The First Time

by Joy Fielding

  “Look, about the conference in April—” Jake began.

  “I’m sure we can work something out, Jake, even if it means putting off the partnership deal for another year.”

  “I’m sure I can rearrange my schedule.” Jake cleared his throat, coughed into his hand. “There’s no reason Mattie and I couldn’t take our trip in May or June.”

  “Of course, that would be wonderful,” Frank agreed, the muscles in his face relaxing, although his eyes remained on the alert for a renewed outburst.

  “And I’ll get in touch with Tom Maclean. I’m sure there’s a way we can work something out.”

  “He’s waiting to hear from you,” Frank said, as if there’d never been any doubt.

  Jake took a deep breath, forced a smile onto his lips. “Thank you,” he said, although he wasn’t sure what he was thanking the older man for. Probably for putting things back into their proper perspective, he thought, stepping into the corridor.

  “Thank you for stopping by,” Frank said. “Please convey our heartfelt good wishes to your wife.”

  “Shit, goddamn, son of a bitch, shit!” Jake was muttering as he strode past his secretary. What the hell was he supposed to do now? How was he supposed to tell Mattie their trip was off, even temporarily? Was there anything he could say to soften the blow, to ease her disappointment? What could he tell her? That it was beyond his control? That there were mitigating circumstances? That there was nothing to prevent them from going in May? Surely one month wouldn’t make that much difference. Surely Mattie would understand the impossible predicament she’d put him in. Not that it had been her intention to derail his career. But that’s precisely what was happening. And just because he’d agreed to participate in this continuing pretense of a marriage didn’t mean he’d agreed to forfeit everything he’d worked so hard for all these years. It was time to regain his perspective, time to put his life back on track. Make-believe could only take you so far. Eventually you had to return to the real world. Mattie would simply have to understand.

  “Cynthia Broome is waiting—” his secretary said, following after Jake. “In your office,” she continued, as the woman smiled up at Jake from her chair in front of his desk.

  Jake felt his breath catch in his lungs.

  “Can I get you another cup of coffee, Ms. Broome?” the secretary asked.

  “No, thank you.”

  “I’m right outside if you change your mind.” Jake’s secretary made a quick exit, pulling the door shut after her.

  Jake stared at the small woman in front of his large desk as she rose from her chair, her red curls all but swamping her round face, the collar of her white silk shirt half in, half out of her navy blazer. What was she doing here?

  “Planning a trip?” Honey asked, motioning toward the brochures on Jake’s desk. “I’ve heard of the Hotel Danielle. It’s supposed to be quite wonderful.”

  “Honey, what the hell is going on? What are you doing here?”

  Honey’s face flashed embarrassment, shame, defiance, hope, in quick equal measures. “I wanted to see you. I couldn’t think of any other way.”

  “Who the hell is Cynthia Broome?”

  “She’s the heroine of my novel.”

  Jake smiled, took a step toward her, stopped short, his body swaying into the space between them. “I’m sorry I haven’t called all week.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “It’s been frantic around here.”

  “I understand. I know how busy you are.”

  “How’ve you been?” Jake asked.

  “Fine. You?”

  “Fine.”

  Honey laughed awkwardly. “Listen to us. Next thing you know, we’ll be talking about the weather.”

  “Honey—”

  “Jason,” she said, smiling self-consciously.

  Jake flinched at the sound of his given name. “You look great.”

  “I’ve been going to the gym every day, hoping I’d run into you.”

  “I haven’t been to the gym in ages. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I think I’ve lost a few pounds.” Honey tried to laugh, but the weak sound slid into more of a cry. “I’ve missed you so much, Jason.”

  “I’ve missed you too.”

  “Have you?”

  Had he? Jake wondered. The truth was, he’d pushed her so far into the recesses of his mind that he’d barely thought of her all week.

  Honey brushed her unruly mop of red hair away from her face. “I’ve been thinking of cutting it all off,” she said.

  “Don’t do it.”

  “I don’t know. I think it’s time for a change.”

