The Wives. Lauren Weisberger

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СКАЧАТЬ and her brain had ceased processing certain words. Illness? Alcoholism? Risky behavior?

      ‘I’m … sorry?’ Anderson said, newly flustered. Had there ever in his entire career been a guest – a United States Senator, no less – who had so willingly broached the subject of his deliciously salacious personal life?

      ‘But it’s not only about me. I have to consider my son. I would be remiss as a father if I allowed my romantic relationship to further put my child at risk.’

      A howl escaped from Karolina’s lips. Had she just made that noise? Had Graham just called their ten-year marriage his romantic relationship? And referred to Harry as his son and not theirs?

      Anderson cleared his throat. He looked edgy, like a hunting lion about to strike. ‘Are you saying that your marriage—’

      Graham clenched his hands together and stared solemnly at his lap. ‘You make all sorts of exceptions for the people you love. But I no longer see a path forward for us.’

      ‘I see,’ Anderson said, although he clearly did not.

      ‘Does anyone remember you were talking about the fucking Hartwell–Connolly Bill?’ Karolina screamed.

      It was as though Anderson heard her through the TV. He said, ‘I have to take a quick break, Senator. I hope you’ll stay with me to discuss this – and everything else – in further detail?’

      Graham nodded. ‘Of course, Anderson. I’d be happy to.’

      Her phone rang immediately. It was her former agent, Rebecca, the woman who had mentored her through all her top years of modeling. Karolina knew Rebecca always kept CNN running in the background of her office, had done so for years, and clearly she was watching the Graham interview. As Karolina was debating whether or not to answer, it went to voicemail. A call from her aunt quickly followed. After sending that one and the next two directly to voicemail, Karolina switched off her phone. She yanked back the covers to climb back in bed and almost sat directly on an apple-sized spot of bright red blood. One glance down at her stained-through underwear confirmed it. How had she not even realized?

      Sighing heavily, Karolina stripped in the bathroom, threw her soiled clothes into a sink full of cold water, and climbed into the shower. Although it required superhuman amounts of strength, she grudgingly scrubbed and shaved all the parts that needed attention and wrapped herself in a massive Frette bath sheet. It wasn’t until she went to pull on a pair of fresh underwear and clean flannel PJ pants that she discovered she was fresh out of tampons.

      ‘Christ,’ she muttered, stuffing a wad of toilet paper in her underwear the way she used to do in middle school when she found herself without supplies.

      It wasn’t even five in the afternoon, but she was entirely alone: the caretaker couple had already called twice to ask if she needed them to return, but Karolina had insisted that she was fine by herself. A local woman came a couple mornings a week to clean, but she didn’t come on Fridays. With no choice but to actually leave her house, Karolina padded to the kitchen. Unable to resist, she swiped open her email on her iPad and scrolled through the new messages. She didn’t make it past the first one, a note from her aunt that contained only two items: an attached photo with a long chain of question marks preceding it. The quality was grainy, since her aunt had taken a picture of the picture using her phone and then emailed it – surely on the lowest resolution – to Karolina, but it didn’t take long to make out the players. Seated at Capitol Prime in D.C., known as the power lunch place for politicos, were Trip, Graham, and Joseph, Graham’s chief of staff. The interesting addition was the striking woman seated to Graham’s left. Regan. The Ice Queen. The camera caught her only in profile, but she was gazing at Graham while tossing her head back slightly and laughing. Graham was cutting his food and grinning a smile much wider than his grilled salmon probably warranted. All four wore business suits. To the normal onlooker, it appeared to be exactly like it was: a business lunch among colleagues. Your average Joe would not look at that photo and immediately think, Those two are fucking,

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