Read Online The Ex-Mrs. Hedgefund by Jill Kargman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jill Kargman
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a parent or gone through some horribly traumatic phase. They look back and can barely decipher what they experienced: It was all a tumultuous, blurred frenzy of tear-splattered cheeks and zombie-esque marching through life, detached from the humdrum of the world around them.
I had experienced that thick, enveloping fog when my mother died eight years earlier. And here it beckoned again, enveloping me in its chilly, bleak clutch. I shook as Kiki propped me up. I was spinning in a vertiginous emotional free fall. I remembered the jolt of first meeting Tim and falling love with himâmy head was spinning then, too, but with the elated, dizzied Tilt-A-Whirl fueled by the heart, infusing a buzzed high to my every breath. Now it was in reverse: The little tweety birds were flying around my head counterclockwise. Or better yet, kamikaze-style, into the ground. And that bouncy heart of mine? Pounding blood through me as if each vein carried the Orient Express. Was I dying? It felt like it.
The hours that followed were a pastiche of taxi, hyperventilation, bridge toll, Kikiâs hand rubbing my back, and the muffled sounds of her cursing. It was as if I were frantically drowning underwater, hearing her voice and muted honking horns through a thicket of waves. I donât think I was even crying. Yet. Just glazed over. Like some of the pill-popping moms Iâd seen on Park Avenue en route to Pilates.
My little dreamy family cocoon had cracked. And it wasnât a beautiful, vibrant-hued butterfly that flew out. It was a sickly, wan, gray, fraying moth. Too bad my effing husband couldnât keep his very hungry caterpillar in his pants. I shuddered with rage.
Kiki wanted me to lose my edit button? It was history now.
âI canât believe he did this to me. That fucking asshole,â I squeaked as Kiki and I staggered into my apartment. She walked me down the hallway and positioned me in Timâs office while she proceeded to ransack the contents of his desk as I quaked on the tufted leather cognac couch.
âWhat are you doing?â I asked, watching her rip through every drawer like the Tazmanian Devil.
âTim told you heâd be in Chicago till tomorrow, right?â
âUh-huh.â I slumped back into the couch, staring at framed pictures of Tim, Miles, and me in Italy a few years ago: in Venice on a gondola; in Pisa, pretending to hold up the Leaning Tower; by a monastery in Padua.
âGood. That means we have twenty-four hours to gather as much information as we can. He probably already has his money hidden, fucking bastard.â
âWait, wait, Kikiâslow down. Maybe it was . . . a fling. Orââ
âCome on, Holly. I know this is so heinously painful, but you have to act now to self-protect. If he was banging Russian whores like Barbara Cevilleâs husband, he wouldnât concoct fake trips. You get action at lunchtime. This isnât some courtesan doling out nooner blow jobs in the W Hotel. This is a mistress.â
A girlfriend ? Like . . . a whole other relationship? No, no, no, no. He loved us!
âIâm giving you the List. Meg McSorley gave it to meâshe was my friendâs friend who ended up being my divorce adviser. The woman who got me through. You have to call the twenty top lawyers in townâtodayâand make appointments. That way, he canât hire them. It would be a conflict of interest if youâre already in their books as a potential clientââ
âHold onâKiki, slow down. Iâm really out if it right now, I . . . donât know about d-d-dââ I couldnât even say it. I could barely process what Iâd just witnessed, let alone entertain the concept of divorce. My parents had been married for thirty years until my mom died of heart disease at age fifty-five. My dad lived in Florida and had wealthy widows throwing themselves at him, but he never bit; he loved the memory of my doting mom more
I had experienced that thick, enveloping fog when my mother died eight years earlier. And here it beckoned again, enveloping me in its chilly, bleak clutch. I shook as Kiki propped me up. I was spinning in a vertiginous emotional free fall. I remembered the jolt of first meeting Tim and falling love with himâmy head was spinning then, too, but with the elated, dizzied Tilt-A-Whirl fueled by the heart, infusing a buzzed high to my every breath. Now it was in reverse: The little tweety birds were flying around my head counterclockwise. Or better yet, kamikaze-style, into the ground. And that bouncy heart of mine? Pounding blood through me as if each vein carried the Orient Express. Was I dying? It felt like it.
The hours that followed were a pastiche of taxi, hyperventilation, bridge toll, Kikiâs hand rubbing my back, and the muffled sounds of her cursing. It was as if I were frantically drowning underwater, hearing her voice and muted honking horns through a thicket of waves. I donât think I was even crying. Yet. Just glazed over. Like some of the pill-popping moms Iâd seen on Park Avenue en route to Pilates.
My little dreamy family cocoon had cracked. And it wasnât a beautiful, vibrant-hued butterfly that flew out. It was a sickly, wan, gray, fraying moth. Too bad my effing husband couldnât keep his very hungry caterpillar in his pants. I shuddered with rage.
Kiki wanted me to lose my edit button? It was history now.
âI canât believe he did this to me. That fucking asshole,â I squeaked as Kiki and I staggered into my apartment. She walked me down the hallway and positioned me in Timâs office while she proceeded to ransack the contents of his desk as I quaked on the tufted leather cognac couch.
âWhat are you doing?â I asked, watching her rip through every drawer like the Tazmanian Devil.
âTim told you heâd be in Chicago till tomorrow, right?â
âUh-huh.â I slumped back into the couch, staring at framed pictures of Tim, Miles, and me in Italy a few years ago: in Venice on a gondola; in Pisa, pretending to hold up the Leaning Tower; by a monastery in Padua.
âGood. That means we have twenty-four hours to gather as much information as we can. He probably already has his money hidden, fucking bastard.â
âWait, wait, Kikiâslow down. Maybe it was . . . a fling. Orââ
âCome on, Holly. I know this is so heinously painful, but you have to act now to self-protect. If he was banging Russian whores like Barbara Cevilleâs husband, he wouldnât concoct fake trips. You get action at lunchtime. This isnât some courtesan doling out nooner blow jobs in the W Hotel. This is a mistress.â
A girlfriend ? Like . . . a whole other relationship? No, no, no, no. He loved us!
âIâm giving you the List. Meg McSorley gave it to meâshe was my friendâs friend who ended up being my divorce adviser. The woman who got me through. You have to call the twenty top lawyers in townâtodayâand make appointments. That way, he canât hire them. It would be a conflict of interest if youâre already in their books as a potential clientââ
âHold onâKiki, slow down. Iâm really out if it right now, I . . . donât know about d-d-dââ I couldnât even say it. I could barely process what Iâd just witnessed, let alone entertain the concept of divorce. My parents had been married for thirty years until my mom died of heart disease at age fifty-five. My dad lived in Florida and had wealthy widows throwing themselves at him, but he never bit; he loved the memory of my doting mom more
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