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As she watches Susan’s life shatter in full few of the world, she hesitates before approaching. The kind of pain that Susan is experiencing should be private, Mike should have cared enough about her to protect her from the humiliation of having the neighbourhood witness this moment, it should have happened indoors so that polite society could avert their eyes and pretend they did not hear the shouting, all the while relishing every moment and recording every syllable to memory so that this delicious gossip could be spread in hush tones and with looks of sympathy. The macabre form of street theatre that marks the end of their relationship offers Susan no refuge, the gossip it will generate will be spread openly and no-one will bother to conceal their pitying glances. He has robbed her of the opportunity to protect herself with denial and in doing so has stripped her of the most powerful weapon in her arsenal. Lynette edges her way towards the scene thinking that Susan has had little say in this event and that she should at least be given the option of whether or not she wants their help but as Susan sinks onto the asphalt, collapsing under the weight of her tears, it becomes clear that even that luxury has been taken from her.
They crowd around her, her tiny frame enveloped in a sea of lace and chiffon that they need to climb over to reach her. Lynette has a flash of what they must look like as they kneel on the remains of what was once a garment of celebration and imagines that they must resemble cactus flowers sprouting in a desert and then wonders what on earth she is doing thinking about such things at this time. Susan doesn’t seem to hear their words of comfort and support, which may not be a bad thing, given that the offerings are hollow and meaningless and can do nothing to change what she is going through. She does seem to respond to physical comfort, the sobs racking her body lesson marginally as they stroke her back and hair.
Sophie, who could usually give Bree’s mother-in-law lessons in histrionic self-indulgence, is remarkably quiet and focused only on her daughter, suggesting that she may have better maternal instincts than she usually displays. Susan eventually buckles under the onslaught of heat and scrutiny and goes limp in Sophie’s arms, allowing them to drag her indoors. The vigil continues until the point that Susan falls asleep on the couch, a broken shell serenading to darkness and dreams, and they are ushered out of the house.
Bree follows her causing her to turn and pointedly state, “You live on the opposite side of the street and I would appreciate it if you went there right now.”
“You’re right, I do live across the street and you can’t ignore me forever.”
“Are you seriously going to use this moment to try and talk to me?”
“I don’t know what else to do, you won’t see me and you won’t answer my calls.”
“All of which would suggest that I don’t want to talk to you.”
Bree’s expression doesn’t change but she tightens her grip on her handbag, “I can’t do this, I can’t lose you.”
“It’s too late, I’m already gone.” She would give anything to believe that but she has some serious doubts, someone who was over Bree wouldn’t feel a surge of hope ram her heart in response to Bree telling her that she can’t lose her.
“Then you really don’t have anything to lose by talking to me.”
“Fine, I’m listening. Say what you have to say.”
“Can’t we at least go inside?”
“No. I don’t expect this will last long.” She doesn’t tell Bree that it’s safer this way, that it will force Bree to censor anything that she has to say and that it will limit her own reactions. Being in close proximity to Bree while they were comforting Susan had been torture. She had known that sex between the two of them would be great but in many ways she had thought of it as a formality. She believed that for months they had made love a thousand times with every glance, every touch, every word and that actual physical intimacy would be fun, the icing on the cake, but it wouldn’t change anything, in retrospect that seems like incredibly wishful thinking. She can barely look at Bree now, not just because she can’t forgive her but because it brings back technicolour reruns of their night together. When they were huddled by Susan, there were times that her hand would accidentally brush against Bree’s and each and every touch was electric, transporting her back to Bree’s hallway – more than just images, she felt the sensations as acutely as if they were happening again. Her breath hitched, her heart raced, phantom smells invaded her nostrils and she swears she could taste Bree. Her body responded to the memories in ways completely inappropriate for someone who was sitting in the street comforting their distraught friend.
Bree seems to weigh up her options and decides that she will have the conversation on Lynette’s terms, “Are you sleeping with someone from your office?”
She can’t imagine what would give Bree this idea but she isn’t going to be drawn in by anything that Bree says, “That’s none of your business.”
“Of course it’s my business.”
“It used to be but you spent a long time trying to make it clear that you were no longer interested in this particular venture,” Lynette gestures towards herself, “and then you screwed me over, so you are not in any position to be asking for an update.”
“So you are having an affair.”
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
She doesn’t want to care what Bree thinks about her but she can’t believe that Bree would think that she was capable of such a thing, can’t understand why Bree doesn’t see that being torn between her and Tom has been hell and that she would never add another person to the equation, “I love my husband, I wouldn’t do that.” Bree just raises an incredulous eyebrow at her. “That was different,” she whispers, “I loved you.”
