Page 19 of Mean Moms

A Night on the Town!

Frost Trevor had just experienced one of those life-changing moments—the first time you meet the man you ultimately marry; the big job interview that goes your way; the double lines on the pregnancy test—that come about once a decade.

She’d been walking on Houston Street, headed to Nolita for a quick dinner with Sofia, when she saw an unrecognized number pop up on her phone.

She picked up (when you have children, you always pick up), fumbling with the device before putting it to her ear.

Though she’d been out of the sling for months, she still felt a pang each time she bent her arm, reminding her of the accident.

Frost silently cursed herself for not buying earbuds because they were so ugly, remembering that her therapist had told her she needed to work on her practicality. She’d never been good at being practical.

“Hello, Frost? This is Ethel Zeigler. I own the Zeigler gallery on Twenty-Fourth Street. Nice to meet you.” Frost held her breath. Why would Ethel Zeigler, one of the most famous art dealers in New York, be calling her?

“Hi, Ethel, I’m a big fan of yours. How can I help you?” Frost continued walking toward her destination—Peasant, on Elizabeth Street—as she spoke. The sharp February wind cut into Frost’s exposed hands.

“Someone who shall remain nameless sent me pictures of your work. I’m interested,” she said. Her voice was deep, with an old-school Brooklyn accent and a slight smoker’s rasp.

“What? How? I’m not sure I understand,” said Frost. She’d paused at the corner of Elizabeth and Houston, in front of a jeans store called Still Here.

Inside, she could see a lithe young woman looking at herself in the mirror, inspecting her perky butt in the denim.

Frost remembered when her butt used to look like that.

“I’ve seen your work. Your collaging. I like it. I want to see it in person. Do you have an agent I can call? I asked around, but no one seemed to know. I even thought about calling your mother, who I’ve known for years,” said Ethel.

“Thank you for calling me directly,” said Frost. She was having a hard time processing what Ethel was telling her.

How could Ethel have possibly seen Frost’s collages?

They were stashed in her apartment on Twenty-Second Street.

But that was a mystery to solve later. Now, she just had one thing to say.

“You can absolutely see my work. I’d be honored.

A few are still in progress, but you’ll get the idea.

I don’t have an agent; I don’t even consider myself an artist,” said Frost. “I never even thought about showing them. They were just… for me.” She physically shut her mouth to stop herself from saying anything else idiotic.

“Well, maybe not, young lady,” said Ethel with a laugh. “I only show what I can sell. I think you have a story here, and pieces that people will want to buy. Why don’t you email me and we can set up a time for me to swing by.”

“That sounds great. Thank you so much!” said Frost.

Ethel Zeigler was interested in her collages!

Frost skipped along to Peasant, humming with happy energy, and saw Sofia already sitting at a table, sipping a tequila.

Sofia was in an oversize black blazer, jeans, and suede boots, her thick hair blown out in flattering waves.

She’d fully shed the bodycon dresses and logo’d bags for a subdued, quiet-luxury aesthetic.

She looked very Atherton right now, and it suited her.

Even her breasts seemed to have shrunk since September.

“ Mi amor , how are you?” asked Sofia warmly.

Over the past six months, Frost and Sofia had become a tight unit.

Sofia was now always included in their mom drinks, was invited over for Sunday family playdates, and had become a permanent part of their drop-off clique.

And she was proving herself to be an invaluable member of the Atherton Parents’ Association, too.

She’d joined the fundraising committee and volunteered to run the Christmas food drive, tasks that Frost, as a rule, staunchly avoided.

New Yorkers liked to see other people work , no matter how much money they had, and Sofia’s efforts had not gone unnoticed.

It had been quite a speedy triumph, that’s for sure.

Frost knew of moms who’d been trying for years to be accepted into the downtown hierarchy. Some never got there at all.

“I’m good!” said Frost brightly, signaling the waiter to come over to get her a drink.

“Have you spoken to Belle? How’s she doing?” said Sofia.

Belle had recently turned into a bit of a recluse.

She’d never quite recovered from the lice email debacle, and had started avoiding school functions, for fear of seeing any of the moms she’d named in the now infamous note.

She’d also been working overtime to ready The Dress for its big launch this month.

Morgan, too, had been busy with Thyme & Time, which had recovered quickly from the robbery and was now going gangbusters, the most popular sound bath spa in all of Manhattan.

At least Frost had Sofia to fill the friend void.

