The Ex-Mrs. Hedgefund by Jill Kargman Page B

fifth slide actually knocked down Lauren, one of my other bridesmaids, Tim told him it might be time to head home.
    â€œYou know,” I told Jeannie as I twisted the curly phone wire around my finger, which still bore my wedding ring, “I secretly thought that after Mark’s behavior at our wedding, he and Tim would grow apart. That through the years we’d pull the feeding tube on that friendship. But they’re still best friends, and I can’t help but blame Mark a bit—he’s such a louse, such a bad influence.”
    â€œHoney,” Jeannie said soberly. “You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him hump it.”
    â€œTrue enough.” I laughed, eyes welling anew with fresh hot tears.
    â€œBut still, that whole world Tim rolls with, it’s this Boys Club in finance. They’re all the same. Dirty jokes, booze, and obviously women on the side. It’s the hedge fund culture. The I-can-get-away-with-anything money. I thought I got a good one, but they’re all the same.”
    â€œI’m so sad, sweetie.” I heard Jeannie’s voice break. I was touched she was so traumatized on my behalf, but it killed me to hear her cry for me. “I’m just so appalled. I mean, even if he begs you to take him back, you won’t, will you?”
    Obviously the fantasy was comforting. He’d wake up, wonder what the hell he was smoking, and bolt back, hysterically imploring me to forgive and forget.
    â€œWe have Miles. I don’t know.”
    â€œHey, I have three kids. And after that whole Governor Spitzer debacle, I told William in no uncertain terms that if he ever pulled that shit, I’d be out the door.”
    â€œYou don’t know till you live it, I guess,” I replied, zoning into space. My skin was tight and itchy from the streams of tears, and while both Jeannie and Kiki were indignant, thrusting the girl-power mantras in my direction, I felt only weak and scared and alone. The only way I could even get myself to breathe was to have a melodramatic emotional seal-off à la Princess Butter-cup: I shall never love again.
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    The night before Tim and I were to preliminarily sit down with our lawyers, I got a shocking buzz from the lobby doorman—“Mrs. Sherry Von Hapsburg Talbott is here to see you.”
    My heart skipped a beat. Well, unlike Kiki, I supposed I wasn’t to be frozen out, if she was paying me a house call. I knew from her reaction to Kiki that she abhorred cheating, so she must have been mortified by Tim’s behavior.
    I opened the door to find her immaculately dressed, even in the heat of early May, in an Oscar de la Renta cream sheath, alligator Kelly bag, and Tom Ford sunglasses atop her highlighted head.
    â€œHello, Holland.” She said my name as if it were Newman saying “Jerry” on Seinfeld . Why the acid?
    â€œCome in, Sherry. Please, sit down. Can I get you anything to dr—”
    â€œI have one thing to say and I won’t waste your time with small talk or niceties,” she said, chin skyward as she brushed a blond lock from her suspiciously wrinkle-free forehead. “Holland. You are making a huge mistake.”
    I was stunned. “I beg your pardon?” I had never uttered that phrase in my life (it seemed so old-school), but I was indignant that she had walked into my house and pronounced these words.
    â€œYou have a child. A family. Talbotts are all about The Family.”
    I was aghast.
    â€œWell, I thought we had a great family,” I responded, trying to hold it together. “But unfortunately your son betrayed us.”
    â€œI have some news for you, Holland Talbott,” she said, every syllable infused with ice, wagging a crooked ring-covered finger in my face as if instructing me on a life lesson. “Boys. Will. Be. Boys. You didn’t have to go and call him out on it. How positively juvenile. Women have been looking