All the Wrong Places

by Joy Fielding

  Except that, in everything but years, Joan Hamilton was one of the youngest women Paige knew. She had the energy, the curiosity, the legs of a woman decades younger. And wasn’t the internet full of articles about the sex lives of senior citizens? Men and women in their seventies, eighties, and even—dear God!—their nineties, who were still not only interested in sex, but active participants.

  She remembered reading about an outbreak of venereal disease in a retirement home somewhere in Florida. It appeared that the residents, free from responsibility and no longer concerned with either propriety or pregnancy, were making up for lost time and not only having sex, but having it often, and with multiple partners. Since most of them had come of age post-Pill and pre-AIDS, they’d never had much use for condoms and weren’t about to start now. Safe sex was as foreign a concept as Facebook. As a result, venereal disease was rampant. And not just in that one home. Similar outbreaks were being reported in retirement communities throughout the country.

  Had her mother taken the necessary precautions? Paige wondered.

  “No, no, no. I am not going there,” she admonished herself, trying to turn off all conscious thought. But the more she tried, the worse things got. After half an hour of thinking about not thinking about anything, the result was a blinding headache. She sat up, turned on the light, and reached for her cellphone, opening her messages and rereading the texts she’d received earlier from Mr. Right Now.

  The first one had arrived when she was on her way to Chloe’s.

  So, Wildflower, how’d your interview go?

  She’d texted back almost immediately. Think it went great.

  A flurry of exchanges followed.

  When will you find out if you got the job?

  Don’t know. Have another meeting next week.

  Sounds promising. What exactly does a director of strategic planning do?

  Too complicated to get into in a text.

  And then nothing.

  She’d waited for his reply, and when none came, concluded he’d assumed she was suggesting they talk in person, and he clearly wasn’t ready to go that route again yet.

  The next text had arrived two hours later. Chloe was upstairs getting the kids ready for bed, and Paige was sitting in the living room, staring at the two dozen pink and white roses Matt had sent his wife that afternoon, along with a note pleading for another chance. Would Chloe give him one? Paige had wondered, hearing the familiar ping of her phone.

  Sorry, Wildflower. Phone died. You were saying?

  Paige had smiled, and was about to text him back when Chloe came back downstairs. She decided to wait till she got home.

  But that was before she discovered that her mother hadn’t returned from her date, and the frantic calls to the hospital and the police that followed. Now it was way too late to text a man who was, after all, a virtual stranger in every sense of the word. “Sorry, Mr. Right Now,” she said, sleep tugging at her eyelids, wondering how many apologies the man would stand for before giving up on her once and for all. “We’ll try again tomorrow. I promise. I’ll be worth the wait.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  It was Wednesday night and she was meeting him at Longfellows, an outrageously expensive steak house in the heart of Harvard Square. The Square had been pretty much the center of everything in Cambridge since the seventeenth century, and had been held in something approaching reverence ever since. Aside from being the site of Harvard University, it was chock-a-block full of historic buildings and landmarks, as well as home to a variety of upscale shops and places to eat.

  Chloe had suggested going somewhere a little less punishing on the wallet, but Matt had been adamant. Nothing was too good for the woman he loved, he’d insisted, sending her two dozen long-stemmed, pink and white roses every day for the last three days to underline his point. Chloe had finally given in and agreed to meet him for dinner.

  Not that she’d been persuaded by such shallow theatrics. Matt was the unchallenged master of over-the-top gestures, the undisputed king at polishing dull surfaces until they shone, persuading you to overlook the rot underneath. His clients might be fooled, but Chloe was finally starting to realize that when things were so over-the-top, there was little chance they ran very deep.

  Could she settle for a life of shiny surfaces? she wondered, cutting across the crowded square toward the restaurant. And was she seriously contemplating reconciling with a man she’d considered taking out a restraining order against only days ago?

  Of course, Matt had been vehement, even convincing, in his denials, swearing up and down that he’d had nothing to do with the events of last weekend. He might be guilty of some admittedly stupid behavior, he’d told her, but making obscene, threatening phone calls and spying on her? No way was he capable of such things. No way would he stoop so low. He might be an idiot, he’d insisted, but he wasn’t crazy.

  I’m the crazy one, Chloe conceded, pulling open the restaurant’s ornate wooden door and adjusting her eyes to the sudden darkness of the plush interior. Even though she’d never eaten here before, she knew exactly what to expect: the heavy wood paneling, the oversized booths lining the blood-red walls, the scores of smaller tables in between, the dim lighting, the towering, glass-enclosed wine closet boasting hundreds of overpriced bottles, the decor suggesting a seriousness of purpose that didn’t exist, unless that purpose was to sell as many expensive cuts of beef and bottles of wine as possible. Why did all steak houses look pretty much the same?

  And speaking of sameness, wasn’t the definition of insanity doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result?

  How many times did she have to be kicked in the head before she realized she was being slowly stomped to death? Why couldn’t she be more like Paige? Chloe thought, as she’d thought often, recalling Paige’s retelling of the slap she’d delivered to Noah’s face on Saturday night.

  Boston had been buzzing with the delicious gossip all week, people tweeting and sharing what they’d heard with their Facebook friends. Just this afternoon, someone had posted a grainy video of the incident on YouTube. A passerby had seen Paige and Noah embracing and, mistaking it for something sweet and romantic, impulsively recorded it, not anticipating the events that followed. Now the video was out there for everyone to see. Chloe smiled, trying to imagine Heather’s reaction when she got wind of it.

  Her smile lingered as the hostess led her toward the back room, where Matt was already waiting. It faded when she saw him chatting up a pretty, raven-haired waitress, then died completely as she watched the waitress lean forward to tap something into Matt’s phone. Her phone number no doubt, Chloe understood, feeling another kick to the side of her head, and wondering if this would finally be the one to knock some sense into her.

  “Chloe!” Matt exclaimed, jumping to his feet when he saw her. The waitress quickly disappeared. “You look beautiful.”

  “What was that about?” Chloe sat down across from him without acknowledging the compliment.

  “What was what about?”

  Chloe couldn’t help admiring his composure. “How do you do that?”

  “How do I do what?” Matt laughed. “Sorry. I’m confused.”

  She shook her head. “Nothing.” What was the point in confronting him? He’d find a way to deny any impropriety. “The waitress?” she could hear him say, managing to sound as if he were the injured party. “She was just writing down the name of a great bottle of wine.” He’d probably even name the bottle, maybe even offer to show her the message.

  He can’t help himself, she thought. This is who he is, who he always will be.

  “Is that a new dress?” he asked.

  Chloe looked down at the loose-fitting, white cotton dress she’d chosen because of its shapelessness. Matt had always preferred her in more formfitting attire. “No. It’s old. I just don’t wear it often.”

/>   “It’s nice,” he said, again managing to sound convincing. “This is a new suit,” he volunteered, smoothing the lapel of his beige linen jacket. “I bought it especially for tonight. Hoping to impress you,” he added, almost shyly.

  “It’s an impressive suit,” Chloe said.

  He smiled. “You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?”

  “Should it be?”

  “No, I guess not. That’s okay. I don’t mind a little hard work.” He signaled for the wine steward and ordered a bottle of his favorite Zinfandel. “Who’s babysitting the kids?”

  “My mother.”

  “What?”

  “I had no choice. The kid I’d lined up canceled at the last minute and I couldn’t find anyone else, so I…I’m just kidding,” Chloe said, enjoying the stunned look on Matt’s face but unable to continue with the charade. Not everyone was as expert at lying as her husband. “It’s Stephanie Koster from down the street.”

  “Shit. You really had me going there for a second.”

  “Sorry. Couldn’t resist.”

  “You’re in a strange mood,” Matt commented after a pause.

  “These are strange times.”

  “Yes, they are.” Another pause. “It wasn’t me, Chloe. I swear on my life, I’m not the one who made those calls on Saturday night. I was nowhere near the house. I would never hurt you. You have to know that.”

  “You have a gun.”

  “What?”

  “The kids told me. For God’s sake, it’s bad enough you bought a gun, but what were you thinking, showing it to them, letting them hold it?”

  “I was thinking that they might like to see a genuine antique from the Civil War that some clients gave me as a thank-you for finding them the house of their dreams,” he explained, appearing genuinely flustered. “What? You honestly think I’d let them anywhere near a real gun?”

  “I’m sorry,” Chloe apologized, equally flustered. What was the matter with her?

  “Look,” he began. “I don’t blame you for thinking the worst of me. I know how disappointed you are. I know how angry you are. And you have every right to be. I’ve been a fool. I’ve done things that have hurt you deeply, caused you to lose faith in me, in us, in our marriage. But I love you, Chloe, and I swear, if you give me another chance—just one more chance, that’s all I’m asking—if you give me one more chance, I’ll do everything in my power to make it up to you. I’ll be the best, most faithful husband any woman could ask for. You just have to trust me. I promise I won’t let you down.”

  Chloe shook her head, her eyes filling with unwanted tears. How she wanted to believe him! “I really wish I could.”

  “You can.”

  “How? How can I trust you, when every time you leave the house for a showing at night or on the weekend, I’m going to be wondering if that’s where you really are? When every time you call to say you’re working late, I’m going to be asking myself what you’re really doing? When every time you tell me you’re with a client, I’m going to wonder who she really is?”

  “Because I’ll do whatever it takes, whatever you want, to prove it to you. I’ll let you check my phone every night, I’ll give you the password to my computer…Whatever I have to do to regain your trust, I’ll do it.”

  “You’d do that?”

  “I’ll do anything.”

  “Okay.” Chloe sank back in her chair, spotting the pretty, raven-haired waitress Matt had been talking to earlier at the far end of the room. “Let me see your phone.”

  “What?”

  “You said you’d let me check your phone. I’d like to see it now.”

  “I don’t see what this will prove,” Matt said, removing his cellphone from his pocket.