“Past tense?”
“For all intents and purposes.”
“So who are you wearing the new suits for then?”
The penny drops and she looks away in case Bree can read her eyes. The suits aren’t exactly something that she is proud of and while everyone seems to have an opinion on why she brought them, she can take a small bit of comfort in the fact that none of them are on the money. She had gone shopping for a new suit to appease Nina but had fully intended to purchase something within her budget because if her clients are only going to buy her pitch based on the cut of the material that is draped over her body, they do not deserve her or her skills. She had tried the more expensive suits on as a whim, certain that they would actually prove her point that overpriced pieces of fabric would in no way impact on her job performance. The effect the suits had on her was unexpected, she felt like someone different, someone new. It wasn’t about how Nina and the zygotes in the office would approve of them and it wasn’t about impressing clients who have misguided priorities, it was about looking in the dressing room mirror and seeing herself in clothes that she would never normally wear. In the new clothes she could be different; she could be the sort of person who was faithful to her husband, the sort of person that didn’t allow herself to be used by the woman that she loved in a petty act of revenge. It was no accident that the suit that transformed her the most was white, the real Lynette was undeserving of that colour but in that suit, a costume no less fake than the wedding dress that Susan has been wearing today, she wasn’t herself, she was good and virtuous and pure, the slate wiped clean, her recent sins washed away. The benefits of her new attire are of no consequence at the moment and they are things that Bree can never learn so she turns her attention back to the conversation and, determined to end their exchange, she goes for Bree’s Achilles, “Why should you care, you’re too busy fucking George.”
Bree’s face screws up as though she’s eaten acid, “I don’t ever do that.”
“Fuck?” Bree doesn’t respond, she turns her face away was though to shelter herself from the word. “Fine then, you are fornicating with him, engaging in an act of potential procreation, developing carnal knowledge, participating in an event that leads to mutual fluid loss,” Bree turns back at that, her eyes look haunted, “failing to abstain – I don’t care what descriptor you use or how you sugar coat it, I know it’s happening and I hate you for it.” Even though she is trying to hurt Bree, she is sure that there is truth behind her words. Bree has begun to introduce splashes of colour back into her wardrobe pallet and has even been wearing her hair down again and Lynette knows that these things have nothing to do with her, someone else has managed to coax Bree out of her mourning clothes. She does wonder what has happened to cause the reappearance of the funeral dress and severe hair today but then suppresses those thoughts for they belong to someone who is still in love with Bree.
“And so you sleep with someone at work, that’s kind of cruel.”
“If it true it’s my cross to bear. Mine alone, it has nothing to do with you.”
“But you’re doing this because of me.”
“Not everything is about you, this may shock you but I do have thoughts that don’t revolve around Bree fucking Van De Kamp.”
“I’m sure you do but this isn’t one of them.”
“God you’re so full of yourself.”
“It’s not that, it’s just that I know how it feels not to be able to be with you and I know you must feel the same. You couldn’t hate me if you didn’t have feelings for me.”
“I don’t feel anything for you but pity, you killed everything else,” she walks away before Bree can say anything to encourage her to stay. The twins descend upon her as she enters the house and she tries to let herself be caught up in the life she can have but finds herself drawn to the one that she can’t, watching as Bree slowly makes her way across the street. She hopes that she can keep up her act of disinterest long enough for Bree to believe her because in spite of her words she still wants Bree so badly that she would have let Bree take her then and there in the street, in view of everyone, breaking multiple laws and her family to boot. Maybe she never loved Bree, love shouldn’t be like this, this is ugly and dangerous, this is an obsession, an addiction and she has to kick the habit or she will go under.
She kisses the boys but declines their requests for her to play with them and heads upstairs. Tom finds her standing in front of the mirror in her suit and gives her a look that implies that he has concerns for sanity. She looks at him defiantly, “I like the way it makes me feel.”
He leans against the door frame, “I like the way it makes you look and you know what else I like?”
“Carbon fibre shafts?”
He nods, “Say it again.”
“Carbon fibre shafts,” she drawls and feels her heart lighten in response to the grin that appears on his face, “now get out of here, the suit and I need to be alone for a while.” He shakes his head at her but leaves. She strokes the material and tells herself that she will do her best to make herself worthy of the suit, she will give up her obsession and as an act of good faith she pulls the envelope out of the pocket of her jeans and opens it -there is no flash of lightning, no overt apocalyptic signs, nothing to suggest that her life will not go on. She holds the key in her hand and considers disposing of it but instead carefully places it in her jewellery case, “Baby steps,” she tells the suit, “baby steps.”