The Never Never Sisters

by L. Alison Heller

  “What’s her deal?”

  He looked confused. “Her deal?”

  “You meet with a lot of people who suspect their spouses of cheating, right?”

  “Among other things.”

  “So, presumably they’re feeling unattractive and undesirable, and then they’re greeted by someone who looks like she moonlights at a Vogue photo shoot?”

  “Who cares about their feelings? What about me? It’s a tough market, and I’ve got to stand out any way I can.”

  “Seriously?”

  He ducked his head conspiratorially. “I’ve sort of made it my niche, having employees who look as though they moonlight as models. So what if they can’t file and don’t know the databases? I met Annie, actually, when I was waiting outside the tents during Fashion Week. It’s true I’d been there five hours before someone would actually talk to me, but I knew that if I stared down enough of them, I’d nab one. In an ideal world, she’d dress like a Robert Palmer’s girl every day, but unfortunately she insists on a casual Tuesday. Which is today.” He crossed his arms and settled against the couch. “Bummer, right?”

  A silence passed between us.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Yes. I’m kidding. And she’s a fashion designer, by the way. Very talented, but her ship hasn’t come in, so I’m employing her in the meantime. But I can tell her to wear a Groucho Marx disguise for those clients you’re so worried about.”

  “I think it would make them feel better.”

  “I have to tell you, Paige. You’re the first client to make this point.”

  “Maybe I’m just the most honest.”

  He sipped his coffee.

  “Where were we before your whole Robert Palmer song and dance?”

  “I was about to tell you what’s tricky with this.”

  “Everything. I feel like I’m looking for why he would lie as much as the about what.”

  “Well, that, sure, but from a practical point of view, there are corporate considerations. We’ll need information from his employer, which will be difficult to get.”

  “How would you recommend getting past that?”

  “There are things we can do. Not a guarantee, just fact gathering.”

  “Like?”

  “Off the top of my head, putting a recording device in his office at home or looking around in there. Let me think about it and come up with a plan that doesn’t, you know, obviously run afoul of the law.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you have any sense of what this is about?”

  “He seems really distracted by this ongoing financial scandal. He’s a loyal person and his clients are bankers, and although I’m probably imagining things, I’ve been wondering about whether his allegiance to his firm would—” I didn’t want to say it out loud.

  “Do something that could get him in trouble.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “That doesn’t seem to fit to me,” said Percy. “Why would they suspend him for that? I think they’d just fire him.”

  “Maybe he didn’t do something big, but was peripherally associated with something that went bad?”

  “Like how?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And you’re sure you want to know?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A lot of times, the feds don’t even arrest people. They don’t have enough information; they’re waiting for bigger fish. So what if you find out something, and then it’s just between the two of you. Is it worth it to know?”

  “I want to know. So just keep in mind that whatever it is might involve some sort of insider trading issues.”

  “Okay. And you want me to help you?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m pretty booked up this week with all our runway shows.”

  I sighed. “You’re hilarious.”

  “But I’ll make some time. How about we talk again on”—he paused, pencil lifted in the air—“Tuesday? We can meet, go over a proposal. . . .” He trailed off. “You’re going to go crazy waiting, right?”

  “Not at all.” I was relieved to have some days to consider the next move. “Tuesday is perfect.”

  Sloane had asked me to call her when we were done, so I dialed her cell phone as I walked to work.

  “That’s great!” She sounded a little too thrilled. “Good for you.”

  “Sure, I guess.”

  “What are you doing tomorrow? We can get together and strategize.”

  I had, as usual, wide stretches of availability, but Sloane’s enthusiasm chilled me a little, as if someone had yanked the shades up and sounded the alarm when I was used to waking naturally. “I have plans with Mom tomorrow,” I lied. “Any interest?”

  “No. Thank. You.” She said each word like a schoolmarm.

  “So Saturday, then? Breakfast at Vanessa and Frank’s.”

  “Right.” She barely stifled a yawn. “Catch you then.”

  chapter twenty-one

  EVEN THOUGH HELENE had left me a confirmation voice mail, I didn’t expect either of them to show up for their eleven thirty appointment. I’d had couples storm out of my office before—it was the nature of the business—but Scott Jacoby’s exit had felt more desperate than angry, as though he wanted to stay but couldn’t find a good enough reason.

  I halfheartedly waited and occupied myself with my latest project, an article for Healthy Marriage! about ways to reconnect. It was my first assignment for them and the whole thing felt trite, but I’d just read an article in a trade magazine, the gist being that today’s marketplace demanded you get your name out there. Now, Healthy Marriage! Tomorrow, the morning shows!

  It was harder than it sounded, distilling what I practiced into sound bites. For a minute, I blinked in time with the cursor while gathering my thoughts, then wrote:

  Ways to Reconnect

  1. Plan activities. Divide up a weekend: Saturday one person chooses what to do and on Sunday, the other one gets to! Keep an open mind and remember: the most important thing is to share the experience, even if it’s something you end up laughing at later!

