by AB Plum
“I’m so glad to be of service to other unsuspecting walkers.” Why make an effort to stem the sarcasm?
“Can I—can I pay to have your trousers cleaned?” Something trembles in her voice—anxiety?—fear? Embarrassment at the very least?
My mouth twists. My fingers flex into fists. One between her eyes—
The dog growls.
“Bruno, hush.”
The brute obeys, but the hair on his back doesn’t lie down.
“I keep extra suits at the office—for just such accidents.” Two alphas, the dog and I eye each other without blinking.
In the other parking lot, the friend mounts his bike. Dammit. In a hurry to reach my car, I soften my tone. “Thank you for stopping.”
“You’re welcome. Isn’t he, Bruno?”
Bruno thumps his tail on the sidewalk but never lets me out of his sight.
“Have a good day.” I hope you step in dog shit up to your ankles. I bow a fraction of an inch. Women of all ages, I have learned, like men to bow.
The gesture is, after all, a sign of our low status.
Chapter 8
SHE
On the remote chance Michael does control the universe, I roar out of the bank’s parking lot and speed off in the opposite direction of John’s route home. A sense of dread strobes in my stomach.
Please, please let Tracy charm my husband until John makes his escape.
And then what? John can’t escape forever. From this moment on, his life will go to hell.
A horn behind me beeps. I jerk. My breath catches. I squeeze my eyes shut and grip the steering wheel. Oh, God. Not Michael. How could he know where I went?
Another beep—too short, too patient for my CEO-husband. A glance in the rearview mirror slows my jangled thoughts. The driver in a car I don’t recognize wiggles her fingers. Like a robot in need of maintenance, I check traffic from all directions at the roundabout, then ease forward. I’d give anything for a glass of wine. My nerves buzz so intensely I almost miss the other car whipping right. I pull to the curb, turn off the ignition and open my window.
Fresh air drifts across my sweaty face. Sunshine filters through the limbs of the old oaks lining both sides of this quiet, picture-perfect street straight out of a homes and gardens magazine. Almost every yard boasts beds of papery white and yellow and orange Oriental poppies. The fragile blossoms contradict the perennials’ hardiness and durability. In rainy years and droughts, the plants thrive.
The scene mesmerizes a part of me. The poppies issue a challenge. Hold on to hope. Hold on for the sake of the children. Hold on for Dad—lost in his Alzheimer’s world. Focus on what will happen to the four of them if I wither away.
A stiff breeze blows dust up from the sidewalk and scatters dozens of the wispy blossoms. Spots of white and yellow and orange dip and rise, dip and rise, dip then crash to the ground. The years of living with Michael lurch into my mind.
A snake invaded the Garden of Eden. Who can guess what serpents lurk inside these vintage houses? Who can predict what fears erupt when night blots out day? Who can imagine what monsters hide under a terrified mother’s bed?
An icy finger skates down my arms, into my wrists, across my clammy palms. They slip on the steering wheel. God, there’s no way I can drive. I lay my head back, close my eyes and focus on relaxing my piano-wire neck muscles. Michael scoffs at meditation. He has forbidden teaching any relaxation techniques to any of our three children—but especially to Magnus.
Stress lies around every corner of every-day life, AnnaSophia. Stress is natural. Stress makes us stronger.
Over time, Michael’s condescending sermonettes have failed to make me stronger. My constantly tight chest and blinding headaches and fear of passing out don’t feel natural. Inside, I’m a wreck. Outside, if I take a few breaths and practice yoga daily, and fill my wine glass only once at dinner, I often lower the anxiety.
Jogging, swimming, karate, horseback riding, and skiing top Michael’s stress-busters. He expects all three children to follow his example.
His example. Not mine. Never mine. End of discussion. The old pain and powerlessness and humiliation well up from the pit of my stomach. My eyelids sting. I dig the heels of my hands into my eyes. In fifteen years of marriage to Michael Andrei Romanov, I have learned one hard lesson—tears solve nothing.
Inhale. John’s low, gentle instruction echoes in my pounding ears. Breathe. No tears. No hysterics. Exhale the fear. Exhale the past. Let go. Inhale. Focus on the here and now.
