{"product_id":"the-exmrs-hedgefund-isbn-9780452295940","title":"The Ex-Mrs. Hedgefund","description":"\u003cb\u003e\"A cheeky tale for recession-era romantics,\" (\u003ci\u003eMore\u003c\/i\u003e) from a bestselling author \u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The year is 2006 and Holly Talbott is married to the founder of Comer Capital at the apex of excess on Wall street. Sure, Holly loves being a stay-at-home mom and keeping house accounts at all the best places, but there are some downsides to being Mrs. Hedgefund. Even botox can't beautify her mother­in-law's withering stares, and her husband, Tim, is away so often it feels like she's single again. So when it turns out that not all of Tim's trips have been for business, the newly minted divorcée ventures beyond the Upper East Side and finds that sometimes exes have all the fun. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Impeccably rendered with wit and style, \u003ci\u003eThe Ex-Mrs. Hedgefund\u003c\/i\u003e is an old-fashioned love story and a celebration of New York-in any economy.\u003cb\u003eJill Kargman\u003c\/b\u003e is the writer and star of the hit Bravo television show \u003ci\u003eOdd Mom Out, \u003c\/i\u003ebased on her novel \u003ci\u003eMomzillas\u003c\/i\u003e. She is also the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Ex-Mrs. Hedgefund,\u003c\/i\u003e three novels for young readers, and the essay collection \u003ci\u003eSometimes I Feel Like a Nut\u003c\/i\u003e. She has written for \u003ci\u003eVogue, Elle, Harper’s Bazaar, GQ,\u003c\/i\u003e and many other magazines, was a columnist for Style.com, and wrote for the MTV shows \u003ci\u003eSo Five Minutes Ago \u003c\/i\u003eand\u003ci\u003e Who Is\u003c\/i\u003e. Kargman is a graduate of Yale University. Married and the mother of three, she lives in Manhattan.\u003cp\u003eTable of Contents\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTitle Page\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCopyright Page\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDedication\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAcknowledgements\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 1\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 2\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 3\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 4\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 5\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 6\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 7\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 8\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 9\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 10\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 11\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 12\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 13\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 14\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 15\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 16\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 17\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 18\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 19\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 20\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 21\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 22\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 23\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 24\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 25\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 26\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 27\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 28\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 29\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 30\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 31\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 32\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 33\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 34\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 35\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 36\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 37\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 38\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 39\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 40\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 41\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 42\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 43\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 44\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 45\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 46\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFollow-ups\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDUTTON\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePublished by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.\u003cbr\u003e375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.\u003cbr\u003ePenguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P\u003cbr\u003e2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.); Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand,\u003cbr\u003eLondon WC2R 0RL, England; Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland\u003cbr\u003e(a division of Penguin Books Ltd); Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road,\u003cbr\u003eCamberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd); Penguin\u003cbr\u003eBooks India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017,\u003cbr\u003eIndia; Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand\u003cbr\u003e(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd); Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24\u003cbr\u003eSturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePenguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePublished by Dutton, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFirst printing, April \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003eCopyright © 2009 by Jill Kargman\u003cp\u003eAll rights reserved\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eREGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA Kargman, Jill, 1974-\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe Ex-Mrs. Hedgefund \/ by Jill Kargman. p. cm.