Riches & Rags: Things are seldom as they seem. Read online

  The driver welcomes me with a courteous smile and opens my door. In a moment, we’re whisked away from the joke of an anniversary celebration.

  I glance in the review mirror to find Micky has turned back to his guests and is escorting them toward the yacht. My heart sinks in despair. He never bothered to follow me.

  2

  The traffic on the Lions Gate Bridge heading into West Vancouver is surprisingly mild, and we approach our gated drive in no time. Impressive, black iron gates open to welcome us, and we pull into the driveway, which sweeps past numerous species of palm trees and impeccable landscaping that features banana trees, giant Gunneras, Tasmanian tree ferns, an abundance of flowers, and cascading ponds. I love our house so! I never tire from feasting my eyes on the exquisite twelve-thousand-squarefoot, three-story, Mediterranean-style home, complete with a terraced entrance and multiple waterfalls.

  The driver stops the car and helps me with my things. After he leaves, I swing open the door to the lavish foyer and survey my surroundings. I can hear the children squealing and giggling from a faraway room, no doubt receiving adequate attention from whichever nanny is on duty. Laura? Or maybe Alison? Not wanting to waste time before my massage, I tiptoe upstairs to the East Wing.

  Ahh, the East Wing; my haven in a dark world. We built our home to include two massive master suites—East and West—as Micky covets his privacy, and I’ve learned to love mine. I push open the heavy crown-molded door and enter my beautiful world of pale, buttercream-colored walls with white accents, crystal chandeliers, Renaissance paintings (mostly Botticelli and Bellini), ornate window dressings, silver vases filled with creamy roses, and my absolute favorite—my peach, satin-canopied four-poster bed. My bed is luxury, indulgence, and tranquility in the most lovely of ways.

  In addition to my grand bedroom, I have a series of adjacent rooms, including a study, a sitting room, a dressing room that would rival any upscale clothing boutique, and my newest project—I’m converting my bathroom and a spare room into a home spa, complete with a wood burning fireplace, sauna, outdoor terrace, rain shower, massage table, and waterfall whirlpool. When the spa is complete, I don’t think I’ll have either want or need to leave the East Wing ever again.

  I wander into my dressing room and peel off my Prada skinny jeans and cashmere top in favor of a snuggly terrycloth bathrobe, in preparation for my Shiatsu massage. My masseuse will be here in about fifteen minutes, just enough time to order a tea from our maid, Denise, and unwind.

  I awake with a start, feeling unnaturally alert. Judging by the soft light coming through my canopy, I’m guessing it’s just about dawn. Maybe 4:00 a.m. I reposition myself and close my eyes.

  I hear a creak, and my eyes fly open. It sounded like the door. Or maybe it was the wood floor. Someone is here in my room! I lay absolutely still, straining to listen. Nothing more.

  Maybe it was a dream. It must have been. Still, I can’t help feeling the hairs on my arms prickling and my heart racing. Go back to sleep, Lane, nobody is here. Breathe. Okay.

  The floor board creaks. All right, who is it? I push myself up onto my elbows and strain to listen. This is ridiculous!

  “Who’s there?” I demand. More floor boards creak. Tired of these charades, I whip back the satin canopy and can make out a tall figure swaying a few feet away. I grab my cell phone and shine its light at the figure.

  It’s Micky! Micky, of all people. He’s home? But what happened with his clients and the trip? “Micky, what are you doing here?” I rarely get visits from Micky, especially in the middle of the night.

  “Baaaby.”

  My God, he’s drunk. I can now smell the heavy stench of scotch. But Micky barely drinks. Not enough to be drunk and slurring at least. He’s always in control; it’s part of his makeup.

  “Micky, what’s going on?” I flick the lamp switch beside me, illuminating the room in a warm glow. Micky is gazing at me with an absent expression, eyes unfocused.

  “You left me,” he whines. He stumbles over and collapses onto the bed. His breath is hot on my face, the alcohol putrid, I turn away, repulsed.

  “You were gonna help me, Laneeey. With Fenwig. You embarrassed me.” His voice sounds lost, like a needy child.

  I roll my eyes and inch away from him. Men! They can be so emotional. What about my anniversary? He had it coming.

  “And you fired Faye’s nephew. She’s really mad!”

