Chapter Four
Chapter Four
For the first time in weeks, on a chilly April day, it finally stops raining for more than a few hours and L’Wren invites me to play tennis.
We’ve seen each other at school drop-off and at our girls’ playdates, but it has always felt forced.
We were like two stressed newscasters during a technical difficulty.
That night last fall, when I told L’Wren about Dirty Diana, she was rightfully upset. I had kept it from her for months, scared she would distance herself from me if she knew. But she ended up distancing herself because she didn’t know. Because I didn’t give her a chance to be close.
I’m first at the courts and I stand next to my car, hopping lightly from one foot to the other to stay warm until L’Wren arrives.
She pulls up moments later and pops open her trunk, grabs her racquet, and hands me two new cans of balls. “Look at me, out on the public courts!” Her smile is wide and sunny but it’s partly performance. There is a hesitancy in her quick embrace.
As we head toward the courts she drops her chin and whispers, “These folks are like vultures, Diana. I had to sign up weeks ago for this slot—and now look, I can see them circling.”
We open the chain-link fence gate and I scan the courts for vultures but there is only an innocent-looking couple, thin and elderly, lobbing gentle shots across the net.
“Thanks for inviting me,” I say. We take our place on court #2 and hang our bags on the bench.
“Kevin kept the club membership in the divorce.”
“Can’t you both belong?”
“Ugh, and run into him there on dates?” She pulls her foot to her hamstring, stretching her long, lean legs.
“See him at the bar, surrounded by admirers? You’ve always assumed my ego is healthier than it is.
” She’s still tan from her recent trip to Turks and Caicos.
I only know where she’s been because of what her stepson, Liam, has told me.
“The truth is, this is a great court. Who needs the club?”
Behind us, the chain-link fence creaks open and two men stroll onto our court, as if we aren’t even here—one tall with long hairy legs and short shorts, and the other in a snug-fitted windbreaker.
L’Wren pulls her arm across her chest, still stretching. “This court is reserved.”
“But you’re not even playing,” the taller one protests.
The shorter one points his racquet in my direction. “And that one is wearing black-soled shoes! She shouldn’t even be on the court!”
“We’re preparing, a-holes,” L’Wren snaps. And when they freeze in surprise she adds, “No one kicks my best friend off a public court! Shoo!”
She turns and winks at me. And then the two of us are cracking up, and some of the tension gives way.
She fixes the misfolded corner of my collared shirt. “I missed you.”
“I missed you too.”
L’Wren smiles and jogs to the baseline. We take some warm-up shots—easy hits down the middle.
She returns my first serve, calling, “Do you think I’m a prude?”
“No,” I shout across the net.
“I can talk about sex.”
“I know.”
“Then why? Why did you keep everything so secret?”
“I think…I was afraid of letting you down.”
“What’s that?”
“I didn’t want to let you down!” I shout.
Instead of swinging her racquet, L’Wren catches the ball in her palm. “How would that let me down?”
I join her at the net. “Because you’d feel obligated to protect me. And I’m going to need your protection again.”
“I’ll always protect you. We’re friends, Diana.”
“But I don’t want you to have to. That shouldn’t be your job. I want to protect you sometimes.”
“You will.” She pushes down on the net and, with her long legs, climbs over it. She pulls me into a hug.
“I won’t,” I argue. “You’re too strong.” I can smell her jasmine perfume and feel the familiar edges of her bony shoulders.
“Ha. I’m a mess,” she whispers into my hair.
“You’re so not a mess.”
We volley back and forth for the next half hour and it feels good not thinking about anything else but returning her shot.
The weather is temperate and the court shaded, but we’re dripping with sweat as we break for water. Still breathing hard, L’Wren confesses, “I selfishly loved that you were getting a divorce so I would have someone to be divorce partners with.”
“Isn’t Arthur technically your divorce partner?”
Since splitting with Kevin, L’Wren has been dating her perfect match—Arthur is a very handsome vet who shares her love of rescuing every creature, the homelier the better to love.
“He’s been a divorce gem. Seriously. He’s made it too easy.”
“See? You don’t need me for that.”
“No, I still want you to be getting a divorce. But it’s okay if you aren’t. Are you?”
“I’m dating.” Before she can get too excited I add, “Oliver. We’re dating each other.”
L’Wren goes quiet. I fight the urge to ramble on and convince her why this is a good thing.
“I’m happy for you, Diana. I really am. And I love Oliver.”
“But?”
“Well, you’re right, I am protective of you.
I know what it’s like to be married to someone and grow apart from each other.
