Generally when they would go back to their room, full of steak and vodka, they would make love first and then they would fuck, and Charlie would pin Ronnie down by her wrists and call her names, just like she asked him to. She asked him for all the things Aaron would never do. She would ask to be punished, and he would gladly oblige.
In so many ways she felt as if she was no one, and there was a private thrill of the fact that he picked her. He was a married man and as far as she knew he’d never picked anyone else. He picked her out of a room, out of a city, out of a world of people. A famous man picked a nobody like her—a girl who took her laundry to the laundromat and had to look up most of the words he used in the dictionary. Ronnie knew about all the countless wrongs of infidelity, the guilt that lingered in every moment they spent together, but there was something flattering about being chosen . . . she knew every moment he spent with her in that hotel room he was risking an entire life. A livelihood. The love of a wife and child. To be picked as a risk was an unbelievable compliment, and although she realized it wasn’t exactly something to be proud of, his decision to see her did make her feel special. Beautiful.
Every time her hips bucked, the book he was penning in her honour became more pornographic. He wrote lines in his head during their most lustful moments, transcribing them into the manuscript until it was a stream of pointless scenes soaked with sweat and want, penned by a desperate man.
When they were finished he would lean in close to her ear and whisper the words “I love you,” to which she wouldn’t reply. Not that her reply mattered anyway. He would have loved her regardless of her response. He would cling to her tightly, their naked bodies sticky with sweat, and he would wait to hear a long sigh from her, an acknowledgement of her relief.
“Charlie, when you hold me it’s like we’re a pair of parentheses.”
“What are we parenthesizing?”
“Is parenthesizing even a word?”
“Who cares?”
“You do, Charlie. You always care about words. You felt-pen typos on menus.”
“And what do you care about?”
“You?”
“Us.”
Sometimes she’d pull him down on the bed and she’d simply lean her head flat against his barrel chest and listen to him breathe. When he tried to pull her up to kiss him, she’d stop him, grip tightly to his frame and frantically hang on, and he would relent.
“What do you hear, Ronnie?”
“Something else.”
Sometimes that was enough for her, the rise and fall of his breath just for her in a quiet room on a busy downtown street. Sometimes it didn’t matter that he was married or that she would be. Sometimes she could justify a need for “other,” that this was not a substitute but rather a supplement to a life that Aaron tried his best to fill.
Charlie would rotate her engagement around her ring finger while they lay together. “Why won’t you take it off when we’re together?” he asked her.
“Because I need to be reminded. It reminds me that this is worth it.”
When they finally slept between the scratchy hotel sheets, safe in the knowledge that the people who waited for them at home believed them to be somewhere else, Ronnie dreamed of the desert. The sky blazed white and she ran barefoot through the sand, uphill, until the resistance became too much and she collapsed into its soft give. She lay still in the sand and gazed into the blinding light of the sky.
Charlie was the sky, and Aaron was the sand giving way beneath her feet.
When she opened her eyes, Charlie was snoring.
( CHAPTER FORTY )
“Have you ever had an affair?”
Ronnie and Lisa were having a beer on a patio on College Street post-shift on a Saturday afternoon. The day was warm and clear, the street busy with beautiful smiling people. Being out in it made Ronnie feel normal in a life that was feeling increasingly less so. After about three bottles Ronnie mustered the courage to test Lisa’s moral compass.
“Fuck, yeah. Hasn’t everyone?”
“Really? You’re joking, right?”
Lisa took a long, thoughtful drag off her Belmont Mild and considered, her expression suggesting she was searching her personal history for examples.
“Can I have one of those?” Ronnie asked, gesturing toward the pack on the table between them.
“Since when do you smoke?”
“It’s something I’m trying on. Please continue,” Ronnie said, pulling a cigarette from Lisa’s pack and lighting it with her friend’s silver engraved Zippo.
“Well, yeah. Sure. Cheating. I mean nothing crazy invested or anything. But I’ve had a few too many gin and tonics and forgotten I was in a relationship. Dance floor antics. Alleyway gropings. That sort of thing. There was this one time I gave a—”
“I don’t need details.”
“All right, ya prude. Why do you ask?”
Ronnie stared out into the street, watching the tanned, scantily clad girls go by. There was a pause, and then a look of shock and sudden realization filled Lisa’s face. Her voice fell to a hush. “Shit. Do you think Aaron’s got something goin’ on?” She looked around the patio as if to suggest they were being spied on.
“Oh god no. No way.”
Lisa stared for a moment. A second realization snuck in. “Rons, are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
“It . . . it just happened.”