  “Open it to Contacts.”

  “This is silly, Chloe. It’s mostly just business associates.”

  “Are you going to show it to me or not?”

  Matt shrugged. “Fine. Have it your way.” He pressed in his password and opened the phone to Contacts, then handed it across the table to Chloe. “I really don’t see what this is going to prove.”

  She quickly scanned the long list of mostly female names. “Excuse me,” she suddenly called out, lowering the phone and waving to the raven-haired waitress.

  “Would you like to see your menus?” the waitress asked, approaching.

  “In a minute,” Chloe said. “First, I was just wondering…you look so familiar. Do you mind if I ask your name?”

  “It’s Avery.”

  And there it was, just like that—the final kick in the head.

  “Avery Reid?”

  “Yes.” Avery cocked her head to one side, letting her long, straight hair fall across one shoulder. “Have we met?”

  “No. But I believe you have met my husband.”

  “Nooo,” the young woman demurred, glancing uneasily toward Matt. “Well, we talked for a minute while he was waiting for you.”

  “Chloe…” Matt began.

  “And yet, here you are,” Chloe said, holding up Matt’s cellphone, and offering the clearly nonplussed woman her most indulgent smile. “I had a feeling I’d find you here. My husband is pretty transparent that way. Unfortunately, it may be a while before you hear from him. I’m afraid there are a lot of women ahead of you.”

  “Chloe…”

  “Excuse me,” Avery said, making a hasty retreat.

  “Was that really necessary?” Matt asked, his face flush with anger, a vein throbbing noticeably at his temple.

  “Yeah, it kinda was.” She handed him back his phone.

  “So, what now?” he asked, gradually recovering his composure.

  Chloe picked up her wineglass and raised it to her lips. “I want a divorce.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  People were staring. Heather was sure of it.

  All morning, she’d had the uncomfortable feeling that everyone was looking at her. Normally, she would have relished the attention, assumed her coworkers were secretly admiring her outfit or the fun way she’d styled her hair. But there was nothing new about either her hairdo or her lilac-colored dress, so it couldn’t be that. Also, she thought she’d heard whispering, possibly even snickering, as she’d walked down the aisle toward her desk after an extended bathroom break. She quickly checked her shoes to make sure she wasn’t trailing a stream of toilet paper behind her.

  That was when she caught Kendall glancing at her from across the aisle.

  “Hey,” she said as Kendall turned away.

  “Sorry?” Kendall asked. “Are you talking to me?”

  “Do you see anyone else here?”

  Kendall cleared her throat. “What’s up?”

  “I was just about to ask you the same thing.”

  Kendall shrugged.

  “Has Marsha said anything to you?” Heather asked.

  “About what?”

  “About my job,” Heather said, growing impatient. She’d had her performance review on Monday, and as expected, it hadn’t gone particularly well. She had a month to start applying herself or start looking for another position.

  Kendall shook her head. “No. Marsha hasn’t said anything.”

  “But somebody has,” Heather probed.

  “Not about your job, no.”

  “What, then?”

  Kendall glanced quickly up and down the aisle. “You really don’t know?”

  “For God’s sake, Kendall. What the hell is going on?”

  Kendall rolled her chair across the aisle until she was positioned beside Heather in front of her computer. “You haven’t seen this?” She clicked onto YouTube.

  “Seen what?” Heather watched as Kendall’s fingers flew across her keyboard.

  “At first I thought it was you,” Kendall said, as the grainy image of t
wo people embracing on a city street filled the screen. “But I knew that wasn’t your new dress…”

  Heather gasped. Despite the darkness of the night and the poor quality of the picture, there was no mistaking the identity of the people involved. Heather sank back in her chair, watching as Noah’s lips moved from Paige’s neck up to her eyes before landing passionately on her lips. The evidence was clear: Noah was hardly the victim of a sneak attack; that lip lock was nothing if not mutual.

  If anything, Noah had been the aggressor.

  And suddenly there were voices to go along with the humiliating video, although it was difficult to make out everything that was being said: “We were going through a rough patch…Heather started coming over…Hair just so…My fault?…Sweatpants.” And then louder, clearer: “Then stop talking, you fucking idiot!”

  Followed seconds later by a loud, resounding slap.

  “Turn it off,” Heather directed.

  Kendall immediately exited the site. “I’m sorry. I thought for sure you knew. Everybody’s talking about it.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “I’m sorry,” Kendall said again.

  Despite her conciliatory tone, Heather detected a slight glint in the other woman’s eyes. She pushed herself away from her desk and to her feet. “Screw you,” she said.

  * * *

  —

  “I’m here to see Noah Sherman,” Heather announced to the receptionist in the nondescript outer office of Whitman, Loughlin. She was still trying to catch her breath, having run the more than twenty blocks from her office in less than ten minutes.

  The attractive young woman behind the towering mahogany desk checked her appointment calendar, then gave Heather a quick once-over. Has she seen the video? Heather wondered, tucking her hair behind her ears and straightening her shoulders, as if daring her to say anything.