The Guilty Husband

by Stephanie DeCarolis

  ‘The same sort of predator Layla accused you of being.’ Nicole’s words seem to hover in the air between us after she speaks them. The evidence is damning. I know it is.

  ‘But I guess she was lying too, Vince?’ Nicole asks. It’s spoken as more of a statement than question. She’s made up her mind about me. She’s lost her faith, her trust, in me, and I don’t know how to win it back.

  My wife looks at me now, her pretty blue eyes locking on mine. It feels as though she’s looking right through me, as though she’s searching for the man she once knew, hoping, and failing, to find him there. It feels like a stab to my heart to see how far I’ve fallen in her eyes.

  My mind races to find the words, the perfect words that will clear the fog of doubt that’s formed between us, that will allow her to see the truth, but I can’t. ‘Nic, I … I …’

  My phone begins to buzz in my pocket.

  I ignore it. Now is not the time.

  But Nicole must have heard the buzzing too. ‘Shouldn’t you see who’s calling?’ she asks.

  ‘No, we need to talk about this.’

  ‘But what if it’s the police? What if they have more questions about what happened here this morning?’

  I sigh and pull out my phone. It’s Eric.

  ‘Hey, Eric, this isn’t a great time.’

  ‘I think it might be urgent. Some guy named Robert keeps calling the office asking for you. He said he knows something important. About … the investigation.’

  ‘Give him my cell number.’

  Eric ends the call and within a matter of seconds my phone begins to ring again. An unknown number.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Is this Vince Taylor?’

  ‘Yes, it is. Who is calling, please?’

  ‘My name is Robert Henderson. And I just needed to ask you: Was it really her? Natalie?’

  ‘Natalie? I’m afraid I don’t know anyone by that name.’

  ‘That girl in the papers. The one they think you killed. I knew her too. Except she told me her name was Natalie.’

  Chapter 40

  Layla

  BEFORE

  Vince Taylor. God, he’s perfect. I remember the first time I saw him, staring back at me from the cover of Forbes magazine. Its glossy pages full of privilege and promise; advertising the kind of life I’d never lead – not without someone like Vince Taylor on my arm. I ran my fingers over the edges of his face, his strong jaw, his kind eyes, his half-cocked smile.

  No, he wouldn’t be like the others. Vince was different, special. But to make this work, it was going to take a hell of a lot of planning. And that’s fine. I’ve never been one to shy away from a challenge. Even though I never finished high school, I’ve always had the uncanny ability to learn anything I need to survive rather quickly. It’s not like I had a choice. It was either learn on my feet or end up like my mother. I was meant for more than that. I was getting out of that basement apartment one way or another. And so I became a chameleon, changing my colors as needed. I’ve been a waitress, a real estate agent, an executive assistant, and most recently a ‘sales representative’ hocking used cars. Frankly, the job felt a bit beneath my intellectual abilities, but it served its purpose. Every morning I plastered on a fake smile and pushed those dilapidated clunkers on the middle-class dolts who would probably never be able to afford something new and shiny. They had to settle for the unsightly castoffs of the upper class. That will not be me. My life will be different, because I will make it so. I’m not lacking for ambition, and I’m willing to put in the work to get to where I want to be.

  I’m not perfect though. I can admit that. After I saw that photo of Vince, I became a bit obsessed. I began to envision my life as Mrs Taylor. I read pretty much everything there was to read about him, his company … and his wife. She was always on his arm. His frigid ice queen, smiling stiffly as if she didn’t appreciate that she was standing on a red carpet in a designer gown. I bet she never wore the same one more than once. She probably tossed them aside, as unceremoniously as used tissues. I’d do things differently, better. I’d appreciate my unlimited bank accounts and trips to the Mediterranean on my private jet.

