All the Wrong Places

by Joy Fielding

  He puts so much effort into this planning stage that it’s almost anticlimactic how fast he knows it will all play out, how easy it will be to secure those clumsy handcuffs on Audrey’s delicate wrists, to slip the deadly noose around her unsuspecting neck and tighten it until she is totally within his control. “Have a seat,” he’ll whisper seductively in her ear, his lips grazing the side of her hair, as he pulls out her chair. Then, once she is comfortably seated, “Close your eyes. I have a surprise for you.”

  By the time she opens them, it will be too late.

  He checks his watch again, amazed to discover that twenty minutes have passed since he last looked. He hurries back into the kitchen and pops the potatoes into the oven, so that they will be done by the time he’s ready to leave. Then he walks back into the bedroom and selects the black silk shirt and pants he’s decided on for his date with Audrey—he always wears black, not wanting to stand out more than he can help—along with some fresh underwear and socks, laying them on the bed beside the rope and handcuffs.

  He’s humming as he strips naked and heads for the shower. Of course, he’ll have to shower again later, when he’s covered in Audrey’s blood. But as his mother was so fond of saying, “Cleanliness is next to Godliness.”

  He laughs. Tonight he’ll not only be clean. He’ll be God himself.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  “Mom?” Paige called toward the bedroom. “What are you doing? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, darling,” Joan said, adjusting her white silk shawl over her light-blue cotton dress as she walked into the living room where Paige was sitting, still struggling with the novel she’d been reading. “You have to stop worrying about me.”

  “You don’t give me a chance! Three visits to the ER in as many weeks! That’s probably some sort of record. Did you take your antibiotics?”

  “I did, although I don’t think they’re really necessary anymore. I’m feeling much better now.”

  “You have to take them until they’re all finished,” Paige reminded her. “If you stop before you’ve taken the entire course, the infection will only come back, and the antibiotics will be less effective. Didn’t you hear what the doctor said?”

  “To be honest, it’s a bit of a blur. I was in a lot of pain.”

  “Well, urinary tract infections are nothing to sneeze at. You’re lucky it hadn’t spread to your kidneys.”

  “Yes, dear.” Joan twirled around in a small circle. “How do I look?”

  “Beautiful. As always. Where are you off to tonight?”

  “There’s this dinner cruise down the Charles River. Believe it or not, I’ve never been on one, and Harry says they’re quite magical.” She paused, looking at Paige expectantly.

  “What?” Paige asked.

  “You’ve never said…what you think of Harry.”

  “Well, we didn’t exactly meet under the best of circumstances.”

  “I know, but…”

  “A crowded emergency room isn’t the ideal place to get to know someone.”

  “You don’t like him,” Joan said.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You haven’t said anything.”

  “He seems very nice,” Paige told her. “It’s just that…”

  “What?”

  An awkward pause. “He’s the reason you were in emergency in the first place.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I think you know.”

  Another awkward pause, this one longer than the first.

  “You’re talking about sex,” her mother said finally.

  “Well, you’ve obviously been having a lot of it lately…and as the doctor explained, things tend to…thin out as women age, and it’s been a while since you were so…busy. You put two and two together and you get…”

  “A urinary tract infection.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But you can’t blame the thinness of my uterine wall on Harry,” her mother offered in his defense.

  Paige sighed. “I know.”

  “And it’s not as if I wasn’t an enthusiastic participant…”

  “Okay. I get it, Mom. I don’t need a—”

  “Blow by blow?” her mother asked, deep blue eyes twinkling with mischief.

  “Oh, God.”

  “You know, dear, you’re a bit of a prude.”

  “Oh, God,” Paige said again. Her mother was right. She was a prude. When had that happened? “I’m sorry. Harry seems like a very nice man. I actually liked him a lot.”

  “Really? You’re not just saying that?”

  “I’m not just saying that.”

  The phone rang.

  “That’ll be the concierge,” Joan said, running into the kitchen to answer it. “Harry’s here,” she said, returning seconds later. “I said I’d be right down. Do you have plans for tonight?”

  “Nothing definite.” Actually, she had no plans at all. She and Chloe had talked of getting together, but then Josh had come down with an earache, so that finished that.

  “You could call Sam,” her mother suggested.

  “I could,” Paige agreed. She’d been thinking about him a lot lately. The truth was that she missed him. “But it’s probably not a good idea.”

  “Maybe not.” Her mother walked toward the door and opened it.

  “Mom…” Paige called.

  “Yes, dear?”

  “No sex! At least till you’re finished with the antibiotics. I don’t want any more phone calls from the hospital.”

  “Yes, dear.” The door closed behind her.

  “God,” Paige said, picking up her book, reading a few more boring paragraphs, then walking into the kitchen and tossing the novel into the garbage bin under the sink. “Enough of that.”

  Should she call Sam, confess that she missed him?

  Or did she just miss having someone in her life?

  It wouldn’t be fair to call him before she knew for sure.

