Doing just that, he puts his feet up, nonchalant as he says, “It’s been longer than usual, eh?” His Canadian accent comes out at times like these, and she gives him a small smile.
“Yes.”
“Tell me why.”
“I thought I was doing better.” She knows it sounds lame, even to her own ears it sounds like a pitiful excuse.
“Why did you think you were better?” he asks, his hands folded in his lap.
“I felt better, felt like I was on top of the world.”
“Until?”
“Until it came crashing down.”
“And what triggered it?”
“Stress. Paranoia.” Rearranging the stack of pillows behind her on the chair, she fidgets as she waits for his follow-up question.
“What are you paranoid and stressed about?”
“It stems from the situation...”
“I got the paperwork from the hospital, but I want you to tell me your side directly, not just what’s noted by the police and the doctors. Do you feel like talking about this?”
“No,” she’s honest, “but I'm here.”
“Yes, and I’m relieved to see you.” He fixates on her, his bifocals seeming to stare right through her. “I need to know what you thought you would accomplish that night.”
“Where my head was?”
“Uh-huh,” Dr. Sabin says. “And if you told your husband what you did."
6
Stella
Stella sniffs, fixated on the tissue box settled on the small table next to her as she grabs one.
“That evening was ... it feels like I was in my body, but I was standing outside looking at her. I was so angry, and now it seems so trivial, but at the time, it didn’t seem that way.”
“Go on...”
“I know I was speeding, I was reckless, driving too fast on the highway, the sharp turns just coming one after the other.”
“Where was Grant?”
“Out of town.”
“And you were alone?”
“In the convertible, yes.”
“But feeling wise, do you remember how you felt as you were driving?”
“Alone. Terribly alone. Like I had no one and for a moment, it was freeing, to have no one relying on me, but then a terrible cloud came over me, it just sucked out all my energy and turned it negative.”
“Were you drinking?”
“Yes.”
“Drugs?”
Ashamedly, she stares down at her fingers, at her sparkling engagement ring, at the beaded bracelet she wears that has a positive affirmations mantra on it, partly because she believes in it, and partly to hide her scars.
The watch on her other wrist hides another one of her flaws.
Dr. Sabin gives her a moment, his gaze landing on the half-closed blinds. He’s a pro at knowing when to give her space, even in the sense of removing eye contact.
Blowing her nose, she answers his question. “I did some harder drugs that night, and drank, and it all came to a screeching halt...”
“When you lost control of the vehicle?”
Silence.
“And careened into a guard rail.”
Nodding her head, she wipes an unchecked tear sliding down her cheek.
“Car totaled?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Injuries were minor, thank God for that, and you hurt no one else.” He touches his necklace as if superstitious, the outline of a patron saint.
“I only had lacerations. Luckily I wore my seatbelt.”
“Were you alone before you got in the car?”
“No. He was there.”
“Not Grant, correct? He was away?”
“He was in New York, at his satellite office.”
“Was this tied to him? Were you feeling devalued or struggling with doubt in your relationship?”
“No. I wasn't thinking about him.”
“What prompted this deviation?” Stella likes how he refers to her borderline personality disorder as a ‘deviation’ from her norm instead of an ‘episode,’ like Grant calls it.
“My affair.”
“And Grant doesn’t know about this?”
“No.”
"Last time we spoke it was new and exciting, and we talked about how those emotions, the serotonin and feelings of extreme happiness, could result in a rollercoaster ride, especially if and when it went off the tracks.”
“It certainly did, it literally crashed into a fiery blaze.”
“Did something happen with him that night?”
“Yes.” Stella takes a deep breath. The hospitalization was a few months ago, and it seems like a blur, the doctors and nurses, the bare room, the cold corridor of the hospital, the utter shock on Grant’s face when he flew home to find her at the Marina Del Rey Medical Center.
But what’s ingrained in her memory is the events of that night and how he slipped through her fingers.
And she didn’t have closure, at least not the closure she needed, or wanted.
Hell, she couldn’t have it, because at the end of the day, she hadn’t wanted it to end.
But he had.
And it set her off.
Rage was all she could feel at the time, the bottle of Chardonnay she drowned herself in, the weed she smoked in the stall at the restaurant, the din of the patrons chattering excitedly, the anti-anxiety pills she swallowed, nothing seemed to settle her mood.
Sinking down to her knees in the small bathroom, she drunkenly dials Lucy, who picks up on the second ring.
“It’s over.”
“What is?” Lucy asks.
“The affair.”
“You end it or did he?”
Stella blows out a breath. “Mutual.”
“Do you need to talk about it?”
“I’m at a pub drinking, go figure, a bottle of wine.”
“You didn’t drive, I hope?”
“No,” she lies.
“Good.”
“Did you meet him there?” Marissa was the code name they used for her man, it was saved in her phone that way, and any reference to him was as a ‘her’ or ‘Marissa.’
“Yeah.”
“He’s not giving you a ride, is he?”