  But all of this daydreaming of a better life kind of got in the way of my plan with Robert Henderson. Robert Henderson, Henderson used cars, nice to meet ya. God, he was an imbecile. A caricature of an actual man. A nobody outside of the nowhere town in the middle of the Ohio where he owed his used car ‘empire’. The commercials alone, the low-budget homemade embarrassments that they were, should have been enough to send me running towards something better. But I suppose he was a stepping-stone in the right direction. He was practice for the real thing. You can’t just go after a man like Vince Taylor without a little practice. Yes, that’s what Robert was. A test run. I shouldn’t be too hard on myself, that thing with Robert was my first long-term plan. He was the first one that was supposed to be more than just a quick cash-grab to get me by, to the next city, to the next man. And I was doing alright out of it until I got too distracted with Vince.

  I started getting sloppy, impatient. I pushed Robert too hard and he started to panic. Worried that his fat, frumpy wife was catching on to our affair. I had to resort to blackmail, which, though it wasn’t my original plan, worked quite well. All I had to do was sleep with that doughy, middle-aged idiot one last time, make sure I got it on tape, and before I knew it he was draining his pathetic bank account, basically shoving his life’s savings at me hand over fist if I promised not to share it with the world. I didn’t get as much as I was hoping for, but I wasn’t in a position to be picky. Anyway, it was enough to get me to New York and cover my rent in a shitty apartment for a few months while I figured out how to get myself a job at KitzTech.

  That part was a stroke of genius, if I do say so myself. These college kids, they’re so eager to please. All I had to do was create a fake job listing for a ‘Prestigious software development company, offering a competitive compensation package’ and the résumés and transcripts came flying into my inbox. I guess all that money spent on higher education doesn’t actually make you any brighter. After that, I just had to sit back and decide who I was going to be. I chose a transcript from someone named Fred Mattherson: software engineering major at the University of Pennsylvania who did well enough in his classes to make me look like a competitive applicant, but not so well that anyone would think to double check that my achievements hadn’t been exaggerated. It was perfect.

  My only hesitation was that I’d have to use my real name this time. I’d never done that before. But KitzTech, unlike Henderson Used Cars, was a legitimate corporation that might run a background check. It was a risk, but it was for Vince Taylor, so I had to take it.

  And would you believe it worked? They actually offered me an internship. It was a lot of work learning the basics of computer programming on my own on my crappy, second-hand laptop, but it had to be done. I had to know enough to get by. I didn’t have to be the best, my programming skills were not exactly how I planned to impress Vince, but I had to be decent enough not to be fired before I could put my plan into action.

  Now that I had a spot at KitzTech, I set my sights on learning everything I could about Vince Taylor. I needed to know how to get to him. I’d already read everything I could dig up on the Internet, but I needed more. I needed to know who he was as a person, what was going to have him groveling at my feet.

  I signed up for Date Space thinking maybe I could find Vince there. I knew he was married, but let’s be real, they’re all looking for something on the side. I should know. I’ve been on the side more times than I care to count. But to my surprise I didn’t find him there. Which only served to make me want him more. I do love a good challenge, and it made me think that once I had him firmly under my thumb I wouldn’t have to worry about him straying again. Not that I suspect he would. I plan to give Vince everything a man needs to keep him happy. In my experience, all men are looking for a woman who will do the things their wives won�
��t. But he’ll soon find out that there’s nothing I won’t do to be the next Mrs Taylor.

  Date Space wasn’t entirely useless though. In a stroke of luck, which is a notably rare occurrence in my life, I stumbled across someone named Jeff Mankin. I’m not sure why he was so eager to connect with me. I didn’t exactly use the most flattering photo of myself. It was suggestive enough, but you couldn’t even see my face. I couldn’t risk Robert, or any of the others, catching up with me and spoiling my shot at Vince. But I guess all Jeff needed was a little cleavage and he was sold. I would have ignored him, as I did with every other pathetic slob who sent me Date Space requests, but Jeff had one thing that redeemed him. His profile photo was a shot of him with his arm slung around the very man I was hoping to find: Vince Taylor.

  It was pitifully obvious that Jeff’s profile picture was nothing more than a thinly veiled attempt to ride the coat-tails of his friend’s celebrity. Although one would think he’d realize that standing next to Vince only served to make him look shorter, heavier, and more boring. The lackluster sidekick that no one would have given a second thought to if he wasn’t standing next to someone who mattered.