The mantra eases the stiffness in my neck. My chest relaxes. The knot in my stomach loosens. I sit there a while longer and allow myself to daydream about the upcoming sixty minutes. Sixty minutes when I’ll be able to forget—without even trying—this morning.
You’ll get caught. Someone will recognize you. He’ll find out.
Hiking three miles across the Stanford campus to Gilman Hall sends blood zinging into my brain. The exhilaration of being in such a magical place almost blocks the mental harpies sneering at my deception.
Oversized, dark glasses obscure my face. A long-brimmed baseball cap covers my hair. Yoga pants and a baggy, red Stanford sweatshirt ensure I blend in. Or even belong here.
The disguise should stop the obsessive worry about being recognized that ripples down my spine. But every time I approach the lecture hall, my legs wobble and my throat constricts. Three hundred students—most of them pre-med—show up each Tuesday and Thursday for the human behavioral biology class I’m enrolled in under a fake identity.
Not fake. My undergrad transcript is legitimate. The name on the transcript is misleading, but not fake. No one would ever associate my chosen alias with Michael Romanov’s renowned rep. I stand in the open doorway and visualize the modern, well-lighted hall. I never sit in the same place. I always claim one of the outside aisle seats no higher than the lower two tiers front entrance into the lecture hall. Anyone sitting near me must think I’m a snob or a mute or a snobbish mute. I have never spoken to a single student. Naturally, I don’t attend the study sessions. When I jog out of the building, I speed back to the yoga location and stow the biology syllabus in my locker. Parking three miles away from campus is my final precaution.
One week into the class and I dare say with ninety-nine percent certainty that Michael doesn’t have a clue. Someday, I will tell him what he gets for the exorbitant fee he pays to monitor my GPS. Money really means nothing to some people.
Professor Ari Hoffman stands at the lectern chatting with a knot of students. Bearded, with long, messy, black hair, he’s a magnet. A Pied Piper. A blazing sun. Students circle his orbit. Head down, I sidle past them and take a seat at the far right of the dais.
What I’d give to push into the group, rip off my sunglasses, snatch off my baseball cap and announce, “TA DAAAH, Ari. It’s me. AnnaSophia.”
Sitting down and taking out my laptop, I indulge in fantasy.
“AnnaSophia. What are you doing here? Where have you been? Why did you leave without a goodbye?”
“It’s a long story, Ari. But I’ve followed your career.”
Not every step of the way. I boot up my laptop. But when Ari was named a MacArthur Fellow five years ago, I debated sending him a congratulatory email. Maybe Michael read my mind. Around that time, his jealousy and meltdowns skyrocketed. He read the news. And he knew, of course, Ari and I had forged a friendship in the first days of undergrad school at the University of Minnesota. We’d even enjoyed fun in bed—until I met Edward.
The lights in the lecture hall go down. A video comes up on the screen. The smells of garlic, sweat, and citrusy perfumes pour off three hundred young, eager bodies. An undercurrent of excitement and curiosity escalates. Blinking tears, I lean forward in my seat as if to catch some of the brainwaves vibrating around me. These kids understand the biology of the brain with a depth I’ll never attain. They swim in the deep end of the pool. I dog paddle in the shallow end. I grimace at my lame joke.
Sometimes, when
my inner harpies hit below the belt, I think I must be crazy.
Only a crazy, middle-aged med-school drop-out would dare dream of finishing her M.D.
The sixty minutes of lecture, video, and questions speed by like six seconds. The ideas raised in this room will someday change the world of medicine. Electricity arcs around me. Jolts into me. Fires neurons and synapses so fast my head spins. Literally.
I long to hang around after class—just once—to eavesdrop on the non-stop discussion. Just as the temptation begins to feel logical, my cell phone vibrates. My reminder to pick up my SUV and go home. I gnaw my bottom lip. The eighteen-thousand square-foot mausoleum where I reside mocks the word home.
Michael’s Folly, as I think of our humble abode, belongs in the category of prison. Lunch there with my son in one corner of the restaurant-sized kitchen, though, is sacrosanct.
Should I miss eating with Magnus—should I arrive home two minutes late for our noon-day ritual, I know from experience what will happen. I shove my laptop into my backpack.
