I think hard. Then I open my eyes and lean forward.
“I’ve changed my mind,” I tell the cabdriver, who is taking me to Aunt Charlotte’s apartment. “I need to make a different stop.” I pull up an address on my phone and recite it.
He drops me off in front of a Midtown Citibank branch. It’s where Richard keeps his accounts.
When Richard left me the check, he told me to use the money to get help. He even alerted the bank that I’d be depositing it. But with my delivery of Duke’s photo and the letter to Emma, I’ve shown him I’m not going to quietly disappear.
I suspect he will try to stop payment on the check today. This is how Richard will begin my punishment; it’s a relatively easy way for him to signal he won’t tolerate my insubordination.
I need to cash his check instead, before he has a chance to tell the bank he has changed his mind.
There are two free tellers; one is a young guy in a white shirt and tie. The other is a middle-aged woman. Although the man is closer to me, I approach the woman’s window. She greets me with a warm smile. Her name tag reads BETTY.
I reach into my wallet for Richard’s check. “I’d like to cash this.”
Betty nods, then glances at the amount. Her brow furrows. “Cash it?” She looks back at the piece of paper.
“Yes.” My foot begins to tap against the floor and I still it. I worry Richard may be phoning the bank as I stand there.
“Can you take a seat? I think it would be better if my supervisor helped you with this.”
I glance at her left hand. She isn’t wearing a wedding ring.
It isn’t difficult to dodge questions once you learn the tricks. Tell colorful, drawn-out stories that deflect attention from the fact that you aren’t actually sharing anything. Avoid specifics. Be vague. Lie, but only when completely necessary.
I lean as close to the window as possible. “Look, Betty … Wow, that is, I mean it was, my mother’s name. She passed away recently.” This lie is necessary.
“I’m sorry.” Her expression is sympathetic. I chose the right teller.
“I’m going to be honest with you.” I pause. “My husband—Mr. Thompson—is divorcing me.”
“I’m sorry,” she repeats.
“Yeah, me, too. He’s getting remarried this summer.” I smile wryly. “Anyway, this check is from him, and I need the money because I’m trying to rent an apartment. His pretty, young fiancée has already moved in with him.” As I speak, I picture Richard jabbing the bank’s numbers on his phone.
“It’s just that it’s such a large amount.”
“Not to him. As you can see, our last names match.” I reach into my bag and pass her my driver’s license. “And we still have the same address, although I’ve moved out. I’m in a dingy little hotel a few blocks away from here now.”
The address on the check is our Westchester home; any New Yorker knows that suburb is exclusive.
Betty stares down at my license and hesitates. The photo was taken several years ago, roughly the time I first planned to leave Richard. My eyes were bright and my smile genuine.
“Please, Betty. Tell you what. You can call the manager at the branch on Park Avenue. Richard alerted him that I’d be cashing this check.”
“Excuse me for a moment.”
I wait while she steps to the side and murmurs into the phone. I feel light-headed from the strain, wondering if Richard has outmaneuvered me yet again.
When she returns, I can’t read the expression on her face. She clicks on her computer keyboard, then finally looks up at me. “I apologize for the delay. Everything is in order. The manager confirmed the check was authorized. And I see that you and Mr. Thompson used to have a joint account here that was closed only a few months ago.”
“Thank you,” I breathe. When she comes back a few minutes later, she holds several stacks of cash. She runs the money through the bill counter and then tallies each one-hundred-dollar bill twice as my insides clench. At any moment I expect someone to hurry toward her and pull it all back. But then she slips the money through the shallow opening beneath the window, along with an oversize, padded envelope.
“Have a nice day,” I say.
“Good luck.”
I zip my purse shut, feeling the reassuring heft against my ribs.
I deserve this money. And now that I’ve lost my job, I need it more than ever to help my aunt.
Besides, it is exquisitely satisfying to think of what Richard’s reaction will be when a bank official tells him his money is gone.
He kept me off-balance for years; whenever I displeased him, I suffered consequences. But he also clearly relished being my savior and comforting me when I was upset. The dueling sides of my husband’s personality made him an enigma to me. I still don’t completely understand why he needed to control everything in his environment as precisely as he organized his socks and T-shirts.
I’ve regained a bit of the power he took away from me. I’ve won a minor battle. I am filled with exhilaration.
I imagine his rage as a tornado, swirling and rotating outward, but at the moment, I am beyond its reach.
I exit onto the sidewalk and hurry to the nearest Chase branch office. I deposit the cash into my new account, the one I opened after Richard and I separated. Now I’m ready to go back to Aunt Charlotte’s. But not to the safety of my bed; I am determined to shed that defeated woman like a husk.
I am suffused with energy at the thought of what I will do next.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO
“I AM TWENTY-SIX YEARS OLD. I’m in love with Richard. We are getting married soon,” I whisper as I look in the mirror. More lipstick, I think, reaching into my cosmetics case. “I work here as an assistant.” I am wearing a blush-colored dress that I bought just this afternoon at Ann Taylor. It isn’t an exact replica, but it’s close, especially with my new padded bra.
My posture isn’t quite right, though. I pull back my shoulders and lift my chin. That’s better.
