The Other Woman

by Joy Fielding

  The two women laughed quietly. Jill stood up and started pacing again. "The wife doesn't see as many of those expensive little dinners, and when she does, she also gets to see the Visa bill at the end of the month, and she gets to hear all the complaining about how much money they spend, and those dinners are rarely for two anyway. There are children and in-laws and partners. And reality. And suddenly when she looks at her husband, she still loves him, all right, but her eyes have lost that unquestioning adoration they once held. It's gone. And he misses it. And there are all these sweet and lovely little women out there, in the office, on the street, and they're all looking at him with these adoring eyes, and what can you do? How can you fight reality?"

  There were several seconds of silence before Beth spoke. "Has David—before—?" She broke off, reluctant to give words to the thought.

  "Has he been unfaithful?" Jill asked for her. Beth nodded. Jill took a deep breath. "I think so," she said aloud for the first time. "In my gut, I know of at least one time—" She felt the tears pushing against her eyes again, felt her throat constricting. "But the whole point is that I don't know for sure! And as long as I'm not sure, then I don't have to really confront my feelings or make any decisions. Knowing—to actually know that David was sleeping with another woman—to have to live with that knowledge. Well, there is such a thing as too much reality. I don't know what I'd do. And I guess that's what scares me most as far as Nicole Clark is concerned, because there's no way she'll ever be satisfied to just have her one night with him and then quietly disappear. She'll make sure I find out, and then—I don't know." Jill threw her head back in despair, sniffing loudly and then angrily wiping the tears from her face. “Goddamn it," she said, straightening up. "I'm talking like I've lost him already. And I haven't," she stated firmly. "And I won't!"

  Beth jumped to her feet. "Now you're talking." Jill fell into Beth Weatherby's arms. "I feel like such an idiot," Jill said, wiping at her nose with a Kleenex she found in her skirt pocket. "Here you are with everything that's happening to you, and here I am complaining about nothing, for God's sake."

  Beth Weatherby pushed one of Jill's stray hairs away from her face. "You never complain about anything," she assured her. "And please, don't worry about me, Jill. My problems are all over." Her voice grew very soft. "I did it, Jill," she whispered. "I killed Al. I killed my husband."

  Chapter 17

  Jill sat behind the wheel of her car and watched her hands shake. She was afraid to turn the key in the ignition, to start the car, unsure how her body would react once in motion. She had to get her feelings under control before she could control anything as potentially lethal as an automobile. Lethal, she thought, choosing to sit and do nothing for several minutes, to allow herself time to think, to calm her trembling fingers, to absorb what she had just been told. "I did it, Jill," she heard Beth repeat. ''I killed Al. I killed my husband." As simple as that. As straightforward. No regrets, no hysteria, no tears. Just a calm statement of fact. ("Just the facts, ma'am," she heard Jack Webb mutter at her ear.) Beth had offered no further explanation; Jill had been too stunned to ask for one. And then both Lisa and her brother Brian had suddenly materialized at the foot of the stairs and Beth's eyes had slowly closed and opened again, void of all expression. Jill knew instinctively that what Beth had just told her was not meant to be shared. Too overwhelmed to speak, she muttered something in Lisa's direction and stumbled out of the house. She had been sitting in her car for close to five minutes, and she felt too unsure of herself to move.

  She stared down at her hands. The nails were all uneven lengths, of no particular shape or design. A few broken chips of polish clung tenuously to several cuticles. She hadn't bothered to remove them. Around the nails, her skin had been picked at and nibbled on, a habit she had often vowed to break, but one she clung to like a child's security blanket. The back of her right hand bore the trace of a small childhood scar, received when she had pulled a hot iron down on top of her. They were strong hands, capable hands. Hands a palmist had once regarded with glee, claiming he barely knew where to begin, there was such an abundance of character to be read, telling her joyfully that she was one of the world's true eccentrics and that insanity no doubt traveled in her family. Could these hands kill, she wondered?

