Page 33 of Mean Moms

“Frost, I’m… I’m. Frost, I miss you,” said Art softly, leaning into her.

Frost felt her usual tug to him. “I’m sorry about the way we ended.

I didn’t want to be short with you. I need to tell you something,” he continued.

“It’s about Morgan…” At that moment, Frost saw Morgan coming up the stairs, her wedding dress costume taking up an impressive amount of space.

She instantly spotted Frost with her husband and made a beeline toward them, not leaving Frost with time to say anything to Art other than “You should work on your marriage. I’m working on mine.

” Then Frost spun away. She saw a green door, which she figured led to a powder room, and opened it haltingly, not wanting to walk in on anyone who’d inadvertently forgotten to lock.

The lights were off, and so she patted her hand across the wall until she felt a click.

The room was illuminated, and Frost saw that she’d walked into Ozzie’s bedroom.

Whoops. Frost went to turn the light back off, but as she did, she saw some movement near the closet door, which was slightly ajar. She then saw the flash of a tutu.

“Belle?” Frost called, confused. “Is that you? Are you in the closet?” Belle peeked her head out.

“Frost! Yes, it’s me,” she said. She stepped out of the closet and smoothed her Carrie curls guiltily.

“Are you alone?” Frost asked, though she knew the answer to that question already. Belle shook her head, then put her finger to her lips. Frost had a bad feeling.

Just then Sofia entered, likely looking for Frost.

“What’s happening in here? I just had to get away from Hugo Corder, his breath was so stinky,” she said, waving her hand in front of her nose. “Ah, did I interrupt? Are you two making up?” she said to them.

The closet door squeaked open, and Belle ran back to it and shut it tightly.

“Is someone in there?” said Sofia, an eyebrow raised. Belle shook her head.

“Well, then, I’m glad I have you both here, because I need to tell you something,” said Sofia. Frost wasn’t sure what she was talking about, but she was more concerned about who was hiding in the closet. Whoever it was, it certainly wasn’t Jeff Redness.

Sofia went on.

“I’ve decided what I want to do with my life…” she said. Her blond wig was askew, her shiny brown hair visible from the front, too beautiful to be contained.

Then into the bedroom walked Morgan, looking from one woman to another, her face inscrutable.

“Am I missing an important powwow?” she said.

At the sound of her voice, the closet door popped open again, and Dr. Broker appeared before them. His hair was mussed, and Frost could see that his small nod to the theme was a stack of beaded friendship bracelets on his wrist.

“Mrs. Trevor, Ms. Perez, Mrs. Chary, I hope you’re having a nice party,” he said genially, as if greeting them in the halls of Atherton.

Belle looked at the floor, then at the door, anywhere but at Dr. Broker or her friends.

As Belle squirmed, Frost could have sworn she saw Morgan and Dr. Broker lock eyes, but only for a brief second.

Dr. Broker cleared his throat strangely and, without another word, moved past them out of the room.

“It’s not what it looked like,” said Belle softly. “I know this is going to sound crazy, but he’s been hitting on me! And, I don’t know, I guess I like the attention, but nothing has happened, I swear. I wouldn’t cheat on Jeff, though sometimes I fantasize about it.” Frost believed Belle.

“I guess…” said Frost, knowing now wasn’t the time to deploy the Miranda line but unable to resist, “you’re just not that into him .” No one laughed. Frost felt like they were all going slightly insane.

“Ay, ay, ay,” said Sofia with a whistle. “Don’t worry, Belle. This will stay between us. I’m very good at keeping secrets.” Sofia then gave Morgan a long, hard glare, confusing Frost even more.

The Friends theme song came on again, blasting its insipid melody into Ozzie Cain’s room. The four women stood there, staring at each other suspiciously, their expensive costumes deflated and stained.

A Note from the Host, Clara Cain

Dear cherished Atherton community,

Neil and I wanted to send a quick note to say a warm thank-you for coming to our Friendsgiving theme party last night.

