Free Mrs. Perfect by Jane Porter Page A

Plateau.”
    Nathan shrugs, heads up the stairs. “Don’t know, hon.”
    “Well, find out. If the girls are going to be in the same class next year, it might be good to get to know them better. Have them over for dinner or drinks.”
    He mumbles assent, and I follow him up the stairs, turning out the lights as I go.
    I tuck in each of the girls and then wash my face, doing the nightly skin repair routine before climbing into bed. Nathan’s not reading tonight. His light is already out. I turn out my light and curl up next to him, but he’s asleep and doesn’t respond.
    Lying there in the dark, I see Lucy’s face. No matter how hard I try, I can’t make it go away. I see her eyes, the open lips like a silent scream, and I shiver.
    How horrible to be so alone, so naked.

Chapter Five
    It’s Tuesday morning one week later, and tonight’s Back-to-School Night. I’m giving one of the welcoming speeches, which means I’ve woken up feeling as though I’ve already drunk ten cups of coffee even though I’m still lying in bed.
    Things are good, I tell myself. I’m doing good. No need to stress. I just need to relax.
    I wish I knew why I have such a hard time relaxing. It’s almost as if I’m afraid something bad will happen if I’m not constantly in control.
    Voices waft from downstairs. From what I can hear, Nathan’s in the kitchen trying to get the girls to eat their breakfast. He’s usually patient with them, but unfortunately this doesn’t seem to be one of those days, and Tori—or is it Brooke?—begins to wail.
    Grimacing, I pull on the nearest thing I can find—my Juicy tracksuit—as I think about my day. I’m supposed to meet Patti at noon to discuss the auction and the auction chair meeting scheduled for next week. I’d normally have yard duty, but I traded with another mom so I could meet with Patti. The morning’s more or less free, and I consider taking an exercise class. I need some exercise.
    In the walk-in closet, I glance at myself in the full-length mirror. In my tracksuit I look fine, but the soft fabric can hide the truth, so I pull up the jacket and pull down the bottoms, exposing my stomach, hips, and boobs. I do this almost every day. Sometimes what I see is okay, sometimes I can see only ugliness, can see only where my waist might be thick and how I’m slightly round across my stomach where I know it should be flat.
    Now I touch my stomach, try to suck it in even more, looking for definition, turning to the side to check my width.
    The most fashionable women, the truly stylish women, are all thin. Every month when my new issue of
Town & Country
comes, I leaf through “Parties” to see if I know anyone. And to see if I look better than anyone.
    I don’t like that I do this. But I’m so afraid that if I don’t keep on top of the situation, of me, I won’t matter.
    Usually all the couples in “Parties” are well-known, society staples and celebrity faces, and nearly every woman looks like a greyhound that’s just come from a spa. Their skin is taut and glowing, and they’re all racehorse thin. But every now and then one woman looks a little bigger, sturdier, than the rest of the stick figures in their couture gowns, and I breathe a little sigh of relief—I’m not that fat!—even as I feel a prick of pity that she’s not as skinny. Privately, I don’t understand this preoccupation with weight and figures. I never even think twice about the men in the “Parties” pictures. It’s a nonissue if a man is stout in his tux, or narrow through the shoulder, or thinning at the scalp. Men don’t have to be model perfect. Men just have to be men.
    Tugging up my bottoms and yanking down the jacket, I tell myself I should go to Pilates this morning. It’d do me good. But it’s LuLu in the studio today, and LuLu’s style doesn’t work as well for me.
    Instead, I drop to the carpet next to my chaise and go through a couple of yoga poses, hoping that five minutes of floor work will