Page 6 of Mean Moms

By that point, more than ten years in, she and Tim had been in a precarious place in their union.

Their wedding had been a buzzy affair, the joining of an It Girl and her indie-movie prince, a New York City fairy tale.

Tim had just produced his one (and only) big hit, Daylight , about a young Latino man in Spanish Harlem exploring his sexuality, which had been nominated for two Oscars.

Frost had been working as a photographer’s assistant, trying to figure out what she wanted to do while her parents paid for her lifestyle.

She and Tim had met at a book party for a mutual writer friend.

“You’re Frost Trevor, right?” he’d said to her as an opener.

“You’re even more beautiful in person than in the Post !

” It had delighted her. Tim was kinder than the men Frost usually went for.

He was also driven, wanting to make a career of his own though he didn’t need to; he was the heir to a pharmaceutical fortune.

They both liked what the other did for their social standing.

They just kind of fit, and that was enough.

A gorgeous couple who had a gorgeous wedding at the top of the gorgeous Gramercy Park Hotel, worthy of an entire spread in the Styles section.

Afterward, it had been more of the same—parties, luxurious vacations, followed by Frost’s pregnancy, which started out perfectly but soon turned harrowing.

She’d nearly lost both twins at five months; she’d been at brunch at Balthazar, eating a burger, and felt something cold on her leg.

She’d looked down to see blood everywhere, smeared all over the red leather booth, pouring onto the floor, the fairy tale turned nightmare.

The bleeding eventually stopped, but she’d been on bed rest for the duration, spending months alone in their Chelsea loft while Tim flew off to be on the set of his next film, a flop about a drug-addicted dolphin trainer.

Frost had been worried that motherhood would wreck her.

Everything in her life before that had been in pursuit of being “cool,” and turning into a mom of screaming babies certainly wasn’t it.

But then the opposite had happened. She’d adored it.

She’d loved them so much, her precious boys, with their tiny fists and their wailing cries and their deep, insatiable need for her.

She’d vowed to be the opposite of her own mother—warm and coddling instead of imperious and distant.

And she’d done it. King and Alfred were wonderful.

Her marriage, however, was not. Tim’s career stalled, and he’d spent years spinning his wheels with nothing to show for it.

Frost felt for him, but she’d been focused on the kids at the expense of her own creativity as well.

Tim had started to take his frustrations out on her, criticizing her and criticizing her, like she could never do anything right.

Why was she spending so much time on her artwork?

Why was she throwing so many parties? She shouldn’t let the boys watch TV, he’d said, she shouldn’t feed them sweets, he’d said, she shouldn’t let them sleep with her, he’d said, she shouldn’t, she shouldn’t, she shouldn’t.

So at Zoo-ly Fourth, when Dave Morehouse handed her the ketamine nasal spray with a wink, she’d placed it up her nose and inhaled strongly.

For about fifteen minutes, she hadn’t felt anything and thought perhaps Dave had been duping them all.

She’d lost Tim ages ago, and so she’d gone over to chat with some moms. Ava Leo had been talking shit about someone Frost didn’t know—“and she never brings birthday gifts to parties, it’s the weirdest thing.

Like, we all pay for Atherton, you can afford to buy a gift for a seven-year-old. ”

“Maybe it’s an environmental thing,” Trina had offered up with a shrug.

And then suddenly Frost was floating outside of her body, watching herself from above, admiring her sharp shoulders, the curve of her butt in the formfitting leopard-print dress.

She’d felt happy in a way she hadn’t in years, relaxation flowing through her limbs.

She’d walked into the bird barn. Tropical parrots clucked and sang, the sounds overwhelmingly vivid.

And then Art had arrived, looking at her with interest. She’d seen him with the nasal spray earlier, so she knew he felt as wonderful as Frost, beyond description, just warmth and joy and light.

He was dressed as a wolf, a furry snout covering his nose, in a sleek gray suit, his eyes shining black.

They’d snuck off to the beach, made love, high on illegal substances and on each other, as their spouses mingled, unaware. Had she always been attracted to Art? Or had the drugs made her see him anew?

“I’ve got to go,” she said now to Art, shaking off her memories and guilt and motioning for him to follow her.