  2. Bath time. Dim the lights, play soft music, draw a bath to take together. Bubbles optional.

  3. Something else.

  4. Another one.

  5. These are horrible. Have Dave and I ever done anything remotely like this? No. We took a bath that one time at the bed-and-breakfast upstate, the one with that gassy dog stretched out in front of the fireplace, but we barely fit in the tub. Dave’s legs kept knocking against the side. Hardly a recipe for reconnection.

  6. How about this one? Catch your husband in a lie. A harmless, seemingly meaningless lie.

  7. What does he do each day? How is he filling the hours? If you sit down with a pen and paper, you can’t reconstruct more than thirty minutes of your husband’s schedule, which is something you’ve never thought about before. At least sixty hours per week are unaccounted for—most of his waking time.

  8. You could ask him to account for it—not every minute, just to the half hour, but you’d sound like a loon. And even if he agreed to answer the most detailed questions, would you ever be satisfied with the response? Trust issues. That’s what you’d say if a client babbled all of this nonsense. You’ve never realized before why that might make a client respond, “No shit, Sherlock.”

  9. Shelve all those heavy thoughts and meet random guy. A cute one, whose eyes are so sparkly they drive you to star metaphors.

  10. Flirt with same guy. Yes, flirt. Call it like it happened. (Admiration of how he looks in jeans) + (the giddiness of well-timed sarcasm) = Flirtation. Normally, you’d be scrolling through your contacts to fix him up with someone. Funny. You haven’t done that yet.

  11. Without your husban
d’s knowledge, ask that same guy—the one you’re not about to fix up with anyone else—to help you find out if your husband is lying to you.

  12. Ah, you’ve really set it up perfectly now, haven’t you? Just you and Mr. Sparkly-Eyed Comedian, putting your heads together on a very secret project. What could be inappropriate about that scenario?

  13. Retire your remaining dignity! Retire your remaining—

  When my phone rang, I jumped to pick it up.

  “When are you coming out?”

  “Lucy!”

  “Wow. I’m touched by that reaction.”

  “I’m excited to hear from you. Where are you?”

  “At the beach. You?”

  “Work.”

  “Watcha doing?”

  “Writing an article on ways to reconnect with your spouse. For Healthy Marriage!”

  “Healthy Marriage!” She gasped. “What a coup! No, seriously. Did you make that up, or is that a real magazine?”

  “I think it’s mainly for waiting rooms.”

  “Read me one of your tips.”

  “All right, here goes. Number one: Plan activities together.”

  “Brilliant!”

  “Yeah. It’s a little pat.”

  “Here’s how you stay together: you get over whatever it is that’s driving a wedge between you.”

  “Consider yourself quoted in Healthy Marriage!”

  “Fine, but obviously I need to talk to my agent first. What’s their circulation—about three billion?”

  “I’m intrigued, Luce. You’re saying whatever the problem is in a marriage, people should—”

  “Act like grown-ups and work out your problems without involving the rest of us.”

  “Are you thinking of anyone in particular?”

  “Yes. My father and Meryl. And, yes, I’m aware they’re my hosts and I should be gracious, but I would prefer for them not to fight in front of the rest of us.”

  “Give me an example.”

  “Like the other day, my dad told Meryl he was on the phone with his brother, but Meryl checked his phone and it turned out he was on with my mom.”

  “His ex-wife.”

  “Right, and Meryl got all mad, and he said that was why he didn’t tell her, and in the process they dragged us all into it.”

  “So you wouldn’t have a problem if Jeff lied to you?”

  “Not about something like that, no.”

  “Hmm. What if Meryl found a bloody knife out behind the shed?”

  “Who are you treating—Agatha Christie characters? At this point, I’d advise her to wash it off and return it to the kitchen.”

  “No, seriously, though. I have a client now who’s mad because her husband lied about something that happened at work. A corporate malfeasance type of thing.”

  “Do you have to decide whether to turn him in?”

  “No, that’s only if he’s going to hurt someone. This is like a minor thing. Victimless.” I realized that wasn’t strictly true, but it sounded better than the alternative.

  “Tell her that you can’t be together for so long and share everything with one hundred percent accuracy. It’s just not possible. Ask her if she’s ever kept anything from him. I’m sure she has.”

  “I suppose.” The security buzzer rang, and I glanced toward the monitor’s aerial downward view of the Jacobys, their blurry black-and-white images clustered together as they waited for the door to unlock. I couldn’t be sure given the graininess of the image, but it appeared as though they were holding hands. Still squinting at them, I told Lucy my clients were there and I’d call her back soon.

  Once in my office, Scott considered the nearly empty candy jar.

  “I’ll refill it.” I poured in some Hershey’s Kisses and offered the open jar to them.

  Scott reached in and pulled out a Kiss and when Helene declined, I surprised myself by reaching in, unpeeling one and popping it in my mouth. It had been four years since I’d instituted the candy jar. Four years and this, I realized, was my first indulgence. It was delicious. “So”—I tucked the Kiss into the side of my mouth and tried to sound professional—“you guys seem different. What am I picking up on?”

