The Ex-Mrs. Hedgefund by Jill Kargman Page A

that’s how! You were making out! On the STREET, no less! With that trashy whore, after EVERYTHING I have done for you, given you! How the hell could you betray me like this?” I screamed. I stood up and looked at him, channeling my rage into a laser beam shined into his eyes as I squinted my own. “You HUMILIATED ME with that tart. I am THE MOTHER OF YOUR CHILD! How could you do this?” I stunned even myself that there were no tears accompanying my diatribe; the only moisture was anger-infused perspiration and possible burst blood vessels in my face.
    Tim was breathing heavier but maintained control.
    â€œHolly. Calm down.”
    â€œDON’T TELL ME TO CALM DOWN! You faked a business trip? How many times did you do that? There are twenty major league baseball bears in Miles’s room. Is each one a different slut you nailed?”
    â€œAVERY IS NOT A SLUT!” he yelled back, forcefully.
    Wow.
    Avery?
    Somehow, even though Kiki had guessed Tim had a mistress, I still felt like anyone outside the marriage was some disposable pair of legs. But she wasn’t. She was Avery.
    â€œOh, gee, I’m so sorry to insult your HOME-WRECKING WHORE!”
    â€œHolly, stop it.”
    â€œYou come in here and DEFEND that SLUT YOU PERSONALLY GAVE A STREP THROAT CULTURE TO ON THE STREET?!”
    â€œI know you can’t understand, Holly, but I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “I love her.”
    Hiroshima.
    I never. Ever. Expected to hear those words.
    At that point, quite simply, I crumbled. Burning, lava-like thick tears cascaded out, flooding my face as I wailed like a child. Tim tried to comfort me, but I slapped his arm away “GET OUT!” I screamed, shaking.
    Tim looked at me sadly. Part of me did want him out that nanosecond, but the other half wanted him to run to me on bended knee and beg forgiveness. To sob and fight for his family. But his mouth simply turned down into an apologetic frown.
    â€œSorry, Holl,” he said simply, and obeyed my instructions to turn and leave.
    I cried myself to sleep that night. And many, many, many nights afterward.

12
    Woman #1: My husband’s an angel!
Woman #2: You’re lucky. Mine’s still alive.
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    T he following weeks were a Kleenex marathon of hermit dwelling. I met with Kiki’s divorce lawyer and filed the paperwork, if a Night of the Living Dead drone can fill out forms. I made the painful phone calls, which were gasp-inducing to all, who proclaimed “NO! You guys?” and “Everything seemed so perfect,” and of course, “WHY?” I wanted to be a lady about the whole thing and not sling the mud of Tim’s indiscretions, but from my wounded tone, people gleaned the dirty details and accurately sniffed the scent of another woman.
    After dropping the bomb on my cute Dad, who was quiet, clearly dismayed, but supportive, it was the call to my maid of honor, Jeannie, that was the hardest. She had been there the fateful night we met, winking at me behind Tim’s back, holding her white wine and smiling; she knew we would get married.
    And now she was as in shock as I had been; when I told her, she promptly burst into tears.
    â€œI don’t believe this! Oh, Holl . . . I’m so upset. That asshole!” I heard her sniffle and pull tissues from a box. “I would have expected that from his loser friend Mark Webb, but never Tim!” Jeannie had had the pleasure of getting hit on by a shitfaced (or as Sherry Von would say, “overserved”) Mark at our wedding. He was, along with all six of Tim’s Wall Street groomsmen, so trashed that he was doing the Tom-Cruise-in- Risky-Business run-and-slide-on-knees move across the dance floor at our wedding reception—albeit in tux in lieu of boxers. Clearly, as it is always all about him, our wedding reception may as well have been his living room, the way he was carrying on, front and center. When his