If You Only Knew

“Yes, yes, you left it right here. Now go have fun. My daughters await me. Love you!”

“I love you, too.” I hang up. Walk around the suite again, hang up my clothes, put my toiletries on the vast countertop in the vast bathroom. I make sure everything is tidy, because I don’t want to ruin this experience with messiness. Having triplets means that messiness is a fact of life, no matter how hard I try. I’m going to enjoy this tidiness, damn it.

That all done, I look at my watch.

It’s 11:22 a.m.

I’m starving.

I pick up the phone. “How can we assist you, Ms. Carver?” asks a voice.

They know my name! “Hello. I’d like to order lunch.”

“Of course. What can our chef make for you today?”

I order a cheeseburger—well, an Angus burger—with bleu cheese and bacon, a side of truffle fries and a green salad. A bottle of... Scratch that, actually. The hibiscus martini, please?

Twenty minutes later—because I am so fabulous and inhabit the penthouse suite for the next couple of days—room service is delivered. “Would miss like to eat on the patio?” asks the waiter.

Miss would. And miss does.

I read my book, which is not a book club selection, but instead a wonderfully fun and engrossing novel about a female assassin in Victorian England. I remember to look up at the view often. To feel the comfort of the chaise lounge supporting me so perfectly.

For an hour, I eat and drink and read and look and then, feeling a little buzzed, I go back down, go into my bedroom, and strip off every inch of clothing and climb into bed. I never sleep naked, but I will now.

These sheets must be sixteen-hundred count, I think, and then I’m asleep.

* * *

When I wake up, I take a bath in the glorious tub—there’s a special pillow for the back of my head!—read some more, then decide to go shopping. The hotel provides cheery blue bikes, and what the hell? I take one and head out, bumping along on the cobblestone streets. I’ve never ridden a bike in Manhattan before. It’s terrifying and exhilarating. I make it to the bike path along the Hudson without dying and relax a little.

My head is pleasantly empty. The late-May sun bathes the city in gold and blue, the architectural miracle that is the Big Apple. I never wanted to live here, couldn’t understand Jenny’s desire to get out of Cambry-on-Hudson, but today, I can see it. I’d live in a little town house, maybe. Or a condo in one of those slick buildings. Get to know my neighbors. Work for Domani Studios, maybe, the top ad agency who once tried to recruit me.

Every once in a while, a wave of grief washes over me, but I push it back. Jenny’s right. I’m going to enjoy myself.

But I wonder how Mom and Dad did it. I honestly can’t remember a fight between them. Dad never even looked at another woman, and he had his chances, God knows. I remember spying on their parties from the stairs, remember how proud I’d feel that my parents were the couple, the happiest, the most affectionate. I can remember one couple who’d snipe at each other, and another who’d ignore each other, and even remember overhearing two women talking about another, who’d slept with someone else, and I was so, so grateful my parents were happy. It made my childhood safe.

God, I want that for my girls. But I can’t do it alone.

I wonder if Adam has any idea what he’s really done.

I turn my bike around and head for SoHo. Time for some new clothes. Time to be Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, every woman’s shopping fantasy. The money I spend is, I imagine, from the money Adam’s been putting in his boat fund. Or maybe it’s his whore fund. After all, I imagine they have to go to hotels to fuck. I imagine he’s bought her a dinner or two. Maybe some jewelry. Definitely some sexy underwear. He has a thing for sexy underwear. Such a cliché.

So, too bad. No boat for you, cheater. Armani for me instead.

What some people don’t understand about new clothes is it’s not about the clothes. It’s the promise of how happy you’ll be when you wear them, the wonderful things you’ll be doing in them, how people will look at you and say, yes, there’s a woman who really likes herself. Usually, my clothes are well made and simple and attractive. I’m a well-dressed mother. Today, though, I buy clothes and jewelry and hair clips that say I’m an interesting woman. I’m unexpected and chic. I have style. I’m someone to be reckoned with.

Back in the suite, I unpack my new clothes and shoes, take a long shower, using the hotel products so I smell different and exotic. Wrap up in the luxurious hotel robe and check my email, ignore the messages from Adam and click on the restaurant links Jenny’s sent. Ooh. Fancy. A little scary, too, but beautiful.

I call Jenny and talk to the girls, listening to them tell me about playing dress-up with Aunt Jenny, baking cookies with Aunt Jenny, sitting in Aunt Jenny’s cupboards. I miss them so much it makes my chest ache.

But it’s good for them to be away from me once in a while—I know that. It’s just that I always pictured a getaway weekend under different circumstances. Like Adam and me, taking this trip together, because it’s our tenth anniversary.

I picture dressing up again, putting on more makeup, the new clothes, and heading out to one of the beautiful spots Jenny recommended. Alone. With a book, maybe.

But I’m suddenly weary. I can’t. Not tonight.

But I am starving.

Once again, I call room service, and when the bellman arrives with my cart, I apologize, saying I’ve just got too much work to catch up on. Besides, I tell myself, I’ve always wanted to stay in this hotel. This is a dream come true. Once again, I eat on the rooftop deck, and I nurse my wine until the lights start to go on. The girls will be going to sleep by now.