  “Nothing,” Helene said. “This is just us, how we usually are. I mean, how we were.”

  “Scott? Last time, you seemed rather unhappy.”

  “I’m fine,” Scott said. He started to clam up again, fiddling with his watch strap instead of making eye contact. I wished, as I had before in this office, that I could open people like doors—bend them at the hinges to see what’s inside, close them back up without disruption.

  “You seem not so fine.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can you walk me through what happened in between last week and this week?”

  “I got tired.” Scott finally locked into my gaze. “Of being mad. It’s so much easier when we get along.”

  “I understand. Your regular dynamic is comfortable for you.”

  “Nice reflection. Two points.” He smiled thinly.

  “You still feel the same—that you want to work on things between the two of you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I would press for you to really think about—and tell Helene—what you need, what you’re asking for. And the same for you, Helene.”

  “I read an article last week,” Helene said. “What do you think about journaling?”

  The Hersey’s Kiss had melted to a flat chocolate pad on the back of my tongue. I swallowed it whole before answering. “Journaling?”

  Under my desk, in my bag not ten feet away from Helene, was one of my mom’s journals. I had been reading them daily, casually. In slow or weak moments, I’d pull one out, try to decipher the chapters. I’d read it in my office, in a cab, lying in bed at the end of the day. Had Dave and I been talking as we normally did, I would have joked that my mom’s confessionals were my new Bible, but he had been too distracted to notice, and if I was truly honest, I wanted to keep them to myself.

  “Too pedestrian, right?” Helene frowned. “The article made it sound good—like there was something about the act of writing your truths that made it easier to communicate.”

  “I think it’s a great idea.”

  Scott managed a weak “Okay,” and for the rest of the session, Scott and I popped Hershey’s Kisses as the three of us set up ground rules for journaling. The Jacobys would alternate taking turns writing as much as they wanted, but they agreed to commit to two entries before we met again on the twentieth.

  “What should we write about?” Helene asked.

  “Anything you want,” I said, before remembering Pressman stroking his beard. “But if you need guidance, you could write something about trust. How you get to the point where you share that with someone. Is it earned or given? Is it static or kinetic? What does the word mean to you?”

  They ran a little over the hour, and when they left, I neatened up, collecting the tiny little scraps of foil Kiss wrappers for the trash, moving back the magazines and chairs.

  I didn’t have any more clients and had several hours left in the day before I wanted to go home, where, frankly, I was less comfortable than I was used to being. I returned behind the desk and stared at my computer monitor, at the joke of a “Ways to Reconnect” article. One by one, I deleted the ideas until there was nothing on the page but a blinking cursor.

  At a loss, I opened my mom’s notebook at random to a short entry. Just two words:

  I can’t.

  I can’t what, Mom?

  I dog-eared the page for later and returned to my keyboard.

  Ways to Reconnect

  1. Start a couple’s journal that you can pass back and forth between each other! Tell each other stories that you’ve never shared bef
ore.

  Somewhere out east, I was sure Lucy was gagging.

  chapter twenty-two

  I WAS BARELY paying attention later that afternoon as I turned my key in the lock and set down my bag in the hall. When my foot slipped on a piece of paper, I noticed an arrow drawn on it. It led me to another arrow, which led me to another. I followed them through the kitchen and out the swinging door to our little round table.

  Our cheese of the month had arrived. Dave had picked up the box downstairs, unwrapped all two pounds of it and set it rather nicely on a cheese plate I didn’t even know he’d been aware we had. He’d lit the tall candles on the table and was pouring something sparkling in our long flutes.

  “What is this?” I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful, but I felt like I’d walked into someone else’s life.

  “We have a d’Affinois.” Dave pointed in his best impression of a fancy waiter. “Prized for its top-to-bottom buttery creaminess. To its left, a cream-filled burrata, fresh from, drumroll please, the bucolic pastures of New Jersey, and finally, ma’am, to round out your palate, right over here, a sweet, tangy English Tickler cheddar from Devon. And do you have a library card?” He slid across the wood floor on his socks right up next to me. “Because, baby, I would love to check you out.”

  “Um, no.”

  He patted my head. “Yeah. I could do better. Let me think—”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “Are we celebrating something?”

  “How unbelievably great and understanding you’ve been for the past few weeks.”

  “Like when I dragged you to the fireworks?” If he was trying to make me feel guilty, it was working.

  He made a face. “Come on. You were trying to help.” I thought of his earlier accusation, that I was tone-deaf, selfish. I hadn’t disagreed. I still didn’t. “I made us reservations for next Saturday.”

  “Where?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  “Oh.” It struck me that I should hire an investigator more often; it was catnip for our marriage.

  “But it’s somewhere really good. I had to, you know”—he made a mock-sinister face and rubbed his thumbs against his fingers, humming “Money, Money, Money”—“to secure it all. So—save the date.”