The Yoga Club Read online

  “You tell me first,” CJ said.

  “This isn’t a game. What’s the difference who goes first?” Coco could tell by the look on CJ’s face this was a futile argument.

  “Okay, fine. My envelope was filled with information about Sam’s company, well, his ex-company, which could get him in a lot of trouble. His partners are from that insurance company who had that stock option scandal last year. I don’t know if you read about it, but it was in the Times, The Wall Street Journal, all over TV. But all that stuff had happened years after Sam left. Well, there is some speculation that it was going on while he was there, but he never knew anything about it. Even when they subpoenaed him for trial he seriously didn’t know a thing and turned out to be a crummy witness. But here’s the thing: the documents in the envelope are forged to make him look like he was a part of it. Sam saw the envelope, and he thinks it’s his ex-partners screwing with him. Even if the papers are forged, it looks really bad for him. Really bad,” she said. “And in Olivia’s envelope…. Well, why don’t you explain it to him?” Coco turned to Olivia.

  “Okay,” Olivia began. “Well, I’m in a legal battle with my mother over the house I just inherited. It was my father’s house and the place where I grew up. He left it to me fair and square, but in the envelope are papers which, if my crazy, negligent mother got her hands on them, could really help her take the house away from me.

  “My mother always claimed that my father was mentally unstable when he drew up his will, and in the envelope are clearly forged papers that say he spent some time in a facility where he was being treated for exhaustion.”

  “Um, exhaustion? Oh, girl, yes, that’s the euphemism for either drugs or a nervous breakdown. Which one was it?” CJ pressed.

  “Actually, he suffered from bouts of depression, after she had left him and way before he revised his will. He saw a therapist but was never institutionalized. But these papers, real or not, could help her case,” Olivia said sadly.

  “I’m so sorry,” Coco said.

  “Yeah, me too,” CJ concurred.

  “It’s okay, thanks,” Olivia said.

  Coco turned to CJ. “Okay, so, you’ve seen inside our kimonos. What’s in your envelope?”

  “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry about Olivia’s house and your husband’s ex-partners and all, but mine’s much, much worse. There are photos in here that can bury this entire town. Pictures that I didn’t even know existed. In fact, they’ve got to be Photoshopped. I mean, things have happened, but there’s just no way….” CJ said.

  “What are they photos of?” Now Coco was intrigued.

  “Yeah, tell us!” Olivia said.

  “I don’t know where to begin, and frankly I’m afraid to say. I never, ever told anyone about this. I have no idea how anyone could have known.” CJ was nervous. “Promise you won’t judge me?”

  They both stared at him as if to imply that the question was pointless by now.

  “Promise me, I said!” CJ insisted.

  “Okay, okay! God,” Olivia agreed.

  “Who am I to judge anyone? I make my money selling butt cream,” Coco reassured him.

  “That’s true, okay. Well, when I was in high school I wasn’t out. I’m still not officially out to everyone. I’m reserved with people around here, and I’m definitely not out to my parents. I mean—I imagine people assume, but you just don’t go around shouting it around here. Nanny knows, but she was the one who told me I was gay when I was twelve. And I was definitely not out in high school, so there was nobody to talk to about my crush on the boy in modern history class, and nobody to nudge when the hot new shop teacher’s assistant rode away from school on his motorcycle. He was all kinds of delicious.” CJ distracted himself for a second.

  “Go on,” Coco said, intrigued.

  CJ continued. “Well, when you’re young and gay and living in stuck-up, conservative Greenwich, you have to either keep things to yourself or try to find other friends of Dorothy. Sometimes you suspect another kid, but if they’re still pretending to be straight and you make the wrong move, you can get your butt kicked. So, I chose the safe, quiet route. Since the headmaster of the school was sort of out, I told him. This was in the early nineties, and even though everyone was trying to be so politically correct, gay still wasn’t okay, which is too bad. I would’ve made the sexiest homecoming queen that school had ever seen!”

  “Yes, you would have,” Coco said, reassuringly.

