Deirdre's Denial

“Twenty-three years of wedded bliss, things couldn’t be better if we had won the lottery.” That’s how Deirdre Efram would describe the current state of her marriage to the clutch of housewives and recently divorced lady friends gathered for their quarterly Girl’s Nite Out at the patio bar of Westlake’s Four Season’s Hotel. This was before her third Appletini. By her fourth and fifth, you’d have thought she was Donna Reed married to David Beckham.

Who could blame her? Her best friend Freda Dinkins recently regaled the table with tales of her own anniversary trip to St. Barts with her Michael. Freda always referred to her husband as “My Michael.” She confided how they rekindled the romance in their marriage during a parasailing excursion where, as she put it, floating through a summer sky as blue as Viagra, they kissed, held hands and took it one step further. That description earned wide-eyed oohs and ahhs from the small gathering. To be certain the women understood that she didn’t quite join the mile high club, leaning in with her drink Freda giggled, “My Michael called it the smile high club.” That garnered the requisite titters from the group and an order for another round of drinks.

Freda’s story was followed by recently divorced and recently augmented, Ivy Jean Gilbert, who told with faux reluctance of her dalliance with a tennis pro at the lakeside club. She ended her tale by saying the final score was love to love bringing on an appropriate groan from the women.

Deirdre wasn’t ready to offer up her salacious update at this point of the conversation, but she was preparing it in her mind, letting the other ladies continue to share their extraordinary lives living in this extraordinary community of wealth and privilege. Humorously, they referred to themselves as The Real Housewives of Westlake Village. There was enough Botox, Ozempic and silicone among them to earn the moniker.

However, not all the intimate accounts shared between the girls were sexual in nature. Crystal Tanowitz, also divorced, the youngest of the group at thirty-nine, shared how she had been healing her Chakras with her latest new age discovery, alchemy bowls or crystal singing bowls. She swore her harmonics were now aligned. She finally felt at peace with her own divorce. She was met with equal amounts of skepticism and support from her near-inebriated friends.

It was around this time, 8pm, Deirdre received her first text. It was from her husband, Quentin. He said he’d be working late and for her not to worry he’d grab a late dinner, followed by a parade of emojis of hearts, hugs and happy faces. Deirdre couldn’t believe it. Not because this was the third night this week Quentin had to work late, but the fact he forgot that she had told him tonight was her GNO, her Girl’s Nite Out evening. Deirdre texted back a one-word answer. “Fine.” There wasn’t an emoji available to express how she was feeling, simultaneously hurt and angry.

Crystal leaned in with a whisper asking if she was okay. Deirdre held up her drink like a shield. “Never been better, thank you.” She swallowed the cocktail in a gulp leaving a bit of liquid in the glass. Raising it to Crystal, Deirdre wet her finger and ran it around the lip of the glass. An ethereal harmonic sound emanated from the glass. “In fact, I’m aligning my chakra now.” Crystal wasn’t sure if she was joking or mocking her. Deirdre leaned forward for a hug and with a kiss on her cheek, reassuring Crystal. “Baby, it was a joke. You know I love you.”

Deirdre stood, interrupting Shannon Clarke who was in the middle of boasting about her daughter Skyler graduating from Harvard. “Excuse me, bitches. Who's up for a pit stop?” She was asking for volunteers to escort her to the bathroom. A tradition tracing its roots back to caveman days where if one cavewomen goes behind a rock to relieve themselves, the other stands guard. Freda and Cassidy Jacobsen were first to stand, anymore volunteers things would get complicated, possibly causing a traffic jam in the ladies’ room. This knowledge, too, was innate.

The trio crossed the lobby towards the rest room. Freda grabbed Deirdre by the elbow and pointed to the hotel entrance. A black Prius pulled up met by the valet. Stepping out was a comely blonde in her early twenties dressed like a high-end escort. “Isn’t that Kirsten Welsh?” Freda asked.