“My name is Emma,” I say into the mirror. I smile—a wide, confident grin.
Anyone who knows her well wouldn’t be fooled. But all I need to do is get past the cleaning crew at Richard’s office.
If one of his colleagues is working late tonight, it will be over. And if Richard happens to still be here—but no, I can’t even let myself think about that or I won’t have the courage to go through with this.
“My name is Emma,” I repeat again and again, until I am satisfied with the throaty timbre of my voice.
I walk to the door of the bathroom and crack it, peeking out. The hallway is empty and the lights are dim; I can’t see around the corner to the double-glass doors that lead to Richard’s firm. I know they will be locked, as they are every evening. Few people have the keys. The financial information of hundreds of clients is contained on the company’s computers. They are all protected by passwords, plus I’m certain the company’s cyber-security experts would be alerted if anyone tried to hack the system.
What I’m after isn’t an electronic record, though. I need a simple document from Richard’s office, one that would have no importance to anyone else at the firm.
Even if Emma had the chance to read my letter, and even if a few fleeting doubts have begun to form in her mind, I know she is a savvy, logical young woman. Who will she believe in the end—her accomplished, perfect fiancé or his crazy ex-wife?
I need proof to sway her. And Emma is the person who revealed to me how to obtain it.
When I confronted her outside her apartment building, I told Emma to ask Richard about the missing Raveneau that he sent me to retrieve from our wine cellar the night of our cocktail party. Who do you think placed the order? she asked just before dismissing me and leaving in a cab.
It was a brilliant move on Richard’s part to have Emma, as his assistant, order that wine for our party.
He hadn’t needed to punish me in a long time. I’d been on my best behavior for months, rising early wit
h him and exercising every morning, and cooking us healthy dinners at night. These acts of service made Richard feel benevolent toward me. By this point in my marriage, I was under no illusions about how dangerous my husband could be when he feared my love was slipping away.
So I anticipated that I would pay severely when I altered my hair a few days before our cocktail party. First I asked my stylist to dye it caramel brown. She’d protested, saying that women paid her hundreds of dollars to re-create my natural hue, but I was resolute. When she finished darkening it, I instructed her to lop off five inches, resulting in a shoulder-length bob.
On the day we met, Richard had told me to never cut my hair. That was the first rule, masked as a compliment, that he’d set down.
I’d obeyed it throughout our marriage.
But by then I’d met Emma. I knew I had to give my husband reasons to get rid of me, no matter what the repercussions.
When Richard saw my hair, he’d paused for a moment, then told me it was a nice change for the winter. I understood he wanted my old style back by summertime. After that brief exchange, he worked late every night until our party.
Richard had asked Emma to order the wine so he could build his case against me.
And now I can use it to build my case against him.
* * *
Hillary was standing at the makeshift bar with Richard in our living room at the Westchester house that night. The caterers were late, and I’d been murmuring apologies for the wheel of Brie and wedge of cheddar I’d set out.
“Honey? Can you grab a few bottles of the ’09 Raveneau from the cellar?” Richard called to me from across the room. “I ordered a case last week. They’re on the middle shelf of the wine fridge.”
I moved in what felt like slow motion toward the basement, delaying the moment when I’d have to tell Richard, in front of all of his friends and business associates, what I already knew: There was no Raveneau in our cellar.
But not because I drank it.
Everyone thought I did, of course. That had been Richard’s intention. This was our pattern: I challenged Richard by trying to assert my independence, and he made me pay for my transgression. My punishments were always proportional to my perceived crimes. On the night of the Alvin Ailey gala, for example, I knew Richard had told his partner Paul that he needed to get me home because I was drunk. But that wasn’t true; Richard was angry that Paul had offered to help me find a job. And more than that, my husband already knew I’d snuck into the city for a secret meeting, one that I eventually explained away as a visit to a therapist.
Making me look bad in public—having other people view me as unstable and, worse, causing me to question myself—was one of Richard’s default ways to discipline me. It was especially effective given my mother’s struggles.
“Honey, there isn’t any Raveneau,” I said when I returned from the cellar.
“But I just put a case down there—” Richard cut himself off. Confusion swept across his face and was quickly replaced by obvious embarrassment.
He was such an adroit actor.
“Oh, I’m happy with any old white wine!” Hillary said too brightly.
Emma was across the room. She wore a simple black dress, belted to show off her hourglass figure. Her luxuriant blond hair curled loosely at the ends. She was as perfect as I’d remembered.
I needed to accomplish three things that night: Convince everyone at the party that Richard’s wife was a bit of a mess. Convince Emma that Richard deserved better. And most important, convince Richard of the same.
I felt dizzy from anxiety. I looked at Emma for courage. Then I did some acting of my own.
I linked my arm through Hillary’s. “I’ll join you in that,” I said gaily, hoping Hillary couldn’t feel my ice-cold fingers through her sleeve. “Who says blonds have more fun? I love being a brunette. Come on, Richard, open us up a bottle.”
I dumped my first glass down the kitchen sink when I went to get more cocktail napkins, making sure Richard was within earshot when I asked Hillary if she needed a refill. Her glass was still half full. I saw her eyes drift to my empty one before she shook her head.