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eeISBN : 978-1-101-02243-6\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e1. Rich people—Fiction. 2. Adultery—Fiction. 3. Divorced women—Fiction.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e4. Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. 5. New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. I. Title. PS3611.A783E’.6—dc22 2008042999\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePUBLISHER’S NOTE\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThis book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWithout limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eDedicated with xoxos\u003cbr\u003eto\u003cbr\u003eMy loving family\u003cbr\u003eand\u003cbr\u003eTo the Chères—my Kikis—the best friends in the world.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eAcknowledgments\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFirst of all, I want to worship the amazing Trena Keating, who is a brilliant yummy mummy of three-slash-editor in chief—I bow down to you and Lily Kosner for all your incredible insights and wisdom. To the incredible ICM posse: Jennifer Joel and Amanda Urban, plus Josie Freedman and Elliot Webb on the “leff coass.” Special thanks to Steven Beer and Mary Miles of Greenberg Traurig. Megakudos to Lee-Sean Huang for help making the graphs, and a special shout-out of major thanks to my anonymous Hedge Fund Deep Throats for the Wall Street crash courses and juicy tidbits, plus amazing supporters like Amelia’s mom, Laura Tanny, Jacky Davy, Lisa Jacobs, Aviva Drescher, Tiffany Dubin, Carrie Karasyov, Janisse Tio, Tara Lipton, Alexis and Philip Mintz, the Heinzes, the Bevilacquas, Dan Allen, Jenn Linardos, Michael Kovner and Jean Doyen de Montaillou, Suzanne Cleary, Allison Aston, Beth Klein, and especially Carol Bell and Barbara Martin.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd to my Kikis: All of you inspired me to write this ode not just to finding \u003ci\u003eamore\u003c\/i\u003e, but also to true friendship, and I love you so much: Vanessa Eastman, Jeannie Stern, Dana Jones, Trip Cull-man, Lauren Duff, and most of all, Lisa Turvey for all your genius early edits, notes, and advice.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLast but not least, my family: Willie, Mom, Dad, and all the Kopelmans and Kargmans, especially my LC—thank you for being the best, most supportive husband—and to Sadie, Ivy, and Fletch, I love you, my little nuggets.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Mrs. Hedgefund Rolodex of Favorite Words, A to Z\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ea. is for Armani, Aston Martin, Aman Resort, AmEx (Black)\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eb. is for Bonpoint, Bergdorfs, BOTOX, Bulgari\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ec. is for Cartier, Chauffeur, Chanel, Citibabes, Concierge\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ed. is for Dolce, Driver, Doorman, Dior\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ee. is for Emaciated, Endowment, Envy\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ef. is for Fendi, Frette, Furs, Frederic Fekkai\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eg. is for Gucci, Golf, Goyard\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eh. is for Housekeeper, Helicopter, Hamptons\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ei. is for iPhone, The Ivy, Italy\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ej. is for Jacadi, Jewelry, Jimmy Choo\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ek. is for Kelly Bag (in every color)\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003el. is for Lanvin, Louboutins, La Perla, Lobel’s, Long\/Liquid Lunches\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003em. is for Missoni, Mercedes, Manicures\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003en. is for Nina Ricci, NetJets, Nannies\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eo. is for Oscar de la Renta, Opera Tickets\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ep. is for Pilates, Porthault, Paris, Pricey Parties\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eq. is for Quantity, Quality\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003er. is for Rive Gauche, Rachel Roy\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003es. is for Swifty’s, Saks, Season Tickets, Skybox, Second Home\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003et. is for Tiffany, Teterboro, Third Home\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eu. is for Ungaro\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ev. is for Vogue, Valentino, Van Cleef, Vivier, VIP List\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ew. is for Whatever, Whenever, Whomever I Want\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ex. is for Xanax\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ey. is for Yellow Diamond, YSL, Yacht\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ez. is for the Zone, Zegna, Zenith\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e1\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNew York, 2006\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Have you heard of the new Divorced Barbie? She comes with all of Ken’s stuff!”