  In the meantime, there was Mr. Right Now. Paige pulled her cellphone out of her pocket and checked for messages, finding none.

  She wondered if he was back from Florida, and if his mother’s condition had improved. What if she’d died? Then I’ll never get laid, Paige thought, and laughed out loud. “You’re a horrible person,” she said, walking into the family room and putting on the television, aimlessly switching among the various channels for the next half hour, trying to find something—anything—of interest. There was Nightmare Next Door, followed by Fear Thy Neighbor, which was on opposite something called Wives with Knives. “Seriously? Wives with Knives?”

  She settled on an ancient episode of CSI: Miami, then returned to the kitchen and made herself a cup of tea. She was finishing her tea and checking her phone for messages she knew weren’t there when it rang.

  “My mother got married,” Chloe announced.

  “What?”

  “Yup. Just got a text from the blushing bride herself. Apparently, she met this guy at a dance competition last week and knew instantly he was Mr. Right. They eloped to Las Vegas yesterday.”

  “Wow. How many Mr. Rights does this make?”

  “I believe this is Mr. Right number four. Or maybe five. Oh, and this Mr. Right is from Miami, so she’ll be moving there at the end of the month, and can I please go over to her apartment this week and start packing up her stuff?”

  “Wow,” Paige said again. What else was there to say?

  “Anyway, that’s Josh crying again. I’ll talk to you later.”

  Paige returned to the family room, about to settle into another episode of CSI: Miami when she decided, what the hell? If Chloe’s mother could elope to Las Vegas with a man she’d just met, if her own mother was having such enthusiastic sex it had landed her in the ER, then what was her problem? What wa
s she waiting for? So what if she looked pathetic because it was Saturday night and she didn’t have a date? Hadn’t he told her to call him anytime?

  And wasn’t right now the perfect time to call the man calling himself Mr. Right Now?

  She checked the number he’d left her, took a deep breath, then placed the call.

  It rang twice before being picked up.

  “Well, hello there,” he said, his voice low.

  Paige felt a sudden charge of electricity. He sounded almost as good as he looked. “Hi,” she said. “Is this…Mr. Right Now?” A self-conscious chuckle escaped her mouth before she could stop it. She was grateful when he laughed along with her.

  “It is. Is this…Wildflower?”

  “It is.”

  “Well, Wildflower. I’m so glad you called.”

  “Are you still in Florida? Is this a bad time?”

  “No. It’s perfect. I just got back into town about an hour ago.”

  “How’s your mother?”

  “Much better. Thanks for asking. How are you?”

  She could hear the smile in his voice. “Me? I’m fine.” She hesitated briefly. “I was thinking maybe you were right, that it’s time we give this another try.”

  “No maybes about it. At least on my end. How about Wednesday?”

  “Wednesday is good.”

  “Great. Are you familiar with Anthony’s Bar, over on Boylston? I know it’s usually crowded and it can get pretty noisy, but—”

  “Anthony’s is great.”

  “Say six o’clock?”

  “Six is good.”

  “No more last-minute cancellations?”

  “I’ll be there at six on the button.”

  “No!” Paige heard someone shout. “Don’t…” There followed muffled sounds she couldn’t quite make out, almost as if someone was fighting.

  “What was that?” she asked.

  “What was what?” His voice was light, untroubled. “Oh. Probably just the TV. Some guy getting the shit kicked out of him. Excuse the language.”

  She wondered if he was watching the same episode of CSI: Miami that she was, but didn’t ask. “Are you going to tell me your real name?” she asked instead.

  “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,” came the sly reply. “Although I gotta say, I kind of like Wildflower.”

  “Then suppose we leave things the way they are for now.”

  “Till Wednesday, then,” he said.

  “Till Wednesday.”

  “Looking forward to it.”

  And then he was gone.

  “Well, well,” Paige said, exhaling a deep sigh of relief. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Maybe her luck was about to change. Her job prospects were sounding good. Mr. Right Now was sounding even better.

  Maybe things were finally starting to look up.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Heather could hear her parents arguing in the next room. She didn’t have to eavesdrop to know they were arguing about her.

  I should never have come home, she thought, stretching out on the double bed in what had once been her bedroom, and covering her ears with her pillow. Still, what was she supposed to do? Where was she supposed to go?

  After her outburst at Noah’s office, she’d been too overwrought to return to work, so she’d called to say she was sick and wouldn’t be back till morning. (“Food poisoning?” Kendall had asked with such obvious disbelief that Heather could almost see her eyebrows rise.) Then she’d gone to a movie, where she’d consumed an entire bucket of buttered popcorn along with a giant Coke, all the while rehearsing under her breath what she’d say to Noah when she returned to their apartment. (“Do you mind keeping your voice down?” a woman had turned around in her seat and muttered. To which Heather had replied, “Screw you.”)

