In her early thirties, it had been easy to keep up the schedule. Back then, she'd been able to work long hours, sleep all afternoon, party all night, and wake up looking and feeling great. But she was approaching forty now, and she was beginning to feel tired, a little old to be running from one job to the next, and in heels, no less. More and more often when she came home from work, she curled up on her sofa and called Kate or Mrs. M. or Edna. Being seen—and photographed—at the It new club or at some red carpet premiere had lost its appeal. Rather, she found herself longing to be with people who really knew her, really cared.
Edna repeatedly told her that this was the deal she'd made; the life she got in exchange for all the success. But what good was success, Tully had asked over drinks last week, if there was no one to share it with you?
Edna had simply shaken her head and said, "That's why they call it sacrifice. You can't have it all."
But what if that was exactly what you wanted: everything?
At the CBS building, she waited for her driver to open her door, then stepped out into the still-black, summer morning. She could already feel heat rising from the street; today would be a scorcher. Somewhere nearby she could hear the thunk-wheeze of a garbage truck loading up.
She hurried to the front door and went inside, nodding to the doorman as she walked to the elevator. Upstairs, at her makeup desk, her savior was already waiting. Dressed in a too-tight red T-shirt that showed off his bulging muscles and form-fitting black leather pants, Tank put one hand on his hip and shook his head. "Someone looks like shit this morning."
"You're being too hard on yourself," Tully said, easing into the chair. She'd hired Tank about five years ago to do her hair and makeup. It was a choice she regretted almost daily.
He pulled the Hermès scarf off her head and removed the dark glasses. "You know I love you, honey, but you gotta quit burning the candle at both ends. And you're getting too thin again."
"Shut up and paint."
As usual, he started on her hair. While he worked, he talked. Sometimes one or the other of them would confide in the other; it was the nature of the business they were in. Time spent together created an intimacy that didn't quite spill over into friendship. A very New York type of relationship. Today, however, Tully kept their conversation light and impersonal. She didn't want to reveal to him that she felt out of sorts. He'd jump on in and tell her how to fix her life.
By five o'clock, she looked ten years younger. "You're a genius," she said, sliding out of the chair.
"If you don't change your ways, missy, you're going to need a surgeon, not a makeup genius."
"Thanks." She flashed him a camera-ready smile and walked away before he could say anything else.
On-set, she stared into the camera and smiled again. Here, in this fake world, she was perfect. She talked easily, laughed at her guests' and co-anchors' jokes, and made everyone who saw her think she could be their friend. She knew that no one in America knew how she really felt right now. No one imagined that Tallulah Hart could possibly want more than she had.
Shopping with the twins and Marah was a headache-inducing event. By the time Kate finished her last stops at Safeway, the library, the drugstore, and the fabric store, she was exhausted, and it wasn't even three o'clock. All the way home the boys cried and Marah sulked. At ten, her daughter had decided that she was too big to sit in the backseat of the car with the babies, and threw a fit now on every excursion. The plan, clearly, was to wear Kate down.
"Stop arguing with me, Marah," she said for at least the dozenth time since they'd left the grocery store.
"I'm not arguing. I'm explaining. Emily gets to sit in the front seat and so does Rachel. You're the only mom who won't—"
Kate pulled into the garage and hit the brakes just hard enough to send the grocery bags flying forward. It was worth it, since it shut Marah up. "Help me carry stuff in."
Marah grabbed a single bag and went inside.
Before Kate could reprimand her, Johnny came into the garage and got a load. Kate and the boys followed him into the house.
As usual, the TV was on, too loud for Kate's taste, and turned to CNN.
"I'll put the boys down for their nap," Johnny said when all the bags were on the counter. "Then I have good news for you."
Kate tossed him a tired smile. "I could use some. Thanks."
Thirty minutes later, he came back downstairs. Kate was at the dining room table, spreading out the fabric for the last few ballet costumes she had to make. Nine down; three to go.
"I'm an idiot," she said, more to herself than to him. "Next time they ask for volunteers, I am not going to raise my hand."
He came up behind her, pulled her to her feet, and turned her to face him. "You say that every time."
"Like I said: I'm an idiot. So what's my good news? You're making dinner?"
"Tully called."
"That's my good news? She calls every Saturday."
"She's coming to Marah's recital, and she wants to throw her goddaughter a little surprise party."
She pulled out of his arms.
"You're not smiling," he said, frowning.
Kate was surprised at the flare of anger she felt. "Dance is the only thing Marah and I do together. I was going to have a party for her here."
"Oh."
She could tell her husband wanted to say more, but he was too smart to do it. He knew this wasn't his call.
Finally Kate sighed. She was being selfish and they both knew it. Marah idolized her godmother and would love a surprise party. "What time will she be here?"
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR