Free The Ex-Mrs. Hedgefund by Jill Kargman

and harder. I meandered back to the couch, where I melted down completely. So it wasn’t some trashy whore; it was phase one of Operation Leave Holly. My hands shook. Kiki came over and hugged me as I wept in silence, a silent hysterical cry like toddlers in the moment before the air comes back out of their tiny lungs accompanied by an unbridled piercing wail. All we could hear over my retinal faucet were McDonald’s introductory tips:
    DIVORCE RULES
    1. All’s fair in Divorce. It is a War.
    2. NEVER forget that the root of the word “uterus” is the Greek root uster , which means “hysterical.” Women, fueled by their uncontrollable emotions, will want revenge when you leave them, so you must be prepared.
    3. You must start by selling major assets like your home; rent something smaller so that her lifestyle is diminished.
    4. Dissipate proceeds from asset sales and borrow money to create marital debt, which will also be her obligation to repay.
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    Blah blah blah. On and on and on it went, a tricky litany of fox-like ways to hide money, a dizzying verbal collage of words like “offshore” and “deferred compensation.”
    â€œYou see,” Kiki said soberly, putting her hand on my knee. “These bastards planned it. Yes, I kissed that guy, I filed the papers, but I found Hal’s computer cache with Web sites like mensdivorcesecrets.com and divorceprep.com —he was already thinking about bailing, so I bolted before he could take the year or two this asshole tells them to plan.”
    Could that possibly be true? I staggered toward Tim’s desk, which I previously couldn’t bear to look at. I looked at the closed drawers, potential keepers of more secrets, a dormant volcano that could spew the lava of hot lies were I to explore them. And yet with Kiki beside me, I exhaled and got on the floor and opened them.
    At first, it was the usual boring taxes, investment research information, and other yawn-inducing legal and financial documents. As I sifted through the files, I started to think maybe this was a fluke, a whim on Tim’s part. Once we talked about this, I’d discover it was some onetime thing. Maybe she was a high-class hooker? He loved our family! Maybe he was just getting his rocks off. . . .
    But then I saw a brochure for a Relais & Chateau spa in Oregon. Huh?
    â€œWhat’s that?” Kiki said, as my brow furrowed.
    â€œTim was just in Oregon. But he said he was at some huge convention hotel. This looks awfully romantic and luxurious for a business meeting.”
    Kiki grabbed it and perused the high-gloss photos of body wraps, massages, mahogany four-poster beds, and couples dining by candlelight.
    â€œThis was not business. It was bidniss ,” she scoffed, clearly nauseated. “Monkey business.”
    I sifted through folders, envelopes, Pendaflex files—each containing mystery receipts—La Petite Coquette, a lingerie store on University Place. One If by Land, Two If by Sea, a romantic restaurant where one would never do business, on a MasterCard I’d never seen before. My head spun, my tongue dried, my gag reflex triggered.
    â€œI-I don’t know what to say,” I sputtered, zoned in my pile of piecemeal clues that the man with whom I’d shared a bed literally was leading a double life.
    â€œSay you’ll call the lawyers. Two can play at this game, Holl.”
    I wanted to die. I obviously wasn’t truly suicidal and could never leave Miles mommyless, but I got it into my head that if Tim came home and found my dead body, he’d be sorry and would weep to the gods for atonement. There were more than a few Upper East Side suicides that were legendary, and often were caused by husbands upgrading to trophy wives or losses of fortune.
    I gathered what strength I had to pick up Miles. Seeing him almost made me dissolve again into tears, but I summoned every last ounce of energy I had to