Infidelity

by Stacey May Fowles

  “Charlie . . .”

  He put two fingers to her lips to silence her and then gently pulled the robe from her shoulders until it fell around her waist. Gripping a fistful of damp hair at the back of her head, he leaned in to kiss her.

  She said nothing, did not fight him . . . simply fell back into the throw pillows and closed her eyes as he undid his belt.

  ( CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE )

  The English department at the university seemed really to enjoy Aaron’s catering. So much so that he was invited back to cater another event in March. Again he asked Ronnie to assist and again she obliged, pulling back on that snug-fitting black dress and toting giant platters of pre-prepared food from their aging brown station wagon and into yet another Annex home.

  “Do you ever think it’s funny that people from Parkdale feed people in the Annex?” she asked.

  “No, Ronnie, I think it’s a job,” Aaron snapped.

  “It was just a question.”

  Aaron caught himself, paused for a moment. “I’m sorry. You know how these things stress me out.”

  But she didn’t know how these things stressed him out.

  Aaron had been on edge for the month since the engagement began. He had never been one to talk about his feelings, so instead he became distant and testy. Ronnie actually benefited from his non-confrontational attitude. Her late nights and unexplained absences never became an issue. She was constantly “running errands,” and Aaron never asked questions.

  When they were inside Ronnie adjusted her dress and checked her teeth in the reflection of a butter knife while Aaron unpacked hors d’oeuvres in the sprawling stainless steel and granite kitchen, a kitchen they could never afford. Things were strained between them, so they found reprieve by acting like co-workers, neatly arranging plates of food with intense accuracy. Occasionally Aaron would correct Ronnie and she would not argue, simply following his direction without emotion. She hadn’t the strength nor the interest to argue with him while he was working.

  When Aaron was satisfied that everything was in order, he finally softened. “Thanks for helping me again.”

  “That’s what I’m here for.”

  “No,” he said, pulling her into an embrace. “I really do appreciate it.”

  As she uncomfortably remained in his arms for a moment she acknowledged it was inevitable that she would run into Charlie that evening, despite the fact that the two of them rarely discussed their schedules. She didn’t want to know about Noah’s therapy appointments or the dinner parties that he and Tamara attended with his literary friends, anyway. She especially didn’t want to hear about the fact that Tamara and Charlie were still fucking. That they were fucking even more now that his libido was provoked by Ronnie in his life, sparked by the resentment that now filled their lives and marital bed. That he closed his eyes and thought of Ronnie while he came. It hurt too much to think about it. She would prefer to pretend that he only spent time with her.

  The idea of running into him at the party made her ill. Not only because Aaron was there and there was a chance of the two of them meeting, but also because they had never, since that first meeting, been together around people who weren’t strangers. The crowd tonight would care if they knew. Knew that they had been together, that she was the “other woman.” Ronnie was sure she could successfully make it through the evening without incident, but not entirely sure that Charlie could do the same. In a world of Bay Street bars and casual walks, onlookers only saw them as people in love, or as nothing at all.

  She was reassured of her appearance and relieved of her discomfort by Aaron, whose mood had lightened enough to notice her concerned expression and tell her she looked “perfect.” He gave her a light kiss on the cheek and sent her out into the living room with a cheese plate. “Charm them and they’ll have us back.”

  Ronnie was indeed charming with guests despite her discomfort. She glided around the room, smiling and chatting as if nothing was on her mind. She even managed to coyly flirt with the older gentlemen, who called her “sweetheart” and “delightful.” All the while she could feel the disdainful gaze of Sarah, Charlie’s meddling colleague, but managed to put it out of her mind.

