“Fake” was the word repeated over and over by my best friend, Holly, in the set of 43 minutes of voice notes that I received while standing in the checkout line at Home Depot. I had been picking up extension cords for the beach house when I checked my phone and saw the evidence of her boundless narcissism: the four voice notes were broken into 11-12 minute shorter ones. I was too distraught to finish checking out; I would have to work with the one functioning kitchen outlet. Holly sounded like her usual unstable stew of SSRIs, Adderall, coke, and her quotidian three post-school pick up espresso martinis. She went on and on about how I thought I was “so above her ‘’ because she was having an affair with the nineteen-year-old who worked in the Nordstrom’s shoe section (also designing his own sneaker line). She wasn’t going to talk about Archie anymore if she was going to be “judged so harsh” by someone she thought was her best friend. Holly was too much of a mess at an age when it wasn’t alluring or cool to be a mess anymore. That age where actions became patterns and some patterns were indicative of Borderline Personality Disorder, according to Dr. Tolzbad, although Dr. Tolzbad couldn’t properly diagnose someone who wasn’t her client and had never even met. I longed for a diagnosis of something, with a diagnosis of nothing I felt as if I was the one going crazy.
It was probably better that Holly and I wouldn’t be close anymore. She was too tiring and not in an interesting way, and since the incident, Dr. Tolzbad wanted me to conserve my energy. Holly was a taker; I couldn’t remember the last time she did something for me, unless it was in exchange for one of the huge favors she frequently needed. Without her, I was about to have a lot more time. I could learn Arabic. My husband, Mo, had been on me about this. He was fluent, which, among other talents, led to his many business dealings in the Middle East. Most importantly, I could finally put in real time on the house.
The house was a four bedroom, three bathroom palatial Victorian. A foreclosure in an upscale beach town in South Jersey, that I purchased not long after receiving the settlement. The moment I saw the ocean from the floor-to-ceiling window enclosed turrets, each facing east so I could wake up with the sun, I was willing to ignore the fact that the back of the house shared several walls with an almost identical home.
Our attached houses resembled conjoined twins, connected only by their mid-sides. My beach house was the better-off twin because the homes were disproportionately split; a post-depression economy had forced the homeowners to divide the large house, and mine was the bigger share, retaining three of the five turrets. From a birds-eye view the joined houses were shaped like a star and each turret was a point. I was the primary shareholder of this celestial body.
These shared walls with about a foot between them (enough to ensure most damage to one house wouldn’t necessarily affect the other) priced my property well below market value, and this meant I could create the home of my dreams: a divine restoration that respected the integrity of the architecture and filled the space with whimsy. I would transform the eroding and rickety porch into a transcendental meditation area, replacing the rotting wood with cedar planks. I could see myself on a vintage rocking chair, eyes closed, trying not to fall asleep. I could transform the bay window between floors into a reading nook and remodel the current disarray into the most enviable of lavish bathrooms. Of course all this construction would depend on the neighbor I had yet to meet.
Several beach community residents I had spoken to claimed that she, an older woman, spent most of her time in her other place, most likely in the city. She kept the property immaculate and in the unlikely event that anyone needed to get a hold of her, they would leave a message on her landline answering machine and the matter would be resolved within 24 hours. She was, in other words, an ideal neighbor. The illusion of her had kept other buyers away and her lack of presence was exactly what you wanted from the person you shared a wall with (while tearing down many of your own).
Now that I was spending more time at the shore, thanks to Holly, I discovered from an errant piece of mail that my neighbor’s name was Victoria. How perfect. Victoria in the Victorian must have help because any packages she got were scooped up promptly and her large windows covered with quality drapes always sparkle. In the month since closing escrow and the handful of times I had popped down to the shore, I had yet to see Victoria once. I guessed this is a good sign, maybe this was the one area of my life in which I was lucky.