  “So, one day I was in the headmaster’s office—I’d been working for him when he needed help organizing files or at book signings, or whatever extra help he needed. He had a new book out, and I was in his office a lot, and it was obvious that there was some sexual tension building—”

  “Oh, my god, how old was he?” Olivia interrupted.

  “I don’t know, late thirties, early forties. I’m not sure,” CJ said.

  “Well, how old were you?” Olivia asked.

  “Seventeen probably.”

  “Oh, my god!”

  “C’mon, you promised not to judge,” CJ reminded her.

  “Right. I’m sorry. Go on,” said Olivia.

  “Here’s how it was in the gay community back then, Mary: everyone needed a drag mother, and I was extremely lucky to have found one. The headmaster, Ricky, didn’t have it as easy as I did. He told me he had escaped rural South Dakota by hopping into an interstate eighteen-wheeler and repeatedly fellating the driver in exchange for a free ride to the East Coast. He had no guidance back then, no one watching his back. He wanted to be the guardian he himself had so desperately craved,” CJ explained.

  “Did you have to have sex with him? Oh, sorry.” Olivia caught herself asking what she realized was a really inappropriate question.

  “No, that’s fine.” CJ continued. “For a brief moment we did, but Ricky was more of a gay mother than a lover—and, until this very moment, I thought nobody else knew. Back then the only person a young gay man could talk to was an older gay man who’d been through it all. And remember, they were there at the worst of it, like at Stonewall.”

  CJ noticed the blank look on Olivia’s face. “Oh, god. You don’t know any queers, do you, honey?”

  “Well, you now. But no, no I don’t. Didn’t,” Olivia said sheepishly.

  “Well, it was awful. People were queer-bashed, fired, or publicly humiliated for being openly gay, or even suspected of it; people weren’t okay with gays at all. Ricky was one of the only people who understood me; our bond was actually quite common. Ask any of your gay friends how much older their first sexual encounter was and you’ll be shocked.”

  “So what does this have to do with what is in the envelope?” Coco asked.

  “In here”—CJ held it up like it was the Holy Grail—“in here are pictures that appear to be of the headmaster and me in…. let’s just say ‘doing stuff.’ I had no idea photos existed. I don’t even know where these came from, but it certainly looks like me. And it’s him. There’s no mistaking it,” CJ said. “In any other circumstance I would think they’re kinda hot.”

  “Well, surely the statute of limitations is up, if you’re afraid of any legal backlash,” Coco assured him.

  “No, it’s not about that. It’s about humiliating him, and ruining my family. My father is running for governor. Do you have any idea what it would do to his chances if photos of his fairy son blowing the headmaster of one of the most prestigious private schools in the country were released? There’s a Skoda wing there, for chrissakes! My parents practically own the fucking school!”

  “Okay. So we all agree that what’s in our envelopes can’t be released,” Olivia said.

  “Well, of course. But we also cannot let someone get away with murder,” Coco insisted.

  “Uhhhhhh…. yes, we can,” said CJ. “I have no problem forgetting all of this ever happened. Besides, I’m not even sure what we saw last night, right?”

  In spite of herself, Coco was anxious for the problem to go away, and fast. “I think we’re ma
king a mistake, but if you think that’s what we should do, we all have to be in agreement.”

  Before she could even finish her sentence, Olivia jumped in. “That’s what I think we should do. Sign whatever he wants us to sign or do whatever he wants us to do and let’s just make this go away.”

  “Agreed! I am not going to sleep a wink until this is under control,” CJ said.

  “Okay, fine. But there’s just one problem. We haven’t spoken to Bailey, and we don’t know if she got an envelope too, and if so, what’s she doing about it? If even one of us is not onboard, we’re all screwed. He was clear about that,” Coco said.

  “Well then, let’s go to her house and find out,” CJ suggested.

  “Do you know where she lives?” Olivia asked.

  “Pffft, oh, god, yes. Everyone knows that house,” CJ said.

  Five

  Michael Bublé

  When the threesome arrived at Bailey’s family estate, they were so focused on their mission they didn’t realize that her driveway looked like a luxury car dealership. There before them was wealth in automobile form: an array of Mercedes SLR McLarens, Porsches, several BMWs, and even one Bugatti Veyron. Coco’s little black Mini Cooper didn’t fit in, but there was no time to play whose bonus was bigger right now. It did seem odd that there were so many expensive cars there, but one could have assumed the Warfields were an eccentric bunch with a penchant for fancy cars.

