The Other Woman

by Joy Fielding

  "Here, this should make you feel better," Beth announced, pulling what Jill assumed was another pill out of her purse, and putting it into her outstretched hand. Jill looked at her palm. Not pills. Instead she saw a plain white envelope addressed to herself in Beth Weatherby's backhand scrawl. "I thought you'd appreciate it," Beth said, giving her a sly smile and then moving over to join a small cluster of other wives who promptly shifted their bodies to admit her. Like an amoeba swallowing its prey, Jill thought, seeing Beth virtually disappear, and turned her attention to the letter in her hand. She tore open the envelope and pulled out its contents.

  The letter was to the point and neatly typed. Only her name had been written in by hand. She read it quickly and then read it again.

  Dear …

  Are you bored in bed? Tired of waking up every morning to the same assortment of grunts and smells and complaints? Do you miss the excitement of those bygone days when his heart was bigger than his bald spot?

  We know how you feel. We feel the same way. So we have devised a plan. Simply send your husband to the first name on the list below, cross that name off the list, and then add your ow^ name to the bottom. Then make copies of this letter and send it to five of your friends. Within six months, you will receive 40,000 husbands.

  But be careful—YOU MUST NOT BREAK THE CHAIN! Two years ago, Barbie Feldman broke the chain and not only has she been stuck with poor old Freddie ever since, but her GE toaster-oven broke down and she was raped by her Maytag repairman! We don't want this to happen to you!

  Why take a chance on misfortune? Come on—it beats ironing shirts. Just send your husband and add your name. Then do a favor for five of your friends. DO NOT BREAK THE CHAIN!

  It was followed by a list of five names, Beth Weatherby's being the new addition at the bottom.

  She laughed out loud, feeling instantly better. Leave it to Beth, she thought, looking toward the weeping willow, seeing her husband now alone in conversation with Nicole, feeling instantly worse.

  She watched them talking, unaware of her attention. David seemed relaxed and happy. Even from this distance she could make out the roguish twinkle in his eyes. Suddenly, he threw his head back in laughter, undoubtedly the result of a hopelessly clever remark Nicole Clark had made. He caught her eye as he turned his head to push back the hair that had fallen out of place. Immediately, he smiled warmly, lifting his wineglass in her direction for a silent toast. As she watched, he lowered his head toward Nicole, whispering something while the girl nodded acknowledgment. Jill's eyes traveled immediately to Nicole, who quickly trapped her gaze and returned it, lifting her own glass into the air in a toast exactly like David's. Her lips moved silently. "Happy anniversary," she said.

  Chapter 2

  The offices of Weatherby, Ross occupied two full floors of the ninety-four-story John Hancock center, and they were everything a Hollywood set designer could imagine—thick beige Berber carpeting against caramel suede walls covered with modem lithographs and tapestries, and corridors which wound their way lovingly in all directions, stopping at suitably spaced intervals for spacious offices with floor-to-ceiling windows and views appropriate to the rank and stature of the various inhabitants.

  David Plumley's office was located just past the wide, interior, circular stairway and almost directly across the hall from the boardroom. His view—from the fifty-eighth floor— was spectacular. The office itself was a mess.

  Jill Listerwoll had been ushered in politely and told that David Plumley would be in to see her momentarily. That had been almost twenty minutes ago, but Jill didn't mind, using the time to go over her notes and reread the information she had gathered from those lawyers she had already interviewed. Of all the offices she had been in that afternoon, this was by far the most disorganized. She had never seen so many papers or law books scattered about in so seemingly chaotic fashion. The large oak desk was completely swamped, as were the bookcases, filled to bursting.

  Even the visitors' area—two blue-and-green-striped chairs hugging a round glass table—was piled high with legalese, and stacks of papers grew like ivy from the base of the walls. The artwork was interesting, detached in its blatant modernity. The only hint of a sense of humor lay in one of the lithos—a stark recreation of a parking meter registering "Expired, which hung directly behind the desk and which, she surmised, was meant to serve as a subtle reminder to tardy clients that their time was up. There were no family portraits—appropriate, she thought, for one of the winningest divorce lawyers in town.