It had been over a year-and-a-half since I’d worked as a private wealth manager at Xxxxxx Capital. At first, I told myself, Mo, and Holly, that I would write my memoir, a cautionary tale about the woman who did it all, or tried to, until she accidentally sleepwalked (during the day) into her gym’s pool and almost drowned. I’d call it Walking on Water. But this never came to pass because I have neither the wisdom to bestow nor the discipline to write. Before the memoir came draining depositions and a trial loaded with character-defamation after which my fancy New York City gym squatted out a hefty multi-million dollar settlement. A lifeguard who had been taking an ill-timed break and failed to lock the doors somehow left no one to witness how I strayed into the pool. When the dust and money settled, I quit reformer pilates, quit writing, and decided maybe I could become an interior decorator and showcase my aesthetic within the walls of my beach house. After a decade and a half of creating the wealth for clients that allowed them to live their dreams, it was my turn.
No same-day shipping finds. I was salvaging, refurbishing, and restoring artful and dependable pieces. Everything in my home would have a nostalgic and sentimental quality. “Is this an heirloom?” My guests will ask, and I will be flattered but say no, and then tell them the charming story of how I found the piece. This would be where Mo and I slowed down and made new memories, perhaps tapped back into the fun side of being childless.
Now that I finally had some clarity, I believed the reason for not finishing, well, not starting, my memoir was Holly. She has always lorded over me that she has remained friends with me through the pool incident, through the trial, and through my current recovery period… as if that could be quid-pro-quo for the years of dealing with her insanity. Well, my beach house is not Walking on Water. I will finish her, and she–yes, my house is female–will be a goddamn masterpiece. In the hours since Holly and my friendship breakup, I’d already called contractors, made a list of the architectural salvage stores I would visit, and began putting myself on a schedule. It was May, and with determination and consistency, I thought I could be done by the end of the summer.
It was easy to believe it started with the pool accident, but really, Holly’s deranged spell on me could be traced back to when we met at a Memorial Day barbecue nine years ago. I had been married for a few months and Mo and I had just moved to northern New Jersey in hopes of starting a family. It was an easy commute to our jobs in the city, and Mo didn’t travel for work as much back then. I was shopping for sexy sleepwear at a store called Sweet Dreams and Sloane happened to be piling negligees onto the counter. Sloane loved that I was a woman who worked in wealth management. She threw the words “boss babe” around a few times (God help me) and invited me to their cook-out so I could meet the neighborhood.
The barbecue turned out to be a decadent North Jersey welcome. Dan, Sloane’s husband, occasionally grilled burgers for show (though they’d hired a full catering team) and I was busy devouring the best antipasto and rollatinis ever made. Maybe Jersey wasn’t so bad? I had been feeling attractive but underdressed in boyfriend jeans and a bodysuit. Sloane remarked how cool I looked, but also told me to “not give myself a hard time, I was moving.” I was used to Manhattanites but there was a sharp femininity to the Jersey women: colorful, almond-shaped, acrylic nails as opposed to my square, ballet slipper painted-ones; shorter, neon dresses as opposed to the floor-length, flouncy florals my city friends were wearing; hair done and voluminous as opposed to the high ponytail I sported. I pondered: Could this be a scene I could fit into long term? Could I raise kids here? Could I be myself?
Then Holly walked in. Original rock-and-roll t-shirt, faded jean cut-offs, oversized Celine sunglasses, she was dripping with gold and diamonds anywhere you could hang jewelry. Her husband, Joey, held the hand of a three-year-old girl and carried a cherubic one-year-old, gendered by her big pearl earrings. Behind them was Tina, a Filipina nanny. Everyone stared at Holly as she grabbed the little one from Joey and got on the level of Bianca, the toddler; she seemed to be giving her a speech on making friends. Bianca ran off to the back of the house from which noises from the other children emanated. Tina gave Holly a look, and Holly handed over the baby. When Tina and the children cleared away, Holly took off her shirt, revealing a simple black string bikini against her glistening olive skin. Joey, who immediately locked in on his wife, came toward her. As she took a pack of American Spirits from her purse, she leaned in and for about half a minute, vulgarly made-out with her husband. He was foggy-eyed afterward and headed for the bar. She lit up the cigarette as Joey made the rounds greeting the party.
I tried not to stare as Holly approached me.
“You’re new. You from the city?”
I nodded and introduced myself. “I’m Lee.” Then I offered up the only thing I had access to, a plate of food.
“I’m on Adderall, still gotta cut the baby weight.”
I felt the need to explain to her that my husband who was working today, and that I’d just moved from Union Square.
“It’s a fucking holiday,” Holly blurted out and I laughed.
