by Nicola Marsh
It had almost ruined me.
The solution had been easier back then. Remove myself from the situation. Make it go away. Regain focus, move forward and live with the guilt.
This time I can’t do it.
I’m not prepared to walk away from my marriage. I love Dane. He loves me. We will get through this.
We have to.
Seven
Elly
After another sojourn with my lover that leaves me more guilt-ridden than ever, I head to The Lookout, my favorite bar. I would rather go home and curl up on the couch with the latest thriller. Nothing in those novels scares me; I’ve been through worse. But I always do this after an encounter, when reality hits and I’m left questioning my dubious motives.
No shrink would accept my rationale for doing this. As for my friends, they would disown me no matter how hard I tried to explain. I hate the secrecy, the lies, but I’m doing it for my friend, the gullible wife like I’d once been; a wife who dotes on her husband, who’s confident in her ability to keep him tethered, who doesn’t dream that he’d cheat. I want better for her than I got. Screwing her husband may be an odd way of showing it but I care about her.
Women are stupid. We trust too easily. We take declarations on face value. We believe promises. I did. Until I discovered my gorgeous husband had another family, a wife and kids he’d had before me, and that my perfect life was nothing more than a charade.
I survived the fallout of that horror with the help of booze, pills and an exorbitant therapist. Reinvention seemed the only option. So here I am, taking back control.
I’ll tell my friend soon. This has run its course. But I know as soon as I reveal the truth my world will come crashing down and I’ll be forced to leave this town I’ve grown to love.
Gledhill is quiet tonight. A few foolhardy patrons brave the brisk Atlantic breeze to sit outside the restaurants lining the boardwalk, enjoying cocktails and seafood under wide umbrellas that flap with every gust. I find a spot at the end of the boardwalk and park, vowing to have one quick drink before heading home.
The guilt is unbearable tonight. I can usually manage it with self-talk and vodka, but all the inner voices or shot glasses in the world won’t help. The way I’m feeling I’m likely to do something stupid, like ring my lover to head back to the cottage because I’m lonely, so it’s best I have one drink to take the edge off and leave.
The Lookout is perched on a small bluff jutting out over the sand dunes. The exterior is shabby chic, wooden boards painted pale lemon and windows edged in salmon to give the appearance of a bygone era. Huge potted perennials line the path leading to the entrance: lespedeza in white and fuchsia, leonotis in vibrant orange and plectranthus in muted lavender, a riot of color that soothes my artistic soul. I can identify every flower because I once had a garden that thrived under my care. Many had commented on it in Chicago and I’d preen, completely clueless I was about to take a massive fall.
I push open the glass door and enter the bar. The interior is minimalist and at complete odds with the outside. I love the contrast. It reminds me of me: falsely decorated on the outside, empty on the inside. The bar is all chrome and sleek lines. No mahogany in sight. I perch on one of the uncomfortable stools and order a martini from the bored waitress sporting surgically enhanced DDs probably paid for by tips. The mirror behind the bar is perfect for scoping out the patrons. Women are scarce and several men cast interested glances my way. I ignore them. I’ve had enough of men for the night.
When the waitress delivers my martini, I pick up the glass. I’m about to take a sip when I spy Claire, alone, in the darkest corner of the bar, nursing her fourth scotch by the empty glasses scattered on the table.
I’ve never seen her like this: hair spiking in all directions like she’s dragged her hand through it repeatedly, a deep frown grooving her brows and a mismatched shirt and jacket. She’s disheveled when I’ve never seen her anything other than organized and I’m devastated for her all over again.
Considering my mood when I entered, the smart thing to do would be to avoid her. But despite wearing my aloofness like a protective coat I have a conscience and find myself heading toward her table instead.
“Fancy some company?”
She startles and glances up, her expression sullen. “Not really.”
“Too bad. I don’t feel like drinking alone tonight.” I sit and place my martini on the table. “Do you come here often?”