  When Charlie finally arrived, he did so with two waify girls, both of whom were approaching six feet tall and who couldn’t have been more than twenty years old. They wore scarves and layers and talked nonsense about little-known books while reapplying cherry lip gloss, and Ronnie hated them both immediately. She hated the way they carried themselves unselfconsciously, that despite the fact that they were so out of place at the party they failed to care, tipping back countless drinks and gorging their impossibly thin bodies on cheese and thinly sliced meat. She noticed one of the girls had a sprawling butterfly tattoo on her left shoulder that was exposed each time her oversized boat-necked shirt fell down her arm. They laughed too loudly at Charlie’s jokes and touched him on the shoulder at every opportunity. Ronnie was not unfamiliar with the fact that young women worshipped both Charlie and his prose, but seeing it on display was too much to bear. One of them had even taken to calling him “Chuck.”

  Ronnie peered at the group of them through a slight gap in the double kitchen doors, watched as Charlie placed his hand lightly on their waists while they chatted, watched them lean in close for secrets.

  Up until that point it hadn’t actually occurred to Ronnie that Charlie might have done this before. She had naively assumed she was his first extramarital infatuation, certainly his first clandestine affair, but watching him position himself comfortably between two women half his age and twice his height set off a flood of worry that she was merely a name on a very long list.

  Tamara was jealous of girls like Ronnie. Ronnie was jealous of girls like these smooth-skinned, fertile hangers-on. Girls terrified of pregnancy.

  She tapped her foot impatiently on the tiled floor.

  “Can I bring something out for you?” Ronnie asked Aaron abruptly.

  “No, sweetie. It’s okay. I know you hate being here. Just have a seat and relax.”

  “No really. I want to. I want to help.”

  Aaron, too distracted and flustered by further preparation to notice her distress, gestured toward a platter piled with cookies. White chocolate raspberry macadamia nut and double mint chocolate chunk. “Those need to go out.”

  She picked up the gleaming silver platter and pushed dramatically through the double doors, beelining for Charlie and his entourage despite the numerous hands that groped at her platter.

  “Cookie?”

  Charlie turned to meet Ronnie’s gaze. The anger visible in her face made the towering hipster twins cease their giggling.

  “Ronnie. Hi. I—”

  “I’m sorry, sir. Have we met? I’m quite certain we haven’t. I’m the caterer’s wife. Cookie?”

  “You’re not the caterer’s wife.”

  “Yet,” she spat.

  Charlie took this as a threat, not understanding that her engagement ring sat in a soap dish in the host’s kitchen, that she had excused its removal with hand washing rather than confessing to Aaron she was concealing the news from one of the party-goers.

  “You should really have a cookie. The caterer is infinitely talented.”

  Ronnie was not usually one for jealousy, never once questioned the girls that Aaron occasionally name-dropped, but for some reason Charlie and his companions had provoked a rage in her that was blinding. An unfamiliar feeling that made her want to break something. Including the faces of his admirers.

  The girls themselves were mostly oblivious to the drama that was unfolding in front of them. Both leaned in for a cookie, lifting them from opposite ends of the platter poised at neck height between Charlie and Ronnie. One blonde and the other brunette, they book-ended Charlie and shoved the cookies in their mouths, letting out satisfied sighs after they swallowed. Crumbs descended from their lips and
into their revealing tops.

  “Chuck, you should have a cookie, they’re so fucking good,” the breathy blonde gasped, gripping his arm and leaning into his shoulder. The brunette broke off a piece of hers and offered it to him, fully expecting him to eat it from her fingers.

  “These would be awesome if you were high,” the brunette added.

  “Yes, Chuck. They really are delicious,” Ronnie responded, her gaze unwavering, the platter perched on her fingers as if she might hurl it at any moment. She was aware now that some of the more perceptive dinner guests were staring, including the ever-present Sarah with her unwavering suspicions about Charlie and Ronnie’s relationship.

  “Ronnie. Please don’t. Not here.”

  “Then shall we find a hotel room?”

  The girls both turned toward him in near comical unison.

  “Veronica. Stop it. Now.”

  “You should really meet the caterer. Shall I bring him out? So you can compliment the chef?”

