The Wives

Karolina could feel her mouth open in shock. ‘Funny?’ she sputtered. ‘Of course not. It was horrible, every minute of it. And where have you been? You send Trip? You know I—’

‘All I know is what I heard from the Bethesda Police Department, Karolina. According to Chief Cunningham, you were detained during a routine sobriety checkpoint after failing a roadside test.’

His use of her full name, Karolina, instead of Lina, hit home.

‘Graham, I know what they said, but I also know that—’

He slammed his palm against the countertop. ‘How could you do that? How could you possibly be that stupid?’ His face and neck were a mottled red. ‘And with my son in the car, no less!’

‘Your son?’ Karolina asked. ‘You meant to say our son. He may be my stepson, but you know I’ve never called him or thought of him as anything less than my own.’

Graham tossed his full mug in the sink and held a finger inches from her face. His eyes were slits. ‘You need to wake Harry up right now and get him home safely. Can you manage that? Obviously, by Uber, since you’re not driving anywhere. Those leeches’ – he motioned toward the manicured Bethesda street out front – ‘will find you. I hope it goes without saying that you are not to speak to a single one of them. Not a word. Don’t even make eye contact. Do you understand me?’

Karolina moved closer to him, hoping to see him soften. ‘Why are you acting like this? You know I didn’t drive drunk. You know how private I am. You know I would never, ever do anything to put Harry – or anyone else’s children – at risk.’ Karolina sounded desperate, pleading, but she couldn’t help it. It was one thing for her husband not to pick her up from jail, but it was another for him to be so livid over a crime she obviously didn’t commit.

He had a brand-new hardness in his eyes. ‘I’ll be home tonight. Remember – talk to no one.’ And with that, he left the kitchen.

4 (#ulink_1f658aba-42a6-516a-8082-07643109fec0)

Some of My Best Friends Are Jewish (#ulink_1f658aba-42a6-516a-8082-07643109fec0)

EMILY

When the elevator doors opened directly into an apartment with floor-to-ceiling views of the Freedom Tower and both the East and Hudson Rivers, Emily tried to arrange her expression into one of nonchalance. She’d been in some impressive homes in her time. The Kardashian spread in Hollywood wasn’t too slouchy. George and Amal’s Lake Como spread didn’t suck. And no one could say that Miranda Priestly’s Fifth Avenue townhouse wasn’t spectacular. But there was something about this $12 million fifty-eighth-floor-penthouse glass magnificence that took her breath away. Since there weren’t many skyscrapers in Tribeca, it felt like they were floating alone in the clouds. There was so much natural light she had to squint, and the starkly modern furnishings and complete openness of the enormous space gave it an otherworldly feel.

‘Thank you so much for coming,’ Helene said, pushing her hair back. For as long as Emily could remember, Helene had worn her hair in the most spectacular Afro – wild, massive, and fabulous – but today it was tamed into a trillion tight, shiny ringlets that framed her entire face.

‘Of course,’ Emily said, setting her overstuffed Goyard tote down on the entryway bench. She’d received six panicked texts from her assistant, Kyle, on the way from the airport. Apparently Helene was having a meltdown. ‘Is he here?’

Helene nodded, ringlets shaking. ‘His trainer is with him. They should be done in a couple minutes. Can I get you anything? Some coffee? A stiff drink? I could sure use one.’

‘How about both together? I won’t say no to that.’

Emily followed her into the blindingly white lacquered kitchen where a uniformed Hispanic woman stood in front of a Starbucks-level espresso machine. ‘Clara, could we each get a flat white with a shot of Baileys, please?’ If Clara thought it even a tiny bit strange that these two professional women were requesting a spiked coffee at three in the afternoon, she gave no indication. The woman expertly prepared their drinks and led them to a white leather couch that looked directly out at the spectacular view.

‘So, I guess we should start with the obvious,’ Emily said, taking a sip. ‘Why did he pick a Nazi outfit to wear to a costume party?’

Helene looked at her hands as if searching for strength. ‘It wasn’t a costume party.’

‘Come again?’

‘What can I say, Emily? He’s a kid. A dumb kid with too much money and too much time and too many people exactly like you and me to cover his ass. It’s not a new story.’

‘No. But it makes everything that much harder.’ Emily glanced at her watch. Not that she had anywhere else to be, but she had flown cross-country with zero notice to help this boy, and it was high time to meet him.

Helene noticed. ‘Here, come with me. I’ll introduce you.’

The women walked down a long white hallway lined with street-art inspired paintings and down a winding staircase. Another hallway, this one covered with graffiti, led to a set of glass French doors. Inside she could see Rizzo in a set of boxing gloves, furiously punching a red bag that hung from the ceiling. A beautiful girl wearing only hot pants and a fuchsia sports bra hopped around yelling at him.

