I Spent a Day With My Cheating Husband’s #1 Fan

The number one rule of discreetly stalking your husband’s mistress — or anyone for that matter — is “don’t gawk”. Number two is probably don’t invite your nosy, noisy, awe-struck mother into her multi-million-dollar lair, unaware one thin wall separates her from the homewrecking enemy who’s wiggled her way into her son-in-law’s bed (and onto his payroll).

I followed the repetitive rhythm to an open window, as the sound of heavy breathing accelerated in speed and intensity. A sultry, breathy voice whispered something undiscernible, seemingly through clenched teeth.

Like a birdwatcher with a visual, auditory, and aerial impairment, I quickly bobbed my head in and out of every window and balcony that might offer a sliver of a view — and a clue — into the aerobic pant-athon. Her whispers escalated into a high-pitched exhale, followed by clapping that rained down from above. I looked up to my right, and my eyes met her ponytail and the back of an exercise bike. Just then, a vibration jolted me out of my trance:

“Ring Alert: Someone is at your Front Door.”

My failed attempt to silence the phone — which was now actually ringing with a simultaneous call and another vibrating text — caught the attention of the mistress above, whose ponytail whipped to the other side as her eyes darted my way. Well, most likely it wasn’t my phone’s vibration or ringtone, but rather the sound of my cursing as it tumbled down the stairs.

My mom was at the door, giddy to begin her new life without my questionably senile father poisoning the neighbors with fabricated stories of her abuse (while flaunting his newfound affinity for chasing widowed women). And my husband’s mistress — and maybe employee, business partner, or both — was upstairs, on her adjoining townhome’s outdoor balcony, well within earshot.

Discretion may not be my strong suit, but this clearly had disaster written all over it. I had to get my mom out of the house — now — before she struck up an accidental friendship with the woman screwing my husband and draining his bank account. Maybe now was the time to broach the topic of his infidelity — or my tepid divorce planning… Then again, one adversarial legal battle at a time might be my limit — and it looks like my parents’ takes precedence this time.

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Dead cats and happy wives make wealthy California lives

$2M may not buy happiness or a faithful spouse, but it sure can buy location. I ushered my mom out of the foyer and towards the Pacific Coast Highway, with the clear blue ocean exploding behind throngs of towering palm trees.

Instagramable bakeries, wedding dress boutiques, and overpriced home décor shops lined our path, like a blur of pastel shops on a Positano postcard. But this wasn’t Positano, and the honking Range Rovers and rumbling Lamborghinis made that very clear — each luxury car still catching my mom’s eye like a kid in a candy store. A wall of horrific, repulsive faces — ones I’ve seen many times — stopped her in her tracks. She peered into the glass eyes of the $650 dead cat, utterly mesmerized by the glamorous take (and high price tag) on the strange, dead, and decaying.

This mysterious, disjointed array of shops has always been an enigma to me: Commercial rent along Corona del Mar’s busy stretch of the PCH is sky-high; yet it seems these shops are always open, but empty — as if they’re just for show. You’d almost question whether they aren’t a veil for something else — or perhaps the public façade of a laundering operation…But that would be far too brazen of a location for such a scandal.

I finally dragged my mom away from the assorted dead cats and bloody, murderous rabbits and into the humblest nail salon in all of Newport Beach. It sits next to a similarly humble auto repair shop, and both stores boast faded, sun-bleached signs with missing letters and chipped paint. Let’s just say they don’t exactly fit the billionaire vibe that permeates the rest of coastal Corona del Mar — and that’s exactly why I chose it. The chances we’d run into anyone in my husband’s circle are slim to none — and we’d surely have ample privacy to discuss the impending divorce(s) afflicting our family.

“Shhh!”

Seconds after I opened my mouth, my mom held up her unpolished finger and formally shushed me into silence, not-so-subtly nodding in the other direction, towards a stranger’s conversation in which she was deeply invested. Ah, the infamous name drop worked its magic once again.

This area is sprinkled with the semi-famous, formerly famous, and a few people who are actually fairly tabloid-relevant today. It’s nothing like Los Angeles, but we do have a handful of reality stars, entertainment bigwigs, and pro athletes — among the many other much more successful financiers and CEOs you’ve probably never heard of (and likely never will). It just so happened the Corona del Mar gossip circle had chosen this rundown, little salon for their weekly unveiling of the neighborhood drama — and my mom and I were buckled into our front row seats for at least the next 50 minutes.

“You know she bought that ring herself? My guess is she’s single by New Years.”

A high-profile reality TV couple (and their messy divorce and subsequent engagements) have been plastered across the news for months, and this gossip circle purported to have the inside scoop. At least, that’s what fragments of their eavesdropped conversation led my mom to believe.

“You’ll never believe who just bought on Ocean!” (For context, Ocean Blvd is the hillside, oceanfront street in Corona del Mar, where the houses aren’t in the 7-figure range, but rather 8 and up.)

With prominent names, streets, scandals, and business deals gone right (and wrong) swirling throughout the nail salon, it seemed as if this gossip circle was the small town within the small town. Everyone seems to know everyone’s business — from which houses they’re buying to the lawsuits they’re settling. It was all out in the open, for my mom to lap up like a parched kitten to a bowl of goat milk.

There was the developer with his $10M foreclosure because building restrictions would obstruct his property’s ocean view.
The daughter who’d just landed an NFL player and was finally able to live her dreams as an Instagram model, a la Kim Kardashian. (I kid you not — that’s word for word their summary.)
The professional fighter husband who just caught another assault charge he’ll be settling out of court, this time for $650k. Good thing his wife’s got the store to keep her occupied — and away from his temper. (Again, word for word.)