A call from Elise will make Michael’s theatrics this morning resemble a fairytale wedding. Depending on how much outrage he summons in retaliation for my lousy-mother attitude, I could have no other choice but to let him into my bed.
Chapter 9
HE
Goddammit. Goddammit. God . . . The reek of dog shit infuses the air around me and hangs over me like a black cloud as I cross the bank’s parking lot. Luckily for the friend, I don’t track him on foot. Exhaling through my mouth, I stop five feet from the Lamborghini.
Logically, the smell leaking from under my pants can’t penetrate car paint.
Having paid a cool four mil for my new phallic symbol, I have no intention of listening to logic. I keep my distance from the car and punch an icon on my cell phone.
“Yes, Mr. Romanov?” The concierge at my penthouse sounds as if he has waited for a phone call from me for days. “How may I help you?”
“I’m in front of the Mountain View Chamber of Commerce. I need a ride immediately to the penthouse.”
“I’ll have Enrique there in five minutes, Mr. Romanov.”
“Excellent.” I hang up and place the next call. It also gets picked up on the first ring.
“Mr. Romanov, muy buenos días.”
“Al contrario, Enrique, hoy es un día muy malo.” A big part of why I employ Enrique Torres as my highest-paid EA is because, with the annual salary I shell out, he’s always upbeat.
“How may I help, Mr. Romanov?”
The dog shit smells even worse with the sun scalding my bare head. To hell with upbeat. I growl, “I need you to come pick up the Veneno.”
“S-s-sir?”
“You up for the job?” If I didn’t smell like a shit collector, I’d laugh. Enrique earns his handsome salary because he always shows discretion.
“Yessir.”
In thirty seconds, I give him the where-and-when facts he needs, adding, “Take the car to the penthouse. I should be ready to drive back to the office in twenty minutes.”
“Shall I wait in the garage or in the driveway?” His desire to stroke the fiery gold body vibrates in his voice.
“In the driveway. I’ll drive to the office. You’ll ride shotgun.” Why not make his very good day one of the best of his life?
My damned bad day will flip when the doorman and the concierge and everyone in the damn building inhales my post-shower bouquet as I stroll through the lobby and climb under the wheel smelling richer than a member of the royal family of Qatar. Not that I’d ever pay thirty-eight hundred bucks for a bar of soap—even one studded with diamonds. My soap—created by an elite Swiss chemist to enhance my pheromones—costs a tenth of the royal crap.
Jorge manages to drive me to the penthouse without gagging. He does exceed the speed limit by a steady eleven miles an hour. Jorge understands any city cop stopping us would pass out once the odor from the back seat hit him between the eyes.
Goddammit, what did that fucking cur put in his gut?
Resentment flares in my gut. Whatever the dog ate doesn’t matter. This whole damn fiasco falls on AnnaSophia’s head. If she gave me as much time as she bestows on her friend, I’d never have followed my hunch and tracked her down like a liar and an adulteress. Something between a snarl and a growl rips through the handkerchief mashed against my nose and mouth.
“Shall I increase the air, Mr. Romanov?” Jorge’s expensive Aviators hide his eyes, but I’m sure he’s gazing at a spot to the left of my head in the rearview mirror.
“Yes.” Despite air conditioning high enough to freeze my balls, the handkerchief and frustration threaten to suffocate me. Thank you, AnnaSophia, you cunt.
More air fails to reduce the stench, and the drive across 101 onto the private road to Moffett Field lasts a decade. Normally, I enjoy the spacious palm-lined boulevard, the spectacle of Hanger One to my right, the view of the Dumbarton Bridge to my left. Today, I might as well ride down a street in Watts.
Jorge sails past the 24/7 guard, follows my instructions, and enters the basement parking level. He stops in front of the penthouse elevator. He must set a world record for jumping out of a front seat and opening the passenger door. Back ramrod-straight, eyes in front of him, mouth tight, he could pass muster as an out-of-uniform USMC guard attached to the President.
“One more thing, Jorge.” The man earns beaucoup bucks for doing very little, but I palm him five C-notes—leaving unspoken my expectation of his lifelong silence.
He doesn’t even swallow. “Certainly, sir.”