“I think she’s pretty on edge,” said Frost. “She’s convinced someone leaked her email on purpose, though I have no clue who’d do that. How would they have gotten access to Nurse Weiss’s account?”

Sofia shrugged, and Frost changed the subject.

“Have you figured out what you’re wearing to Friendsgiving?” she said.

The next theme party was at Clara and Neil Cain’s Financial District apartment, a five-bedroom duplex in a high-rise on Pearl Street, with wraparound skyline views.

Clara had landed on Friendsgiving as a theme, though Thanksgiving was long past, celebrating “the bonds of Atherton’s chosen community.

” All the moms were complaining about it on various chat threads—what the hell do you wear to a party about friendship?

“No costume ideas yet,” said Sofia a little glumly. “It’s kind of depressing to have to figure it out all on my own, without a partner.”

The waiter appeared and Frost ordered a dirty martini. She wanted to cheer Sofia up. She was feeling good, maybe even great, and she wanted that feeling for Sofia, too.

“I got a very exciting phone call on the way here. An art dealer wants to look at my work.”

“That’s wonderful,” said Sofia. “I’m sure you’re an amazing artist—I can’t wait to see your collages.”

“I want to celebrate. How do you feel about going a little wild tonight?” said Frost.

Sofia’s eyes sparkled, their golden rings catching in the restaurant’s low lights.

“I’ll text Maria that I’m going to be late,” Sofia said with a smile. “Moms’ night out! Vamos!”

“I’ll text Morgan and Belle to see if they’d like to join,” said Frost.

By 2:00 a.m., Frost and Sofia were dancing in a packed room at ZZ’s, a private club owned by the Carbone guys that cost $50,000 to join and $10,000 a year after that.

Neither woman was a member, but Frost was old friends with Mario Carbone’s wife, so they had an easy in.

A DJ was playing Madonna, and Frost was singing along to “Like a Prayer” at the top of her lungs, bumping up against Sofia, who’d shed her blazer long ago and was writhing in a damp white tank.

The place was packed with wealthy, let-loose revelers, and Frost and Sofia were both many drinks in. Frost, jumping up enthusiastically, hadn’t felt this alive in years.

“Woohoo!” Sofia shouted throatily. A remix of Cher’s “Believe” blasted over the speakers, and Sofia abruptly stopped dancing, a funny look on her face.

For a moment, Frost thought Sofia might cry.

Instead, Sofia turned to the attractive guy next to her and pulled him off the dance floor, motioning for Frost to join them.

He, in turn, grabbed his friend, and the foursome stumbled into a banquette in the adjoining cocktail bar.

There was a strong smell of cigar and cigarette smoke, and Frost inhaled greedily, transported to an earlier, happier time in her life.

Sofia grabbed Frost’s hand under the table, smiling, seemingly back to her usual self, whatever passing cloud having lifted.

The man Sofia had recruited, who looked to Frost like a young Paul Newman, was staring at Sofia in awe.

The guy next to Frost, nearly as handsome in his own right, had already planted his hand firmly on Frost’s upper thigh.

She had Tim. She had Art. But this was something else. This was exciting .

“I’m Nick and this is Ryan,” said Paul Newman, “and who are you two?”

“I’m Bluey and this is Bingo,” said Sofia, without missing a beat. The guys, who appeared confused, obviously didn’t get the mom joke.

“What brings you to ZZ’s?”

“We’re out having fun,” said Sofia. “Just two hot divorcées on the town.” Sofia said it so naturally, Frost almost believed it herself.

She felt the hand on her thigh snake up and didn’t do anything to stop it.

Sofia took Nick’s head in her hands and kissed him, deeply, to Frost’s surprise and amusement.

“You’re beautiful,” Ryan said directly into Frost’s ear. She flooded with warmth.

“How old are you?” she whispered to him. His face was so smooth it reminded her of her sons’.

“Twenty-seven,” he said, his fingers lightly massaging her leg. She didn’t want him to stop. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-two,” said Frost. The lie came easily. She felt thirty-two right then, if not younger.

“And you were married?” he said. “What happened?”

“My husband felt like a failure, and he took it out on me,” she said. It felt freeing to finally say it aloud, if only to a stranger.

“That sucks,” said Ryan. He gently kissed her neck and she let him. She looked over at Sofia and Nick and saw they were making out like teenagers, Sofia’s hands running through his sandy hair.

“It certainly did suck,” said Frost with a light laugh. “And so I fucked one of my best friends’ husbands.” Ryan also chuckled, thinking she was kidding.