Deidre looked. She stared intently watching the young woman cross the lobby to a bank of elevators. The vixen’s back was to them, Deirdre couldn’t be sure. She hoped to get a better look when the woman boarded the lift and turned around, but a bellhop passed in front with a cart of luggage obscuring the view. By the time he passed, the doors closed. “That wasn’t her.” Deirdre’s answer had enough finality to it, Freda didn’t press the issue. "Besides," Deirdre puzzled to herself, "Why would Quentin’s executive secretary be out on a work night?"

Cassidy derailed Deirdre’s train of thought. “So, Dee. How are your kids?”

Returning to the present Deirdre rolled her eyes. “You know how kids can be these days.” She followed with a playful elbow. “And I thank God everyday mine are nothing like that.” With that, the ladies entered the restroom in a shared chuckle.

By the time the women returned from powdering their nose, most of the group had a nice buzz going. Beverly Beekman and Amy Madigan compared Botox results. Shannon Clarke called out to Deirdre. “Tell us Dee, how are things with Quentin? Isn’t it your anniversary?”

It was now time for Deirdre to hold court, a position for which she prepared. She signaled the waiter for another drink and began. “It was last Tuesday. Twenty-three years of wedded bliss, things couldn’t be better if we had won the lottery.” She said with a smile. Deirdre had no intention of wowing them with sexual exploits on some second honeymoon or sentimental stories of realizations discovered in couple’s therapy. She started off small. “For our anniversary, Quentin volunteered to do all the laundry this week.” Two of the women fell back in their seats. She continued. “He insisted I wasn’t to go near the dishwasher.” For that, the gasps were audible. "Pots, pans, everything.” Looks of surprise near disbelief were exchanged. “Last night, he took the garbage out without being reminded.” Now the skeptics came to life. Deirdre was met with a chorus of “No way!” or “You lucky bitch!” and similar statements.

She continued, “By the time I’m out of the shower, the bed is made, breakfast is ready.” She held out her hands requesting quiet. She paused, following with, “I have the remote control. We only watch two channels. Hallmark and Lifetime.” Some of the women feigned the renting of their clothes in jealous anguish. “I wasn’t going to mention anything about our intimate moments but if you must know, I scored a hat trick.” That garnered applause followed by a group-toast of happy anniversary wishes as Deirdre’s drink arrived. Crystal had to ask what a hat trick was, thinking it was something from the Kama Sutra.

Deirdre wasn’t done, it was time for her denouement. She cleared her throat. With dramatic flair, she reached into her purse. In a move like a magician extracting a rabbit from a hat, she lifted a set of car keys from her clutch. She proudly announced, “2024 GMC Yukon Denali Ultimate, black pearl.” The other women shook their heads in envious disbelief. Deirdre smiled, thinking, “Let them have their BMW and Lexus SUV’s, this is a Panzer Tank next to their pathetic Sherman’s.” Deirdre knew she had just won the night. Somewhere deep down she also knew it was all a lie. Quentin had no knowledge of the purchase.

Deirdre’s iPhone vibrated. “Excuse me, guys. I have to take this.” It was Andrea, her daughter. She was calling from Serenity in Malibu. Serenity in Malibu isn’t something you attain riding a wave at the beach on a surfboard. It’s the drug treatment facility Andrea was placed in after a Fentanyl overdose which she was lucky, didn’t take her life. Andrea wanted to come home.

Needing privacy, Deirdre stepped away from her moment of shine and into the lobby while trying to console her eighteen-year-old daughter. Standing by a bay window that looked out past a garden to the parking lot, Deirdre reassured her little girl she could come home soon enough. She promised her plans were being made to do just that, pleading for her to hang in there just awhile longer. Deirdre could see her reflection in the glass, she could tell the reflection was also lying. Looking past her reflected image, beyond low-cut hydrangea bushes, Deirdre noticed a dark green ’23 Jaguar F-TYPE-R in the parking lot, to her, appeared to be grinning, crouched beneath a lamp post.