\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eI\u003c\/b\u003et is 1789. An ethereal mist rolls through the gray-smudged streets as coiffed heads are rolling into baskets at the Bastille. The muddied, bedraggled, and oft-diseased onlookers cheer in every Parisian alley. Dawning is the day when preened, brioche-nibbling, wig-powdering royal schmucks no longer shall prance the palace courts in ornamented couture; the chasm between the upper crust and the crumb-eaters is closing with each crisp slice of a once-bejeweled neck, to the thrill of the roaring crowd.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAs a raging Broadway geek, I had seen \u003ci\u003eLes Misérables\u003c\/i\u003e probably twenty times, but the music was even sweeter when a limited engagement briefly reopened on Broadway recently. It was packed with tourists and fanatical theater-worshippers like me, and I relished the airtight lyrics and live voices versus my well-worn CD. Seeing it again was like enjoying a short season of a favorite fruit you know you can’t savor next month—blood oranges for your ears.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eEven in the decade since it last appeared on the Great White Way, a lot has changed in our gritty city. In New York, a glistening new empire was raging, full of the same boundless excesses and sheltered luxuries in which cosseted royals reveled. I thought how lucky I was. Not only because we are now rid of gangrenous wounds, lepers, and inefficient sewer systems, but also because even if there were a class pyramid like the one they had in old Europe, I knew I would be at the triangle’s apex, safe from the storm of clamoring mobs raising tattered flags and angry voices. No, I’m not a blue-blooded queen; I’m a normal, down-to-earth, non-over-the-top gal. But I must confess: I am a hedge fund wife.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut wait!\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDon’t let go of that guillotine rope!\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI’m not like the rest of them. I promise. I am not some skeletorious trend-splashed fashion victim or five-foot-eight Xanax tablet with a face. I look my thirty-four years and have not succumbed to the BOTOX needle or boob lift, despite the 9.81-meters-per-second force of gravity taking its toll. Okay, some of my friends are a little OTT, but some are very down-to-earth, and their favorite thing about having money is giving it away. While I must admit, a gal can obviously love the perks of not stressing about dough, there are some drawbacks to the world that I inhabit. Namely the incessant quest for perfection at all costs. In every way—perfect kids, homes, bodies, \u003ci\u003elives\u003c\/i\u003e. Many of my friends are slaves to their appearance: nips, tucks, $600 creams made of sheep’s placenta, trainers, lipo, the works. Anything to be fabulous. But I myself am more drab than fab. More J.Crew than J. Mendel. Sometimes I’ll stare at a fashion spread and wish I knew how to work a look like that, but even though I could maybe afford the crazy price tag, I could never in good conscience do it; I’m just not wired that way. I grew up  in a well-off but supergrounded, relaxed family in Boston, where people didn’t flash cash—my dad is a sweet-natured retired pediatrician and my loving late mother was the epitome of warm elegance rather than opulence, class instead of crass. Sure, a few classmates of mine were megamillionaires (back when that was a big deal), but they made their chauffeurs drop them blocks before school out of an embarrassment of riches. Now in New York I regularly see Rolls-Royces with kiddie car seats glutting the street in front of my son Miles’s school. In Boston, the entrepreneurs really created products and didn’t show their money around Versailles style. The father of a girl I knew invented the nail clipper; another developed the lawn mower as we know it—patents that still yield serious buckaroos, but none of the families were advertising it. Even though many of my parents’ friends had money, there wasn’t the flamboyant arrogance I see now.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eYou see, Manhattan is a different beast. Fortunes are made on people moving around money, not widgets. Very few companies create a palpable product, something you can hold in your hands. It’s all about trading, investing, forecasting ups and downs in those markets. Nothing annoys my husband, Tim, more than when he asks what so-and-so does and I blithely respond, “Oh, you know, Wall Street.” He tries to calmly explain that there are titans of private equity and mere cold-callers, a spectrum of skill and wealth. But numbers now blur into hieroglyphics for me, despite my A+ in BC Calc in high school. It’s as simple as this: I have zero interest.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMore than once Tim has given me a mini-crash course—basically verbal Sominex—on the differences between traders who trade stocks versus commodities (like pork bellies and the all-famous Frozen Concentrated Orange Juice in \u003ci\u003eTrading Places\u003c\/i\u003e), versus venture capitalists who invest in small companies with high-growth potential. And then there are the current reigning  titans, the kings of ka-ching: the hedgies. What my husband and his brother, Hal, do is all very mysterious and, well, to me, boring. Hedge funds, which are not really regulated, are based on an exorbitant “two and twenty” (or “three and thirty,” depending on how well they do) percentage of fees and profits, resulting in lots of boys with lots of cash. All anyone knows is that these guys are minting it, and that the culture, even if clueless about what they actually do, is obsessed.