ridiculous going back. New York, sure. But to give up my autonomy? I decide where and when and how I work, for whom, and how much. It feels like the wrong move to give that up and go back where I started.’
‘I hear you. But it’s Miranda Priestly. Think of the wardrobe budget. The parties … It’s the job a million girls would die for …’
‘You did not just say that.’
‘Sorry, I couldn’t help myself.’
Emily heard a loud crash in the background, followed by crying. ‘Which monster is that? I’ll let you go.’
‘Matthew! How many times do I have to tell you that you may not touch the fireplace poker? It’s not a toy!’ And then to Emily in a whisper, ‘Sorry. He can be such an asshole.’
Emily smiled. Anyone who could call her adorable five-year-old an asshole was someone she wanted to be friends with.
‘Em? If you really have nothing to do, why don’t you come here? We have a guest suite with your name on it. Totally sequestered, up on the third floor, with no children anywhere nearby. Stay a night. Or as long as you like. I’ll text you the train information.’
‘The train?’ Emily spat, as though Miriam had just suggested she walk from Tribeca to Greenwich.
‘Everyone takes it, love. It’s not just for unstylish people.’
Emily harrumphed. ‘Fine. I’ll come. I can’t bear to get on a plane right away. And of course I’d like to see those rug rats of yours. But only one night,’ she said, and clicked her phone off before she could change her mind. Then she swiped it open once more and punched her location into the Uber app. Emily Charlton might be a washed-up, middle-aged Luddite, but she most definitely did not take the train.
MIRIAM
As the door quietly closed behind her, Miriam surveyed the tangle of toys in the garage that, in New York, her children hadn’t even known existed – bikes, sleds, skis, Rollerblades, scooters, even an old-fashioned wooden wagon – and smiled. They were so lucky to live in a place like this, and even six months in, she didn’t take it for granted.
The mudroom, as usual, looked like a hurricane had hit, with overflowing cubbies of puffers and mittens, raincoats and hats and snow boots and scarves and umbrellas, and the kitchen after breakfast always looked like a starving rabid raccoon had nosed its way into every single cabinet and drawer.
‘Hey,’ Miriam heard from the couch before she could see the source of the voice.
‘Em?’ she asked, although she knew full well that was the only person who would be watching talk shows in the family room on a Tuesday morning. Emily had been with them for three days now, poring over gossip sites and newspaper articles about Rizzo Benz and Olivia Belle, so far as Miriam could tell. She was showing no signs of leaving. ‘Thanks for cleaning up – you shouldn’t have.’
‘What?’ Emily turned and glanced at the kitchen. Miriam could see she was in a ratty T-shirt that read BUT FIRST, COFFEE, and a borrowed pair of Miriam’s flannel pajama pants that looked like they were three sizes too big. An open laptop sat on the couch beside her. ‘Oh, I wasn’t getting near that disaster. Please. Don’t you have someone to handle that?’
Miriam rolled her eyes and stuck a pod in the machine. ‘Do you want a coffee?’
‘Are you coming from actually working out?’ Emily asked. ‘Or are Lululemons considered getting dressed around here?’
‘Both, actually. I went to a nine o’clock SoulCycle class.’
‘Wow, I’m impressed. The Miriam Kagan I know is not the Soul kind of girl.’
‘Yeah, well, I try to go a couple days a week. Not like the other moms. The instructor asked today who was “doubling,” and half the class raised their hands. Three of them were tripling.’
‘Three hours of your day and a hundred and twenty bucks – aggressive. Even for Greenwich,’ Emily said. ‘At least in Santa Monica, they don’t admit to it.’
Miriam dumped in a splash of half-and-half and grabbed a croissant from the plastic bucket of assorted Trader Joe’s breakfast pastries.
‘You can’t outrun a bad diet, you know,’ Emily called.
Miriam gave Emily the finger and shoved the croissant in her mouth.
‘A minute on the lips, a lifetime on the hips.’
‘These hips can handle one croissant, trust me.’ Miriam grabbed a love handle with one hand while balancing her coffee cup with the other. The croissant hung out of her mouth as she carefully lowered herself into the chair opposite Emily, trying to ignore the sensation of her stomach fat rolling over the waistband of her yoga pants. The high-waisted waistband. With extra compression. ‘What are you working on?’
‘Trying to get my career back. I’m being Snapchatted to irrelevance. When did we get so old?’
‘We’re thirty-six. It’s hardly ancient.’
‘Look around. You have three kids. And a professionally decorated house.’ Emily surveyed the family room. ‘It’s lovely, but whoever did this clearly hates color. It’s like fifty shades of gray without the S and M.’
Miriam nodded. ‘Exactly how I like it. So, what’s going on? I hardly think it’s fair to say that your career is in the toilet just because Rizzo Benz went with Olivia Belle. Or are we still not allowed to talk about it?’
‘It’s not just Rizzo.’ Emily sighed. ‘Maybe I’m losing my touch.’
‘Your touch? You went from being the top stylist in Hollywood to managing top celebrities in crisis. But if you don’t like it, do something else. You clearly can.’ Miriam polished off the last of her croissant. ‘What does Miles think?’
Emily shrugged. ‘He thinks like you. I’m overreacting. I’m great. But he’s not even around these days. He’s about to go to Hong Kong for three months.’
‘Go with him,’ Miriam said.
‘I’m not going to Hong Kong.’
‘It’s a great city.’
‘Maybe I’m depressed. Look what I’m wearing,’ Emily said.
‘Looks fine to me. Move in here and you can live in your pajamas all day. Just give up. I have.’
‘Yeah, you have,’ Emily said. ‘I never thought I’d see Ms. Editor of The Harvard Law Review doing school drop-off followed by SoulCycle class.’
‘That’s harsh. But fair, I guess. You should hear my mother. She’s literally embarrassed of me.’