The corners of her mouth twitch in a semblance of a smile. “If you’re trying to pick me up, I’m not interested.”
I laugh. For someone who rarely smiles, Claire has a killer sense of humor. It’s one of the things that makes her fun at Ris’s gardening club gatherings. “I mean it. Do you often come into this bar to drink alone?”
I gesture at the empty glasses in front of her. “Because if you do, consuming that much alcohol alone on a regular basis may constitute a drinking problem.”
She scowls and gives me the evil eye. “Fuck off, Elly.”
I laugh harder, pick up my martini and raise it. “To us.”
She doesn’t lose the frown. If anything it deepens, before she finally says, “To alcohol,” clinking her glass against mine. “Seriously, I’m not in the mood to make small talk so it’s probably best you leave me alone.”
“Then let’s talk for real.”
The offer pops out before I can censor it and I inwardly curse that I can’t take it back. I’m not a listener. Not anymore. I used to be the type of woman who spent endless hours chatting with friends, interested in news of their husbands, their kids, their homes. Until my perfect life imploded, so these days I keep the deep and meaningful conversations to a minimum, which is easy to do around Ris who chatters nonstop.
But Claire looks seriously shaken and she was there for me when I needed her most. I can’t walk away. I care about her. Besides, deep down I know why I can’t abandon her. I can identify with the emptiness Claire’s experiencing but for very different reasons.
Claire can’t have a baby.
I gave mine away.
Hating my traitorous heart for skipping a beat like it usually does when I think about how far I’ve gone to reinvent myself, I drain my martini. “This baby thing has hit you hard.”
I state the obvious, hoping she’ll open up. She glares at me and flips me the finger; a second before tears fill her eyes and spill over onto her cheeks. Crap. I haven’t signed on for waterworks but maybe it’ll do her good to get it all out. It helped me, but I paid that therapist in Chicago thousands for the privilege.
“I’m a mess.” She sniffles a bit, swirls her whiskey then knocks back the rest neat.
After taking a few deep breaths, the tears stop and she looks at me with surprising clarity. “I didn’t know how badly I wanted a baby until I couldn’t have one.”
I can’t think of anything worse, having a squalling brat to care for 24/7. Though that’s not why I gave up my baby. I did it to get back at that bigamist bastard who never knew he’d fathered a child with me and thanks to the adoption process, he never will.
I’d never been maternal, even back then. I thought I’d hit the jackpot landing a husband who wasn’t interested in having kids. Later I discovered why, considering he already had three with his first wife. His legal wife. Leaving me bereft and confused and yearning to castrate him.
It had been the ultimate irony, learning I was pregnant a week after discovering he had another family. Abortion had entered my mind fleetingly but it seemed like taking the easy way out. Because every day I carried that baby, every moment of that nine-month gestation was a self-flagellating punishment for being so blind and so stupid.
There was no question I’d keep the baby. I couldn’t live with a constant reminder of my foolishness. So when the time came I underwent a painless caesarian – I’d suffered enough agony at the hands of that prick formerly known as my husband – and let the adoption agency take my baby. A girl, as one nurse had accidentally let
slip after delivery. Then I’d left the windy city without looking back.
I rarely think about her. How old she would be. Is she happy? Is she healthy? It doesn’t matter. That part of my life doesn’t exist anymore. The woman I was back then doesn’t exist. It’s so much better being an emotionless drone these days.
“Why do you want a baby so much?”
Maybe if I keep her talking, she’ll distract me from my unwelcome thoughts and remember that she has a life, a damn good one with that hot husband of hers. Dane is incredibly sexy in that rough-around-the-edges way some guys pull off to perfection.
She ponders my question for a moment, studying me, before a soft sigh alerts me that she’s ready to talk. “I come from a big family, four siblings, countless nieces and nephews. It just feels… wrong, that I’ll be the only one without a kid.”
She’s lying or holding something back. I see it in the quick look-away, the fiddling fingers. I know the signs because I’ve spent a while mastering them, hiding the evidence of deceit.
