Mrs. Perfect

“How about the first Thursday of October?” I suggest, my BlackBerry calendar open.

“Uh, Boy Scout pack meeting,” Jen answers, looking up from her BlackBerry. “What about Wednesday, the day before?”

“There’s a Little Door parent education class,” Monica answers, her pen poised above her appointment book.

A wrinkle forms between Kate’s brows. “You still attend parent education classes?”

“The school brings in top-notch speakers and specialists to discuss hot topics,” Monica answers, nose lifting slightly with her ever-present superiority. She has two kids, and they attend different schools. “We’re discussing bullying.”

“God, that topic’s been done to death,” Jen mutters.

Either Monica doesn’t hear her or she chooses not to respond. Jen attended Harvard and is one of the only moms Monica defers to.

I hear the garage door open. Nathan’s home. We definitely need to get the next meeting scheduled before the girls come in. “How about Tuesday of that week or Thursday the following week?”

“Thursday the following week would work for me,” Raine says.

“Me too,” Patti agrees.

“It’s a busy day for me, but I think I could do it, too,” Suze answers.

“Look at your day!” Monica squeals, catching a glimpse of Suze’s calendar. “Hair, hair, facial, wax, wax, pedicure, manicure, massage? You’re kidding, right?”

Suze’s lips curve wryly. “It is a long day, but Jefferson loves it, especially the after-the-wax results.”

“How much do you wax?” Raine asks curiously.

Suze’s slim, straight shoulders lift and fall, her long hair a perfect streak of pale gold. “All of it. Jefferson likes me bare and baby smooth.”

“And how often do you get it done?”

“Every four to six weeks.”

Raine points to Suze’s crown. “What about that hair?”

“Every four weeks on the dot.”

“Pedicure and manicure?”

“Every two weeks.” Suze, seeing the wide eyes, laughs. “I wouldn’t do it, or be able to afford it, if it didn’t mean so much to Jefferson. He loves me to be groomed.”

“Groomed, yes,” Ellen answers with a faint frown, “but that’s . . . that’s . . . some serious time at the salon and spa.”

Suze glances around. “But don’t you all get your hair colored and blown out every three or four weeks?”

Most of us murmur agreement.

“And nails? Come on, I know we all get regular pedicures. I’ve seen your toes all summer!”

Patti sighs. “I’d do more massages if I could. Facials do nothing for me, but massages . . . Ah. Heaven.”

“God, I’d pay for a happy ending, too,” Ellen whispers with a wicked quirk of her lips. “I don’t know if it’s being in my mid-thirties, but I’m revved up all the time. Unfortunately, Mark’s not interested. I suppose having just me in his bed for the past eighteen years has dulled his appetite considerably.”

“It’s the stress of the job,” Jen says with a shake of her head even as she puts her hand on Ellen’s forearm. “Anthony is so tense all the time. The only time he wants sex is when we’re on vacation.”

Heads nod. “Vacations make sex new,” Kate agrees.

“Hotel rooms make it new.” Suze giggles. “This summer when we were at the house in Canon Beach—” She breaks off abruptly, her gaze fixed to Lucy’s face.

We all turn and look at Lucy. Her lips are slightly parted. Her expression is stricken. She looks as though she’s being skinned alive.

Swiftly I go over the conversation. What could have upset her? And then I realize: sex, husbands, and hotel rooms.

Just then my attention’s caught by Nathan’s shadow in the hall. He’s directing the girls up the stairs to their rooms.

“We’ll meet Thursday, then,” Ellen says quickly. “Jen, it’s your turn to host, right? And Raine, your book pick. Have you selected a title, or will you let us know by e-mail?”

“I’m still trying to decide,” Raine says, clicking her pen. “I’ll send out an e-mail and let you know sometime this weekend.”

“Great!” Patti answers with a little more enthusiasm than necessary. She closes her minicalendar and slides it back into her purse. “I look forward to the next meeting, and now I better get home. I promised Don I’d help tuck the kids into bed.”