  She pictured herself digging through her kitchen drawers for a hammer. (Did they even own a hammer?) She felt herself reach for it, move down the hallway toward the bedroom where David lay sleeping, saw her arm raise the hammer high into the air and watched it fall with sickening speed, stopping just short of David's head. She closed her eyes against the image. No, she thought, she could never do what Beth Weatherby claimed to have done.

  Jill looked back toward the gray brick house. It was impossible, she decided, thinking of the gentle woman inside. There was simply no way Beth was capable of such an act unless she had suffered a complete mental collapse, a breakdown for which she could hardly be held accountable. Yet she seemed so rational now, so calm and in control. The whole situation was absurd. Jill simply could not accept Beth's confession as truth. There was no way Beth Weatherby could have murdered her husband.

  Feeling the issue resolved inside herself, Jill turned the key in the ignition and started the car, pulling the gray Volvo away from the curb and driving quickly away, watching the exquisite residential streets disappear behind her as she headed toward the highway. For the first time in several years, she regretted that she didn't have school to go to.

  The fall semester didn't start for several weeks, and even the round of loathsome staff meetings didn't begin until the following Monday, so Jill was left entirely at loose ends, feeling in need of somewhere to go, something to do. Anything to keep Beth's words from replaying in her mind.

  She spotted a phone booth and swerved the car into a sweeping U-turn, stopping directly in front of the graffiti-strewn booth and fishing in her purse for change. She noticed her hands were still shaking as she dialed.

  “Weatherby, Ross," came the receptionist's familiar voice.

  “David Plumley, please," Jill stated, wondering what she was planning to tell him.

  "Mr. Plumley's office."

  "Diane?"

  "Yes. Can I help you?"

  "It's Jill."

  The secretary sounded surprised. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't recognize your voice. You sounded—different."

  Jill tried to steady her voice. "Is David around?"

  "He's with a client."

  "Could you interrupt him, please? It's important." Why did she say that? Was she planning on telling David about Beth's confession?

  David's voice came on the phone, concerned, even anxious. "Jill? Are you all right?"

  "Oh, yes, I'm fine. I just wondered—whether we could have lunch together. I just noticed it's almost one o'clock."

  "I have to be in court at one o'clock," he said, his voice becoming low, losing its quality of concern. "Is that why you had Diane interrupt my meeting?"

  "I just came from seeing Beth," Jill ventured.

  "And?"

  Jill felt her shoulders slump. "Nothing," she said. "I did most of the talking."

  "Jill, can't we discuss this later?"

  Jill nodded, forgetting that he couldn't see her. “What court will you be in? Maybe I’ll come and watch you."

  "I don't think that would be a good idea," he said quickly. 'It's not a very interesting case. You'd only be bored. Look— I have to go. I'll speak to you later.”

  "'Will you be home right after court?" she asked, realizing even as the words were leaving her mouth that he had already hung up. "Sure," she said, replacing the receiver. "Call me later."

  She wasn't sure how or why she had ended up in front of Rita Carrington's exercise class, but seeing the old rusty brick building suddenly before her, Jill quickly pulled the car into the adjacent parking lot and went inside. Her adrenaline was still pumping wildly, threatening to push itself out through her extremities. Perhaps a little exercise would be a good way to get
herself under control.

  She was in the locker room before she realized she didn't have her exercise suit with her. "Damn," she said, dejectedly, allowing her body to sink down onto the waiting bench.

  "Hi," came the voice from behind her. "Haven't seen you in a few weeks."

  Jill looked up to see a sweat-covered Ricki Elfer, nude except for a towel around her neck. "Things have been rather hectic lately," she said quietly, wondering whether Ricki had recognized Beth Weatherby from her picture in the paper and was about to pepper her with questions.

  "You're telling me," Ricki concurred. "You taking a class now?"

  "Forgot my leotard."

  "Great. You can join us for lunch. Me and a couple of the girls. We thought we'd go across the street."

  Jill smiled. "Sounds good," she said.

  "Great. I'll just grab a quick shower and be right back."