  “I love your hair.”

  “I love you,” she told him, tears filling her eyes. “Damn it, I promised myself I wasn’t going to do this.” She pushed the tears aside, took a deep breath, smiled her crooked smile, and stuck a defiant finger up her nose. “How’s that?” she asked.

  “Much better.”

  They laughed softly. “I could really use a hug,” she said.

  “Honey—”

  “Just a little one. Just enough to let me know you’re not some figment of my imagination, like Cynthia Broome.”

  What would be the harm? Jake wondered, taking her in his arms.

  “God, I’ve missed this,” she whispered, lifting her face toward him, her lips begging to be kissed.

  She felt so awkward in his arms, Jake realized. Short while Mattie was tall. Round where Mattie was firm. Plump where Mattie was flat. He wasn’t used to holding her anymore. He wasn’t used to having to contort his body to accommodate hers. Mattie was a much more natural fit, he thought, pulling Honey closer to him, as if trying to squeeze Mattie out of his mind.

  “I love you,” Honey said again.

  Jake knew she was waiting for him to say the same thing, that her declaration of love was really a request to hear it from him. Why couldn’t he say it? He loved Honey, didn’t he? Hadn’t he left his wife and daughter for her? He’d only returned home because Mattie was gravely ill. He’d only agreed not to see Honey as a way of keeping Mattie happy, because not seeing one allowed him to concentrate on the other. He had every intention of returning to Honey as soon as this whole awful mess was over. Didn’t he?

  Didn’t he?

  What was the matter with him? Not only had he almost deep-sixed his career, but if he wasn’t careful, he’d lose Honey as well, and all because he’d almost let a little game of let’s-pretend get perilously out of hand. Just as his visit with Frank had been a wake-up call, Honey’s unexpected appearance as Cynthia Broome was a reminder to him of everything he could lose if he allowed the extended charade he’d been playing to get the better of him.

  He looked down at Honey, staring at him expectantly through gold-flecked brown eyes, still moist with tears. She’d been so patient, so understanding. And she felt so good, he thought, kissing her firmly on the lips, his hands grasping her buttocks, as he imagined the pliant flesh beneath the harsh denim of her jeans.

  “Oh, Jason. Jason,” she was moaning, her hands reaching under his jacket, tugging at his shirt. “Lock the door,” she said, pulling her own blouse free of her blue jeans, planting his hands on her breasts, kissing him again and again, her hungry mouth threatening to swallow him whole. “Lock the door, Jason,” she urged, guiding him toward the sofa at the end of the room.

  It would be so easy, Jake thought. Lock the door, tell his secretary he wasn’t to be disturbed for anyone. Not his partners, not his clients, not his wife.

  His wife, Jake thought as Honey’s tongue slid between his open lips. Could he really do this to Mattie? Wasn’t it enough he was about to break his promise regarding their trip to Paris? Did he have to break her heart as well?

  God, Mattie, it was never my intention to make you feel bad.

  I don’t give a shit about your intentions. What I want is your passion. What I want is your loyalty. What I want is your love.

  How would she ever know? Jake wond
ered, kissing the tears from Honey’s eyes, then pulling back, seeing Mattie’s eyes staring back at him from Honey’s face.

  Mattie would know, he understood. She would know the way she always did.

  “I can’t,” he said, his hands falling helplessly to his sides.

  “Jason, please—”

  “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  Honey said nothing, her lower lip quivering as her eyes restlessly circled the room.

  Jake leaned forward, buried his face in Honey’s soft red curls, the texture of her thick hair so different from Mattie’s, whose hair was finer, silkier. The unmistakable odor of stale cigarettes filled his nostrils. “I thought you’d given up smoking,” he said quietly.

  “I can only give up so many things at once,” Honey told him, her voice an uneasy mix of resignation and tears. “Besides, I read this report. They took two hundred people, a hundred of whom smoked and a hundred who didn’t. And guess what? They all died.”

  Jake smiled. It was good to see her. He really had missed her.