Deirdre returned to the table that now had an entirely different vibe to it. Gone was the laughter, replaced by a monotone murmuring of conspiratorial whispers. As she approached, the women, huddle only a second ago, all sat up straight when Freda noticed her returning.

“Is everything alright, Dee? You seem upset.” Freda said with forced concern.

“It was Andrea, I told you she was on a European excursion. She called to tell me she just arrived in Vienna. She’s having the time of her life.” That earned her a sip from her drink.

Freda needled. “She’s an early riser, it’s like 7 AM over there, yes?”

Staring back at Freda, Deirdre forced a smile. “Yes, she is.”

The women sat silent. Some sipped their drinks; Cassidy checked her make up. The silence was broken by Deirdre’s phone vibrating again.

Freda posited, “Perhaps she needs more Euros.”

Deirdre wanted to toss her drink at Freda, the phone’s vibration stopped her. It wasn’t Andrea. This was a text from Douglas, her son. The texts read:

“Mother, I need you to Venmo me 5,000 dollars right now.”

“Your father and I warned you.

No more money!”

“It’s an emergency!”

“Dougie, no! Come home.”

“This is serious!”

“What have you done now?”

“I’ll tell you later!

Venmo me NOW!!!”

“Tell me first or this conversation ends.”

“I'm in Santa Barbara”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“DUI.”

After a beat another text appeared.

“Bail.”

“Douglas, this is the last time. Find

your own way home. Check your Venmo.”

Deirdre’s thumbs drummed her screen. In under thirty seconds, she had sent the funds to her son. She needed another drink.

Freda Dinkins noticed a hint of frustration below the surface on Deirdre’s face. “Andrea, okay?”

Deirdre held her cocktail. “That was Douglas, he was just saying goodnight. Tomorrow he’s rock climbing El Capitan.”

Cassidy lowered her compact, impressed, “Wow.”

Freda leaned forward, “Deirdre, we’re your friends. If there’s something you need to talk about, we’re all here for you.”

Deirdre found herself staring down a gauntlet of smiling, concerned faces. “Okay, will somebody tell me what the fuck is going on here?”

Freda spoke. “Shannon?” Everyone one turned to Shannon Clarke who appeared to get smaller in her seat.

“Dee, my daughter-in-law works at Serenity. She told me all about Andrea.”

Deirdre’s first thought "So much for doctor patient confidentiality." But another one took precedence. “So, Shannon, you felt it was okay to share that information with… everyone?”

Freda came to Shannon’s defense. “It’s because she cares. We all care. It’s a close community. Beverly’s mechanic told her about the Dougie’s accident. We all know about him totaling his car last month. We want you to know you don’t have to keep a brave face. You can talk to us about anything, you can lean on us.”

Deirdre arched an eyebrow. “Lean? On you?”

Freda set her drink down, her head motioned to the lobby. “Even the vile rumors going around. You’re not alone. You don’t have to remain in denial.”

Deirdre looked toward the lobby. She knew that instant Freda was referring to Kristen Welsh, Quentin’s secretary. She swallowed her drink in a gulp. Setting her glass down with eyes that could kill, she spoke. “Denial? Moi? Exactly what do you mean by denial? Was it denial when I pretended not to notice last Christmas when you and Quentin slipped away from the party for twenty minutes only to return with your hair looking like a troll doll and Quentin wearing his holiday sweater on backwards? Is that the denial of which you speak?”

Deirdre was just getting started. “Or you, Shannon. Does Freda know about you and HER Michael?”

Freda turned to Shannon Clarke who could get no smaller in the chair. “You bitch!”

Deirdre was rolling. “And you, Ivy Jean, talk about denial. Your boob job looks ridiculous. One's bigger than the other. Plus, you’re showing early signs of scoliosis lugging those bowling balls around.”

The other women began to gather their purses and effects.

“That’s right Cassidy, run away. Just like you did from your first marriage. When’s the last time you saw your kids?”

The verbal carnage continued. “Bev, honey, they should’ve put a hook in your mouth along with those collagen injections.”

