Free Arm Candy by Jill Kargman

spending time with Cole, taking him to and from school or to museums or to the park, she was part of the Otto Clyde machine. She was entertaining their friends or collectors with Moroccan feasts, Chinese New Year celebrations—any excuse to have a bash. Otto needed the buzz of people around him, fluttering their wings to stroke his ego, their voices building to a chorus of how talented he was.
    But what onlookers might not have known was that Otto and Eden’s relationship was very, ahem, alternative —although what Otto did (fucking countless women) couldn’t be called cheating because they weren’t married, and Eden knew all about it. He was a sexual omnivore who worshipped Eden but craved variety. She couldn’t know for sure since Otto was as discreet as he was lustful. But the first time he actually admitted it was probably right around when Cole was twelve or thirteen, and Eden was cruising into her mid-thirties.
    “Sweetness,” he said, kissing her hand. “You look ravishing. This has nothing to do with you, but . . . ,” his voice trailed off.
    “I know. Daddy’s gotta get some,” she finished. She pretended to be chill and shrugged as if she hadn’t a care in the world.
    “See? There is no one like you. You get it,” he said, kissing her. “You’re a modern woman. How did I get so lucky?”
    “I don’t know, you are pretty damn lucky,” she said, flopping on the bed. He climbed on her and kissed her neck. For the first time, she felt sick about her complicit participation in this lousy deal. He was sucking the best years out of her and still getting some on the side.
    “I love only you, though,” he said each night, sliding into their bed in the darkness. Sometimes she pretended to be asleep. “There is no one like you, my Eden.”
    Eden knew by that point he had plenty of lovers, but one by one she’d bested those beeyotches and had him to herself at the end of every night. That was their unspoken rule. Roll in the hay but come home to roost. Eden knew that this was the deal she had made in exchange for her life, one people would kill for. One that exceeded her wildest Shickshinny dreams. But the truth was, she hadn’t been dreaming much at all lately, because she hadn’t slept in ages. She had been a total insomniac her entire life but it was getting worse than ever. Not even the latest drugs could help her. She consistently woke up at 3:13 every morning, heart pounding. She’d toss and turn for an hour, flip her pillow over, do Jane Fonda-style leg lifts to combat cramping and even a yoga-esque bridge to crack her stressed back. Then, after her mind raced till 5:00, she’d fall back asleep as the sun started to pierce the gray night.
    “How is my darling, sweet little honey this morning?” Otto kissed her awake.
    She slept in the nude and sat up in the sheets to give him a kiss hello.
    “Fine,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “Tired.”
    “I’ve made us some espresso and Alonzo just brought in some fresh pains au chocolat. Let’s get to work!” He clapped.
    Yeah, sure , she thought. With his hot lay last night of course he’s charged and ready to go. As she hauled herself to the bathroom mirror, noticing the grooves in her forehead looked slightly deeper than they had even yesterday, she rubbed her neck, which was incredibly sore. How ironic, she thought, kneading the painful spot on the right. The body echoes the mind. She had been looking the other way for far too long.

13
    The spiritual eyesight improves as the physical eyesight declines.
    —Plato
     
     
     
    I n a sunlit East River-facing room of New York Hospital, Ruthie DuPree lay in her Craftmatic, watching soaps. Not one, not two, but seventeen flower arrangements from L’Olivier, Renny & Reed, and Plaza adorned her suite, the cards from various charity boards Ruthie sat on all sending well wishes and hope for a speedy recovery. Chase sat beside her, holding his grandmother’s hand as the nurse drew blood from her