  Aaron was safely tucked away in the kitchen. He rarely made his way into the party during events, thinking it unprofessional.

  “I’m sure that won’t be necessary.”

  “You have no fucking idea how necessary it is.”

  “Stop it. We’re just having fun here. Relax.”

  “Oh, really? We’re just having fun?”

  “Don’t embarrass yourself, Ronnie.”

  Ronnie dropped the platter on the ground in front of them just as the brunette groped for another cookie “to save for later.”

  Ronnie stayed within earshot long enough to hear the blonde with the butterfly tattoo say, “What the fuck was her problem?”

  ( CHAPTER THIRTY )

  Charlie got into his office the following morning with a blinding hangover. His twenty-something-year-old companions had encouraged him to keep up with them, and by three a.m. they were lying in the middle of a field on U of T campus drinking Fireball whisky straight from the bottle.

  He recalled stealing a copy of his own poetry book from a bookshelf at the party and later doing a dramatic reading of it aloud to them while they clapped and giggled and said, “Oh Chuck, you’re a fucking genius.” He couldn’t remember how he got the grass stains, but vaguely remembered taking a cab home with the two girls, who lived together in an apartment on College Street. He remembered the brunette attempting to kiss him and the blonde pawing at his crotch in a less than sexy manner, but him getting an erection anyway. He also remembered that at some point the cab pulled over and both of the girls had vomited in unison, just before they invited him back to their apartment for a “nightcap,” which he thankfully declined.

  When he got home around five a.m. Tamara and Noah were fast asleep. By the time he peeled himself out of bed and unceremoniously vomited in the bathroom sink, Tamara had gone to work and Amanda had taken Noah to school.

  Charlie managed to finally leave the house and when he got into his office he discovered two messages on his voicemail. The first was from Ronnie, left around the time he was on his back in that field, staring at the stars.

  “Never trust a girl with a butterfly tattoo, Charlie. Never. And don’t fucking call me. Ever. Go ahead and have your fun. I don’t give a fuck.”

  The second was from Sarah, left early that morning.

  “I know what you’re doing, Charlie, and I think it’s disgusting. That girl. I saw the two of you arguing last night. You made a scene. And she’s always coming to your office. I can hear the two of you. I can hear you. If you don’t tell your wife I’ll have to do it for you. Think of your child.”

  That was the problem, really. He was always thinking of Noah. Every moment of every day, Noah was the only reason for him to hold on to a life he really didn’t want.

  Things would be so much easier if he wasn’t always thinking of Noah.

  Things would be so much easier without Noah.

  Charlie felt the bile from last night’s whisky rise to his throat again.

  ( CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE )

  “Well thanks to you it doesn’t look like I’ll be doing any university gigs any time soon.”

  Ronnie stared into her morning cup of Earl Grey tea while seated at the kitchen table. Her head was pounding mercilessly, and Ramona had nestled her head into her lap, looking up at her mournfully, sensing the disappointment in the room. Ronnie absently scratched behind the dog’s ears, wishing Aaron would relent. “I’m really sorry. I think it was stress.”

  “Stress? Please.” He refused to look at her. He was fully dressed to pick up things for a catering gig, while she had only just peeled herself from the bed after an evening of crying and apologizing. When they had returned from the party Aaron had been insistent that he didn’t want to discuss what happened, and instead closed his eyes to sleep while Ronnie hovered above him, pleading for him to talk to her. Eventually she gave up and spent countless hours awake next to him before she finally drifted off.

  “The party host informed me that while the food was great, I might want to look into how to better staff my events. I didn’t even tell him that you’re my wife.”

  Ronnie had noticed that Aaron had taken to calling her that lately, despite the fact that they weren’t yet married and hadn’t settled on a date. She knew this would be a bad time to correct him.

  “I’m sorry. Again, I’m sorry,” she said, absently rotating the diamond on her ring finger.

  “And you know that money is tight for us right now.”