  David Plumley walked into his office and sat down behind his desk. Jill took quick note of his blond hair, green eyes and boyish I-know-I’m-a-handsome-devil grin, felt the meter ticking behind him, and plunged right away into her first question, the one she had told her mother, with just the proper degree of disdain, that she had absolutely no intention of asking.

  "Is it true that divorce lawyers who are themselves divorced often fool around with their clients?"

  His mischievous grin grew wider. "I couldn't answer that," he said simply. "I've never been divorced."

  "How long have you been married?" she continued, aware of the antique gold band on the appropriate finger of his left hand. It was an unnecessary ornament, she felt—everyone knew that the ones who looked like he did were invariably married.

  "Fifteen years," he said. His face and voice were suddenly flat. "I'm sorry I kept you waiting."

  "Waiting?" For one crazy second, Jill felt he was in some way still referring to his marriage.

  "I got tied up in the boardroom." The mischievous grin was back on his face. Almost as if he could read her thoughts, as if he could sense the confusion into which her whole body had suddenly been thrust. "Can I get you a cup of coffee?"

  "No, thank you," she said, looking around, hoping to avoid his eyes. "I've had three cups already."

  "Then I'm not your first—interview, that is," he continued coyly as her eyes crept slowly back in his direction.

  "No, you're not," she answered sharply. Surely they were both too old to be this cute. "Is your office always such a mess?"

  His voice was equally sharp, his answer as precise as her question. He needed no second hints. "Yes," he said. "Now, what exactly can I do for you?"

  She told him, slipping comfortably back into the role of TV producer, distancing herself from his cool green eyes. She was doing a news show on the elite of the Chicago legal profession, interviewing the three top firms (he questioned the other two choices) and trying to gain some insight into the way a firm of the size and scope of Weatherby, Ross functioned on a daily basis. Al Weatherby, whom she had interviewed first, had taken her on a general tour of the offices, had explained that the eventual goal of the large firm was to be even larger still, indeed the largest law firm in the city. There were eighty-five lawyers on staff, he had proudly explained, predicting an increase to one hundred within five years, and beyond as the firm expanded with time. Of the eighty-five lawyers, almost thirty were senior partners, the remainder consisting of juniors and associates. Each lawyer employed one full-time secretary, and there was an additional coterie of general office staff and law clerks. In addition to the individual offices and boardroom, there was a library, a cafeteria and two staff lounges. Al Weatherby had estimated their annual rental at around one million dollars.

  The lawyers themselves fell into different categories. Basically, in decidedly non-legal terms, if there was a problem, there was also a lawyer to solve it. Corporate, criminal, tax, family, litigation, real estate— etal. They were all here. And doing very well, thank you.

  "How much money do you make a year?" Jill asked David Plumley, trying to catch him off guard.

  "Is that relevant?" he asked.

  "I think so," she said, looking directly at him. "Considering that this is a show about the highest-paid members of your profession. I like to know roughly what Tm talking about."

  "Don't we all," he mused, almost to himself. "Six figures."

  "Over a h
undred thousand dollars a year?"

  "Six figures," he repeated.

  "Do you work on a contingency basis? The higher the settlement, the larger your share of the profits?"

  "No, that's not my style."

  "Why not? What is your style?"

  "I prefer to charge according to the amount of work I do, the time I spend. Contingency fees aren't always fair, in my opinion, although there are a great many highly reputable lawyers who would give you a good argument on that point."

  "But you don't like that -system—"

  "I prefer another method."

  "Moral ethics?"

  "Possibly. We lawyers do have them, you know." He smiled for the first time in several minutes. "I feel like I'm being cross-examined."

  "What sort of day do you put in?'' she asked, suddenly switching gears.

  He shrugged, a touch of irony creeping into his voice. "Oh, just your average fifteen-hour day—in by 8 a.m., home by 10 p.m.”