Holly was from the city, too. She’d had a place in the 40’s on the river and was working as a bottle service girl when she met Joey, a hedge fund manager. I smiled. I had been to the club she worked at back in the day and remembered loving it. Something was decoded in this interaction; she and I were bound.That afternoon and into the night, we discovered a million things we had in common, like that we both drank palomas and direly missed the city but liked the convenience of Jersey. When Mo showed up later, he was surprised to see me, an introvert in my 30’s, attached to Holly like a schoolgirl. “I’m her best friend,” Holly offered up to an incredulous Mo, as he made a plate for Tina the nanny.
When the sun set and Tina went home with the kids, Holly yanked me up to Sloane’s bathroom and pulled out a bag of coke. I hadn’t touched the stuff in years, but was having so much fun that I thought, when in Jersey… As we blew a few skinny lines, Holly got vulnerable and asked,
“Do you think I’m a bad person? Like objectively.”
I explained I had just met her, but no, from what I had seen, no, not at all. In fact, she was the first person who made me feel at home in Jersey. Holly hugged me so tightly, it played a maternal chord within me. So this is what it would be like for someone to need me.
If there were red flags to be found, they were out in full color that day. Holly was inconsiderate, but people around her worshiped her and let her get away with everything. It wasn’t long before I learned about her transgressions. A year into our friendship, she confessed that she kissed one of the junior analysts at Joey’s hedge fund’s Christmas party. Now the guy wouldn’t stop texting her. She showed me pictures and asked me if he was worth it. I was behind on work and didn’t know how to respond. Worth what? Ruining your marriage? I don’t know the rules of your marriage. Holly explained that she and Joey would “look the other way often” and the kids were the priority. There was a lot of lying. Holly would say she was going on a girls trip but would go to Miami alone on an ex spiral. She would steal from the grocery, just for the hell of it. If she was financially adept enough to embezzle, she probably would have done that too. Before Holly would say things, she would make me promise, pinky swear, not to judge her. I would agree. The breaks from judgment were quite pleasant: If I couldn’t judge Holly, I couldn’t judge myself.
Holly had a way of turning the tides at the peak of anyone’s frustration. She’d call out “Mama’s back!” Or “Who wants to do a spa day?” And she would burst through the doors with heaps of presents for the girls, a piece of jewelry for Tina, and pull Joey into the bathroom to give him a Cirque du Soleil-worthy blow job. For me, she always delivered on spa day. She was a magician and the best kind: you didn’t even know you were watching a trick until the dove was eating out of your hand.
The minute I started talking about moving to the shore and searching for a house, Holly met Archie and our friendship started to show its cracks, downright wear and tear. Maybe Archie and the beach house were each of our versions of a pre-midlife crisis. Holly started denying her drug use, claiming she was seeing a hypnotist in the city. Once, she used me as the crux of her lies, telling Joey she was with me when she wasn’t–that was at the beginning of Archie.
In the past, Joey wouldn’t disturb me out of respect for my work, but that excuse evaporated after the pool incident. I made the mistake of lying for Holly that once, but then I drew a line. She seemed to understand, but she would pad her situation with lines like.
“You don’t know Joey. He is so possessive.”
“Does possessive mean violent? Are you in trouble?
Holly would shake her head vaguely. “I got with Joey too young. I shouldn’t have had my kids so soon. I’m a terrible mom. They deserve better.”
I was at a loss. All the moms I knew, on their worst days, and sometimes on their best days, felt like a terrible mom. Yes, Holly was a mess but I didn’t go as far as to brand her with the most horrific insult I knew. So I lied.
“You’re a good mom. Don’t be so mean to my friend.”
“I don’t know what I would do without you, Leelee,” she would say, clinging to me and using my pet name. It was impossible to stay mad at her.
Before Holly’s affair with Archie, when I was still working, we would game things out: Holly would get a job, maybe go to esthetician school, or maybe Joey could buy her a store like Sweet Dreams, “but more high end” Holly would add, and she could run it. When she was on her feet, she could consider divorce or couple’s therapy. When Holly was in a darker place, the plan would shift to owning a bar, “but a classy one” and no talk of divorce.