They took the elevator down together—no one in the building knew her, and so she and Art used the place as if they were a couple.

They nodded to the doorman at the entrance (doormen were paid to be vaults; no worry there), and Art gave her a brief kiss on the lips at the door before exiting first.

Frost stepped out not a second later, the searing heat hitting her like a wall.

Autumn in the city could be hot, but this felt different, like it was a permanent shift into another dimension.

The sidewalks, the buildings, the cars of New York weren’t built for this; they absorbed and absorbed and absorbed until swollen with warmth.

Frost, eyes closed against the bright sun, smashed into a woman standing directly in front of her, causing them both to drop their bags, sending lipsticks, mints, phones, and pens scattering to the pavement.

“Ay!” the woman yelled as Frost reeled backward from the impact.

“I’m so sorry,” Frost said, picking up her things, clumsily bumping heads with the woman, who was doing the same thing.

“Ouch!” they both said at the same time.

Frost stood up to face her and was struck by the woman’s beauty, her perfect body under a pink skirt, which hit well above the knee.

Was she an actress? Frost thought, before her brain clicked and she realized she actually knew this person.

“Oh, hello, you!” said Frost to Sofia. “Nice to run into you, though I apologize about literally running into you,” she continued.

“No problem at all! I’d know you anywhere, with those gorgeous eyes and hair,” said Sofia.

Frost, who retained a lifelong pride in her looks, blushed. “I’m going to get King and Alfred now. Are you headed to pickup? If so, let’s walk together.”

Sofia nodded, and they started down the street, walking toward Irving Place.

Frost noticed that Sofia was wobbling and saw that her towering stilettos kept getting stuck in the sidewalk crags.

“Do you live around here?” Sofia said, walking slower than Frost, a lifelong New Yorker, who was used to running everywhere.

“I have a place in the building I was coming out of,” said Frost. “I use it as my office. Well, actually, that’s where I make my art.

” Frost’s therapist had been encouraging her to openly embrace this part of her life, but it was proving tough to do so.

Frost’s mother had never taken her seriously as an artist, and so Frost hadn’t taken herself seriously, either.

“You’re an artist? How wonderful,” said Sofia.

“Just for pleasure,” said Frost automatically. Then remembered herself. “Though I do hope one day to turn it into more than a hobby.”

“How cool. I’m not an artist myself, but I love going to museums,” said Sofia.

There was something guileless about her that Frost liked, a kind of childlike enthusiasm that was missing from the “over it” attitudes of most of the moms Frost knew.

“I was in this neighborhood getting a facial. My skin in this city! Horrible! The dirt is seeping into my pores,” Sofia said.

“But I must say, even though you all are being so kind to me, I’m having a hard time with it all,” she went on, babbling now in an endearing way, clearly starved for company.

“New York is so different than Miami. Everyone here is so intimidating to me, so accomplished and stylish.” Frost watched her as she spoke, struck by the way her lips were the shape of a perfect bow.

“I thought I’d come here, and it would be like Sex and the City . I’d find a group of friends, we’d have cocktails and chat about men, wear nice clothes, go shopping together.” Frost laughed to herself at Sofia’s naivete. Could she possibly be… genuine?

“Instead,” Sofia went on, “I’m alone all day, getting facials and manicures and watching junk TV. At least there’s a good Barry’s Bootcamp near my house. It’s the only place that feels a little bit like home.”

They’d made their way down Irving, crossing on Seventeenth Street and walking toward Third Avenue, a few blocks from Atherton. Frost felt for Sofia. She couldn’t imagine having to relocate with her children without Tim, moving to a city in which she knew no one.

“That sounds difficult,” said Frost, patting Sofia’s arm. “Atherton’s great, but the moms can be kind of cliquey. And I’m sure many of them are intimidated by you, even if you think the opposite.”

“By me?!” said Sofia, laughing. “I have no friends, I’m divorced, and no one told me that in New York you’re supposed to wear expensive sacks instead of, like, nice clothes.

” Sofia’s voice was loud and direct, with an inflection that exaggerated some words—“diiiiivorced,” “liiiike.” Sofia gestured to her own outfit and then fingered Frost’s loose cotton dress, sticking out her tongue. Frost laughed. She liked this lady.