“Why does it have to be a competition?”
“It’s not that.” She sighs and nudges away her empty glass, adding it to the collection. “Don’t you ever get the inevitable questions about why you’re single at forty and why you don’t have kids?”
I stiffen, hating that I’m instantly catapulted back to that day in the hospital when I heard a squall from behind the sheet shielding my lower half and wondered if I was doing the right thing.
I force a nonchalant shrug, feeling momentary empathy with Claire, even if she’ll never know it. “All the time. But I don’t care. My life is fine just the way it is.”
Claire smiles for the first time since I sat down. “I’ve never met anyone as confident as you. No wonder you have men falling at your feet.”
“Where?” I flex my ankle and glance down at my eight-hundred-dollar stilettos. “That’s right, I had to cut a swath through them to get to you.”
But I’m flattered she thinks I’m confident. Presenting a polished front to the world helps me keep the demons at bay, the relentless, clawing self-doubts that constantly plague me, the ones that scream I’m not fooling anyone, least of all myself.
“I don’t get you.” She cocks her head slightly, as if she can’t quite figure me out. Join the club. “I assume you’ve come in here tonight to chill. Instead, you spot me and rather than leaving me to wallow you choose to talk.”
She smirks and makes a cutesy heart shape with her thumbs and index fingers. “When did you grow one of these?”
“Ouch.” I clutch my chest and sway a little. “I’ll have you know I’m a very caring person when I want to be.”
“And when’s that, once a year?”
“Bitch,” I say, without malice, and we grin at each other.
“It’s actually kind of nice, us talking like this without Ris around,” Claire says unexpectedly. “She tends to take over all the time.”
“Yeah, it’s tiresome after a while.”
I tone it down when what I want to say is she drives me nuts with her perpetual nurturing. Because I know that if I let her get too close I’ll fall apart under her overt caring. I see the way she looks at me, like she’s torn between wanting to hug me or hover over me like an avenging angel. It’s sweet but I don’t want to get used to it, in case I crack and blabber all my other awful secrets.
“She’s a good person…” Claire trails off, as if she wants to say more.
“But?” I prompt.
“But if she tries to fix me one more time I’m going to scream.” She crosses her arms, like she’s subconsciously trying to fend off Ris. “I already feel like the scruffy lower class citizen in our group, I don’t need her reinforcing it at every turn.”
“You’re the most capable, practical person I know and there’s nothing second-class about that.” I slug her on the arm, a gesture I’ve never used on another woman – or man – in my life, but one I hope she understands is done in the name of friendship. “Don’t let self-pity about the childless thing drag you down. You know how good you are.”
She blinks rapidly, as if staving off tears again. “Thanks, I guess I needed to hear that.”
“Another drink?” I quickly ask when my throat clogs with uncharacteristic emotion. This is what happens when I spend too much time around women. Men are so much less complicated. They like to watch sports, eat food and fuck, simple creatures with simple needs; so much easier to control than women, with their unpredictability and emotional fragility.
She wrinkles her nose and glances at the glasses lined up in front of her. “I think I’ve had enough.”
I hesitate, wanting to say more but unable to find the words. I’m not good at being a true friend. It doesn’t come naturally. Not anymore.
So I settle for, “If you ever need to offload, I’m a phone call away.”
“Thanks, Elly.” She leans over and hugs me.
I stiffen, a reflex reaction, before forcing myself to relax and return the embrace.
She releases me and stands. “See you at the supper party tomorrow?”
I nod, my stomach sinking. “See you there.”
I’m already dreading another of Ris’s interminable parties, of which she has one every few weeks. I detest the small talk, the fake smiles, the schmoozing. That whole bogus Hamptons scene is tedious but I fit right in, considering I’m a phony too.
I love living in an affluent part of the world with its accompanying benefits but Ris takes her role as Hamptons’ hostess to extremes. Everything has to be perfect, from the canapés to the petit fours, which she plies on her guests too frequently.