  "That's only fourteen hours."

  Again he smiled.

  "Do you feel it’s 'fair'—your word—to be making so much money from other people's misery?" she brushed on.

  I like to feel I'm putting an end to the misery. And yes, I think it's eminently fair. I work very hard."

  "What do you think of the charge that's been made by many parties involved in divorce actions that everything goes along fine until the lawyers get involved?"

  "I think you've been talking to a lot of losers.

  Jill tried not to smile. "You don't think it's true, then,” she began, shaking her head back, throwing off the temporary invasion of his charm, "that a lot of women are really out for blood and that they often try and take the poor guy for everything he's got—"

  "It may well be true," he answered honestly. "It's also true that a lot of men will try any number of dirty tricks to get away without paying their wives what they rightfully owe. And that's one of the problems. I think that a lot of women still don't understand all their rights under the law, despite the advent of women's liberation, and they don't realize just what they're entitled to. I tell them what they're entitled to." He paused. "And then I get it for them."

  "Are most of your clients women?"

  "About two thirds."

  "What first interested you in the law?"

  "I like to give advice."

  "And family law?"

  He paused. "I'm not really sure." He shrugged. "I tried out the various alternatives, didn't like real estate or criminal law, hated corporate and tax law although I was very good at it. I guess I just kind of drifted over to divorce. Are you married?"

  "No."

  "Divorced?" An engaging tilt of his head.

  "Single," she stated with a touch of defiance. "Never married. Spinster. Old maid."

  Her eyes challenged his—okay, buster, you started this. Where are you headed?

  For his part, David Plumley saw a woman with large brown eyes and frantic reddish hair who took almost a perverse delight in downplaying how attractive she really was, hiding behind baggy pants, a shapeless shirt and a rough, even abrasive manner. He saw an independent, slightly fey kind of woman with an important, even glamorous, job who was trying very hard not to be attracted to him, and despite the fact that she was far from the prettiest woman he'd had in his office that day, she was as appealing to him at that moment as any woman he'd ever met.

  The knock at the door interrupted their thoughts. Al Weatherby popped in to whisper that Warren Marcus was getting a little hot under the collar about everyone's tardiness and kindly requested that he please have all his dockets in by five o'clock.

  "What are dockets?" Jill asked as soon as the door closed again, feeling grateful for the interruption, her pencil poised.

  His answer was precise and well thought out, as if he were used to explaining things to novices, and enjoyed doing so. "Dockets are time records that every lawyer keeps which set out, one, how long he worked on a particular matter, and two, what that matter was about. It's what I was mentioning briefly before when you asked about my style. Say, you come to me for a divorce and we spend two hours discussing it. When you leave, I get out my file marked Listerwoll, Jill, and I fill in Two hours: discussed divorce petition.' A few days later, you call me on the phone, you're worried your husband's going to sue for custody of the children. We talk for thirty minutes. When we're through, I get out your file and fill in Thirty minutes: talk re custody.' At the end of three months, I take your file and add up all the hours I've spent on your messy little marriage and multiply them by my hourly rate, so I can then send you a bill which also lets you know exactly what I've done. That is a docket."

  Jill smiled widely, immensely pleased he had remembered her whole name. "You're cute," she said, feeling herself suddenly relax, and they both laughed, Jill aware that this extraordinary-looking man could be had for the asking, feeling inexplicably very sorry for his wife. I wouldn't want to be married to a man like this, she found herself thinking. A man you'd have to share with the world.

  "What are you thinking about?" he asked.

  She looked into his eyes and said nothing. He knows, she thought.

  "Oh, you smell good," he said, coming up behind her in the small bathroom and kissing the nape of her neck. Jill's back moved up against him instinctively, hoping for more. "You almost finished in here?" he asked.

  Jill put down the mascara she had been holding and looked at his reflection in the mirror. "You know what my idea of luxury is?" she asked, not waiting for him to answer. "Two bathrooms."

