Trophy Wife

by Alessandra Torre

  Drew glances at his watch. “I’ll let you get acquainted here. The others will be arriving in a half hour, if you want to freshen up.

  * * *

  I raise a brow at him. “The others?”

  * * *

  The others. They invade like a hoard of zombies, knocking over planters and clawing past curtains in their haste to pull at my hair, scrape razors over my skin and wield tweezers with sadistic zest.

  * * *

  Okay, maybe it isn’t that bad. I lift up the edge of the gel mask and glance down at my feet and the woman perched before them. “What color are you painting them?” When I ask the question, half of my face mask cracks.

  * * *

  “Nude,” Rosit Fenton barks, scurrying over in a swish of Burberry plaid and cream. “From now on, Candace, only nude on your nails. It’s a rule.”

  * * *

  Another rule. I roll my eyes. I should start writing them down. Drew had, after depositing me into this glass prison, rattled off a few of them. No entering the house after dark. No roaming the house unescorted. No having fun, though that question wasn’t so much stated as implied. “Nude nails. Got it.”

  * * *

  “While I have you…” Rosit drawls. “Let’s discuss the other problem areas.” There is the squeak of wheels against tile and I watch him wheel my desk chair forward, his chubby legs scooting along the floor in the way that a dog would drag his ass across carpet.

  * * *

  “More problem areas?” I groan. I had no idea I was such a beauty train wreck. Between the facial, and the teeth whitening, and fake nails removal, I am feeling a little insecure.

  * * *

  “Honey, we haven’t even gotten started.” He peers at a clipboard, then looks critically at my face. “We’ve still got waxing, lash extensions, cellulite reductions and your diet and exercise regimen to discuss.”

  * * *

  I groan. “Please, just go away.”

  * * *

  “Oh yes,” he intones. “It’s so hard to be well taken care of. We all feel absolutely terrible for you.” He pats my arm in the most condescending manner possible, and a sliver of guilt hits. Maybe I am acting a little spoiled. It isn’t like any of this is painful. And once I get this gunk off my face, and this tent off my hair, I’ll probably love the final product. I force a smile, and firmly instruct myself to relax and enjoy myself. I close my eyes and sink into the recliner, letting all of my stress and fears go.

  * * *

  I can do this. Life as a trophy wife? Piece of freaking cake.

  * * *

  I wheeze out a breath, the pain jolting through me. It’s the anticipation of it that is the worst, not knowing when or where it will come, no warning given, each second of waiting agonizingly long. There is another red bite of pain, and I buck off of the table, screaming out a curse.

  * * *

  “Be still!” The woman snaps at me, her nails digging into my stomach as she presses me down. “Next time, don’t shave first. It makes it hurt more.”

  * * *

  There’s not going to be a next time. As soon as I can walk, as soon as I can stand, I am going to hobble my way into Nathan’s house and tell him that he can stick a wax stick up his ass—I’m never doing this again. The woman yanks again, ripping out the tiny hairs that line my perineum, and I choke back a sob.

  * * *

  I stare at a stranger. When I lean forward, so does she. I run a hand through my hair—thick dark strands—and watch the way it shimmers in the bathroom’s light.

  * * *

  It’s a miracle.

  * * *

  Not that I wasn’t a pretty girl before. I’ve always been pretty, in that hot rod magazine way, a look I enhanced with bleached blonde hair and fake nails, glitter mascara and tan skin adding an extra bit of oomph to my appeal.

  * * *

  Now, I’m all woman. I frown, my wrinkles gone, courtesy of Botox injections. I smile and past my plump, freshly exfoliated lips, brilliant white teeth glisten. My blue eyes—enhanced with color contacts—glow, surrounded by a thick frame of false eyelashes, trimmed to an appropriate natural length.

  * * *

  I cross my legs, and marvel at the smooth feel of the waxed skin. Maybe I will do it again. Just once or twice.

  * * *

  I look down at the booklet before me, turning a page over, and scanning the two outfits featured on the page. Next to each outfit’s items are numbers, which match hangers in my new closet. It is a mix and match system designed for the most idiotic of users. I am supposed to pick an outfit from the book, select the corresponding hangers from the closet, and dress. The book is a waste of time, since everything in the closet is either white, black or cream. I’ll have to work pretty hard to fuck up that color combination.

  * * *

  There is the rap of knuckles against the glass, and I turn, seeing Mark slide open the door. “There’s food in the fridge if you'd like some.”

  * * *

  I glance at the clock, realizing that it is almost seven. “What’s Nathan doing for dinner?”

  * * *

  “He’s already eaten.” The disappointment must have shown on my face. “You won’t be having your meals together, not unless he needs you for some reason. I’ll be sure to let you know in advance, if I can.”

  * * *

  There’s no reason for me to be irritated by the news. As it has so clearly been explained to me, this isn’t a romance. We aren’t dating, or courting, or anything in that vein. Think of this as a job, Candace. I am your new employer. I push to my feet and smile at the man. “I’m actually starving. Could you show me the food?”

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later, I stab a piece of broccoli and quietly lift it to my mouth, my eyes on the television screen. I chew the vegetable and glance toward the main house, the curtains all drawn, the light in Nathan’s bedroom on. Tomorrow, I will get back on his plane and fly to Jacksonville to see my father. I cut a piece of grilled chicken. The fridge didn’t just hold tonight’s dinner. There were five prepackaged meals in the neatly labeled CANDACE stack, each with reheating instructions clearly printed on the lid. I chose the juiciest of the stack, a portion-controlled sampling that delivered the precise ration of carbs/protein/fat that had been preached to me in my afternoon nutritional session by a perky blonde named Beth.

  * * *

  I can already predict, with absolute certainty, that I will hate Beth. Our first physical training session is set for the day after tomorrow.

  * * *

  The lights dim in Nathan’s room and I set aside the tray, eyeing the bank of curtains, pulled taut across his windows. I have my own set of curtains, I could close them and hide everything I am doing, the entire exciting process of eating dinner in my brand new silk pajamas. I intentionally left them open, thinking he might see me, might stop by. I had wanted to show him my new look, an adolescent need for approval rearing its ugly head. Husband agrees that Sexual Expectations will be limited to one (1) Sexual Penetration Act per day. That contract had been prepared before we had slept together in Rosemary Beach. Maybe he hadn’t enjoyed it. Maybe we’d never have sex again. He certainly hadn’t shown any interest since then. Wife can initiate additional Sexual Acts if she chooses. I push the tray to the side and settle back in the bed’s pillows, pulling the covers up and reaching for the remote. There is no way I’m going to initiate anything with him. I close my eyes, and try to push the image of his face, the feel of his hand, out of my mind.

  CHAPTER 14

  Jacksonville, Florida. I finger the ends of my hair, and lean, as subtly as possible, away from the man that sits beside me. He’s a cougher, the sort of stranger that doesn’t bother to cover his mouth, or—from the pungent smell drifting over—bathe. I should have sat on the other side, by the pregnant woman with the snot-covered kid. Poor planning. I sigh, tugging at a piece of hair before letting it go. My head feels strange, my waist-length tresses now glossy and thick,
extensions added, my hair dyed the color of dark chocolate. My hair hasn't been brown since I was thirteen and discovered Sun-In.

  * * *

  I’ve got to get Dad out of here. The waiting room itself is a cess pool, I can’t imagine it being much better wherever they keep the sick patients.

  * * *

  My name is called, and I stand, swinging my bag, a Chanel that perfectly matches my linen slacks, over one shoulder. I move through a swinging door and follow the woman down a hall and presumably, toward my father. I glance in the open rooms that we pass, some crowded with guests, most empty, the feet of patients tenting the bottom of white sheets.

  I want him out of here. I have the two brochures from Nathan in my purse. All I need to do is to tell my father to pick one. All I need to do is walk in and say hello.

  It should be easy, yet my hand trembles as I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. I should be excited, yet the guilt is all but suffocating me. I could have come. I could have gotten on a Greyhound, or rented a car, or found some way, in the six months since he fell sick, to come. There’s no excuse that I didn’t.

  As we move closer, I second-guess my steps. Maybe I should have called ahead and warned him of my arrival. Maybe this sort of thing doesn’t go well as a surprise.

  The nurse stops in front of a room, and reaches forward, turning the handle. “You coming?” She peers at me in the irritated manner of an overworked woman.

  I nod, and walk, smiling brightly, one designer heel stepping in front of another, past an intubated woman and the curtain that hides my father. The sole of my heel sticks to a rough place on the floor and I freeze at my first glimpse of him.

  How can a man change so completely in two years? The paleness of his skin, the hollows that frame his eyes. He’s lost twenty or thirty pounds, and I can see it in his face, in the thin neck that now flexes in his swallow of meds.

  He sets down the plastic cup, moving the tray carefully aside, and glances up briefly, then stares. Puzzlement hits first, and then a crumble of composure, his body straining as he reaches out to me with trembling hands. I hurry forward, his hands fumbling over my shoulders, gripping me tightly, his watery eyes locking on mine. “Candace,” he whispers. “Oh, Candace.”

  He holds me with a fierceness that alarms me, his need so great, a man who has been neglected too long. A sob catches me off guard, ugly in its wail, and it takes a moment for me to realize that it comes from myself. I am suddenly wracked with too many emotions, guilt dominant, squashing all of the rest in its fight to the front.

  My father, who had been so strong on our phone calls—so light-hearted and nonchalant.

  “Sweetie, I’m fine.”

  “Don’t worry about me, I’ll fight this.”

  “The ladies at the hospital have been spoiling me rotten.”

  No one in this hospital is spoiling him. I’d be shocked if any of them even know his name.