  Heather knew that Noah would be angry, and that she needed to be prepared. Yes, she would tell him calmly, she understood she’d embarrassed him, and she was truly sorry about that. But he’d embarrassed her, too. Yes, she understood she might have gone too far, but so had he. And yes, maybe she was guilty of overreacting. But only because she loved him so much, and because he’d hurt her so badly. Surely he could see that he bore at least some of the responsibility for her lashing out the way she had. If he hadn’t kissed her cousin, if he hadn’t lied to her about it, if his indiscretion hadn’t been captured on camera, if her coworkers hadn’t taunted her with it…

  She was well prepared for the mix of harsh words and stony silence that would undoubtedly follow, suspecting it could be days, even weeks, before he understood her side of the story, or he got sufficiently horny, for things between them to return to normal.

  What she wasn’t prepared for was to find all her belongings in three giant garbage bags outside their apartment door. What she hadn’t expected was the note taped to the door telling her in no uncertain terms that their relationship was over and that if she dared to come inside or cause any kind of scene, he would call the police and have her arrested.

  What she hadn’t expected was to have to spend the night in a hotel, albeit the Four Seasons, while she figured out her next move, or to go into work the next morning only to be unceremoniously escorted out. “I’m being fired?” she’d asked, as the security guard waited in the aisle for her to clear out her desk. “I don’t believe this!”

  “I don’t believe you’re surprised,” came Kendall’s retort.

  “You and Noah broke up?” her mother exclaimed when she showed up at her parents’ home in Weston later that day, garbage bags in tow.

  “You lost your job,” her father said, as if he’d known all along this would happen.

  “I’m thinking of suing,” Heather told them.

  To which they’d said nothing at all.

  I should never have come home, she thought again. Except she couldn’t stay at the Four Seasons forever. She couldn’t afford even one more night. Her credit cards were already maxed out and she’d just lost her fucking job. The severance check they’d handed her on her way out the door wouldn’t last long. Sure, she could apply for unemployment, but that could take months to come through. Meanwhile, the thought of looking for another job made both her head and her stomach ache. She needed time to relax, recoup, regroup, and decompress. Maybe take a little vacation. A beach or a spa would be ideal. She’d start job-hunting when summer was over.

  Her father had proved less than sympathetic to her plans. He’d given her a week—a week!—to get her act together, and it was already Wednesday. Would he follow through on his threat to kick her out if she didn’t at least make an effort to look for work?

  “I’m working on my tan,” she’d told him defiantly, tossing her pillow to the floor and climbing out of bed, deciding she should at least get out of her pajamas. It was almost noon, and the backyard awaited.

  She checked her phone for messages, but there was still nothing from Noah, and her only emails were from a Calvin Klein outlet store and Walmart, both of which she sent directly to Trash. “Shit.” She’d hoped that Noah would have come to his senses by now. Not that she would be so quick to take him back—she’d decided to let him squirm for a while—but still…

  There was a knock on her bedroom door.

  “Shit,” she said again, her head collapsing toward her chest.

  “Heather?” her mother called. “Are you up?”

  “Yes, Mother. Just heading into the shower.”

  “Well, when you’re done, your father would like to talk to you.”

  “Shit!” Heather said, louder this time.

  “What’s that?” her mother asked.

  “I said ‘sure thing.’ Give me ten minutes.”

  “We’ll be in the den.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll be there.” She listen
ed until her mother’s footsteps had disappeared down the hall before entering her bathroom and turning on the shower. “Shit,” she said again, sensing another lecture. She positioned her body directly under the torrent of hot water, repeating the word at the top of her lungs: “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!”

  * * *

  —

  “I was talking to Walt Simon,” her father was saying even before Heather entered the room. He was sitting, stiff-backed, feet crossed at the ankles, in one of two brown leather wing chairs in front of the large stone fireplace that took up most of the east wall. Her mother was sitting in the other, her feet similarly crossed. Both were dressed as if to go out, although Heather doubted they had anywhere to go. She probably should have put on something more substantial than white shorts and an off-the-shoulder top.

  “Who’s Walt Simon?” she asked, eyes traveling across the built-in bookshelves lining the other walls. Had anybody actually read any of these books? she wondered.

  “He’s my bank manager.”

  Heather waited, wondering what this had to do with her.

  “I told him about you, and asked if they were hiring. Apparently they are.”

  “What kind of job are we talking about?” Heather asked.

  “They need tellers. Of course, you’d have to interview…”

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “What don’t you understand?”

  “Why you think I’d be interested in a job as a fucking teller.”

  “Heather, really!” her mother said. “Your language!”

  “Bev, please,” her father said, his face turning a dangerous shade of red. “I’ll handle this.”

  “Handle what? Me?” Heather shifted from one bare foot to the other, wishing her father would have a heart attack and die. First, he’d given her all of one week to get her act together, and now he was telling her he’d found her a job. As a teller, for fuck’s sake. “I can find my own job, thank you very much.”

  “Can you? I don’t see you trying very hard.”