  “Who the fuck is Faye?” I ask. The name is familiar, though I don’t know why.

  “Faye Fenwig!” Micky’s voice sounds shrill and high pitched with emotion.

  Oh, shit! Well, how was I supposed to know that was her nephew? The kid had it coming, and I don’t need Micky’s attitude. Not at this hour.

  “Micky, get out of my room! I have an early meeting. We can talk about this tomorrow. You ruined my anniversary, and for once I didn’t play the role of the doting wife. Suck it up!”

  Micky doesn’t reply, and after a few seconds starts snoring softly. Well, so much for that!

  “Micky, get up!” I kick him in the shin to rouse him, but he doesn’t so much as flinch. Damn. I’m so used to sleeping alone; I’ll never catch my beauty rest with this freight train/barn animal sharing my bed. I jerk away from him, irritated, and struggle to clamber out of bed. When I peer out the windows, I can see dawn is progressing, and I’m guessing it’s more like five o’clock. Still time to sleep two more hours before my meeting. Why did I book it so early?

  In my sitting room, I lower myself onto a sofa and curl my long legs into a fetal position. Sleep does not come. I toss and turn, eventually drifting into a conscious doze. But after about an hour of this, I sit up with a huff, afraid to sleep past my meeting. Why didn’t I schedule it later? What could be so important first thing in the morning anyway?

  When I drift downstairs an hour later, freshly showered and dressed impeccably, I’m greeted by a screech of excitement from our eldest daughter, Margo.

  “Mommeee.” Margo grins at me with exhilaration only a four-year-old could muster, and jumps off the breakfast bar stool at breakneck pace. She races over and skids to a stop right in front of me, and I can’t help flinching and stepping back. She’s dressed smartly in a navy tartan jumper and proper tie over a white short-sleeved blouse. Her hazel eyes shine, and she has the most enormous grin, as though I’ve done something magnificent for her.

  Her look is unnerving.

  “Mommy, you remembered!” she says, with such joy and awe.

  “Um…” I shoot the nanny a look for help, but the stupid cow plays oblivious, smiling back in amusement.

  “Sorry? I…remembered?” Frantically, I search my brain for some clue but come up empty.

  “My first day of kindergarten. This morning!” Margo is literally jumping up and down, and her baby sister, Rory, is bouncing along in her high chair, smiling a gummy grin full of adoration for Margo.

  “Oh, right. Already? Well, have fun!”

  “Mommy, I want you to take me.”

  “Margo, I can’t take you to school today. I have a meeting, so Alison will take you.”

  Margo’s excitement appears to falter briefly, but then she resumes bouncing, unfazed.

  “Yes you can, Mommy. Today’s the first day! All the mommies come on the first day. They do. Please, Mommy!” Margo is starting to get a hint of hysteria in her voice, which is my cue to leave.

  “Sorry, Margo, I can’t. As mentioned, I have a very important meeting.” Again, I shoot her nanny a look of desperation as I continue to shake my head and back away.

  “Noooooooo, mommmmmeeeeee, pleeeeeeeeease! I want you to. You have to. I don’t want to go to school without my mommmmeeee!” Now Margo is wailing and red faced, tears streaming down. Her sister mirrors her, her little features set into a deep frown, her concerned eyes locked on Margo’s face. Both girls break into a wail, and I make a run for it.

  “Sorry. Can’t!” I stride away, firm and determined in hopes that Margo will understand my answe
r is final. From the upstairs landing, I can still hear her wailing hysterically; but mercifully, when the door to the East Wing closes behind me, peace is restored and the irritant silenced.

  At 9:00 a.m. sharp, I’m standing in my suite, looking over English Bay through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The weather is mild and beautiful again, another gorgeous September morning. Tiny waves dance, and sailboats are so numerous I can’t even count them. Across the channel is Kitsilano, the coveted and charming neighborhood where I grew up. I stare with longing, for though West Vancouver is great, Kitsilano will always feel like home. Maybe I should speak with Micky again about moving there.

  My phone pings, and I see a text from Billy saying he’s on his way up. I stride over to the small foyer of my suite to welcome him.

  Billy greets me with shining eyes and a big grin. “Miss Laney!” He waltzes into the suite and surveys it with apparent approval. “Looking nice, as always.”

  “Who? Me or my house?” I tease.

