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* * *
Pierre Michel, the ultra-chic, ultra-expensive salon I frequented, was located on Beverly Drive right next to the hip, new Odéon Hotel. Running late, I valeted my Mercedes with one of the hotel attendants. The salon was extremely popular and being just five minutes late could cost you your appointment. With my jam-packed schedule, I couldn’t afford to do that. I could, however, afford the sinfully exorbitant valet fee.
I whisked into the salon. It was bustling with clients getting haircuts, color, blowouts, or all of the above. I lit up at the symphony of sounds—the snip-snip-snip of scissors, the hum of blow-dryers, the rumble of gossipy conversation, the sexy French music. And marveled at the way stylists and colorists pranced around like ballerinas. Total theater. I loved this place. And the mega-talented owner, Pierre Michel, was my personal stylist. He charged an unheard-of amount for a haircut. But it was well worth it. Not a day went by without me feeling grateful. Thinking about how lucky I was. And how differently my life could have turned out.
Toting my monstrous new Saint Laurent bag, a thoughtful birthday gift from Matt, I strode up to the receptionist. Her name was Bev, and she sported spiky, purple-streaked hair, an armful of tattoos, and a bunch of piercings, including one in her nostril. I was glad neither of my daughters—nor my exchange student—were into piercings and tattoos. They repulsed me and reminded me of someone I hated. Someone I wanted to forget.
“Hi, Bev,” I said. “I hope I’m not too late. The traffic on Wilshire was horrendous!”
She looked up at me and smiled. Her gleaming white teeth stood out against her eggplant-black lipstick.
“Mrs. Merritt, you’re right on time. Giselle is waiting for you. Why don’t you head back to her station?”
Giselle was my blowout girl. Pierre Michel, hairstylist to the stars, didn’t do those kinds of mundane things. I thanked Bev and hurried back to Giselle’s regular station, the pounding music putting a bounce into my already light, happy gait.
When I got to my station, my heart almost stopped. Sitting in the chair next to mine was the woman who had almost destroyed my life.
Alexa Roth.
THIRTY-ONE
NATALIE
In the mirror, I saw her. And she saw me, her shocked expression rivaling mine. Alexa and I hadn’t seen each other since our last encounter over two years ago. An icy head-to-toe chill skated down my body as a chipper Giselle greeted me and escorted me back to the sinks to wash my hair.
Usually, I loved this part of the blowout. There are few things more heavenly or relaxing than getting your hair shampooed. Feeling the spray of hot water prickling against your head and the touch of strong fingertips massaging your scalp. Hearing the squishy, soothing sound of the lather. And inhaling the shampoo’s aromatic vanilla-coconut scent. Somehow, salon shampoo and conditioner always smelled better than the ones you had at home. I always closed my eyes and let myself enjoy this weekly indulgence, sighing blissfully.
But today, after seeing Alexa, as I leaned back in the reclining chair, my head lolled against the sink basin so that Giselle could do her magic, I was anything but relaxed. A torrent of horrific memories whirled behind my closed eyes.
I remembered that morning as if it were yesterday…
* * *
It was a Tuesday… the middle of May. My family scrambling for breakfast. Will feeding Bear his chow. The kids scooting off to school in Anabel’s Jeep. Matt asking me if I could drop off his navy-blue blazer at the cleaners. Pecking a kiss on my lips as he left for his office.
After my troupe was all gone, I tidied up the kitchen and put Bear outside in the yard. I always relished this time alone. I had the house to myself and could leisurely get ready for my day—take a hot shower and review my schedule. It was just another typical Tuesday. Until it wasn’t.
On my way out to Pilates, I remembered Matt’s jacket. Leaving my workout bag by the side door, I ran back upstairs to our bedroom. I found it easily, folded on the back of an armchair. Holding it up by the shoulders, I inspected it. Clinging to the gabardine fabric were three long curly red hairs. I plucked one off and held it between my thumb and forefinger like it was vermin. Then I put the jacket to my nose and took a whiff. And inhaled a familiar floral scent—jasmine with a hint of lavender.
Except it wasn’t mine.
My stomach churned.
My heart lurched.
My husband was having an affair… With his twenty-one-year-old redheaded secretary! A powerful wave of nausea crashed through me. Tossing the jacket back onto the chair, I sprinted to our en suite bathroom, getting to the toilet just in time. Kneeling on the cold marble floor, I held up my hair and retched into the bowl until my stomach was twisted and my throat was raw. With a trembling hand, I flushed the toilet and stood up, my legs like Jell-O. Stumbling to the sink, I turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on my face. I stole a glance at myself in the mirror. I looked wan. Disheveled. Old.
After rinsing my mouth, the acidic taste of Matt’s infidelity still on my tongue, I staggered back downstairs. Once in the kitchen, I trudged to the fridge and grabbed the barely touched chenin blanc left over from last night. All I had to do was pull out the cork. Pop! I put the lip to my mouth and guzzled it like soda. With the half-empty bottle in my hand, I retrieved my phone, which was charging on the counter, and then sat down at the kitchen island. Between gulps of the white wine, I canceled all my meetings, my lunch, as well as my private Pilates session. And popped a Xanax.
Half an hour later, the wine depleted, I still hadn’t shed a tear. Not a single one. I was now too numb. Too drunk. Barely able to think straight, I weighed my options: I could be like my mother-in-law and look the other way. Or, I could confront Matt.
Option One was not an option. There was no way I could let this go. Especially given my past. I’d looked the other way until it almost destroyed me. So it boiled down to Option Two: confronting my husband.
What were the possible outcomes? A) Matt could deny it and tell me I’m crazy. Or B) Matt could fess up…but then what? Could I forgive him and stay in this marriage? Or could I never forgive—or forget—and leave him? Destroy my family and everything I’d worked so hard for.
And then, there was this possibility…he’d want to leave me. Move on to his secretary or someone else. The consequences were no less devastating. Maybe tenfold worse.
I had no answers. Only fear. An all-consuming, viselike fear of my life, as I knew it, unraveling. It was gripping me so fiercely I could barely breathe. I wanted to scream, but what I needed was someone who could help me see the sun through the clouds. Give me honest advice. There was only one person. My no-holds-barred best friend, Alexa Roth. The wife of one of Matt’s best friends, Noah.