Right about now, my ears perked up, too. The store in question? It was the glamorous ode to all things dead, decrepit, and disgusting — and I might as well have been reading their annual report; these women were spilling all the beans.

Those $650 dead cats weren’t paying the high Corona del Mar rent (and she’d have to sell 1,000+ cats just to pay off her husband’s latest assault settlement), but they were keeping her busy — and out of his hair. The store itself wasn’t a money laundering scheme — at least, not according to these women. It was, however, a strategic tax write-off every year they took a loss…which I can assume is most years, based on the seemingly slow-moving inventory and next-to-negligible foot traffic.

Apparently, her husband bought her the business as a hobby present, he pays the $15k+ monthly rent, and she gets to feel like an independent businesswoman (without any of the financial headache or responsibility of being a real business owner). Thinking back to my intimate evening gone wrong with my own husband, I wonder if I’d be better off with the dead cat-funding fighter. At least he allows his wife the semblance of autonomy — even if it is just for show (or the tax write-off).

I couldn’t help but question how many of those beautifully-staged, customer-less boutiques were simply “hobby presents”, doled out by wealthy husbands in need of some privacy away from their wives (and a loss for a tax write-off).

Blood may be thick, but saltwater is thicker

Each piece of business, career, or real-estate-related chatter drew me in, while my mom was here strictly for the behind-the-scenes TMZ action.

“Do you hear that? This is the song! She’s dating the guy singing this song!”

One of the neighbors was dating some singer (whose song was on the salon radio right now, inciting a fangirl moment you’d expect from a band-obsessed preteen, not married women in their 40s and beyond…). Relevant? No. Was my mom awestruck and utterly obsessed, like a 14-year-old, just discovering Cosmo magazine? 100%.
“I know she’s been traveling like crazy! Her boss put her up in a townhome on Marigold, and I think there may be something going on between them, too — ”

With over 12,000 residents in Corona del Mar, I would be beyond self-absorbed to assumed they were talking about my husband’s mistress. Though the townhome was on Marigold…and according to my low-key Ring app stalking efforts, her travel schedule has appeared to coincide with my husband’s increasing absences of late…

Paranoia. That’s what the therapist would diagnose if she heard me utter — or even think — a word of these similarities. Maybe she’s right — maybe I’ve bought into the elaborate, suspicion-fueled story in my head so much so that I weave every unrelated detail I hear into the fabric of my husband’s scandals. She’d probably suggest I’m the narcissist, too. It couldn’t possibly be him. Just like he couldn’t possibly be paying throngs of virtual sex workers out of his business account, despite the transaction receipts to prove it.

“Ahem. Mmmhem.” My mom’s semi-subtle attempt at cutting in didn’t quite catch the yapping women’s attention, so she opted for an awkward throat clearing, followed by a loud cough. Not exactly the most socially acceptable move amidst a pandemic — even if we are standing on staunchly anti-masking, anti-vaxing turf. Lucky for her, these women seemed to inherit Newport’s (or their husbands’) political stance, and the cough did just the trick.

“Hi! I couldn’t help but overhear and as a new neighbor, I thought I’d introduce myself — I’m moving in on Marigold, too!”

Their faces instantly morphed from insincere, tight-lipped smiles to authentic, open-mouthed grins that tested the strength of their Botox. Crows feet broke through the sides of their oversized sunglasses as they welcomed my mother into the fold of Corona del Mar Village’s most active gossip circle.

This wasn’t exactly the low profile I had in mind — and I’m surely not ready for my socially-starved mother to start blasting my business all over town. So much for an ally amidst the double-divorce drama…

Within minutes, she’d been invited to the Friday morning dog brunch circle in one of the women’s front yard, on the ocean side of the PCH. Rufus — the dog my mom ripped from my dad’s clutches in her one and only act of provoked pre-divorce defiance (and revenge) — was welcome.

Thankfully, I held strictly to the manicure-only regime — while these women were clearly here for a full spa day of nails, toes, massages, waxes, and more. Paying the bill was my perfectly-timed escape plan, and I kept my eyes on the card reader (and my mouth shut) as I scribbled the fastest signature of my life before dragging my mom away from her newfound crew.

Watching my mom float out of that salon on a cloud, I knew she’d been poisoned already — and the damage was likely irreparable. One short, sub-hour-long interaction had her hooked like an addict from the purest powder and most orgasmic high. She hadn’t even moved in yet, but the materialism-laced wealth wafting out of the gossip circle’s mouths and into my mom’s psyche had officially created a monster — and unbiased reality was no longer within her reach.

My mom — my elderly mother — turned to me giddily and squealed. I’ve never known her to be a squealer — but then again, I’ve only known her for the past 39 years I’ve been on this planet…

“I feel like I just married into your life — and I love it already! You can tell that husband of yours he’s got a new #1 fan!”

The same mom who pleaded with me time and again to rethink my engagement, who urged me to forge my own path rather than allow the allure of a Bentley and world-class travel to obscure my identity — was utterly taken by the life my husband’s $2M townhome “gift” would now provide her.

…

Infidelity first, manicures later

In retrospect, maybe I should have started with the infidelity and divorce exposé and ended with the manicure. I guess it’s too late now. Once again, there’s me, myself, and I wading through the murky waters of this toxic, deteriorating marriage alone. And again, it seems my husband’s money and “generosity” have lured another member to the dark side. I honestly thought — barring extreme trauma, psychosis, or cognitive impairments — blood was thicker than water. It appears the magnetic pull of Corona del Mar’s saltwater would suggest otherwise.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.

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