  He eyes me critically for a second and saunters casually to the window. “Since you asked, you look tired today.” He turns to face me, tilting his head to the side. “Still upset about the anniversary?”

  “Well, wouldn’t you be?”

  He shrugs, and then seems to remember why he’s here. “Soooo, what’s so important you needed to drag me away from my store for a scheduled meeting?”

  He’s a bit impatient, I can see, but he’s hiding it well. I become animated as we make our way over to my spa. “Well, I needed you to come today for something very important.”

  “Well, I’m glad it’s important, because I have five weddings this weekend and I’m running off my feet.”

  “You’re looking at what will become my very own SPA!” I announce triumphantly, as I lead him into the space and make a sweeping gesture with my hands. “So,” I say, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him to the vast corner of the room, “I need you here because I’m installing a waterfall with a whirlpool beneath. The rock-wall waterfall will be twelve feet high and will reach the ceiling, and I want it to be a living wall.” I glance over at Billy’s face, and my smile falters. He doesn’t look impressed. Why the hell not? This is monumental, and I’m designing it! “Um, so anyway, I need your expertise,” I continue. “Can you suggest which plants I should incorporate into the living wall? Keep in mind the waterfall will probably have a lot of spray, even on the area that doesn’t have cascading water and…” I trail off when Billy turns to me, a shadow of disbelief clouding his face.

  “This is why you brought me here?” His voice is almost a whisper, and I’m taken aback by his exasperated demeanor.

  “But—” I close my mouth, then open it again, not sure what to say.

  “You had your maid schedule a meeting with me. She insisted it was important. She said it needed to be at nine. I had to move my entire schedule for the day, not to mention there’s no one manning the shop right now!” Billy’s voice rises and he eyes me with disgust, his green eyes flashing. I can’t believe his overreaction.

  “You haven’t even started this renovation; but I needed to come today, huh? Well, some of us need to work for a living, Lane. We don’t all live in fairyland. Get real!” And with that, he whirls around and stalks out of the spa, out of the East Wing, and maybe out of my life.

  I press my lips together and swallow the lump that’s burning in my throat. What’s wrong with everyone? My husband is a workaholic freak, and my own best friend just abandoned me.

  Trying to steady my breath, I retrieve my phone, and with shaky hands, text Denise to schedule another massage—this time with hot stones. Hot stones cure all.

  3

  Hot stones didn’t cure all. It’s been a few days, and I’ve moped around the house, staying mostly in my quarters. Micky hasn’t been around, which I guess is a relief in a way. I sure as hell don’t need some lecture about my behavior for firing the deckhand and ditching Micky’s little work party. Micky leaves before I wake up and works late into the evening, as per usual. Billy hasn’t bothered being in touch, despite the Cartier watch and Papyrus card I sent in apology. I can’t exactly send flowers to a florist. To top it off, even the weather is gloomy, the ocean mirroring the gray sky. I don’t mind weather, be it sun or rain or wind; but to have gray skies drag on for days feels like purgatory.

  Thankfully, today I have plans—a luncheon with the other wives at Victoria Hughes’ home in Shaughnessy, which is probably Vancouver’s most prestigious neighborhood, with sprawling streets and canopied old-growth trees. I peel my eyes away from the gloomy ocean view and wander over to my dressing room. What to wear? I finger the fabrics from my afternoon attire collection, which includes Chanel dress suits, Miu Miu knits, Burberry plaids, and Alexander McQueen couture. Oooh, I forgot about this piece.

  I select a Stella McCartney tunic dress, and with some satisfaction, I head over to accessories. Once I’ve chosen six-karat diamond earrings and Christian Louboutin heels, I strip naked and apply a spritz of glorious Joy by Jean Patou.

  As I’m reaching for my satin thong, I catch a small movement in the mirror and nearly jump out of my skin. A pair of large hazel eyes watches me intently.

  “Margo!” I gasp, trying to catch my breath. “You scared me half to death. What the hell are you doing in here? You know I don’t like you in the East Wing. The last thing I need is kiddy fingerprints all over the place and broken crystal ornaments!” I can’t believe she just barged in on me like this. I have to lock my door from now on. Not to mention, I’m naked!

  “Mommy, I’m sorry, but I had to come. We’re home alone!” Margo looks bewildered and desperate.

