Lipstick Jungle

Wendy stood there, her valise in one hand and the rollerboard in the other, thinking that she must look like a refugee.

Her family stared. No one seemed to know what to do.

Act normally, she thought. But what was normal? She put down her suitcases and waved. “Hello . . .”

“Mother!” Magda screamed dramatically, as if someone were killing he

r.

She was wearing stretchy brown pants with cuffs at the ankles; on her feet were small lace-up boots. “You’ve arrived!”

She ran awkwardly toward Wendy with her arms outstretched. She was a little chubby, Wendy thought with a pang of anxiety—underneath her white shirt you could see the beginning of a belly and two small, indistinct mounds of breast tissue. “I must get her a bra. Tomorrow,” Wendy thought, feeling unbearably guilty. “I won’t say anything about her weight—it’ll come off—she’s just starting her growth spurt.” And she held her arms open and hugged her daughter, smelling her hair, which reeked sourly of sweet sweat, and she thought about how mothers could probably identify their children by their scent alone.

“I’m so happy to see you,” Magda exclaimed.

And then Tyler, as if deciding it was safe, came swooping toward her, circling around like an airplane. Little Chloe began banging on the sides of her stroller, demanding to be let out. “Here she is,” Gwyneth said, holding Chloe out to her. “Here’s your mum. At last.” And she gave Wendy a searching, somewhat worried smile.

Wendy looked over at Shane to make sure he was fully appreciating the significance of this scene. He gave her a resigned smile, and she turned away, bending down to Tyler. “Mommy, I lost a toof,” he said, putting his little finger in the gap.

“Let’s see,” Wendy said. “Did it hurt? Did the tooth fairy come?”

Tyler shook his entire body from side to side. “Didn’t hurt, but it bled. And the toof fairy gave me ten dollars. So Daddy said it was worth it.”

“Ten dollars? That’s a lot of money for a little tooth. What are you going to do with it?”

“Oh Mommy. Ten dollars is not so much. Not even enough to buy a CD.”

Jesus. What was Shane teaching them? She stood up, and taking her children’s hands, walked over.

Shane made no move to kiss her hello. Instead, he gestured toward the man beside him, who wasn’t, Wendy thought, nearly as attractive as he appeared from far away. Up close he looked manufactured, as though his skin were made of plastic. He was wearing tinted aviator sunglasses and smoking a cigarette (a Parliament, of all things!), and had a great swoop of highlighted hair that appeared to be plastered in place with hairspray. His legs were encased in skintight white britches and black boots that went up to the knees, and his shirt was white with red stripes, in the same cherry-red color as the red on Shane’s shirt.

“This is my wife, Wendy Healy. Marc Whittles. Our trainer,” Shane said.

At least he called me his wife, Wendy thought, shaking Marc’s hand. And for just a second, she thought maybe she’d made a mistake, maybe everything was normal after all.

“We weren’t expecting Wendy,” Shane said, looking at her pointedly. “But I guess she was worried about the kids.”

“I’ve been away . . . I haven’t seen them . . .”

“Where?” Marc asked, flicking a spot of cigarette ash off his white britches. He was slick, Wendy thought, like a real estate broker.

“Romania,” Wendy said.

“Romania?” Marc said, drawing his head back in distaste. “What’s there? There’s no skiing, is there? And there certainly can’t be any shopping.”

“Work,” Wendy said, thinking that she was about to lose patience with this man.

“Wendy’s in the movie business,” Shane said.

“She’s the president of Parador Pictures,” Tyler piped up.

Good boy, Wendy thought, squeezing his hand.

“That’s very . . . nice,” Marc said, as if calculating her worth. “We have lots of movie people here. So you should feel right at home.”

Wendy gave him a little half-laugh to indicate that this would never be a possibility.

“So you see . . .” Shane said, with a triumphant edge to his voice, “the kids are just fine.”