  Jill watched Ricki Elfer's expansive derrière disappear around the row of lockers. It was a strange sensation, she realized, to carry on a normal conversation when one of the parties was fully dressed and the other was totally naked. She closed her eyes and tried to rid her mind of all thought except her upcoming lunch. If she couldn't exercise, she decided, the next best thing to do was eat.

  "Jill, this is Denise and Terri," Ricki Elfer said, introducing her to the two women who were already seated at the restaurant table. "Wow, that was quite a workout today," Ricki exclaimed, sitting down. Jill took the remaining seat and nodded hello to the other women.

  "She gets tougher every day," the short brunette named Denise agreed. "Not even my old dance classes were this tough."

  "Well, you have to admit, she looks wonderful," Jill offered.

  "Who?" Ricki asked. "Rita Carrington?" Jill nodded. "I should hope so," Ricki smiled, eyeing the salad bar.

  Jill agreed. "Yeah, I guess she should if she's teaching exercise classes half the day."

  "Exercise? Are you kidding?" Ricki laughed. "You don't get tits like those from exercise. You get them from God or you get them from a surgeon. Last I heard, Rita Carrington doesn't believe in God."

  "If you're a surgeon, you think of the two as one and the same," offered Terri, a slim, muscular blonde. "My husband is a doctor," she further explained.

  The women laughed. "Rita Carrington had surgery on her breasts?" Jill asked.

  "On her boobs, on her stomach, on her tushy," Ricki Elfer recited. "Everything tucked and tightened and lifted. Haven't you noticed how her boobs never move, even when the rest of her is shaking all over? That's the dead giveaway. She turns right, her boobs still face straight ahead."

  "I also heard she had a face-lift," Denise added.

  "A face-lift?" Jill asked. "She's so young!"

  "She'll never see forty-five again," Ricki told her, as the waiter approached.

  The women ordered lunch and a liter of wine. Jill chose a bowl of soup and the salad bar, eventually allowing herself to be talked into ordering dessert.

  "This is delicious," Ricki said, devouring the last of her chocolate mousse. "I shouldn't go to these exercise classes. They give me too big an appetite! How's your fruit flan?"

  "Good," Jill said. "Would you like some?"

  "Just a taste," Ricki nodded, her fork already on Jill's plate.

  Jill took a long sip of her coffee, feeling the wine dancing near the base of her neck. Whenever she'd had just the right amount to drink—not too much or too little—her neck would begin to feel weightless, as if it were about to separate from the rest of her body. The lunch had been just what the doctor ordered. This lunch, not lunch with her husband, or watching him in court. She pictured the crowded courtroom, saw David sitting at his table, Nicole Clark at his side. Was that why he had been so reluctant for her to come that afternoon? Had Nicole Clark already made her reservation? Used up the one remaining ticket?

  "What's your friend doing these days?" Ricki suddenly asked her.

  "My friend?"

  "The lady you usually come with. She hasn't been around lately."

  "She's kind of busy," Jill told her. Maybe Ricki never read the papers.

  "Talk about busy," Terri piped up, pushing her dessert plate away, and gulping the rest of her coffee. "I have to get home. I'm interviewing housekeepers this afternoon."

  "Good luck," Denise said, her voice filled with frustration and understanding.

  "You know what they say, don't you?" Ricki Elfer asked. "If she can find the place, hire her."

  "What happened to Gunilla?"

  "Who?" Jill asked.

  "Yes, that's actually her name. Sounds like one of Cinderella's nasty stepsisters, J know," Terri agreed. "She's Swedish. Twenty years old. I got her through an agency six months ago. She's supposed to help me with the housework and with looking after Justin and Scotty. A week ago, she informed me she doesn't want to be a mother's helper that she doesn't like having to cater to a two-year-old and a five-year-old. I reminded her that on her application she specifically requested two children, aged two and five. You got exactly what you said you wanted, I told her. She said it wasn't the way she thought it would be."

  "Whatever is?" Jill asked.

  "Anyway, I decided to try for a housekeeper this time instead of an au pair. The first one is supposedly arriving at three o'clock, and it's almost that now."

