Good Rich People(9)

These women are a good reminder of what’s waiting for me if I ever leave Graham, if he ever leaves me. It’s impossible to be good in the world—even the good things you try to do, like saving someone, for example, can have terrible consequences. That leaves two choices: evil and mediocrity. I watch these women gasp at tea cakes and think: This is mediocrity.

I have never felt more alienated in my life, until Posey leans over the table and says to me, “How are things with Graham?” She dated Graham all through school. She got his best years, the years before he learned how much he could really get away with.

“Fine,” I say. I don’t mention that he, Margo and I are all participants in a silly but dangerous game, or that it’s my turn, or that I am still hoping for a chance to back out. This is the trouble with friends. You have to lie so much to keep them, rearrange the fabric of who you are to please them. It’s exhausting.

“Isn’t his real birthday around the corner?” I don’t know why she bothers asking. She knows it is. Every year she shows up at his party in a dress that would make Scarlett O’Hara blush. “Do you have anything planned?”

“Of course, I do.” I’ve been planning Graham’s birthday since Christmas, when we sat beside the fire at Margo’s and Graham—drunk and smoking like a chimney—complained bitterly: Fucking Christmas. I’d rather be crucified than have to unwrap another goddamn sweater. Graham is quite funny when he’s drunk. Never intentionally.

“What are you going to do?” Posey’s eyes glitter with challenge.

I glance at the other women, but they’re wrapped up in watching a server pour liquid nitrogen over a swan, revealing an egg underneath. “We’re going to play a game.”

Posey leans back in her chair, drums her fingers on the table. “What kind of game?”

“A shooting game. With real guns.”

I was trying to shock Posey, but Mitsi overhears and gasps. “Real guns? What are you going to do, kill people?” All of the women here are slightly in awe of Graham.

“Real guns but fake ammunition,” I say. “It’s called Simunition. It’s what the police force uses for training. I’m having it made special with gold dust, so when you shoot someone, they turn gold.” I pinch the gold dust on Mitsi’s table and flick it in demonstration. “It’s going to be spectacular.” I’m actually very proud of my idea, although I know it will be lost on these women. It won’t be lost on their husbands, who always act up for weeks after one of Graham’s parties. I hate to tell you this, Peaches once told me. But after Graham’s parties, Henri always threatens me with divorce. Graham’s parties bring out the worst in everyone. It’s a real skill to throw a party that good.

“Fabulous.” Posey grins with all her teeth. She likes the threat of violence. I suppose there is a reason she dated Graham.

Mitsi inhales slowly, less sure. “Graham is so masculine,” she decides. That’s one way to put it. “I’m glad Mark isn’t so masculine.”

“Women like games, too,” Posey says. She pinches a finger full of gold dust and blows it across her dress so it looks even more fabulous. I wonder what would have happened if she had married Graham. Would she have played the game? Would she have stayed? The truth is, I don’t know her, and she doesn’t know me. That’s why we’re friends.

“It must be very hard for you,” Mitsi says, “keeping up with him.” She meets my eyes and my chest aches.

“I’m not afraid of Graham,” I volunteer, which is not what she was saying at all.





LYLA



When I get home, the housekeeper is gone and the house is spotless. I have this uneasy feeling. I go to the cupboards and count all the bottles of Mo?t, just to make sure she didn’t take any.

Graham doesn’t return until after sunset. There are so many windows that the dark crowds in, punctured with little lights from the houses along the hills. There are only three stars in the sky.

“Did you read the e-mail?” I am standing in the living room when Graham crosses the long floor. He perches on the arm of the sofa beneath me, looks up at me.

“She makes three hundred and fifty thousand a year,” I say without thinking.

“She sounds impressive.” Graham is always impressed by money. He slides the tie from the back of his neck and it tugs his collar open. It releases his scent, enticing me.

I step forward until I am straddling him. I run a finger down the inside of his open collar. I kiss him, and he kisses me back. I let my hand drift down toward his pants. I kiss him again, but when I find him, he’s soft.

Sex has always been sporadic in our relationship. It was his wedding present to me. A surprise gift that came with commitment.

I remember our wedding night exactly, how he laid me down on the bed in our suite at the Beverly Hills Hotel, just like he was supposed to. How he glistened with perspiration, how he looked at me like he loved me, just like he was supposed to. But he couldn’t have sex with me. He couldn’t. And I told him that it was okay, that it was understandable. You’re tired. It’s been a long day.

And he went out on some phantom errand, to get fizzy water or something, and he came back hours later. I was lying in bed watching Real Housewives. And I switched the TV off and he climbed in beside me and he said, “I’ll make it up to you. I promise I’ll make it up to you.”