  “What do you mean? Where’s your nanny?” I scramble to pull on my bra, panties, and stockings.

  “Alison left.” Margo regards me apprehensively and waits for my reaction. I cannot conceive how Alison could just leave the kids alone.

  Shit—Rory!

  “Where’s Rory?” I ask in a bit of a panic, until I remember she’s only a baby and can’t get into anything yet. Margo grabs my hand, and before I know what’s happening, the tunic falls to a crumpled heap on the floor, and I’m dashing off on a babysitter quest.

  “Don’t worry, Mommy. Rory is in her crib. Alison put her there when she left.”

  I snatch my cell phone as we leave the East Wing. I need to call Alison and fire that airhead for leaving me in this predicament.

  “Hi, you’ve reached Alison. I’m either working, sleeping, or in the shower. Leave a message.” And the voicemail beeps.

  “Alison, Lane Carson. You’re sure as hell not at work! I’d like to know why my kids are wandering around aimlessly and where your hopeless ass is at this minute. Call me ASAP or you can forget about your job!” I smash my perfectly french-manicured finger on the end button, wishing for days long gone when I could slam the receiver into the phone base with satisfaction and triumph. I can already hear Rory screaming and wailing up a storm as I follow Margo down the grand, winding staircase and into the main-floor nursery. Rory is in her crib, her face red and puffy, eyes squeezed tight as she screams and screams.

  “All right, enough already!” I pull her out of the crib and hold her in my arms. Her eyes are dry, so she must have just been yelling her face off but not actually crying, which is somewhat amusing.

  Then I smell the wretched stench emitting from her diaper. “Oh, gross!” My hand is covered in kid shit. I pull Rory away from me to examine my poo-smeared lace bra and bare stomach. “Margo, get Denise!” I wail, as I plunk Rory down on the change table. Margo stares at me, transfixed. “Hurry up! Denise needs to change Rory, and I have to shower again. I have an important luncheon.”

  Margo sighs and rolls her eyes, muttering quietly to herself, something about all luncheons being important.

  Whatever.

  “Mommy, Denise isn’t home.” Margo stands, little hands on hips and all matter-of-fact, as though she is the adult in control.

  “What? What do you mean she’s n
ot here?” What’s going on with everyone? I feel like I’ve been transported to some funny farm dimension.

  Rory begins to squirm and fuss, no doubt wanting to be changed and to be picked up again.

  “Grocery shopping. Today’s Thursday, remember?”

  How am I supposed to know what day grocery shopping is done? I can picture Denise right now, enjoying a Starbucks coffee outside of Whole Foods, or even worse, ditching my shopping for dumplings and tripe at Osaka, that Asian food market. Honestly, what’s the sense in having hired hands if they all disappear? I hit redial on my phone and toss it into speaker mode, then try to tackle the poo explosion from hell, armed with a full pack of wipes and impatience to get this over with so I can go shower. The phone rings a couple of times, and I’m surprised but relieved when Alison answers.

  “What the hell is going on?” I yell into the phone. Rory is startled by my voice and breaks out into a loud and tortured cry.

  “Ms. Carson, I’m not coming back.”

  Not coming back? I don’t understand. “What the fuck does that mean?”

  Now Margo looks horrified, hand clapped over her mouth and eyes wide.

  “Well, hmm, let’s see…” Alison’s annoying little smarty voice chirps away in my ear. “First, I’m treated like crap. Not a thanks or a kind word, ever. Second, I hate the way you treat your own flesh and blood. You don’t care about them at all, and nor does your husband. You don’t ever bother to question how they are or spend time with them, like this morning. And third, I haven’t been paid in over three weeks. So I quit! Send me my money and we’re done!” Alison hangs up.

  The little, ungrateful bitch actually had the audacity to quit and hang up on me! And why hasn’t she been paid? Micky deals with that. He must be so busy he forgot. The doorbell sounds off in the distance, and Margo instantly perks up.

  “Mommy, can we get it? Can we? Who’s here?” She tears out of the nursery, and I follow behind wearily, carrying the heavy lump of a freshly changed Rory. Margo swings the door open, and there’s Billy! Billy sweeps us with his eyes and his mouth drops open. Then I remember I’m half naked and poo smeared. Nice.