Disposable Lives

CHAPTER one

I AM NOT A PLASTIC BAG. A transparent piece of cellulose that can be wadded up and thrown away when no longer useful. I’m a college-educated woman who spearheaded a successful marketing career before retiring to the unwaged workforce of wife and mother.

I had scrawled those words onto an environmental shopping bag retailing for eight hundred ninety nine dollars. Why? I’d uncovered evidence this tote was a gift for my husband’s lover. A childish act? Perhaps. But it felt damn good. Until my graffiti landed me smack dab in the middle of murder.

My fifteen-year old son, Ethan, stormed into the laundry room, which my two teens called my office. Relishing the tenth-story workspace with a panoramic view of California’s Newport Beach I’d occupied at the height of my marketing career, I didn’t find their humor particularly funny. But I’d made my choices.

Mom, I can’t find my golfing shoes. I have team practice today. Where are they?

Knowing my usual, Where you left them, had worn thin, I said, I think I saw your shoes, or what was left of them, in Mazy’s slobbering mouth. Now if you’d put them away like…

Ethan darted out the door faster than his swing off the tee. I knew the dog hadn’t chewed his golden spikes. Mazy was a thirteen-year-old boxer, too spoiled by years of pampering to even sniff at anything not labeled USDA Prime. But after umpteen years of chiding my kids to put away their things, I sometimes resorted to dubious means to get my clan organized.

My son huffed back into my office.

Mazy doesn’t have them. I’ve looked everywhere. I’ve got to have them. You know how Coach is.

Yes, I know he’s a stickler for proper attire and being on time. I wanted to add, Which is why you should have looked for the shoes earlier, particularly since school starts in ten minutes. But the nervous look on Ethan’s face told me to stop. Why don’t you borrow your father’s?

Sure. Where are they?

I wanted to scream, Where he usually keeps them! Haven’t you two golfed every Sunday since you could stand? But being a mom, again I held my tongue.

Tromping into the garage, I rummaged through Grant’s golf bag in search of his shoes. They weren’t in the zippered side pouches where he normally placed them after our rounds on the links. Thinking he may have stuffed them in with his clubs, I dug deep into the bottom of the bag.

I felt something stiff, prodded it, and heard a sharp crackling sound. Pulling this anything but golf-like thing out of the bag, I found myself holding a package wrapped in pink tissue paper. Attached to it, a card marked Bridget. And it was sealed with a kiss. Literally. The flap of the envelope sported a puckered print of red lips, the shade of lipstick looking suspiciously like my Candy Apple Red.

I tore open the envelope, not bothering to read the sappy pre-printed verse. My eyes blazed at the all too familiar handwriting at the bottom.

Bridget, you’re the hottest woman I've ever met. As hot as the red lipstick I smacked on the envelope. Corny, but that’s what I’d like to be doing to your sexy lips right now.

Your love…

Your love? Grant was my love. And I believed he loved me. I couldn’t fathom… Ripping open the package, desperate to find what present was attached to this romantic card, I pulled out a clear, plastic shopping bag, adorned by the tiny designer label, Gitan. A plastic tote may not seem like a romantic gift. But with going green being all the rage, designers were cashing in by creating obscenely expensive satchels. These were being swept off store racks by wealthy environmentalists to store their fruits and veggies while they, or most likely their personal assistants, did their marketing.

During my last shopping spree, I’d spotted this particular Gitan at Saks Fifth Avenue. It sold for eight hundred ninety nine dollars. Either Bridget was out to single-handedly save the world from global warming, or she was warming my husband hot.

I held the Gitan to my face. My eyes grazed the plastic bag. A hazy image of porcelain skin framed by sable locks reflected off its mirror-like surface. I felt I was looking through a fishbowl. My world, which I believed had defined rules and boundaries, had suddenly become clouded—like fish swimming through their tiny castle in clear water until a closer look reveals the water is actually murky. Inhaling, I took in the synthetic smell of polymer, contrasting with a hint of my husband’s sandalwood-scented Escada cologne. The aroma aroused memories…happy memories that now felt bittersweet. How could Grant discard those memories and do such a thing?

Shredding the wrapping paper and card in a fury, I tore at the overpriced Gitan, desperate to reduce it to useless shards of vinyl. But the artificial material, ironically proposing to save the earth, proved to be non-biodegradable—and indestructible as well.