“No. I’ll get a lift.”
Lucy starts to ask her a question but she cuts her off. “I’m going to puke.” Disconnecting, she slides her cell in the back pocket of her jeans, leaning forward to heave over the toilet.
After she lost half the wine she imbibed in the porcelain, she rinsed her face with water, washed out her mouth, and headed back to the bar.
Flirting with a couple younger men, the night passed in a blur.
Grant rang.
She didn’t answer.
Lucy tried her again.
But nothing from him.
It was really over.
She thought as soon as he left, he would turn around, come back in and apologize, beg for her forgiveness, and tell her that nothing would keep them apart.
Not her husband.
Not his wife.
She starts to explain to Dr. Sabin. “When I left the bar that night, I felt used up, and there was this negative energy that just wanted me to run and flee my problems and how I felt. So I drove, and I didn’t even see the signs or the other cars, I just raced down the highway, trying to numb myself.”
“And when you crashed?”
“I still didn’t feel anything. I could see the tangled mass of metal, even in the dim light from my headlamps, and I remember thinking it was a miracle I didn't flip the car. Even then, I was stunned. That’s the best way to describe it, shocked. And the scary part was, if I didn't have a flat tire, I would’ve kept going, just backed up and continued my journey.”
“According to the police, you left the scene of the accident?”
“I did. On foot,” Stella adds, “but I didn't get far. I passed out about fifty feet from the accident."
“And who found you?”
“A good Samaritan
who stopped.”
“And no charge for driving under the influence since you weren't legally drunk when they took you to the hospital?”
“No.” She licks her lips. “They did give me a blood test, but I wasn't charged. The accident happened around 1am and I was transported to the ER around 5am. The police were more worried about my head lacerations and the fact I was unconscious. I was charged with reckless driving only.” Stella picks at her nail polish, a terrible habit she wishes she could break. “Plus, they said there was a puncture in my tire, and it blew out on the highway. It would’ve been unlikely for me to avoid losing control when that happened.”
“You remember everything so vividly.”
“About parts of that night…yes.” Stella bites her cheek. “But the doctor said that lapses in memory are to be expected. I just sometimes can’t remember what I forget.” She gives him a tight smile.
Dr. Sabin leans back in his gliding chair, his kind eyes giving her the once-over.
“You still haven't told me where you were headed that night."
“If you must know,” Stella gives him a steely gaze, “to find his wife.”
“What were you going to do?”
“Confront her.” Shamefaced, she stares at the large oval rug on the floor. “I wanted to hurt her the way he had just hurt me.”
7
Stella
After she leaves Dr. Sabin’s office, she sits in the driver’s side of her car, hands trembling on the wheel. After she presses the engine button, she flicks the windshield wipers on, except it’s not the rain obscuring her vision, it's her tears.
Drained, she’s holding a fistful of tissue, blotting at her eyes and her nose, the unending stream of tears sliding down her cheeks into the collar of her blouse.
Stella hates recounting her bad feelings and the depths of despair she sinks into. After therapy, it’s like an old wound is ripped open and bleeds out again.
After the accident and hospitalization, she didn't drive for a couple months. She was reluctant to feel the way she had earlier, and Grant was hesitant about getting her another vehicle.
They agreed she would stop drinking for the time being, and he reined her in a bit more. After one of her ‘deviations,’ he becomes overbearing and sensitive, needing her to coddle him and promise him it was a mistake.
But these mistakes are costly, and they add up.
He thought the reason she had run off the rails was because of bad press. A competitor of hers had lashed out about ‘self-indulgent success stories who think creating a line means they’ve made it and actually have a name in this industry. You’re just a face.’
Grant was taken aback by this confession, as he told her so, since they’d both had to have thick skin in the industries they worked in. So he responded by trying to build her back up and help restore her self-confidence, not realizing the problem was another man.
Feeling guilty, a new wave of remorse hits her.
Swallowing, she picks up the phone to call him. Her voice is unsteady when he answers. “Grant?”
“Yeah, babe, are you okay?”
“I just got done at Sabin’s.”
“How’d it go? Sounds like it went rough.”
“Therapy is just wearing, you know?”
“Yeah, but I’m so proud you went. Having to re-live what happened can’t be easy.”
“It’s not.” Stella wants nothing more than a subject change. “But if it's okay, I’ve got some other news to talk to you about.”
Grant seems relieved, but also uncomfortable with the trajectory of their conversation. He sounds desperate to be on a level playing field he can relate to. “What is it?”
“I got an email last night that could be good for SMK. I’ve been asked to speak at a conference on self-made beauty entrepreneurs.”
“That’s fantastic, Stel,” Grant seems pleased. “I’m so proud of you.”
“I have thirty minutes to give a talk.”
“That’s a decent amount of time,” Grant says, “and you’re worried about what you’re going to say?”
She snorts. “No, I’m concerned I won’t be able to fit everything in.”