  His fingers tighten, gripping me as if I am his lifeline. Maybe I am. I am his only child, a child who had abandoned him in his time of need. I’ve been four short hours away, lying to my father, inventing a life that didn’t exist so that I could excuse my lack of visitation. Ashamed of my job, ashamed of my life, my selfishness had left him to fight a lonely battle.

  In this horrible moment, when I realize all the ways I’ve failed him, I know I’ve made the right decision. I will sign my soul to the devil if it means that I can, in some way, right my shortcomings as a daughter. He is my father, and, right here in his hospital room, I vow to become more worthy of his love.

  NATHAN

  The last woman he gave his heart to still has it. Sometimes he wonders if she ever looks at it, tends to it, nurtures it. Knowing Cecile, she probably just jabs it every once in a while, strictly for the hell of it.

  * * *

  Today, he felt her jab. He stood there, staring at a beautiful woman, and felt the painful poke of her memory. When Candace smiled, he saw Cecile’s grin. When she ran a hand through her hair, he saw blond locks instead of brunette.

  * * *

  Maybe that’s why he did what he did. Maybe that’s why he pulled Candy from her spot at the kitchen sink, and bent her over the island. Maybe, had Cecile not been so present, he would have been gentler. Maybe he wouldn’t have drilled into Candy without pause, pulled her against him without apology, fucked her without care.

  * * *

  Not that either of them seemed to mind. She came twice, her shrieks so loud they brought Drew out from his room, his eyes darkening at the sight, his retreat as quick as his entrance. And the orgasm… he stretches out his legs, his cock thickening at just the thought of it. His orgasm had wiped any thoughts of Cecile right out of his head. His orgasm had blinded his self-control, had destroyed his sanity, and left him kissing her mouth, her neck, her breasts. His orgasm had rendered him a passionate fool.

  * * *

  That’s the beauty of sex. It can fuck up your world and then repair it all. Destroy your heart and then build you a new one. Turn you from heartbroken to love-struck in a hundred delicious thrusts.

  * * *

  Not that this was love. It couldn’t be, and it wouldn’t be. Not when Cecile still owned his heart.

  CHAPTER 15

  Dad’s condition hasn’t improved, but his setting certainly has. He’s now an hour outside of Nashville, in a manicured resort called Crestridge. His private, corner room has windows that open to a bloom-filled garden. I grip his hand, grateful to feel a response, a tightening of his fingers around mine. “Hey beautiful,” he whispers.

  * * *

  My eyes flit from his weak face to the monitor beside him.

  * * *

  “Hey Daddy. How’s your day going?”

  * * *

  “You know me. Just fighting off the ladies.” He smiles at me, the motion breaking my heart in its lighthearted attempt.

  * * *

  “So I’ve heard. Janice at the front desk is positively glowing about you. Try to let her down easily.”

  * * *

  He laughs, a loose sound that turns into a cough, his grip tightening as his body tenses. I hold my frown at bay, patting his hand gently. “I’m working on a new crossword puzzle. I’m stuck on a few. Think you could help me out?”

  * * *

  He nods, releasing my hand and gesturing for me to continue. I grin, reaching into my bag and pulling out a worn book, the second we are working through. Our first book was one for beginners, the clues ridiculously easy. This one is for intermediate puzzlers, and we are moving through it at a much slower pace. I can’t pick up the book without fearing that we will never finish it. It, like everything else in my visits, is a bittersweet reminder of the time I have wasted, and how little we have left.

  * * *

  I settle back in the chair, my lower back flaring in pain. My body is revolting, displeased with my new workout regime. According to the energetic ball of annoyance named Beth, I will be having my ass kicked for two hours a day, twice a week. Following that schedule, and my new diet, I will be down a dress size within thirty days. I reach back in my bag and pull out the Twix bar I snagged from the vending machine. I’m not particularly interested in losing a dress size. Not when every color coordinated outfit Rosit Fenton supplied me with is conservative as hell. I’m going to be killing myself for a body that no one will see. Well, no one besides Nathan.

  * * *

  I think of last night, how he had tossed a glass of wine into the sink and grabbed me, right as I was pulling my plate from the microwave. Any of my concerns over his attraction to me had ended in the twenty minutes of raw, animal fucking that he had given me.

  * * *

  I move my pen down to the last completed clue, double-checking my work before moving on to the next. I had been so pathetically grateful for the sex, the experience one of the only times Nathan had spoken or interacted with me all week.

  * * *

  I keep my voice low, giving Dad the clue and waiting as he t
hinks. He gets the answer quickly and I move on. After a half hour or so, his pauses lengthen, and during one long break, I open the windows in his room, bringing in fresh air. A few times he dozes off, then awakens again, his hand reaching out in a panic for my own.

  * * *

  Next week, Nathan and I will go to the courthouse and file the paperwork, and I’ll be his wife. His wife. It seems too soon. Less then two weeks ago, I was spinning around a pole and picking crumpled dollar bills off beer-stained carpet. Now I sit in a six-hundred-dollar dress, next to my father, just an hour from my mansion.

  * * *

  There is a gentle knock on the door, and Pam comes in.

  * * *