Deep down, I know why I hate her parties so much. I’m jealous. I used to be her. Glamorous, capable, leading a charmed life, surrounded by equally gorgeous friends in a stunning house paid for by an incredible man. An illusion, all of it. A sham. And I hate that Ris is living the life I once had.
Ris is so capable, so self-assured, so effortless in her role as wife, mother and hostess, that I feel insecure.
And I don’t like feeling second best, not ever again.
Claire waves and heads out, leaving me staring into my empty martini glass, and wishing I had made different choices with my life.
Eight
Jodi
Gledhill is bigger than I expect. The tourist map I grabbed at the bus depot estimated the population at fifty thousand but I still expected some quaint old town filled with boutiques and cafés, not a thriving mini metropolis complete with an ultra-modern medical center, upscale restaurants and a shopping strip that would put Fifth Avenue to shame.
Then again, the place reeks of old money. I see it in the designer fashion adorning well-behaved kids strolling down Main Street. I see it in the exclusive art galleries with their modern art adorning windows, without prices because that would be crass. And I see it in the unbelievable mansions in the realtor’s window, the likes of which I’ve never seen before unless on TV.
I’ve made the right decision coming here. If my baby’s daddy leads the kind of lifestyle I think he does, I’m willing to bet he’ll pay a small fortune to keep his indiscretion secret.
I experienced doubt the entire trip on the jitney but when I felt the fluttering of a kick that’s all the reassurance I needed that I’m doing the right thing. I’m having this baby. I want him to have the comfortable, secure life I never had. To do that, I need money.
I stroll the esplanade along the beach, admiring the undulating windswept dunes. Fancy restaurants with expansive back decks open out onto the boardwalk, where well-dressed people chat and laugh while drinking Long Island Iced Teas and sharing tapas. Soft jazz spills from the nearest restaurant and it’s drowned out by the waves crashing against the sand. Families picnic on the beach, lolling on massive rugs, passing dainty finger food and bottled water, while kids cavort nearby. Smitten lovers, frequently casting longing looks at each other, walk hand in hand along the shoreline.
It’s all too picture perfect and I w
ant to bawl. I dash my hand across my eyes and take in a great lungful of Atlantic Ocean air. It calms me. This is my first visit to Long Island and I’m envious of the people who live here, who take all this pristine beauty for granted. I want to be them.
I will be, if my plan works.
My stomach rumbles and I realize I haven’t eaten anything but dry crackers and ginger soda all day. So I make my way back along the esplanade and stop at the first café I find, aptly named Sea Breeze. Its French doors are open to capture the sea air blowing in off the ocean and it’s filled with yuppies in their designer chinos, white button-downed shirts and expensive leather satchels. They stare. Maybe because I’m a tourist and new in town, but my paranoia makes me want to yell ‘Don’t young women get knocked up in the Hamptons?’
I perch on a stool near the open doors and scan the menu. Prices are expensive and the food on offer sublime. Fresh shrimp sautéed in chili, garlic and white wine, mozzarella balls with salsa verde, Camembert croquettes with a pistachio and cranberry dipping sauce, and freshly shucked oysters.
My mouth waters but with my bank balance I choose the cheapest thing on the menu, a four dollar salad. Thankfully the service is quick and I’m prevented from fainting when a waitress brings my order in record time. The salad is delicious and the iced tea perfectly sweet.
I pay the bill, leaving an embarrassingly small tip I can ill afford, and exit quickly. I cross the street and enter the one building that can give me answers. Without any data left on my cell, I need to do an online search, pronto. Like everything else in this town, the library is bright and modern and airy, exuding a subtle class that money can’t buy. Computer desks line floor-to-ceiling glass windows so people can take advantage of the stellar ocean view if they tire of the screen. The bookshelves are chrome and aligned in a star shape fanning out from the central help desk. Comfy armchairs are strategically scattered, beckoning borrowers to stay a while.