Everyone’s on her feet, quickly gathering purses and books before giving hugs and kisses, and then in one big group they’re out the door and heading for their cars.

As the front door closes, Nathan comes back down the stairs. “How did it go?” he asks.

My shoulders lift. “Good. I guess.” I glance toward the door and picture Lucy’s silent agony. “I think Lucy’s having a hard time, though. I should call her. Make sure she’s all right.”

“You should.”

I’m about to turn away when I suddenly remember the Welcome Coffee and my conversation with Amelia. “I met someone last week, Nathan, at the Welcome Coffee. She said her husband works with you. Christopher. He’s apparently a vice president at McKee, too.”

Nathan’s expression is blank. “What’s his last name?”

“I don’t know. They moved from L.A. I guess they’ve been up here a while, but until recently they lived on the Plateau.”

Nathan shrugs, heads up the stairs. “Don’t know, hon.”

“Well, find out. If the girls are going to be in the same class next year, it might be good to get to know them better. Have them over for dinner or drinks.”

He mumbles assent, and I follow him up the stairs, turning out the lights as I go.

I tuck in each of the girls and then wash my face, doing the nightly skin repair routine before climbing into bed. Nathan’s not reading tonight. His light is already out. I turn out my light and curl up next to him, but he’s asleep and doesn’t respond.

Lying there in the dark, I see Lucy’s face. No matter how hard I try, I can’t make it go away. I see her eyes, the open lips like a silent scream, and I shiver.

How horrible to be so alone, so naked.

Chapter Five

It’s Tuesday morning one week later, and tonight’s Back-to-School Night. I’m giving one of the welcoming speeches, which means I’ve woken up feeling as though I’ve already drunk ten cups of coffee even

though I’m still lying in bed.

Things are good, I tell myself. I’m doing good. No need to stress. I just need to relax.

I wish I knew why I have such a hard time relaxing. It’s almost as if I’m afraid something bad will happen if I’m not constantly in control.

Voices waft from downstairs. From what I can hear, Nathan’s in the kitchen trying to get the girls to eat their breakfast. He’s usually patient with them, but unfortunately this doesn’t seem to be one of those days, and Tori—or is it Brooke?—begins to wail.

Grimacing, I pull on the nearest thing I can find—my Juicy tracksuit—as I think about my day. I’m supposed to meet Patti at noon to discuss the auction and the auction chair meeting scheduled for next week. I’d normally have yard duty, but I traded with another mom so I could meet with Patti. The morning’s more or less free, and I consider taking an exercise class. I need some exercise.

In the walk-in closet, I glance at myself in the full-length mirror. In my tracksuit I look fine, but the soft fabric can hide the truth, so I pull up the jacket and pull down the bottoms, exposing my stomach, hips, and boobs. I do this almost every day. Sometimes what I see is okay, sometimes I can see only ugliness, can see only where my waist might be thick and how I’m slightly round across my stomach where I know it should be flat.

Now I touch my stomach, try to suck it in even more, looking for definition, turning to the side to check my width.

The most fashionable women, the truly stylish women, are all thin. Every month when my new issue of Town & Country comes, I leaf through “Parties” to see if I know anyone. And to see if I look better than anyone.

I don’t like that I do this. But I’m so afraid that if I don’t keep on top of the situation, of me, I won’t matter.

Usually all the couples in “Parties” are well-known, society staples and celebrity faces, and nearly every woman looks like a greyhound that’s just come from a spa. Their skin is taut and glowing, and they’re all racehorse thin. But every now and then one woman looks a little bigger, sturdier, than the rest of the stick figures in their couture gowns, and I breathe a little sigh of relief—I’m not that fat!—even as I feel a prick of pity that she’s not as skinny. Privately, I don’t understand this preoccupation with weight and figures. I never even think twice about the men in the “Parties” pictures. It’s a nonissue if a man is stout in his tux, or narrow through the shoulder, or thinning at the scalp. Men don’t have to be model perfect. Men just have to be men.