A moment later, Richard handed me a glass of water. “Shouldn’t you call the caterers again, sweetheart?”
I looked up their number and dialed the first six digits, moving far enough away from Richard so he wouldn’t pick up on the unnatural cadence of a one-sided conversation. I nodded to him after the call and said, “They should be here any second now.” Then I put down my water.
I was on my pretend third glass of wine when the caterers arrived.
While servers began setting up a buffet, Richard motioned the head caterer into the kitchen. I followed them.
“What’s going on?” I asked before Richard could say a word. I didn’t make any effort to keep my voice down. “You guys were supposed to be here an hour ago.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Thompson.” The man looked down at his clipboard. “But we showed up when you instructed us to.”
“That can’t be. Our party started at seven-thirty. I’m sure I told you we wanted you here at seven.”
Richard was by my side, ready to unleash his complaints about the company’s error.
The head caterer wordlessly turned around his clipboard and pointed at the time—8 p.m.—then my signature on the bottom of the page.
“But…” Richard cleared his throat. “What happened?”
My response had to be perfectly delivered. I needed to convey both my ineffectualness, and my lack of concern about the agitation I’d caused him.
“Oh, I guess it’s my fault,” I said easily. “Well, at least they’re here now.”
“How could you—?” Richard choked back the rest of his sentence. He exhaled slowly. But the tightness in his face didn’t relax.
I felt nausea rise in my throat and knew I couldn’t sustain my performance much longer, so I hurried to the powder room. I splashed cold water on my wrists and counted my breaths until my heartbeat finally evened out.
Then I exited the bathroom and surveyed our gathered guests.
I hadn’t quite accomplished all I needed to yet.
Richard was chatting with one of his partners and a golf buddy from the club, but my tingling skin alerted me that his eyes kept returning to me. My hair, my drinking, my reaction to the caterers—I was acting like a very different woman from the one who’d scrupulously reviewed every detail of the party with him during the preceding weeks. We’d spent hours going over our guest list, with Richard reminding me of personal details about his associates so I could more easily mingle and introduce people. We’d discussed flower choices for our arrangements. Richard had instructed me to avoid ordering shrimp because one of our guests was allergic, and I’d told him I’d double-check that we had enough hangers so no one’s coat would have to be splayed across a bed.
Now it was time to check off another item on my private list, the one I kept only in my head and reviewed when Richard left for work: Talk to Emma.
A server passed by and offered me a warm Parmesan crostini from his tray. I forced myself to smile and take one, but I folded it into a napkin.
I paused for a moment, until the same server reached the group that contained Emma, then I approached.
“You have to try these,” I gushed. I forced a laugh. “You’ve got to keep up your strength if you’re working for Richard.”
Emma briefly frowned, then her face cleared. “He does work long hours. But I don’t mind.”
She took a crostini and bit into it. I could see Richard begin to approach us from across the room, but George intercepted him.
“Oh, it’s not just the hours,” I said. “He’s very particular, isn’t he?”
She nodded and quickly popped the rest of her appetizer into her mouth.
“Well, I’m glad everyone finally has something to eat. You’d think the caterers would at least show up on time with what they charge.” I spoke loudly enough so that the middle-aged man
holding the platter of food could hear, and more important, so Emma would think I’d lobbed the harsh comment at him. I could feel my cheeks burn, but I hoped Emma assumed it was from too much wine. When I met her eyes, I saw disdain in them for my rudeness.
Richard extracted himself from George, walking directly toward us. Right before he arrived, I pivoted and headed in the opposite direction.
Give them one more reason. I knew I had to do it now or I’d lose my nerve.
Every step was a struggle as I slowly crossed the room. My pulse throbbed in my ears. I could feel a thin film of cold sweat gathering on my top lip.
All of my instincts were screaming at me to stop, to turn around. I forced myself forward, weaving through the clusters of smiling people. Someone touched my arm, but I pulled away without a glance.
Only the thought of Emma and Richard watching propelled me forward.
I knew I wouldn’t have another chance to be near her anytime soon.
I reached the iPod that was attached to our speakers. Richard had carefully arranged a playlist, alternating jazz with some of his favorite classical compositions. The elegant music soared through the room.
I clicked to the Spotify app and selected seventies disco music, as I’d practiced doing. Then I cranked up the volume.
“Let’s get this party started!” I shouted, raising my arms into the air. My voice cracked, but I continued, “Who wants to dance?”
The murmured conversations halted. Faces turned toward me in unison, as if they’d been choreographed.
“Come on, Richard!” I called.
Even the caterers were staring at me now. I caught a glimpse of Hillary averting her eyes, then of Emma gaping at me before quickly turning to look at Richard. He strode toward me quickly and my insides clenched.
“You forgot our house rule, honey,” he called, his voice filled with a forced merriment. He turned down the volume. “No Bee Gees until after eleven!”
Relieved laughter cut through the room as Richard flipped the music back to Bach and reached for my arm and led me into the hallway. “What is wrong with you? How much have you had to drink?” His eyes narrowed and I didn’t have to conjure the panicked note of apology in my voice.
The Wife Between Us Page 27