“You do like to talk,” he teases. “Just don’t give away your trade secrets.”
“Ha, I won’t, you know me better than that.”
“Well, I couldn’t be prouder of my sophisticated beauty,” Grant says, “You are building an empire. Made entirely out of wax.”
“Have you demanded all the women in your office to start wearing my lipsticks?”
“Yes, it’s now part of our new hire packet.” He pretends to read from a new employee manual. “Masen & Snyder employees have a contractual obligation to only wear SMK lipstick, regardless of their gender or sexual orientation.”
“Just wait until there’s a whole line.”
“We can add an addendum, no problem.” Stella hears the click of his keyboard. “Where’s the conference and when?”
“Palm Springs, which makes it more appealing.”
“What are the dates?”
“Mid-March,” Stella muses. “Do you want to go?”
“Yeah, I’ll put it on my calendar.” Thinking out loud, he asks, “Since it’s not too far, should we drive?”
“Probably, then I can bring product without having to ship it.”
Stella hears a loud knock and then Grant’s voice speaking to Rebecca. When he comes back on the line, he says, “Okay, babe, I gotta go, I have an appointment coming in. I love you.”
“Love you too.”
8
Stella
The morning of her important meeting, Stella can’t swallow the bagel and cream cheese she made for breakfast, even the taste of orange juice makes her nauseated.
Grant is gone by the time she wakes, but when she enters their dining room, a bouquet of long-stemmed red roses is propped on the dining room table with a card.
Inhaling their sweet scent, she takes a deep breath.
Opening the card, it’s a personalized message from Grant.
To my wife, who’s on top of the world and should stay that way.
Always your rock,
G
You can do this, Stella, she commands herself. This is what you’ve been working towards.
Stella dresses more formal than she normally would. A pin-striped suit and Prada heels, a small black clutch, and a chignon complete her look. Spreading on her signature lip color, she dabs some of her homemade fragrance on, ready to take on the world. Or at least the owners of Saks, the Hudson Bay Company.
She meets her attorney Darcy Moyer for coffee beforehand to discuss some business ideas and options, preparing themselves for potential pitfalls.
When they walk into the conference room of the Four Seasons, a short, petite woman strolls up to her, thrusting out a hand. “Stella?”
“Yes.”
“Morgan Chandler.”
“Pleased to meet you.” She turns to Darcy, “and Morgan, please meet Darcy Moyer, my attorney.”
They exchange pleasantries and Morgan motions to the rest of the room. “Let me introduce you to everybody and then we can get started. Ladies, would you like some bottled water or coffee?”
Seated at the end of the table, the meeting passes in a blur of questions and notes, figures and percentages, and lawyer commentary from Darcy. Stella’s head spins at the end, unsure if they’ve even agreed to anything.
During a fifteen-minute break, Darcy motions for Stella to follow her outside. “I need a cig.”
“So how are you feeling about the negotiations?” Darcy puts her serious face on, her thin lips in a tight line. “Are you open to what they’re suggesting for their terms?”
“Yes and no...” Stella leans against the wall, inhaling the smell of smoke, the next best thing if she’s not going to light up. “I just don’t want to lose control.”
“Understandable. But this particular deal has you placed to lose a lot of your ownership.”
“But not my stake in the company.”
“Depending on how large a split.”
“Mind if I run and talk to Grant after this about their proposal?”
“Not at all. Good to get his opinion, he is, after all, the husband. And he does a lot with contracts.”
After more details are hammered out with Saks and their offer is made, Stella thanks everyone for coming. More than anything, she needs to know what Grant would do in this situation.
Stella doesn’t even bother phoning him, she assumes he’s busy with a client. She can sit and wait until he has an opening to see her, his advice invaluable.
“Hi Rebecca,” she says when she walks in, greeting the blonde secretary, dressed today in a skintight one-piece, a skinny belt cinched around her waist.
“Hi Ms. McKinney, how are you?”
“Come on, you know it’s Stella.”
“I know.” She gives her a toothy smile, “How’s the makeup world?”
“Going well. I brought you a couple new shades.”
Shrieking, Rebecca flies out of her seat. “You know I love how you spoil me with lipstick.”
“Soon there might be a whole line.”
“There better be. I do talk you up to all my friends.”
Stella handles her a sack full of lipstick shades and asks, “Is Grant busy right now?”
“I don’t think so.” She scrunches up her face, “but let me double check his calendar.”
“I should’ve called, but it was last minute. Thought I could take him to an early happy hour.”
“He’ll like that. I think he’s had a rough day.”
“Oh no,” Stella moans, “I hope it’s not with the latest manuscript he was telling me about.”
Rebecca’s already dialing his office, and she twirls a piece of hair around her finger as she speaks, “Grant, your wife’s here.”
Her face twists into a frown. “I didn’t realize you had one more appointment.” She stops talking, waiting for him to finish. Looking up at Stella, she mouths, “Go on back.”
The Perfect Stranger Page 5