I don’t know how you get back there. Is that a thing?
I mean, I know couples get back together, but I always assumed it was out of necessity.
Like they forced the marriage for their kids or it was a financial decision or they just weren’t happy on their own.
But when you and Oliver broke up and we were in Paris, you seemed happier.
Whether you’re with Jasper or not. Do you still talk to him? Jasper?”
“Not really. He’s sent me a few photos, from wherever he’s traveling, but it’s all so polite when we text.
A little sad. Like we’re letting each other down gently, all over again, even though we’re just saying hi.
And now that Oliver and I are going to date…
it’s better not to be in touch with Jasper. ”
“So you’re excited to date your husband?”
I nod.
“Truly?”
“Yes. And terrified, too, of course. What if we get back together and then six months from now, we slip right back into old patterns? What if we start to lose interest in each other again? What if I can’t stand the way he chews an apple or my skin crawls when he asks me to send him an email reminder instead of writing it down himself.
Or I catch him studying his hairline obsessively in the mirror but pretending not to?
Like something so small and ridiculous turns me off and I get weird about it and the thought of—”
“Okay, okay.” L’Wren laughs. “As long as you’re worrying enough for the both of us, I’ll back off.”
“I’m worried about it all. But I’m still excited.”
“Good. I just need a tiny beat to catch up is all. Part of me is still back in Oliver-is-sleeping-with-Hat-Lady Land.” She waves her hand to dismiss the dreary thought. “Can you believe Liam is getting married? That’s what I’ve been dying to talk to you about.”
“Sorry?” I must have misheard.
“He didn’t tell you?”
“Married?”
“He told me and not you? Huh. I just assumed he would tell you first.”
Me too. “He’s engaged? To Kirby?”
“I say plan the wedding before she changes her mind. She’s a real catch.”
“So is Liam.”
“For a certain person. Sure.”
“L’Wren.”
“Fine. He’s a catch. We’re all catches. Even Oliver.” She grins but it quickly fades. “Diana? Does he know? About Dirty Diana.”
“I’ve been trying to decide how to tell him.”
“Don’t. I mean do, eventually, but don’t now. Let yourselves get back on track first. It will just complicate things.”
“But I want to fall back in love with the version of Oliver that supports me in everything I do. That’s a big part of this, isn’t it? It can’t be conditional.”
“Of course, sure. But go on a few dates and see if there is still a there there. Then tell him.”
“You don’t think that’s dishonest?”
“You’ve already been lying so what’s a few more dates gonna do?”
“That’s so sad.”
She gives a playful sigh. “Sometimes we’re sad now. It’s who we are.”
—
I’m hoping for a quiet Saturday at the Dirty Diana offices, but I arrive to a full house and a table full of vibrators of every shape and color. Over the past month, I’ve been greeted with everything from leather whips to upscale lingerie, each one a possible idea for a brand partnership.
Without looking up from the vibrators Petra chirps, “Vibezz—two z ’s—sent these.” Then, “Trade you a vibrator for the Vogue questionnaire?”
She’s flanked by two women I assume are new hires.
The office space and staff seem to grow at every turn.
I say hello and join them, hovering over the vibrators and arranging them in rainbow order, as if deep in decision-making, all so that I can avoid telling her the questionnaire is buried deep in my email inbox, untouched.
“Lynnie and Max are helping with social. They’ll float over some posts later for your approval. The micro-fantasies are getting lots of love. Maybe a haiku fantasy is next? Short content is working nicely.”
“Why not one word?” Kirby jokes, joining us at the table.
“?‘Hot’?” Now Liam is here and it’s an entire team meeting around a table of vibrators.
I know I shouldn’t care, but being near Liam reminds me of the sting of his unshared news.
I catch myself glancing at Kirby’s ring finger—of course, there’s an engagement ring—and I feel worse. How did I miss it?
“We’re partial to the purple one,” Liam offers. “It really did the trick. Right, Kirby?”
“Really?” It comes out sharper than I meant. “You’re telling your co-workers?” I catch a flash of hurt in Liam’s eyes. I’ve managed to embarrass him in front of everyone.
“Uh. We’re not exactly selling bibles here?” He gestures around the office space. “So…yeah?”
“It doesn’t bother me,” Kirby chimes in, but her cheeks have gone bright pink with embarrassment. “Why should it?”
Petra changes the subject. “I think the Dirty Diana brand should go for a solo vibrator. You can listen to our fantasies and do what you like in the privacy of your own bedroom. You don’t need a partner to listen.”