  Before Coco came to a full stop, CJ shoved Olivia’s seat forward so vehemently she nearly struck her head on the windshield, mumbling “sorry” as he squeezed through the small opening from the backseat, then sprang out of the car and dashed to the door without even noticing the server in full uniform with a tray of mimosas at the portico. Barging into the large, well, not living room exactly but more like ballroom on his right, he found himself facing fifty odd people in lavish daywear, mingling and sniffing at trays of hors d’oeuvres as servers nattily dressed in white uniforms wove through the crowd. Quickly recovering from his shock, he made his way through the room, impatiently searching for Bailey—it shouldn’t have been hard to pick the flower from the fossils—when suddenly a strong whiff of very expensive musk assaulted his senses. Overwhelmed, he wheeled around to encounter the source of the all-consuming scent: Mrs. Warfield, Bailey’s mother.

  Mrs. Warfield was old money, first-class-on-the- Mayflower old, yet there she stood wearing Rock & Republic skinny jeans tucked into four-inch-high-heeled Gucci platform boots, all topped off with an Alexander McQueen blouse, which showed off her Harry Winston blue diamond drop earrings. She was a hodgepodge of too much money and questionable taste combined with a desperate need to look twenty years younger than her age. Everyone knew that Mrs. Warfield was in constant competition with her youngest daughter, Bailey—except Bailey herself.

  Mrs. Warfield knew CJ wasn’t there for the party.

  “Bailey should be back in a bit. She’s in the city at a junket, but you are welcome to stay and wait for her. Have a watermelon gazpacho shooter, they’re heavenly,” she said as she handed a shot glass to CJ.

  “I’m here with friends, we can just come back later,” CJ said.

  “Nonsense! Invite them in as well. There are tables in the tent in the backyard; get one close to the stage, Michael Bublé should be here any minute,” she said excitedly.

  “Always the hostess—” But before CJ could finish his thought, she interrupted him.

  “I think you know Rudy,” Mrs. Warfield said as she grabbed the arm of former New York Mayor Rudy Giuliani as he passed.

  “Of course. Your Honor.” CJ smiled slyly. “How’ve you been?” CJ thrust out his hand warmly, but America’s mayor moved in for the bear hug.

  “Charlton Jeffre! Come here! We’re practically family, cut the formal crap,” Rudy replied as CJ returned the hug, trying to mask his anxiety.

  They were practically family. Not only had CJ’s family donated an enormous amount of money to both of the mayor’s campaigns but Rudy’s cousin was married to one of CJ’s relatives. He wasn’t sure which one; he just knew that they were always at big family gatherings together and that Rudy always gave him the “Charlton Jeffre” business, like an overenthusiastic uncle.

  “Looks like your dad’ll be moving into the governor’s mansion soon, huh? You must be so proud of him,” Rudy said with a grin.

  All CJ could think about was how that envelope in the car would ruin everything, but he smiled back easily. CJ excelled in masking uncomfortable truths.

  “Yes, of course, it’s very exciting,” CJ stressed his very, thinking it would make him seem more convincing, but it only made him seem more gay. “Excuse me for a moment, I have some friends waiting outside.”

  “Of course, but when you come back, make sure you find me. Judith would love to see you,” Rudy insisted.

  “Absolutely,” CJ replied as he rushed to the car where Olivia and Coco were still waiting. He’d be sure to avoid the mayor when he returned, lest he be regaled with yet another 9/11 story.

  “Crap!” exclaimed CJ as he ran toward them. “She’s in the city at a junket. Her mom says she’ll be back soon and we can wait here. What do you want to do?”

  “I guess we can go grab a coffee and come back later,” Coco suggested.

  “Okay, let’s do that,” CJ agreed.

  Just then a black town car pulled up, and out stepped a familiar face.

  “Oh, my god, is that Michael Bublé?” Olivia gasped. “What’s he doing here?”

  “Bailey’s mom said he was going to do a show in the backyard,” CJ replied absently. “Okay, let’s go get coffee.”