I raced into the kitchen and grabbed a butcher knife from my granite counter. I raised the weapon, ready to slice into the bag. Ethan shouted, Mom, what are you doing?

My eyes locked with my son’s. My shaking hand lowered the knife as I forced myself to slow my breathing. I, um, was cutting off the price tag?

With a butcher knife? Looks like you’re trying out for the next slasher movie. Let me know how the audition goes. Slipping past me, he opened the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of milk.

I am not a plastic bag!

What?

I’m not some piece of shriveled-up plastic that can be tossed in the trash when deemed no longer useful.

I never said you were. He poured himself a bowl of cereal and mumbled through the flakes, Hey, Mom, what about the shoes?

I stormed back into the garage, found them in the golf bag’s back pocket, and handed them to Ethan.

I tried to expel the words, I am not a plastic bag, from my head, but they reverberated over and over until they seared into my brain.

I picked up the phone and speed-dialed Grant’s office. Carmen, the blowsy secretary, who I thought had a snooty attitude and recommended he shouldn’t hire, picked up.

Leman Land Development.

Hi, Carmen. It’s Maggie. I’d like to speak to Grant.

He’s in a meeting.

Can you please tell him I need to talk to him?

He gave me an explicit order not to be disturbed.

I need—

Mrs. Leman, I’d love to put you through. But your husband gave me specific instructions. He said this appointment is critical to the company’s future. Perhaps you could call back later.

I vowed to have a stern talk with Grant about his office staff the next time I spoke to him. Then I scanned the kitchen for an alternative weapon to execute the bag in a way that wouldn’t traumatize my son. I snatched a black, permanent marker. Clutching the pen in my fist like a child learning to write, I scrawled these words in big, black, capital letters, I AM NOT A PLASTIC BAG!

Ethan looked at the marked-up tote and said, I guess that means you’re not going to get a phony facelift like Mason Butler’s mom. He said his mom looked like a plastic bag afterwards.

No, I’d never get a phony facelift. But I’m going to find out what a certain phony is up to.

CHAPTER two

Unable to reach my cheating husband by phone, I decided to do the next best thing—call my best friend, Regina. Cool, calm, efficient. That was Regina. Not to mention sultry, stunning, with flaming-red hair that made men feel they were on fire, or so I’ve heard. And with brilliance to match her looks, she had the uncanny ability to blindside males quicker than a sailing boom. This talent proved handy when conducting her duties as a divorce attorney on behalf of scorned wives. Regina had heard every lie, excuse, and angle of opportunity in the book, and she could chew up a man and spit him out before he even knew he was on the menu.

I dialed Regina’s private office line. Mags, darling, what’s up?

What’s up? How could I explain my horrific discovery? That my husband, whom I thought loved and cherished me even after my fortieth birthday, was cheating. Sure, with Regina’s choice of career, she was privy to these types of stories daily. Somehow, I couldn’t squeeze the shocking words from my mouth.

I thought I’d call and say hi.

Regina, the proverbial multitasker, I could hear nails clicking lightning-quick across her keyboard.

You didn’t call just to say hi, Maggie. You’re withholding. What’s going on? Besides being an expert typist, Regina possessed a sixth sense that told her when people were lying. Another trait that deemed her one of the highest-paid attorneys in our upper income, oceanfront town.

Picking up the marker, I traced over my words scribbled across the Gitan, ominously darkening them. Particularly heavy on the word not. Can’t I call my best friend for the past ten years to say hi? The pal I’ve counseled and coddled through three divorces and more broken relationships than either of us care to count?

In rhythm to her computer clicking, she tsked, My, aren’t we testy this morning? I was simply making the point that you’re usually so busy. Whether playing golf, perfecting yoga stretches, or mom stuff, you never simply call to say ‘hi.’ And please don’t tell me your New Age muscle elasticity has sent your sex life through the heavens. Because if it has, I’m jealous.

Regina. Grant’s having an affair.

The clicking stopped. What?

I said, Grant’s having an affair.

Maggie, you’ve heard one too many of my war stories.

Personal or professional?

Take your pick. But, Maggie, Grant couldn’t be having an affair. He loves you. I’m not talking about after the trust fund, trophy-wife—although you’re lovely enough to be one—faked love. I’m talking about old school, honest love.

I gasped. Who is this? And what did they do with my friend, Regina?

Too funny. I believe Grant loves you. And there was a time I believed in love. Although I fear that memory has now been reduced to a mere flicker. I’d give it another two months, or my next four boyfriends, before my vision of romance is permanently extinguished.