  “Speaking of the dead, how’s Mattie doing?” Honey gasped, closed her eyes, shook her head, jabbed her hands into the air in frustration. “I can’t believe I said that. Please forgive me, Jason. I didn’t mean to say that. I don’t know what came over me. I’m so sorry. God, that was awful. How could I say such a horrible thing?”

  “It’s okay,” Jake tried to reassure her, although his head was spinning. How could she have said anything so insensitive? “I know you didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

  “Do you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. Because to be perfectly honest,” Honey admitted, tears once again filling her large brown eyes, “I’m not so sure.”

  “What?”

  “I’m scared, Jason. Something awful is happening to me.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I. That’s what scares me.”

  “Are you feeling all right?”

  “This has nothing to do with my health,” Honey snapped. “Not everyone is suffering from a fatal disease, Jason. God, there I go again. Listen to me. I’m turning into some sort of monster.”

  “You’re not a monster.”

  “No? What am I? I’m spending all my time waiting for someone to die, praying for someone to die.”

  Jake said nothing. What could he say?

  “Do you have any idea what it’s like to go to bed every night hoping you’ll call me in the morning to tell me Mattie is dead? God, sometimes I really hate myself.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m so afraid of losing you.”

  “You’re not going to lose me,” Jake said, surprised by how unconvincing he sounded, even to himself.

  “I’m losing you already.” Honey walked back to Jake’s desk, lifted the Paris brochures into her hands. “April in Paris. What a lovely romantic idea. When were you planning to tell me about it? Or were you just going to drop me a postcard?”

  “It was just an idea. It doesn’t look like we’ll be going after all.”

  Honey dropped the brochures back onto his desk. “I’m jealous, Jason. I’m actually jealous of a dying woman.”

  “There’s no reason to be jealous. You know why I went home. You agreed.”

  “I agreed to stay in the background. I never agreed to disappear.” She shook her head, red curls flying about her face. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

  “Please, Honey. If you could just bear with me a little while longer.”

  “Are you sleeping with her?”

  “What?”

  “Are you sleeping with your wife?”

  Jake looked helplessly around the room, a sudden headache gathering force behind his temples. This was worse than the altercation in the restaurant, worse than his meeting with Frank. “I can’t abandon her, Honey. You know that.”

  “That’s not what I’m asking you, Jason.”

  “I know.”

  Jake waited for Honey to ask the question again, but she didn’t. Instead she smiled her crooked smile, wiped the tears away from her eyes, and tucked her blouse back into the waist of her jeans. Then she straightened her shoulders, took a deep breath, and walked to the door.

  “Honey—” he called after her. But she was already gone.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Mattie sat at her kitchen table, a French textbook open in front of her, staring out the sliding glass door into the backyard. She’d been sitting this way for over half an hour, she realized, glancing over at the two clocks on the other side of the room. It was amazing how much time could be spent doing absolutely nothing—not moving, not speaking, barely breathing. It wasn’t so bad, she decided, trying to project ahead to a time when such stillness would no longer be voluntary, when she would be forced to spend hours, days, weeks, months, possibly even years, unable to move, unable to speak, barely able to breathe. “Oh, God,” she sighed, panic building in her chest. She would never let that happen.

  But the inescapable fact was that every day she felt weaker, as if her muscles had developed a slow leak, like tires infested with tiny nails, and each day she lost more energy along the side of the road. When she walked, she pulled her legs along as if she were dragging heavy steel girders. As for her hands, there were days Mattie felt she lacked the strength to make a simple fist. Sometimes Mattie found it hard to swallow, harder to catch her breath. Increasingly, pens dropped from uncooperative fingers, buttons remained open, sentences unfinished, food untouched.

  She tried to keep optimistic by reminding herself of recent medical miracles. Using genetic manipulation, a scientist in Montreal had reported being able to slow the progression of Lou Gehrig’s disease by 65 percent in laboratory mice. Now that they had the target gene, scientists were screening for drugs that would activate this gene in order to get it to produce more of the protein needed to slow the disease. But Mattie knew that no matter how fast the scientists worked, they would be too late. At least for her. “Just give me Paris,” she said quietly, returning her attention to the French textbook on the table.