The explanation takes five seconds, and he nods, smoothing a hand across his buzzed head. Smoothing his head, I suspect, instead of scratching it. My explanation must fall into the category of strange. Very Strange.
I step inside the Brazilian mahogany-paneled elevator and make a mental note to order it fumigated. The door glides shut.
The green garbage bag I requested from the concierge lies on the marble floor. On top of it, rests a pair of sweats and a box of clean wipes. I kick off my Guccis, shuck off my ruined suit pants, scrub my knee and thigh, and toss clothes and wipes into the bag, tie it and open the elevator. Jorge takes the bag as if he’s receiving a priceless gift.
Twenty minutes later, I wish I could thank the old woman and her dog for my inspiration. In the building’s grand lobby, the concierge speaks with just the right tone of deference. The doorman opens the front door with just the right amount of regard. The sun spills down on me, freshly bathed, shaved and dressed—ready to have a muy buenos días.
“Qué piensas, Enrique?” I grin and stand next to the Veneno’s open door, giving the doorman, the concierge, and the resident chef a moment longer to enjoy a car they can never hope to own.
“I think this car was made in heaven, Mr. Romanov.”
I laugh and slide behind the wheel. “Did any chiquitas give you their phone numbers?”
“No, but one asked to have my baby.”
We joke the two miles to Biologics Unleashed. Of course the twenty-something guard recognizes the CEO responsible for his monthly check. Slowing, I flash my badge and take a minute to sew some good will.
“Like the wheels, Tyler?”
“Let me know if you’re ever in the market to sell, Mr. Romanov.”
We laugh. Regular guys. Bonding over a car. Tyler will, I’m sure, swear what a regular, stand-up guy I am. I return my badge to my inside pocket. Bonding time over. Time to have some fun even though when the electronic gate goes up, I turn serious with Enrique.
“Meetings have me jammed up from now till dark. I need you to run some errands.”
“Anything, Mr. Romanov.”
“Call Nordstrom and ask my wife’s personal shopper to pick out a long black, designer coat. Price is no problem. Have them put the coat in a box and then ask for two more boxes the same size. Tell them to wrap the coat. Then, buy identical wrapping and tissue paper for the empty boxes.”
His black brows knit together in a slight fr
own, but he nods and asks no questions. His memory never fails. I pull into the biggest of my three reserved parking places and cut the Veneno’s engine. Short of stuffing a body in the empty boxes, he’ll do anything I say.
“Take one empty box to the penthouse and give it to Jorge. He’ll wrap it, return it to you. At two-thirty, you take that box to AnnaSophia with a card that says, Open Immediately. Leave before she does open it, but tell her to expect me home early tonight.”
Loving every minute of this game, I wiggle my eyebrows.
“Yessir.” Enrique maintains a tone as bland as instant oatmeal. He’s not accustomed to sexual innuendos from me about my wife. Another secret admirer of the cunt?
“After your delivery, return here. Stow the coat, empty box, and wrapping paper in the Benz’s trunk.”
His stone face gives nothing away, but I wait a beat, giving him time to digest my instructions. I could embroider them. Tell him he’s delivering an early birthday gift. Why?
Christ, what I’d give to see her face when she opens the classy Nordstrom box.
The stench from the green garbage bag will knock her over. I laugh at the imagined scene, catch Enrique eyeing me, and zip up my imagination.
“Se entiende todo?”
“Absoluatmente.” His tone—eager and enthusiastic—conveys his understanding.
“Bueno.” I step out of the car, smile, and swallow a rumbling laugh deep in my gut.
No way in hell does he understand, but his confusion works perfectly with my plan.
Chapter 10
SHE
Call John. Call John. Call John.
The chant takes up space in my head, auditioning with a rap band of drummers. Their rhythm picks up as I pull into the Wells Fargo parking lot too fast and stomp the brake.
Traffic on El Camino has made me late to drop off my “university gear.” Someday, someone is going to see me changing clothes and call the police.
Sitting on that quiet, Palo Alto residential cul-de-sac in a new Mercedes SUV registered to Michael Romanov, I won’t very well be able to use my student name with the Palo Alto cop, though I’ve imagined that scene.