“Dom Perignon okay?”
Oh yes, Wendy thought, leaning back against the seat and taking deep breaths to calm herself. In a second, the flight attendant was back with a glass of champagne perched on a silver tray. “Will you be dining with us tonight, or do you prefer to sleep?”
“Sleep,” Wendy said, suddenly exhausted.
The flight attendant walked to the front of the plane and returned carrying a sleeper set—basically a large, long-sleeved T-shirt and baggy sweatpants—wrapped in plastic.
“Thank you,” Wendy said. She looked around. There were ten sleeper seats in first class, most of them occupied by businessmen already sporting their sleep suits. It looked like a giant slumber party except that everyone was pointedly ignoring each other. She picked up her valise—an old black leather Cole Haan bag with a small rip in the top where the bag had been “accidentally” cut by a customs man in Morocco—and went into one of the toilets.
She ripped open the plastic bag, and took off her jacket and blouse. She was still wearing the Armani pantsuit she’d put on that morning for work, and would probably be wearing for the next three days. She slipped the top of the sleeper suit over her head, thankful to have it. She’d had about three minutes to pack, and on the way to the airport remembered that she’d forgotten pajamas. That meant she’d be wearing the sleeper suit for the next three days as well. It would be cold in the Romani
an mountains; they were shooting all the winter scenes there. She’d better try to get some heavy socks in the Paris airport . . .
Her cell phone rang.
“Mommy.” Tyler’s little six-year-old voice was stern.
“Yes, darling?” she asked, shrugging her shoulder to keep the phone next to her ear while she unzipped her pants.
“How come Magda gets a pony and I don’t?”
“Do you want a pony?” Wendy asked. “A pony is a lot of work. It’s not like the Blue Drake. You have to feed it and, uh, walk it,” she said, thinking, is that right? Did you have to walk ponies like dogs? Jesus, how did she end up allowing this pony business anyway?
“I can feed it, Mommy,” Tyler said softly. “I’ll take good care of it.” His little voice was so seductive he could have easily given Tanner Cole a run for his money, Wendy thought.
Her heart broke at the thought that she was leaving him, if only for a few days. “Why don’t we decide this weekend, honey? When we go to Pennsylvania. You can look at the ponies and if you still want one, we can talk about it.”
“Are you really coming back, Mommy?”
She closed her eyes. “Of course I’m coming back, darling. I’ll always come back. You know that.” Maybe just not this weekend, she thought, feeling horribly guilty.
“Is Daddy leaving again?”
“No, Tyler. Daddy’s staying.”
“But he left before.”
“He’s staying now, Tyler. He won’t leave again.”
“You promise?”
“Yes, darling. I promise. Is Daddy there? Can you put him on the phone?”
Shane came on the line. “Did you make the plane?”
“Yes, Angel,” Wendy said, in the sweet and deliberately nonchallenging tone in which she was now supposed to address him. Dr. Vincent, the marriage counselor Shane had employed and whose clientele consisted mostly of movie stars and sports stars (she not only made house calls, she would also fly anywhere in the world, provided she was given private or first-class air travel), said that Wendy’s sharp tone of voice often made Shane feel like an employee. Therefore, one of Wendy’s “exercises” was to speak to Shane as if he were “her dearest love in all the world.” This was annoying, especially as she’d done everything in her power to make Shane happy in the last ten years, but she didn’t have the heart to argue. At this point, it was easier to give in—to Shane and Dr. Vincent—and try to get on with her movie.
“And how are you?” she asked nicely, even though she’d just seen him two hours ago when she was frantically packing in the apartment.
“Okay,” Shane said, in his usual, slightly put-upon voice. And then he must have remembered Dr. Vincent’s dictate as well, because he added, “My love.”
“I just want to tell you how much I appreciate your being there for our children,” Wendy said. “I couldn’t do it without you.”
“And I want to thank you for working so hard for our family,” Shane replied, as if he were reading this response off a cue card. As part of their “marriage rehab,” Dr. Vincent had provided them with two sets of cards with thankful sentiments of appreciation, which they were supposed to work into every conversation. One pile was labeled “provider” and the other “caretaker.”
“Normally, the man gets the provider cards,” Dr. Vincent said, with a bright, chirpy smile, revealing veneers that resembled large Chiclets. Dr. Vincent, who, during their first session, had proudly announced that she was fifty-seven years old, had the jarring features of someone who has had too much bad plastic surgery. “But in this case, I think Wendy should get the provider cards. If this makes you uncomfortable, Shane, we can talk about it,” she said, patting Shane’s arm with a hand that resembled the claw of a small painted bird. “But I find that these days, I’m giving more and more women the provider cards, so you’re certainly not in the minority.”
“I do do most of the work around here,” Shane said pointedly. “I’m a twenty-four-seven dad.”