If she disappeared in the wilds of Northern England, would the creditors find her? First, she could hold her babies’ hands as they walked around Piccadilly Circus. They could stay in a castle. And then she could just take…what? A bottle of Benadryl? Six bottles of cough medicine? She imagined writing a check to Jane’s Travel, going to England, and just enjoying the last days before Rich knew she was a liar.
Or maybe Sweet Nothings would…
After all, Cassidy Rose said…
She believed she was a Boss Babe and…
Emma put her head in her hands.
“Why don’t you look happy, Em?” said Rich.
Emma’s brain short-circuited. She just…went blank. All the maneuvering, the credit limits, the debt, the fact that she had spent their savings,Rich’ssavings, the money he’d planned to use to retire and create the life he wanted—it all disappeared. It was too much. The possibility of fixing things, of returning to some semblance of normality, was gone. Emma was going to lose everything; it was just a matter of time. Cassidy Rose was not her friend. Cassidy Rose had played her. There was no other option than to ride the wave.
“I’m so happy!” she said. And in a feat of mental gymnastics she could never hope to understand, Emmaactually felt happy.
“Hooray!” said Rich.
PART THREE
STRANGERS ON A TRAIN
1
Sylvie
A man in a silk top hat and a bright blue three-piece suit (accessorized with a red tie, red handkerchief, and a tiny red rose on his lapel) opened the door of Sylvie and Simon’s London taxicab with a flourish. “Welcome to Brown’s Hotel!” he said.
“Oh, Simon,” said Sylvie, jet-lagged, shielding her eyes against the bright sun and grabbing his hand.
“My favorite hotel in the world,” said Simon.
“Welcome in,” said the bellman, tipping his top hat.
Sylvie turned to gather her bags, but two porters were already taking them from the taxi and another pair of men swung open wooden doors with ornate glass panes. Sylvie, pressing smooth her rumpled sundress (it had seemed so chic in Miami), tried to appear accustomed to opulence. She stepped from the taxi and walked across tilework spelling out the hotel name beneath her silver Birkenstock sandals: multicolored stones in perfect patterned swirls.
Sylvie thought of Emma and Cleo: After reading the picture bookEloise,they had loved playing a game they’d conjured called “The Plaza.” The young Peacock sisters had never been inside a hotel, but they’d pretend that Emma was a room-service waiterand Sylvie was the nanny and Cleo—always—the rich and pampered hotel guest, Eloise. As Cleo made up outlandish requests—a sandwich with the crusts cut off or an animal to keep her company—her sisters would scramble to comply (making simulacra of fancy foods and even sneaking a frog into their room to please “Eloise”).
Now, Sylvie gazed around the lobby of Brown’s Hotel. She loved the mint-green and blue wallpaper, which featured images of wisteria blossoms and birds. A skylight made the chandelier beneath it glitter. Sylvie took in dove-blue velvet chairs; riots of fresh flowers; a faint smell of cigar smoke; and the sounds of piano notes and low laughter.
A sharply dressed young person materialized, offering gin lemonades from a bar cart, which Sylvie and Simon declined. “Welcome to Brown’s,” said the woman, her heels snapping against the floor as she led them to an elevator, then down a hallway. “The Kipling Suite,” she said, turning her wrist like Vanna White onWheel of Fortune.
“Is there a monkey right there or am I hallucinating?” said Sylvie, pointing to a white sculpture hanging overhead.
“A bit of fun,” said the woman, allowing a tight smile.
The woman unlocked the suite and entered. Shelves of antiquities lined a wallpapered hallway. Sylvie tried to follow as the woman talked about the eleven Georgian apartments that were connected to one another to make up the hotel. “Brown’s was the very first hotel in London,” she said.
The living room of the suite was—quite simply—the most luxurious space Sylvie had ever seen in her life: lush silk curtains; giant couches with a dozen pillows each; elephant sculptures; two duck decoys; and an enormous blurry painting of a seahorse. A glass-topped coffee table was piled with books and hydrangeas. The woman mentioned original paneling; fabric from Lewis & Wood that “gives a touch of today.” She hoisted books aloft:P.G.Wodehouse, and Kipling’sThe Jungle Book,which she explained was, in fact, written here.
In this room.
By Rudyard Kipling.
“Brown’s has two entrances,” the woman continued. “One on Albemarle and one on Dover…” Sylvie’s eyes began to glaze over.What time was it in Florida? Simon, noticing Sylvie’s spaciness, thanked the woman and bid her goodbye. When she was gone, Simon opened a door to a beautiful bedroom. He lifted Sylvie’sNew Yorkertote from her shoulder and gathered a robe for her from the closet while she undressed. She slipped from her sandals, pulled on the robe, and climbed into the enormous, cloudlike bed. Simon tucked her under the goose feather duvet.
When Sylvie woke, she turned to her naked fiancé, who was watching her sleepily. “What time is it?” she said.
“I have no idea,” said Simon. He brought his face to hers, paused as she went liquid. He ran his palm down the side of her body—her rib cage, her waist, moving his fingers to her stomach and down. Sylvie closed her eyes and sighed, letting her head fall into the perfect hotel pillow. Simon brought his mouth to her throat, and then he pulled the bedding over their bodies.
