Page 40 of Mean Moms

That man had been Rodrick, Sofia’s driver; the man with the baseball hat, the man whom Morgan had been paying to torment Belle and Frost, to threaten them and photograph them and do them bodily harm.

Morgan wasn’t sure if Sofia had seen his face, but from the way she’d said it, Morgan was concerned that she had.

And then what? Morgan hadn’t planned for that possibility, and thinking about it was giving her hives.

But she also felt confident that tonight’s events would prove definitive, and then she wouldn’t have to worry about Sofia ever again.

There had been others involved in her schemes; Rodrick wasn’t nearly the only one.

There was the homeless man, now cozily ensconced with all the other crazies at a mental health facility on Morgan’s dime.

There was Greg Summerly, the “private detective.” There was Art, unwitting Art, who’d taken nude pictures of Frost in their little love nest on Twenty-Second Street.

He’d deleted them from his phone but not before sending them to his own email, to which Morgan had the password.

She’d studied the pictures alone one night in bed, the curve of Frost’s breasts, Frost’s hand caressing herself.

In the background, Morgan had seen Frost’s collages, and so she’d sent them anonymously to Ethel Zeigler, knowing Ethel would be interested in that sellable storyline of a former It Girl and her It Girl artwork. Setting Frost up to tear her down.

Sometimes Morgan did the dirty work herself, like rubbing itching powder into the samples of Belle’s Dresses when she was helping her set up for the event.

And cutting Belle’s hair had been a highlight.

Morgan had even used her own scissors, those sharp ones she’d bought after reading about them on Wirecutter.

In some ways, she’d been lucky: the fake nudes of Hildy?

She didn’t know who was behind those, but it hadn’t been Morgan.

Just a middle-school prank, probably, possibly Ozzie Cain acting out.

Then there was Dr. Broker, the most helpful of them all.

Paul. So easily manipulated by his frankly pedestrian kink.

So willing to do whatever she’d asked, including alerting Morgan to Belle’s lice email, and then blasting it out to the entire school for her.

Morgan had to admit, she’d enjoyed their time together.

But it wasn’t like she “felt bad” about what was about to happen to him.

He’d soon be out of Atherton, and with him the risk of Morgan getting exposed.

It had been in the works for a long, long time.

Morgan went up to Sofia to say hello.

“Hiiii, this place looks amazing!” said Morgan. Sofia, who’d been bending down to arrange a vase filled with gigantic ceramic bananas, stood up, surprised.

“ Gracias , Morgan,” she said. “And thanks for coming with the PA girls to help. You have a nice break?”

“Oh, yes, we went to our Hamptons house,” said Morgan. “I can’t wait for summer to officially start. How about you?”

“Ah, I just stayed in the city,” said Sofia.

“The kids went down to Miami to see their dad. I was supposed to go but decided to have some alone time here instead. I missed them, but it was nice to have some days to myself.” Morgan nodded understandingly.

Both women were saying nothing, acting the parts they were supposed to act.

“How’s Thyme the taint of all that negative press had been too big to overcome.

The combo of Morgan’s business succeeding while Belle’s failed had been particularly traumatic for Belle.

“I almost forgot: I had a nice, long conversation with a friend of mine from Florida, Andrea, who I hadn’t spoken with in a while,” said Sofia now, her face brightening.

“I told her my kids were at Atherton, and she mentioned she knew someone there, a woman named Morgan Chary! Isn’t that funny?

She even said that she was the one who’d told you about me, years ago, and also that you two had a gossip session a few weeks before I left town.

She really couldn’t remember the details.

” Sofia lowered her voice. “I think she might have a drinking problem, if you know what I mean.”

Morgan felt her heart quicken. Was she going to faint? Shit. Fucking Andrea, that stupid lush, had such a big mouth.

“That’s so funny,” said Morgan. “I certainly know Andrea. Her husband does some business with Welly, so we occasionally get seated together during work dinners. She’s lovely. But I don’t remember speaking about you!”

“Huh,” said Sofia. “I have to run around and get everything set. People will be here in no time! I love your clam head, by the way. So fun. Like a big vagina.” Sofia smiled at Morgan, a large, fake smile, and swished off, leaving her thrown.