  I guess I shouldn’t complain too much about Jeff though. He really was instrumental in my efforts to learn more about Vince. It was all too easy. All I had to do with strike up a conversation, stroke his ego for a while (Wow, you’re a lawyer? That’s sooo impressive!) and then subtly start introducing questions about his friend. Jeff was only too happy to talk about Vince. Which made sense, given that his friendship with Vince was basically the most interesting thing about him.

  Aside from bragging about how close he and Vince are, all he did was prattle on about his job, his condo on the beach, and his glory days of playing college baseball. Does he really think women want to hear about any of that? Hint: they don’t. Or at least I don’t. Maybe there is some brainless halfwit out there without a thought in her own head who would be content to twirl her hair and listen to Jeff Mankin blather on about the cases he’s won. But I’m not that girl. The only time he managed to hold my attention for more than twelve seconds was when he was talking about Vince, which, thankfully, was often.

  He told me all about how they met as kids when they were on the same baseball team. Though Vince outgrew his sporty phase (fine with me as I’d rather not be made to watch football every Sunday once we’re married), he and Jeff remained close friends. After a few weeks of chit-chat with Jeff, while somehow managing to avoid actually meeting him (how many migraines can one girl fake?), I had put together a rather thorough cache on Vince Taylor. I knew his favorite restaurants, movies, and books. I knew that he loved French fries and hated mustard, that his favorite color was red, and that he, unlike his friend, was modest about the extent of his wealth, choosing to live a more reasonable lifestyle despite his unlimited means. (Well, we’ll make a few adjustments once he’s with me.) But more importantly, I learned that Vince longed for children and that his wife has thus far failed to provide them. I knew exactly how I was going make him mine.

  But learning about Vince wasn’t enough. I also needed to know about his current wife. I needed to know what drew him to her – what he liked in a woman, what was going to make me irresistible to him. Drawing this information out of Jeff was much easier than I anticipated. The man was like an overgrown puppy, wagging his tail, so eager to please in the hopes that I’d someday reward him with an actual date. Or, Jenna Norwell would since that’s what I told Jeff my name was. To be fair though, I dangled the prospect of sex like a carrot whenever he seemed to be losing interest. (‘I can’t wait to meet you in person. I keep thinking of all the things I want to do to you …’) But when I brought up the topic of Nicole Taylor, he couldn’t say enough about her.

  I brought it up subtly: ‘You and Vince must spend a lot of time together since you’re so close. Do you hang out with him and his wife? What’s she like?’ and Jeff was chomping at the bit to sing her praises.

  ‘Oh, Nicole is incredible. She’s brilliant but understated, stunningly beautiful but modest, and just the sweetest, kindest woman you could ever meet.’

  I wonder if Vince knows that his friend is in love with his wife. It was pretty obvious to me given the way he was gushing over her. Probably for the best though. Nicole will have someone to turn to when Vince leaves her, and Jeff will probably welcome her with open arms. The information I got from Jeff was precisely what I needed though. Vince is essentially married to a Disney princess. So he likes sweet and innocent? I can do that.

  I could probably take a few notes from that boring little mouse, Mindy, who lives in the apartment next to me. She has it in her head that we’re going to be ‘best friends forever’. She’s constantly asking me to hang out. In my real life, I wouldn’t give the likes of Mindy a second glance, but for the time being I guess going out with her is better than sitting alone in my apartment. Besides, I do like the extra looks I get when I’m out with her. Standing next to mousy Mindy only highlights how much prettier I am. I think she’s noticed it too. Oh well, I’ll be cutting ties with her the second I’m with Vince anyway.

  I’ve been at KitzTech for a few days now. I’ve tried to lay low while I got a feel for the lay of the land – which interns will trip over themselves to help me if I bat my eyelashes a few times, where to get the good coffee, and what Vince’s daily routine looks like.