Helene rapped on the door. Both Rizzo and the girl glanced up but didn’t stop punching or jumping.

‘Riz? Can you take a break for a minute? There’s someone I’d like to introduce you to.’

Emily should have been staring at his sweaty, shirtless, six-packed chest, but her eyes were immediately drawn to the trainer, whose sports bra featured a cutout all along its band, resulting in two inches of below-the-nipple bare breasts bulging out, threatening to emerge from their flimsy cover at any moment. It was so interesting, Emily thought, to wear a sports bra – which by definition was supposed to contain and support one’s breasts – and then cut away most of the fabric that would actually do either one of those things. She suddenly felt ancient.

‘Hey, great work, Riz,’ the girl said, swatting him on the ass with a towel. Her breasts heaved. Emily noticed she wasn’t alone in staring at them – Rizzo and Helene were captivated too.

‘Thanks, baby. See you tomorrow.’ Rizzo yanked the towel out of her hand and draped it around his neck. All three of them watched as the girl grabbed her duffel and her boxing gloves and walked toward the door.

‘Damn,’ Rizzo breathed as he stared after her.

‘Hey, Rizzo? I’m Emily Charlton. Helene brought me in to help manage the … situation from last night. It’s really nice to meet you.’

His eyes met hers, and for a split second Emily was torn between feeling like the only woman in the world and feeling like a complete pedophile for finding an eighteen-year-old so damn sexy. No one had eyes like that; could that shade of green even be real?

‘Hey, thanks for coming. Very cool of you, but I do think Helene is overreacting a little.’

Rizzo twisted open a bottle of SmartWater and drank the entire thirty-four ounces without taking a breath. Helene gave Emily a look like that said, Why don’t you take this one.

‘I’m sure you didn’t mean anything … nefarious by it, Rizzo, but especially after what happened in Charlottesville last year, the public tends to make a pretty big deal out of anti-Semitism, which is typically how wearing a Nazi costume is interpreted. So we should definitely get out in front of this.’

He waved his hand and started on another bottle. ‘All just for laughs. People get it. My fans get it.’

Emily took a deep breath and tried to keep her voice even. ‘Okay, maybe. But some fans might not. The Jewish ones in particular. Or anyone who was not in favor of the Holocaust, which is probably a lot of people. Certainly your sponsors – Uniqlo, Lexus, SmartWater – won’t be thrilled. And I don’t imagine Sony will be either. So I’ve come up with a plan to extricate you from all this ugliness. One hundred percent clean, a do-over. As long as you listen and play your part well, this will all go away, I promise.’

Rizzo didn’t appear particularly impressed, but he looked at her and waited.

‘I’ll call all my contacts at the usuals: the Post,HuffPo, TMZ, Variety, etcetera, and explain how you thought the swastika was an ancient Buddhist symbol of peace. We’ll play the idiot card. Just a role, but important to play up: you’re young and inexperienced and horrified that you offended anyone. You read about the symbol in a Buddhist text you were studying for a meditation class and really connected with its peaceful message.’

‘Young and inexperienced?’

‘You’re not, of course,’ Emily said. ‘That’s just the part you’re going to play.’ When he didn’t say anything, she continued, ‘You will make yourself available for all respectable interviews, where you’ll be contrite and apologetic. You’ll make a massive donation to the ADL. You’ll pay a very public visit to the Holocaust Museum in D.C., where you’ll meet with Jewish clergy and issue a formal statement stressing that this was all a mistake and a misunderstanding and not at all representative of who you are. You’ll repeat it a thousand times, or however many it takes, with genuine sincerity, until the story shifts gears and you suddenly become a champion of peace and a defender of persecuted peoples everywhere. Trust me, we can get there so long as we all follow the script.’

‘That’s smart,’ Helene said, nodding. ‘Emily’s plan sounds like exactly what we need.’

Rizzo snorted. ‘Really? I think it sounds asinine. I’m supposed to go out there and pretend like I’m some sort of idiot?’

Emily could feel Helene trying just as hard as she was not to exchange any glances.

‘I mean, this is all such bullshit. Total overkill.’

‘Do you have another suggestion?’ Emily asked, her voice as neutral as she could manage. He really was as huge a fucking idiot as she’d imagined he would be.

‘Yeah, dude, I’ll post an explanation – that I was just having fun on New Year’s and never wanted to piss anyone off. I mean, I don’t have anything against Jews. My agent is Jewish. My accountant is Jewish. Hell, all of my lawyers are Jewish. My fans know I’m not a hater.’

‘Rizzo, I can’t express strongly enough that the best response is definitely not “some of my best friends are Jewish,”’ Emily said. ‘I really don’t think you can get away with Snapchatting a “my bad” and expect it all to go away. Because it won’t.’

‘If I post it to Linger, that’s exactly what will happen.’