The distant buzz of an intercom voice came over the line.

I’m sorry, Hon. My next appointment is here. Poor thing, right after she agreed to cancel the prenuptial, she learned her newlywed husband was a transsexual transvestite. Gotta go.

A trans what? Regina’s client tales never failed to astound me. And now I felt I was living one.

But Regina’s words, flicker, permanently dimming, with their reference to fire, sparked an idea. I rummaged through the kitchen drawer and pulled out a candle lighter. Thumbing the switch, I ignited the flame, and held it under the bottom of the over-priced lover’s bag. A thin stream of blue, topped with burning orange wavered, curling the plastic, causing it to crumple in upon itself. I stared at the small spot of permanently destroyed vinyl with morbid satisfaction.

A sudden shriek tore me from my thoughts. Put that lighter down now. What do you think you’re doing? That’s a Gitan!

I thought I’d been busted by the fashion police or in-home arson patrol. But it was my daughter, Avery, staring at me as if I’d just committed a capital crime. I guess to a fourteen-year-old who could only name twenty-five of the forty-eight contiguous states, but could identify fashion designers with one-hundred percent accuracy, setting fire to a Gitan was cause for execution.

Rushing across the room with a zeal I prayed she would one day apply to her studies, she snatched the bag from my hands and stuck it under the kitchen faucet. A sizzle of steam wafted. Mother, what’s come over you? Do you know what these bags retail for?

I mouthed a sarcastic, Eight hundred ninety nine dollars.

Yes. And they’re on back-order. You can’t even get them off the Internet. Look at its design. It’s personalized! she said, pointing to my childish scrawl. I’ve never seen one like it.

If you like it so much—

Throwing her arms around me, she squealed, Thanks, Mom. I love it. And this burnt spot. Ooh, talk about urban authenticity. And she raced from the room, water dripping from the pathetic-looking bag like a dead body seeping blood.

I’d made my daughter happy. But I hadn’t meant to give her the satchel. I wanted to finish it off for good. What I started to say to Avery was, If you like the bag so much, you can channel your energy into getting a job and buying one for yourself. But the teen-aged years are fleeting, and she flitted out of the room with my intended victim quicker than I could react.

I wouldn’t be so slow with my next move.

CHAPTER three

I dressed in my usual golfing garb. Collared polo shirt, top buttons naughtily open. Silk Bermuda shorts rising high on my thighs. Cotton sweater draped across my shoulders, strategically hugging my bosom.

My choosing to stretch the rules of what was considered acceptable dress at my country club might sound shallow, perhaps vain. But if I dressed as a model member every time I hit the links, baggy shorts hanging past my knees and shirt buttoned to my throat, I’d feel like a middle-aged woman who had a husband catting around. By spicing up my golfing get-up, I felt like a desirable female with a mean swing. My birth certificate stated my age to be forty-one, but people usually said I looked closer to mid-thirties. Although I don’t know what good this did me. I still had a husband who was cheating on her. But at least I looked damned good worrying about it.

I drove my silver Mercedes 350 through the guard gate of Newport Hills Country Club. Swinging around the circular entrance, I stopped next to the Adonis valet. Opening my door, he greeted me, Good day, Mrs. Leman. Do you need me to remove clubs from your trunk?

No thank you, Coleman. I’m not playing today. Just lunching.

Very well. Have a nice meal.

I strolled past the waterfall trickling down the stone wall leading to the entrance. The water sounded like a serenity tape from yoga class. I tried to concentrate on the soothing sound of its waters. But my pulse refused to slow its pace to the slow-moving rhythm. I looked dressed for a casual golfing lunch, but my purpose being here was of a much more pressing nature—to find information on Bridget.

I whisked through the entry lounge, its over-stuffed furnishings accented in shades of ocean blues. A massive limestone fireplace, rarely lit, dominated the room. Southern California’s balmy climate didn’t warrant many nights of burning a fire.

Entering the dining area, again I was warmly greeted by the staff. Mrs. Leman, how nice to see you. And you will be dining with…?

Dining with? Oh my God. I forgot to call somebody to meet me for lunch. I hated eating at a restaurant alone.

I cleared my throat. I’m meeting Regina Evans. At least I hope I am. Her cell cut out just as we were confirming. With her busy law practice...

I’ll keep an eye out for her.

Please do. I’m certain she can make it.