We hope you enjoyed your time at Central Perk!

We know there was some groaning about the “friendship exercise,” and we want to apologize to anyone who found it to be at all awkward.

That certainly wasn’t our intention! We so value the bonds that our amazing school creates and fosters, and we hope last night gave everyone the opportunity to expand their circles and talk to someone new and interesting.

Remember: we’ll be there for you when the rain starts to pour. Wink, wink. See you all soon.

All our best,

The Cains

Not one person had replied to Clara Cain’s thank-you email yet.

Did everyone hate her? She knew she was an unpopular mom, just like she’d been an unpopular kid.

Were some people destined to go through life that way?

Clara had been the smartest girl in her grade, in her whole town, really, a small suburb outside of Cleveland called Bay Village.

She’d gone from there to Harvard and then to Harvard Law, brainy, hardworking, always the first to raise her hand in class.

She’d met Neil when they were both associates at Cravath.

He was still there, a litigation partner, and Clara had gone out on her own, smartly seeing the hole in the market for a female lawyer to represent the Harvey Weinstein types.

A woman by their side helped make the man palatable, though she knew that what she did turned the other Atherton mothers off.

But she was a lawyer . She wasn’t endorsing her clients’ behavior. Didn’t people get that?

Clara was a beast at work. She felt no moral ambiguity.

Everyone had the right to an attorney, and she’d defend her clients to the best of her ability.

She didn’t care if they’d sexually harassed someone; that wasn’t her problem.

She felt no insecurity in front a judge or jury, and always had confidence that what she was saying was the right thing at the right time.

It was the opposite of how she felt around the moms at school, like she was constantly putting her foot in her mouth, saying the dumb thing, the embarrassing thing.

Talking too much about how she was constantly working.

Revealing things when she shouldn’t and withholding information at the wrong time.

It painfully transported her back to her childhood, when she was teased for being a know-it-all, a kiss ass, a try-hard loser.

“Clara the cunt,” the popular girls used to chant as Clara crept through the halls of high school.

Well, she may be a cunt, but she knew a lot of shit about a lot of bad men, shit that could hurt people if it ever came out.

She’d been confidentially approached by more than a handful of Atherton dads seeking legal advice.

Bud Cunningham called her some years ago to discuss how his name was part of the Ashley Madison leak.

Did he have legal recourse? (No, he didn’t, but he was lucky enough to avoid getting caught; Trina had been so blissed-out on psychedelics that she completely missed that news cycle.) Dre Finlay’s husband, Peter, had needed Clara’s help after a young woman at work claimed he’d been sending her unwanted dick pics.

(They’d reached a settlement without Dre finding out.) And now there was Art Chary, who’d recently given her a retainer.

It turned out he was a cheater; Morgan didn’t know.

Or Art said she didn’t know. But from Clara’s experience, the wives often just looked the other way, not wanting to rock the boat of their privileged lives.

Art had been fucking Tilly, the sound bath specialist from Thyme he had a near constant postnasal drip.

Ozzie was out at soccer. Clara cringed, remembering how she’d burst into tears last night in front of the queen bees, the result of her sucking down too many martinis on an empty stomach.

And she’d also spilled the beans about King and Alfred and those deepfake nude photos of Hildy.

Clara was the holder of so much confidential information at work; you could torture her, and she wouldn’t reveal any seamy details about her clients.

But when it came to mom-gossip, she just couldn’t keep it inside.

Those two things were likely related, but Clara didn’t have time to go to therapy, unlike all the stay-at-home moms. (What did they talk to their therapists about?

Clara often wondered. Their feelings of inadequacy at SoulCycle? Their filler-regret?)

Clara’s phone buzzed. It was a message from Art. Shoot. She’d just wanted to have a relaxing Saturday morning. But work called.

Clara opened up the text and Neil blew his nose loudly. “Sorry, honey, it’s just these goddamn allergies,” he said. She smiled at him and then got up to go to her office. She needed to call Art Chary back.