I would encourage Holly to follow through with any plan that would made her feel like her life was moving forward in a positive direction. But Joey kept making money, and Holly kept spending, and when she became pregnant with Serafina, her fourth daughter, she made me godmother. Mo often told me he didn’t get Holly. He understood she was exciting, a break from reality, but she was a horrendous friend who couldn’t keep a plan. He was right about the latter: she canceled often and late, unless Joey was involved. On the subject of Holly being a good friend… I would indirectly respond: What did it matter if she was a good friend as long as I enjoyed her company and what she brought out in me? What I got from Holly was a person who didn’t take herself so seriously. If Holly could fail, be unaware… be a wreck of a human… and get away with it… then maybe I could be a wreck too.
Not that I would, but it was a release valve I needed. Maybe this is why it was especially hard to wrench out the root-deep love for Holly that had grown inside me. The last time Mo saw Holly, smoking a joint in the bitter January cold, she was venting to me in my driveway so loudly she had woken him up. I levitated out of my body and gained a bird’s eye view of the situation: It had all escalated past the weight the friendship could carry. I was honest with her.
“Holls, you know Archie is too young. No judgment, but what the hell are you thinking? Just get a divorce from Joey if you need to have these affairs with these young boys.”
For a second, I remember Holly saying, “we aren’t even married. I would get nada.”
Shocked, I backtracked. “What did you say?”
She meandered, “… I was just thinking out loud what it would be like if I wasn’t married to Joey.” Then, “I’ve never loved the kids more.” She then went on and on about the girls.
There was something presentational about the whole thing, the silhouette of sincerity. That was probably my bias though. For all real intents and purposes, Holly was a good mom. Sorta. For the most part. The children always had responsible rotating childcare, and they were shielded from Holly and Joey’s fights, I thought, although I couldn’t say for sure.
All this thinking of Holly actually made me miss her. Then in typical Holly fashion, she texted me, usurping my thoughts the way she did with everything else in my life.
Hey Guuuurrrllll. Hope we are cool. I forgive you. I guess I have to–
look what Joey surprised the fam with for the summmerzzz!
Below was a listing for cookie-cutter, beach front, Cape Cod mansion. I was furiously going through the listing - pictures of the tan marble, sprawling principal bathroom, when she texted again:
We’re renting. Neighborzzzz!
I erupted in a rage and threw my cup of cold tea across the room. As it seeped beneath the wood; I realized I would have to clean that up too, as if there wasn’t enough to do. There were so many places at the shore, but Holly had to rent the place three blocks from my sanctuary. I was so close…I had almost escaped her. I was hyperventilating now, scrolling through the pictures of Holly’s summer rental. It had decent bones, high, beamed ceilings, spacious rooms.
The furniture is gross, she texted.
It wasn’t. Ordinary maybe. That popular Scandinavian/ Japandy minimalism that appealed to millennial Manhattanites.
You’ll have to help me redecorate, she texted again.
One of the many things that drove me up the wall about Holly was how she needed a new text for each idea, like she couldn’t group her thoughts like a rational human being. And redecorate a rental?! Holly was a moron. And so was Joey, how could a somewhat smart hedge fund guy marry someone who mismanaged everything? No blowjob could be that spectacular. Could it?
Are you still mad at me? She texted.
Please tell me you are over it.
Are there good stores down there?
I need all new summer clothes.
How are the grocery stores?
LOL like I do groceries.
This. This is how I would lose my mind. Whatever of it was left. I slammed my phone down and rummaged through my bag for the keys to the beach house, threw the door open, and stomped out, gulping down fresh air. At my feet, a handpicked bouquet of wildflowers, pulled together with a sage linen ribbon. How incredibly thoughtful. Tucked between stems was a folded piece of lilac stationery embossed with a VDL at the top. I opened the note, written in fountain pen, in near perfect cursive penmanship.
Hello Lee,
I would like to extend a sincere welcome to Sandpiper Lane. Give me a knock if you need anything, and I mean anything. If I don’t answer, leave a note in the box.
Your friend,
Victoria
I now noticed there was a worn wooden box, on a stand left of my neighbor’s door. The box contained robin’s egg blue stationery and a silver pen. This all must have just been set out because I hadn’t recalled seeing it when I came in, and despite my decaying porch where every board clamorously creaked any time any weight was placed on it; I hadn’t heard anyone come to the door.