  He turned her around and kissed her on the mouth. "You almost finished?" he asked again, smiling.

  She groaned playfully. "I guess I can brush my hair in the bedroom."

  He looked at her quizzically. "I thought it was brushed," he said.

  "Thanks a lot." She grabbed the brush and headed out into the hall.

  "That was a compliment," he called after her.

  "Sure it was," she said, plopping down on their queen-size bed and staring at herself in the mirror over the dresser. What had ever possessed her to paint the walls yellow? It was definitely the wrong color for her complexion, not to mention her hair. She ran an indifferent brush through the tangles, then got up from the bed and moved toward her image, stroking her hair with greater concentration and determination. When she was satisfied, she put the brush down and returned to the bed, trying to decide on what to wear.

  She'd narrowed her choice down to two outfits—a pink sundress or white pants with a lime-green halter top. She decided on the pants since it was foolish to wrinkle an expensive new dress on three hours of bridge. I've become so practical, she minced, thinking that the dress was, in fact, a year old. David walked into the room looking appealingly disheveled. Could this man never look less than gorgeous? She wondered. And what on earth did he see in her? It was a question she knew was in the minds of whoever saw the two of them together, of all the office wives, excepting Beth, who could never understand why he had discarded Elaine (why, Jill isn't even pretty, she had once overheard). Undoubtedly, Nicole Clark had asked herself that very question.

  "Where's the brush?' David asked.

  "On the dresser." She pointed. "Go ahead. Take it."

  "That's all right," he said, good-naturedly, "I'll wait until after you've used it."

  "Great."

  "What's the matter?

  "I just used it, you turkey!” she said, jumping up, the belt on her bathrobe coming loose to expose the naked body beneath it.

  In a flash he had thrown her back across the bed and was scrambling on top of her, the two of them laughing so hard it was impossible to do anything else.

  "I was just teasing you," he said, throwing her arms up behind her head and pinning them there. "You look magnificent. I think you are absolutely terrific-looking." He started kissing her in earnest now and their laughter ceased as his hands moved expertly down her body.

  The phone rang.

  "It's for you," she said. "
Guess who?

  "What makes you so sure it's Elaine?" he asked, stretching his arm across her to the telephone, without moving the rest of his body.

  "Because she always calls at moments like this and besides, the dear thing only phoned twice today already. I take it you didn't return her calls?"

  'I never return her calls." He picked up the phone. 'You could be wrong, you know. Hello." Jill waited for the inevitable, oh yes, hello, Elaine, and it followed immediately. She gazed up at the cracks in the ceiling while her husband, still lying on top of her, talked with obvious exasperation to his first wife.

  "Yes, I saw your messages; no, I didn't bother returning your calls. I didn't have the time for another argument about nothing." He looked down at Jill, kissing her nose. "I don't have the time now." He paused long enough for Jill to catch the whine in the other woman's voice. The passion had left her, she realized with only a modest degree of surprise. The woman must have a television camera hidden somewhere in the room, Jill thought, so she knows each time exactly when to call. Pushing David aside gently, she maneuvered her body free of his and moved toward the walk-in closet, opened it, stepped inside and pulled out her white pants and green halter top.

  "Of course I know Jason is going to camp at the end of next week. Who do you think is paying for it?!"

  Jill went to the dresser and took out a pair of white panties.

  "Why does he need a new sleeping bag? He has a perfectly good sleeping bag. So what if it's five years old? The parts don't stop working!"

  Jill stepped into her panties and slipped into her lime-green halter top. She stared in the mirror. Who was she kidding? If you wanted to wear halter tops, you needed boobs. She thought of Nicole Clark, who'd have no trouble holding the damn thing up. She looked over at David. She hadn't told him of her conversation with the younger woman. What was the point? If anything, it would only perk his interest. What man wouldn't be intrigued by the sheer audacity of such an unprovoked declaration? Especially when the declaree looked like Nicole Clark. Especially when the man was David. She discarded the green halter top and returned to the closet.