“Amy, can’t Botox do anything about that neck waddle? What ever you're doing, you’re not looking any younger.”

“And Crystal…” Deirdre looked at doe-eyed Crystal. “Oh, never mind.”

It wasn’t long after her tirade the women departed. Alone at the table, Deirdre was left with the check. She set her debit card on the table and left, unsure if it would work having recently drained her account of five thousand dollars. She exited the hotel, handed her ticket to the valet. She was alone when the valet pulled up with her Yukon Denali Ultimate, giving her an idea.

Deirdre sat alone enjoying the new car smell of her Denali idling in a handicapped parking space yards away from the hotel’s main entrance. Adele’s song “Make You Feel My Love” played on a loop. The computer head-up display on the windshield indicated zero mph. She was lit only by the instrument panel. The digital clock, read 12 am. Deirdre whispered. “The witching hour.” She brought her flask to her lips.

It was forty minutes since the GNO party broke up with each of the ladies pulling away from the hotel entrance in their high-end SUVs, off to their dream homes in gated communities. As far as dreams go, Deirdre was no longer in denial, anger melted those walls away. She was determined to wait to see the truth for herself. Deirdre recognized her husband’s secretary earlier. She also caught a glimpse of the valet parking a car she recognized and verified when she saw it for herself in the lot, Quentin’s Jaguar.

Quentin Efram exited the hotel, he wasn’t alone. His arm snug around the waist of Kristen Welsh, his twenty-year-old executive secretary, eighteen years his junior. Kristen handed Quentin a ticket. The valet was off in a dash. The amorous couple held each other like prom dates on a dance floor exchanging kisses.

Deirdre set her flask down. Her grip on the steering wheel made her knuckles white. She watched the valet return Kristen’s Prius. Quentin walked his mistress to the driver side door. They shared a final kiss goodnight. He watched her pull away. The car looped around the porte cochere. Banking towards the exit, the Prius headlights bathed Deirdre who instinctively ducked. When she peered out again, she saw Quentin hand his ticket to the valet and check his phone.

The dashboard screen lit up with a prompt asking whether or not to accept an incoming message. Deirdre pressed “ACCEPT.” A synthetic voice read the message. “Honey, hope you didn’t wait up. Be home soon.” Deirdre knew the text to speech words would sound just as cold even said by Quentin himself.

Quentin waited a minute for a response, after a beat, he pocketed his phone. The valet returned with his 2023 Jaguar then opened the car door waiting for Quentin. A noise distracted them both before Quentin could climb in.

With effort, Deirdre pulled her hand off the steering wheel, plunged it on the automatic stick shift. The legend letters for Park through Neutral to Drive glowed a burning white. She shifted the car into drive. Her right foot stepped hard onto the gas pedal. Her hand returned to the wheel, her thumb pressing the four-wheel drive button. The rear tires spun in place tearing up black top, screeching like a war cry until Deirdre released her other foot from the brake.

That was the sound that gained the attention of both the valet and Quentin. The disparity in their ages left quite a difference in terms of their reaction time. The heads-up on Deirdre’s windshield display raced from zero to sixty in six point one seconds. The fraction of a second favored the valet. He leapt out of the way leaving Quentin cornered by his driver side door. Deirdre felt nothing physical as the mammoth vehicle plowed into Quentin sheering the door from the car which was knocked aside. The door was sent sailing off into hydrangeas. Quentin was dragged under the large wheels and made to roll about twenty feet. As far as emotions went, no feeling other than anger while Deirdre looped around the cul de sac for another pass over her husband’s broken body. Any feeling of relief, if she expected it, never came. Just red-hot anger forged over years of frustration and betrayal.

The hotel’s CCTV footage showed a total of three passes including a valiant attempt by the valet to pull Quentin’s body to safety. At trial Deirdre was asked if she pleaded Guilty or Not Guilty. She answered, “Not guilty.” She understood denial is the glue holding everything in the world together. Deirdre also understood as far as retribution went; she would not be denied.