it got me!

  I pull up to the house, parking the sputtering junker in the middle of the two cars in the brick driveway, both new to me, and for a split second, I worry he’s sold the house and never told me. One of the cars is a white 700 series Beemer and the other a small, black Porsche Carerra. I love seeing my Korean rental smack-dab in the middle of them.

  I actually wish I had a camera. Wouldn’t it make a great tabloid shot? My little economy car in the middle of their high-end vehicles? It’s so symbolic, so Freudian!

  I wander up the step, and I’m about to open the door. My stomach churns, and though I know better, I turn the door handle. My first crime, and it feels delightful!