The Wives. Lauren WeisbergerЧитать онлайн книгу.

       1

       Again with the Nazi Getup?

      EMILY

      Emily racked her brain. There had to be something to complain about. This was New Year’s Eve in Los Angeles, one of the most annoying nights of the year in arguably the most annoying city known to humanity. So why couldn’t she think of a thing?

      She sipped her skinny margarita from her chaise and watched her husband’s beautiful body cut through the water like a moving art installation. When Miles emerged, he propped himself on the back of the lit infinity pool, where the turquoise water appeared to spill over the side and straight down the mountain. Behind him, the lights from the valley twinkled for miles, making the city look alluring, even sexy. Night was the only time Los Angeles really shone. Gone were the smog and the junkies and the soul-crushing traffic, all replaced by an idyllic vista of night sky and silently twinkling lights – as if God Himself had descended into the Hollywood Hills and selected the most perfect Snapchat filter for His least favorite city on earth.

      Miles smiled at her and she waved, but when he motioned for her to join him, she shook her head. It was unseasonably warm, and all around her, people were partying in that intensely determined way that happened only on New Year’s Eve after midnight: This will be the most fun we’ve ever had; we will do and say outrageous things; we are loving our lives and everyone around us. The massive hot tub was packed with a dozen revelers, all with drinks in hand, and another group sat around the perimeter, content to dangle their feet while they waited for a few inches of space to free up. On the deck above the pool a DJ blasted remixed hip-hop, and dancers everywhere – on the patio, in the pool, on the pool deck, streaming in and out of the house – all moved happily to his playlist. On the chair to Emily’s left, a young girl wearing only bikini bottoms straddled a guy and massaged his shoulders while her bare breasts dangled freely. She worked her way down his back and began a rather aggressive handling of his glutes. She was twenty-three, twenty-five at most, and while her body was far from perfect – slightly rounded belly and overly curvy thighs – her arms didn’t jiggle and her neck didn’t sag. No crepey anything. Just youth. None of the small indignities of Emily’s own body at thirty-six: light stretch marks on her hips; cleavage with just the smallest hint of sag; some errant dark hairs along her bikini line that just seemed to sprout now willy-nilly, indifferent to Emily’s indefatigable waxing schedule. It wasn’t a horror show, exactly – she still looked thin and tan, maybe even downright hot in her elegant Eres two-piece – but it was getting harder with every passing year.

      An unfamiliar 917 number flashed on her phone.

      ‘Emily? This is Helene. I’m not sure if you remember, but we met a couple years ago at the Met Ball.’

      Emily looked skyward in concentration. Though the name was familiar, she was having a hard time placing it. Silence filled the air.

      ‘I’m Rizzo’s manager.’

      Rizzo. Interesting. He was the new Bieber: the hottest new pop star whose fame had skyrocketed when, two years earlier at age sixteen, he’d become the youngest male to win a Grammy for Album of the Year. Helene had moved to Hollywood to join an agency – either ICM or Endeavor, Emily couldn’t remember – but she’d somehow missed the news that Helene now represented Rizzo.

      ‘Of course. How are you?’ Emily asked. She glanced at her watch. This was no ordinary call.

      ‘I’m sorry I’m calling so late,’ Helene said. ‘It’s already four a.m. here in New York, but you’re probably in L.A. I feel terrible interrupting …’

      ‘No, it’s fine. I’m at Gigi Hadid’s childhood mansion and not nearly as drunk as I should be. What’s up?’

      A shriek came from the pool. Two girls had jumped in together, holding hands, and were splashing Miles and a couple of his friends. Emily rolled her eyes.

      ‘Well, I, uh …’ Helene cleared her throat. ‘We’re off the record, right?’

      ‘Of course.’ This sounded promising.

      ‘I’m not sure I understand the whole story myself, but Riz appeared on Seacrest’s Times Square show earlier tonight – everything was fine, it went off without a hitch. Afterward, I went to meet up with some old college friends, and Rizzo was headed to some party at 1 OAK. Sober, at least when he left me. Happy about his performance.’

      ‘Okay …’

      ‘And just this second I got texted a picture from a colleague who works in ICM’s New York office and happens to be at 1 OAK right now …’

      ‘And?’

      ‘And it’s not good.’

      ‘What? Is he passed out? Covered in his own puke? Kissing a guy? Doing lines? Groping an underage girl?’

      Helene sighed and began to speak, but she was drowned out by shrieking laughter. In the shallow end, a girl with hot pink hair and a thong bikini had found her way atop Miles’s shoulders for an improvised chicken fight.

      ‘Sorry, can you repeat that? It’s a little chaotic here,’ Emily said as she watched the tiny piece of suit fabric wedge even tighter between the girl’s naked ass cheeks, themselves spread straight across the back of Emily’s husband’s neck.

      ‘He appears to be wearing a Nazi costume.’

      ‘A what?’

      ‘Like with a swastika armband and a coordinating headband. Storm trooper boots. The whole nine.’

      ‘Oh, Jesus Christ,’ Emily muttered without thinking.

      ‘That bad?’

      ‘Well, it’s not great. Prince Harry pulled that stunt forever ago – but we have to work with what we have. I’m not going to lie, I would’ve preferred drugs or boys.’

      In the pool, the pink-haired girl on Miles’s shoulders reached behind her back, yanked the tie of her bikini top, and began swinging the top around her head like a lasso.

      ‘First things first: who knows?’ Emily asked.

      ‘Nothing has shown up online yet, but of course, it’s only a matter of time.’

      ‘Just so we’re clear: you’re calling to hire me, yes?’ Emily asked.

      ‘Yes. Definitely.’

      ‘Okay, then right now I want you to text your colleague and have him get Rizzo into the men’s room and out of that getup. I don’t care if he’s wearing a gold lamé banana hammock, it’s better than the Nazi thing.’

      ‘I already did that. He gave Riz his button-down and shoes, confiscated the armband, and let him keep the trousers, which apparently are bright red. It’s not perfect, but it’s the best we can do, especially since I can’t reach Rizzo directly. But someone will post something any second, I’m sure.’

      ‘Agreed, so listen up. Here’s the plan. You’re going to jump in a cab and head over to 1 OAK and forcibly remove him. Bring a girl or two, it’ll look better, and then get him back to his apartment and don’t let him leave. Sit in front of the damn door if you have to. Do you have his passwords? Actually, forget it – just take his phone. Drop it in the toilet. We need to buy ourselves time without some idiotic drunken tweet from him.’

      ‘Okay. Will do.’

      ‘The first flight out of here is six a.m. I’m going home to pack, and then I’ll head to the airport. The story will definitely break while I’m in the air, if not before. Do not – I repeat, do not – make a statement. Do not let him talk to anyone, not even the delivery guy who brings