  I decided that today is the day. Today is the day I’m going to go introduce myself to Vince Taylor. My stomach is in knots. I feel like a schoolgirl passing a note to her crush, which isn’t like me. I don’t get nervous. There is no need for nerves when you have a carefully laid plan. But Vince is the big league. This has to go off flawlessly.

  I bought a new dress with some of the remains of Robert Henderson’s nest egg, and it fits me like a glove. It shows off everything I have to offer without giving away too much. I still look demure, professional … just … genetically blessed. (Which I am.) I went light on the makeup today, making my eyes look as big and round as I could, with some light blush and innocent pink lipstick which matches perfectly with the mani/pedi I treated myself to last night. For the final touch, I sprayed on some sugary sweet perfume and brushed my hair to a high shine. I could definitely pass for a Disney princess.

  I smooth my hair one last time and pull open the door to Vince Taylor’s office. This is the beginning of everything.

  Chapter 41

  Layla

  BEFORE

  (One month later)

  I need to get this plan back on track. Progress has been unexpectedly slow, which is shocking given how Vince’s jaw nearly hit the floor the first time I sauntered into his office. That dress was worth every one of Robert Henderson’s pennies. I expected that Vince would pursue me after that, like the others did. But to my annoyance, he took some more persuading.

  It took me two full weeks to get him alone in a room. Even if it was just the copy room. Not exactly sexy, but sometimes you have to play the cards you’ve got. I decided to play the damsel in distress, hoping that would catch his attention.

  It was clear by then that looks alone were not going to be enough for this one. I knew he was special. Vince was going to take a little extra finesse. He wasn’t as shallow as the others who needed nothing more than the most basic carnal fulfillment. No, Vince was smarter, deeper. But I can read people, understand them, well enough to figure out exactly what he needed. Vince needed to be needed. He wanted to be a knight in shining armor, he wanted someone to take care of. As a woman who’s taken care of herself for pretty much her whole life, the role of ‘helpless farm girl lost and all alone in the big city’ was going to take some Academy Award level acting, but I think I pulled it off well.

  I had to make up some sob story about being orphaned at a young age and a dead grandmother that never existed. It’s not like I was going to tell him about my pathetic, junkie mother. She might as well be dead anyway. For all I know, she might be. But the lie worked. Well, that, plus stealing that l
ittle twit Brian’s idea for some absurd video editing application. Why must people put their whole lives on the Internet? Sorry, Brian, but it had to be done. Vince needed to see that I was more than just a pretty face; he needed to know that even though I was all wide-eyed and innocent, I wouldn’t embarrass him in front of clients if I was the one on his arm.

  And before I knew it, Vince was escorting me around Manhattan, taking me to investor meetings and showing me the city. When he suggested walking down Fifth Avenue I nearly broke character and asked if he was fucking kidding. Had he seen the heels I was wearing? But, never a quitter, I sucked it up and hobbled down the streets of New York, past the glittering shop windows full of all the luxuries I’d soon be able to own. I placated myself by making note of the most expensive heels, purses, and shining diamond bracelets that I could find knowing I’d be coming back to buy them soon with Vince’s credit card.

  I thought that was going to be it, that we’d have a beautiful, romantic afternoon, maybe retire to a five-star hotel, or even the penthouse apartment I saw featured in a real estate magazine. But then Vince took me to the Circle Line.

  The oversized ferry boat, packed with gawking tourists slathered in sunblock, smelled like low tide and rotting fish. I was with Vince Taylor. Why weren’t we seeing the city from a private yacht? But once again, I had to endure it, reminding myself not to lose sight of my goal. There would be plenty of time for yachts and penthouses later. I closed my eyes and pretended we were sailing out to a private bungalow over the crystal clear water of the Maldives. I ignored the fact that my feet were throbbing from traipsing all over the city like a peasant, my hair, which I’d gone to great lengths to style that morning, was now a complete disaster, and that my bare arms were shivering in the cold. This doe-eyed innocent act was getting old really fast. But my sacrifices paid off.