  "My God," Denise exclaimed, pulling some money out of her purse and dropping it on the table, "I didn't realize it was so late. I have to pick Rodney up at school."

  "I guess we should go too," Jill said reluctantly.

  "Finish your coffee," Ricki told her. "I still have a few minutes."

  The women exchanged their goodbyes and made their exits. When Jill looked back, the waiter had already refilled her coffee cup. "So," she said, addressing her attention to the woman on the other side of the table, "did you make any decisions about tying your tubes or having a baby?"

  "Sanity prevailed," Ricki told her. "Paul's going to have a vasectomy."

  Jill was genuinely surprised. "I thought you said that if Paul had a vasectomy, you wouldn't be able to fool around—"

  "Sounds like something I'd say," Ricki agreed. "I speak a lot of rot sometimes."

  "You don't play around?" Jill asked, a little disappointed.

  "No," Ricki said, her voice suddenly serious. "Not on Paul. I did—with the others. But when you finally get yourself a good one—and Paul is a good one—you don't take any chances. This is my third marriage, and the first one I'm really proud of you know what I mean?" Jill nodded. 'You don't take any silly chances when you finally stumble into a right decision. I like marriage. I believe in it. Christ, I'd have to—I keep doing it." Jill smiled. "No,” Ricki Elfer said, shaking her head, "if you're smart—and if I'm not always smart, at least not always stupid—when you grab ahold of something good, you don't fuck up."

  Both women finished their coffee and smiled at each other in silence.

  That night David moved restlessly beside her in bed.

  "Can't you sleep?" Jill asked him, his persistent tossing keeping her awake.

  "I'm too sore," he said. "My whole body aches."

  Jill sat up and ran her hand down his side. "Do you want me to give you a backrub?"

  There was a second's silence, then David turned gingerly onto his stomach. "Okay, yeah, that might be nice."

  Jill immediately straddled his back and put her hands on his shoulders.

  "Ow, that hurts," he said, his body resisting her touch.

  "I haven't done anything yet," Jill protested.

  "Not my shoulders," he told her, "my back. Get off me, you weigh a ton."

  "Thanks a lot." Jill moved so that she was on her knees beside him. "Where does it hurt?" she asked.

  "Where doesn't it?" came his answer.

  "Just how many games of squash did you play?"

  "Three—and its racquetball, not squash."

  "Well, I think you overdid it for somebody who hasn't played for as long as you haven't."

  "You m
ade me feel guilty—ow! Watch it, huh?—about wasting all that money, so I tried to make up for it."

  "You're trying to tell me it's my fault?"

  "Exactly."

  "Figures."

  David flipped over suddenly. "God, you give a rotten massage," he said, smiling, putting his arm around her and drawing her to him, "Who'd you play with?" Jill asked.

  "Pete Rogers," David answered. "One of the students. Actually, they won't be students much longer. Another week and they're called to the bar. God, I'm sore." He kissed her cheek. "Sorry I spoiled the little candlelit dinner you had planned. It would have been nice."

  "Well, you didn't know," Jill shrugged. "I just decided to do it at the spur of the moment."

  "I'm sorry, honey, I just needed to get out and pound something. Al's funeral still has me very shaky." He looked at his wife. "You never did tell me what Beth had to say."

  "Nothing really," Jill lied, wondering if, like always, he would see through her. "She didn't say anything. I did most of the talking."

  "She's got to start talking soon," David said, almost absently. If he didn't believe her, Jill realized, he wasn't letting on. "What did you do for the rest of the afternoon?"

  "I went to my exercise class. There's a woman there I really like—"

  "Good," David said. Jill recognized the word and the tone. It meant he wasn't interested. Nevertheless, Jill decided to press ahead.

  "She's been trying to decide whether to tie her tubes or have a baby," Jill ventured. David said nothing. "David," Jill whispered, "I think we have to come to some sort of decision on that subject too."

  "What did this woman decide?" David asked, his voice tense.

  "Her husband is having a vasectomy," Jill said, now sorry she had brought the issue to light.