  “I know. I’ll pick up more shifts.”

  “You have to ruin everything for us, don’t you? Just because you’re moody, or angry, or I don’t know what. It’s like dealing with a child.”

  “Fuck, Aaron. I said I was sorry. Can’t we just drop it?”

  “I love how you want to drop things when it’s convenient for you.”

  Ramona reacted to the raised voices and slunk out of the room with her tail between her legs. Aaron barely noticed and continued his rant, his volume increasing.

  “You’re like this all the time now. I don’t even know how to deal with you anymore. You know I try to be understanding. I try to accept that this is the way you are and the way you’ll always be. But when you fuck up our chances like this?”

  “Our chances? Our chances for what?”

  “I don’t know how exactly we’re going to spend the rest of our lives together with you constantly sabotaging everything with your bad behaviour.”

  “Things aren’t very good for me right now. You know that. I’m not well.”

  “Things are never good for you. It’s always like this, whether or not you have a doctor’s appointment. Honestly.”

  “Aaron. I’m not well.”

  “What the fuck is wrong with you, Ronnie?”

  She of course didn’t have a good answer to that question.

  ( CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO )

  A few evenings later Ronnie called Charlie on his cellphone. She spoke before he even had a moment to say hello. “Charlie. Charlie. I miss you.”

  She called from a filthy bathroom at a bar on Bloor, where she stared at a piece of black-markered graffiti that said, “You’re much better than you give yourself credit for.” Ronnie never called Charlie late in the evenings—it was too dangerous—but she had had enough whisky shots to break this rule.

  “Where are you?” he asked quietly.

  She leaned up against the wall, watching the room tilt ever so slightly and things get fuzzy. “I know I’m not supposed to call . . . because of your wife . . . but I am at a bar by myself,” she said quietly. “I am drinking and you are so close to me. I’m not angry, Charlie. I’m too tired to be angry. You are not far away. You should come watch me drink.”

  “Ronnie.”

  “Charlie. I don’t think I can get home by myself.”

  “Don’t move. I’ll be right there. Okay?” />
  Even though they were still technically in an argument, even though she dropped a platter of cookies at his feet and threatened to bring out “the caterer,” even though he had been pawed at by girls half his age and he remembered thinking, Fuck Ronnie, she’s not worth it, he couldn’t stop himself.

  He told his half-sleeping wife that he was inspired and was going to the office to write. She moaned a response and barely stirred. He put on his parka, scarf, and boots and walked to the bar on Bloor Street to watch Ronnie drink whisky shots in a shitty student bar with shitty students.

  When he arrived he scanned the room and found she was seated at the bar by herself. She was wrapped in an oversized brown cardigan, her mascara smeared and her hair dishevelled. She threw her arms around him dramatically, clinging to him with a desperate surrender that made her body limp in his arms.

  When she finally pulled away, she spoke without prompting, weeping while she did. “I don’t care about the twenty-year-old girls you spend your time with. I don’t care that you could have them all if you wanted. You’re so smart and funny and famous it’s no wonder they all want you—”

  “Ronnie, stop it. It’s not like that.”

  “But you are. You’re smart and funny and famous and—”

  “Shhhh. Honey.”

  Charlie rummaged in his pockets to find a Kleenex but came up with nothing. He grabbed some cocktail napkins from the other side of the bar and passed them to her. She blew her nose noisily and continued crying. “Considering what we’re doing I can’t judge you. How can I judge you? You can do whatever you want. All I care about is having you. I don’t care how I have you. I don’t care who else has you.”

  “There is no one else, Ronnie. There will never be anyone else.” He cupped his hand on the back of her neck gently, resisting the urge to pull her in for a kiss. Despite the emotional display, they were still in public. It wasn’t ridiculous to assume that one of his students could be sharing a ten-dollar pitcher a few tables over. Up until this point Ronnie could be disguised as an unstable student destroyed by a failing grade.