  How would she manage in Paris? she wondered, as the pages slipped through her fingers, and she found herself back on page one. Would she be able to navigate the charming cobblestone streets of the Latin Quarter? How would she manage the mountain of stairs at Montmartre? How much energy would she have for the magnificent treasures of the Louvre, the Grand Palais, the Quay d’Orsay? Would the time difference affect her? Would she be plagued by jet lag? What about the long plane ride over? Lisa had already warned her that the shifting of oxygen levels in the plane might cause her some increased discomfort. Would she be able to cope?

  She’d be fine, Mattie assured herself. Jake had bought her a cane, and she’d agreed to a wheelchair at the airports in both Chicago and France. She had sleeping pills and Riluzole and her trusty bottle of morphine. She’d rest when she got tired. She wouldn’t be too proud to say she’d had enough. Maybe she’d even get herself one of those motorized tricycles Lisa had told her about, race through the streets of Paris on one of those.

  The phone rang.

  Mattie debated letting voice mail pick it up, decided she’d better answer in case it was Kim or Jake. Mattie barely saw her daughter these days—when Kim wasn’t at school, she was at her grandmother’s, tending to her new puppy until he was old enough to be separated from his mother. As for Jake—something had been troubling him the last few weeks, Mattie knew, wondering if and when he’d tell her what it was. “Better answer it,” Mattie said out loud, struggling to her feet and slowly dragging herself across the room to the phone. “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Hart?”

  “Speaking.” The woman’s voice on the other end of the line was unfamiliar.

  “This is Ruth Kertzer, from Tony Graham’s office at Richardson, Buckley and Lang.”

  Mattie fought to keep the barrage of names in line. Why would someone from her husband’s firm be calling her? Had something happened to Jake? />
  “Mr. Graham is in charge of coordinating the dinners that some of the partners will be hosting during the international lawyers’ convention in Chicago next month, and he wanted me to clear a couple of possible dates with you.”

  “I’m sorry?” What on earth was this woman talking about? “I’m afraid I’m not following you.”

  “Mr. Graham thought it would be a nice gesture if we had a number of small dinner parties in people’s homes, say twelve or fourteen people, instead of a larger, more formal affair at a restaurant or hotel. We have your husband’s name down as a host for one of the dinners. The firm is covering all expenses, of course. Did your husband forget to mention any of this to you?”

  Apparently, Mattie thought, wondering if this was what had been troubling Jake. How was she going to cope with twelve to fourteen strangers in her house? Oh, well, as long as she didn’t have to cook, she’d manage somehow. Truth be told, she was a little flattered. In the past Jake had always shied away from bringing her into firm functions. That Jake thought her capable of handling such an event at this particular time made her feel happy, even optimistic. “When exactly is all this scheduled to take place?”

  “The convention is from April fourteenth through April twentieth. The nights in question are—”

  “That’s impossible. We’ll be away from April tenth till the twenty-first.”

  “You’ll be away? But Mr. Hart is leading one of the seminars.”

  “What?” Mattie bit down on her lower lip. “No, that’s impossible.”

  “I spoke to him myself just the other day,” Ruth Kertzer said.

  “Um, listen, there’s obviously some sort of mixup here. Can I get back to you on this?”

  “Certainly.”

  Mattie hung up the phone without saying goodbye. What was going on? Jake hadn’t mentioned anything about a convention in April, and they’d been actively planning their trip to Paris for months. There had to be some mistake. Don’t get upset, she urged herself, feeling her heartbeat quicken. The stupid woman obviously had her dates mixed up. The convention was probably not till May, or quite possibly not till April of next year. Didn’t they usually plan these things years in advance? No way Jake was going to renege on his promise to accompany her to Paris, especially now that the trip was mere weeks away. No, Jake would never do that to her.