With a shallow bow, he murmured, Please follow me.

After being seated, I pretended to study the menu. Between lunching with girlfriends, meeting Grant for dinner, or downing cocktails après golf, I had the selections committed to memory. But I wanted to look like I was doing something. I needed time to think.

I’d spent my professional years in marketing. Gathering statistics, trolling for information, weaving together every detail needed to garner strategies to raise the bottom line. Newport Hills cost two hundred fifty grand to join, plus seven hundred fifty in monthly membership dues. That wasn’t chump change, even in this costly coastal town. And with more private clubs in the area than public schools, there was stiff competition for available clients.

This meant the club had to continually find new prospects while massaging the current members to keep them happy. God knew this establishment doted on my family like we were close-knit relatives. The club went so far as to send us a sympathy card when our cat kicked the bucket.

Because Grant hid the Bridget gift in his golf bag, my guess was this person belonged to Newport Hills. I needed to maneuver my way into the marketing office and get the scoop on this woman who drove my husband to steal my lipstick, apply it to his macho lips, and smack it onto an envelope. And, I knew the perfect person to help me.

CHAPTER four

I set aside the club’s lunch menu, about to begin my mission, when a goldenrod specimen of manly muscle sat down across from me. Maggie, my darling Magpie. What are you doing, sitting here all on your own?

I stared across the table at Todd Williams. The goldie-locked wonder boy with a bronzed tan who’d made a fortune manufacturing products designed to keep one’s motorized vehicles pampered and clean. Purchase his car shampoo and conditioners, and you were guaranteed no dirt, smudges, or dried-out cracks in the cushioned leather of your seats. When Todd introduced his products a couple of decades ago, the public acted like they were the most important inventions of the twentieth century.

At that time I was a marketing intern at Todd’s company. Though everybody raved about the revolutionary effectiveness of Todd’s leather-care line, I attributed his success to the shirtless infomercials his company aired day and night promoting the product—and him. These spots featured twenty-something Todd sensually rubbing down the upholstery of a Ferrari in a pair of tight white tennis shorts, exuding the sexual appeal of a Playgirl model giving a high-dollar massage. Our marketing statistics showed every time one of these commercials aired, sales spiked seventy-five percent.

Todd smiled. You look great, Magpie.

I leaned across the table to Todd, trying to ignore the musky scent when one’s manliness slightly overpowers his deodorant. Todd, we’ve been friends for how many years?

Long enough to have some sexy rolls on the beach in my old sleeping bag.

Ancient history.

He winked. "I love history. I read history books all the time. Well, when I have time."

Patting his hand, I murmured, That’s nice. It’s good to hear you’re doing something other than slathering oil.

Nothing wrong with that. I like smooth surfaces. Whether it’s the upholstery of one of my Porsches, or the beautiful body of a—

I get the picture. But Todd, how many times have I asked you not to call me Magpie? It reminds me of an ugly black bird sitting on a dirty statue in a bum-infested park. And I happen to know that Magpies disgustingly hold their food with their feet while they peck at it. Yuck!

Magpie, that degree of yuck may very well depend on the scenario. Now with your luscious black hair and milky skin, some California avocados squeezed between your toes…

Todd, get a grip.

He shook his head as if he were coming out of a daydream. Oh. Sorry. A bit fixated. Another heart-wrenching breakup.

Todd, your idea of heart-wrenching is your girlfriend learning your definition of monogamy is dating only one woman per night.

Maggie, that was years ago. I’ve settled down.

That’s not what I’ve heard twittered about our club’s spa.

In the steam bath or jet pool?

Does it matter?

No. Just trying to focus my fantasy. So, these women are naked when—

Yes, Todd. They’re naked. Lathered in sweat, breasts heaving, moaning your name.

Maggie, stop. Not here. He swallowed hard.

I cocked my head. What? I was just going to tell you their words.

"What…did they…say?

That S.O.B. Todd Williams is such a player.

Beaming a wide grin, Todd quizzed, They said that? About me?

Todd, it’s not a compliment.

It is to me. Todd looked down. But it doesn’t ease the ache of my breakup.

Even if the ache isn’t in your heart?

Todd laid his eyes on me like he was aching now. For your information, there have been times in my life when I have been exclusive. Like when we were dating. God knows, the way we went at it, I didn’t have the energy or the desire to be with anybody else. Whatever happened to us?

"Todd, that was years ago. A