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFashion designers are telling E! Television that their inspiration is “hedge fund chic.” Artists at the Miami ArtBasel Fair rub shoulders not with other artists or their dealers but with their new buttoned-up clientele, who fork out millions for a formaldehyde-suspended pig or a splatter-painted panel. When people ask what Tim does and I respond, “Hedge fund,” they say, “Oooooooh,” and I cringe, embarrassed; these funds are on people’s lips and brains and are synonymous with piles of gold bricks. Not to mention people with no brains: There is even a new book, \u003ci\u003eHedge Funds for Dummies\u003c\/i\u003e. Like their Gekko-y eighties counterparts, these guys love the money. Greed is good, so it was said, but these days, bragging is better. It seems that every guy my husband works with needs the latest phone, newest car, biggest house, to show off; there’s no modesty—it’s in-your-face, loud and clear, volume to eleven. And that’s how they like it. As do the women who chase them. But while most women would secretly wear Nikes under their Vera Wang bridal dresses so they could sprint faster down the aisle to marry one, take it from me: There are sacrifices.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFirst of all, the MIA husband syndrome. Tim has to travel all the time, so I’m often solo after Miles’s tuck-in with my remote control, learning way too much about Hugh Hefner’s three girlfriends on E! or wincing at a taped tummy tuck on the Learning Channel (dashing any desire to have one, despite slight  paunch). Then, when Tim is in residence, we have to go to a million “functions.” Hedge fund events, charity balls, Tim’s co-worker’s sister’s wedding. The more money you have, the more friends you get, Tim jokes, but he loooves being the life of the party. Me? I’m way more boring. While he likes going out and sampling aged scotch or expensive wine, I prefer . . . Frozen Concentrated Orange Juice.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAll of this is a terrific boon for my field of interest: charity work. There is so much money out there, and the dough coupled with the mounting social ambition yields a prime moment for raising money, so I’ve thrown myself into my volunteer work for the hospital, getting people to come to our benefit and raising tons of funds. In fact, I’ve raised so many Benjamins that Susan in the development office whispered I was being groomed for the board. But of course, there’s a charity version of mutual back-scratching. It means that everyone who donates or buys a ticket to my event then asks me to buy one for their cause as well, resulting in a full calendar of going out.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThese events can be fun, sure, but lately the whole black-tie thing has gotten worse, spiraling out of control to the point where we can conceivably be out five nights a week. Sometimes I worry about how easily lying comes to me in terms of wriggling out of attending. It’s truly almost like breathing. \u003ci\u003eHi, it’s Holland. I’m sooo sorry, but Tim and I can’t make your Night of Wagner at the Opera because we have friends in town!\u003c\/i\u003e Or: \u003ci\u003eGosh, I’ll have to miss your museum luncheon—I have a doctor’s appointment, bummer!\u003c\/i\u003e  Come to think of it, it’s really just minifibs to spare people’s feelings, because I generally much prefer small, intimate gatherings to stuffy formal fetes with penguin suits and pearl chokers.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd take luncheons, for example. I have a strict \u003ci\u003eno-luncheons\u003c\/i\u003e  policy, which can be tricky in Manhattan, and thus involves at least weekly lies to various hedge fund wives who invite me to  their interminable afternoons at La Goulue or Sette Mezzo. Let’s face it: The word “luncheon” is “lunch” plus “eon” because it takes eons for the darn thing to end. My last was a Museum of Natural History luncheon that went on so long, it was as if the gigantic T. rex dinosaur jawbones bit a humongous bloody chunk out of my day. Whether I was giving tours at Miles’s school, working at the hospital writing fund-raising letters, or simply running the house, my time was in scattered pieces like the fossils. So I feel zero guilt as I rattle off faux excuses to various invitations that would no doubt be the equivalent of social root canal.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut lying to Tim was different.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy husband of seven years knew me so well, I had to avert my eyes when I spewed out some invented plan, tending to a supposedly errant cuticle or lip gloss touch-up rather than look him in the eye. It had come to this since our last major fight a month ago.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I don’t think you quite understand, Holly,” he yelled at me, brown eyes ablaze. “You are NEVER to speak to Kiki again. Ever. She is \u003ci\u003eout\u003c\/i\u003e of this family. She left my brother and she’s a tacky little bitch. The Talbott family sticks together, and if Hal has booted that slut from his life, we do the same. Delete her from your Outlook. That garbage Kiki Talbott is Out. Of. Our. Lives.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe slammed the door to his bathroom. I heard the shower go on and closed my eyes, knowing that despite his fervent militaristic command, my best friend—my now ex-sister-in-law—was most certainly not going to be dumped in the trash.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Plume","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302449893605,"sku":"NP9780452295940","price":22.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780452295940.jpg?v=1767739240","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-exmrs-hedgefund-isbn-9780452295940","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}