  “Wait. Wait a minute, let’s not be too hasty. We don’t know when Bailey will be back, and we really should stay,” Olivia suggested as her attention strayed toward the black town car.

  “You want to stay and hear Michael Bublé, don’t you?” Coco asked.

  “Yes, please…. Can we? Please?” Olivia sounded like a twelve-year-old begging to see Justin Bieber.

  “Is that cool? Are we invited?” Coco asked CJ.

  “Yeah, sure, Mrs. Warfield said we should stay. She even suggested we grab a table up by the stage if we want to,” he replied.

  “We want to! We want to!” Olivia half squealed.

  “Look, let’s not forget why we’re here. We’ve got some serious shit going on, and we’re not really invited guests. We should try to stay focused, okay?” Coco scolded.

  “We can still stay focused while watching Michael Bublé, right?” Olivia begged.

  “Okay, fine. No harm in that,” Coco agreed.

  The three entered the house, stopping briefly to grab tea sandwiches and salmon tartlettes as they headed for the backyard. That was the thing about Greenwich—while other towns had summer block parties or barbecues on holidays and special occasions, not a day went by in Greenwich when someone wasn’t having some sort of soiree, fund raiser, honoree luncheon, or, of course, the obligatory charity event (and the more outlandish the charity the better). Today’s gathering was comparatively respectable: it was in honor of the Warfield Library’s twenty-fifth anniversary. Despite a performance by a Grammy winner, Coco hated these events. Having never really grown accustomed to the moneyed world to which she now belonged, she was allergic to pretension.

  It was the first week in November and unseasonably warm, as it had been all week, yet the tent was heated to guard against an errant chill. CJ waved to Coco and Olivia from a table he’d found for them. As she went to sit down, Coco spotted the celebrity chef Bobby Flay and wondered if he would remember her.

  Just then CJ turned around to see the renowned chef and yelled, “Bobby, hey!” at which the chef stopped to say hello. CJ made introductions before Flay continued on through the crowd.

  “Who don’t you know?” Olivia marveled.

  “Oh, darling, everyone knows everyone here, if not by name, then at least by face. And Bobby is probably the best at that. The man can work a room.”

  Coco couldn�
�t contain herself. “Oh yeah, well I’ve met him before, and there wasn’t even a glimmer of recognition. I was even at his house in the Hamptons,” she said bitterly.

  “Really? When were you there?” CJ wanted to know.

  Coco took a deep breath. This was the stuff she hated about these social events. It was solely about being seen. As long as you got your name in the society pages or on “Page Six,” it wasn’t about meeting or getting to know anyone. Certainly not in any real way.

  Coco’s entrée into the world of hobnobbery and her disdain for it all had started one summer in the hollow, pretentious world of East Hampton, where it came to a head at the house of Bobby Flay.

  East Hampton was an odd place when you thought about it. It was hard to believe that out on the far end of Long Island, where there was now the Ralph Lauren—wearing, celebrity-obsessed upper class (including Ralph Lauren himsel f), up until rather recently there had been barely sustainable farms. East Hampton was the third town on Long Island established by colonists, when its primary industries were whaling and livestock. How things had changed. Now East Hampton industries were investing in leviathan capital and spending the day trying not to look porcine.

  “Well,” Coco began, “I had a good friend, Melinda, who was as lovely as can be while in the cement and chaos of the city, but the minute she went out east to the Hamptons, she became as affected as an air kiss at a polo match.”

  Olivia laughed.

  Coco continued. “Melinda and I used to take one vacation a summer together, and it was usually somewhere warm, quiet, and subdued. But as her career as a fashion photographer expanded, she felt more and more compelled to see and be seen. One summer she convinced me that we would have just as much fun and relaxation time in the Hamptons as anywhere else. I reluctantly agreed and spent an entire week being shuttled from one stuffy party to another, usually getting turned down at the door because we weren’t on some list, the party was overcrowded, or we’d arrived too late. Some sort of BS or another made every day of that vacation a nightmare.”

  “Sounds like it. I prefer beaches in the Caribbean myself,” CJ put in.