After massages come facials, then pedicures—everyone now wearing plush white towels knotted just above the breasts. The other wives trade stories about their marriages like war veterans comparing scars.
I sit in a pedicure chair, my feet submerged in warm, bubbling water that smells of lavender and mint. A technician kneels before me, her hands gentle as she lifts my right foot from the water, patting it dry with a heated towel before reaching for a bottle of coral pink polish. I watch the brush glide over my toenail in smooth, practiced strokes while around me, their voices rise and fall like waves.
Vivienne stretches languidly in her chair, one arm draped over the side, champagne flute dangling from her fingers. She mentions casually that she and James sleep in separate wings of their