But Morgan had no time to dwell on it, because she had things to do, and a timeline to stick to. And Morgan was always on time.

Belle Redness wasn’t sure about any of this.

She wasn’t sure about this scheme that Morgan had concocted.

She wasn’t sure that Sofia deserved it. And she definitely wasn’t sure about her costume—a red, Anita Zmurko-Sieradzka dress, with a large bump near the shoulder, like a fabric tumor, and no armholes at all, trapping all of her limbs inside the garment.

She’d had to hobble out of the car; Fred had dropped them off on Hudson, but the building’s entrance, it turned out, was actually on Desbrosses, and so Belle had to hop like a kangaroo across the sidewalk.

Surely not the strangest scene in New York at that very moment, but perhaps in the top ten.

This costume had been a mistake. Even Jeff, who rarely gave her any sartorial feedback, had lightly advised her to change.

“Babe, you won’t be able to move. It’s a party. How will you hold a drink?” he’d said to her as they were leaving. “I do love your new hair, even if it’s not what you wanted,” he added kindly, giving her a quick hug. Jeff had been supremely nice to Belle recently, and she did appreciate it.

He was in a much more reasonable outfit than she, a black leather suit, plus a penguin head that he was holding (when he’d put it on, he’d felt claustrophobic, so she’d compromised and said he could just carry it all night, and maybe wear it for a couple of pictures).

Belle felt like hopping back to the car and going home.

She didn’t want to face the other moms, sighing with sympathy about everything that had happened to her.

Belle was starting to hate Atherton, now that she was no longer on top.

Being an outcast was no fun, and if Belle had learned anything this year, it was that she probably should have been better to everyone when she’d had the power.

Belle was not a deeply introspective person, but even she could see that she’d been a bitch. Hildy had been right.

Belle and Jeff took the elevator up, just the two of them, not speaking to each other as they traveled to the party.

Belle was thinking about Dr. Broker, whether he’d be there, what she’d say to him.

She hadn’t spoken to him one-on-one since the night of Friendsgiving, the night her friends had caught them in the closet.

Belle, so angry at Frost, about The Dress, about everything, had run into him on the second floor of Clara’s apartment, after she’d doused Frost with that drink.

Dr. Broker had been sipping an espresso martini, those adorable friendship bracelets on his wrist. She’d been in such a state, so stressed and embarrassed and not feeling like herself.

He’d grabbed her wrist and dragged her to Ozzie Cain’s room, into that closet, which smelled of a twelve-year-old’s dirty socks, plus Axe body spray.

He’d tried to kiss her, but she’d ducked, wanting to but not wanting to, which is when Frost had come in and saved her.

Thank God for Jeff, she thought, looking over at him now in the elevator, holding that stupid penguin head, a decapitated bird out of a depressing Planet Earth documentary.

She wished she felt comfortable broaching the topic of marriage counseling with him, but she couldn’t bring herself to.

It was lodged inside her throat like a chewy piece of Balthazar steak.

The family had been down in St. Barths over break, staying at the Cheval Blanc, their favorite, and it had been so nice to get away from the city, away from the chaos, the failure, and the creepy stalker (Sofia?).

Belle had nearly felt like Belle again, lounging in an Eres bikini, sipping Aperol spritzes. Hildy had been in a better mood, too.

“I’ve moved on,” Hildy had said to Belle at one point.

“The nude pictures aren’t of me, everyone knows that.

And Alfred and King did apologize.” They’d been lying in a cabana on the beach, Belle flipping through old Vogue s and Hildy on her Kindle, reading one of those dragon books she loved.

Miles was splashing around in the ocean, and Jeff was off at a yoga class.

“I’m glad, honey,” Belle had said.

After a pause, Hildy had spoken again. “Mom, I’m sorry about Pippins Cottage Home, but maybe it was a sign you weren’t meant to be a fashion designer.” Belle had been surprised. That possibility hadn’t even occurred to her. But she’d sat with it. Was Hildy was right about… everything?