“What happened, exactly?”
“I met someone.”
Lisa stared at Ronnie across the small table, concealing the lower half of her face with her half-full pint glass. Then she exploded, pointing her finger accusingly in Ronnie’s direction. “I knew it! I fucking knew it!”
“What do you mean you knew it?”
“No, no, no. Wait. First things first. Please explain, you ‘met someone’?” Lisa said very slowly.
“I mean that I met someone who is not Aaron.”
“Jesus, Rons. I get that. Just who is this person? A client? Oh please say it was a client. I’d love that bit of gossip.” Lisa’s face revealed excitement. Maybe a tinge of self-satisfaction. Of “I saw this coming.” Although it was hard to tell. Her facial expressions were often obscured by a degree of cosmetic theatrics.
“I met someone. And I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. At first it was under control, but now I feel like I need to make some sort of decision.”
“Oh, I’m loving this. And here I thought you were a good girl.”
“Stop it.”
“Again. I ask you, Veronica Kline . . . who is this person?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Fuck yeah, it matters. Whether or not I think you should leave Aaron is completely dependent on who this person is. Is he hot?”
“God, Lisa. You’re without class sometimes.”
“Class is overrated. Well is he?”
“Can you keep your voice down?” Ronnie glanced around the patio quickly to ensure there wasn’t anyone relevant in earshot.
“Sorry. God. I would kill to have an affair.”
“I think you have to be in a relationship to have an affair.”
“Yeah, that too. Maybe I should, as they say, take a lover.”
“C’mon, be serious.”
“No, I really should. I’m bored out of my mind. You’ve got drama. Intrigue. Totally jealous.”
“No, I’ve got serious problems. He’s married.”
“Shit.”
“With a kid.”
“Double shit.”
“Who is sick.” That word again. The one Charlie hated.
“My god, Ronnie. You must feel so lonely keeping this a secret. You should have said something.”
This is why Ronnie loved Lisa. With all the people who flowed in an out of Ronnie’s life, Lisa was the one who, despite being self-a
bsorbed, genuinely cared about Ronnie’s well-being above
all else.
“Married with a kid, eh? So he’s . . .”
“Yeah. He’s older. You don’t know him.” Ronnie paused for a moment to reconsider. “Well, you might know him.” Lisa was a reader, always carting around strange little books about feminism and novels by female writers Ronnie had never heard of. Ronnie was surprised that the literary fame factor hadn’t occurred to her until this moment. “Charles Stern?”
“Wait a fucking second. You’re fucking Charles Stern? The fucking Charles Stern? Literary god who has won a bunch of awards Charles Stern? You are fucking Charles fucking Stern?”
“Well, I wouldn’t call him a god, per se.”
“Shit. I can’t even believe this. The injustice of it. You don’t even care about books. How do you get to fuck Charles Stern?”
“That’s not true. I read books.”
“Yeah? What was the last book you read?”
“That’s not the point.”
“My god, you always seemed so Ivory soap and water, or bread and butter, or whatever that phrase is to imply you’re a good girl. Wonder Bread? Whatever. Fuck you.”
“Thank you.”
“Oh my god. You’re fucking Charles Stern.”
“Would you stop. Please.”
“What about the wedding? Your wedding?” Lisa said this in a tone that implied she’d entirely forgotten about the wedding. There were times when Ronnie herself forgot the wedding.
“I’m starting to think I’m not really cut out to be a wife. I’m not the baking pies and knitting sweaters type.”
“No one is. That’s why there are bakeries and malls. Get over it.”
“Again, not really the point.”
“So, what are you going to do?”
“I have no idea. Drink this beer?”
“Hell, drink ten beers. I’m buying. Honey, you’re fucking Charles W. Stern.”
( CHAPTER FORTY-ONE )
Ronnie decided to cut hair because she didn’t know what else to do. She’d simply never had any real interest in anything, no passion or calling, and the idea that as a hairdresser she could work flexibly and independently appealed. It was also easy to learn and do while she was being reckless or sick. Or both.
She’d never been the kind of girl who was preoccupied with fashion or beauty, but her ability to make people feel good, happy, and attractive was immediately gratifying. It fit. It was easy. The feeling that she could fix something, make something better with a skill she had acquired, that people trusted her, told her their secrets, relied on her to symbolically overhaul their lives—all of these things made the profession a perfect place for her to be.
It was for this reason that she asked Charlie if she could cut his hair. Her feelings for him, for the situation, had lost their footing, escaped reason. The floor was falling out from beneath them. Cutting grounded her. Brought her clarity. It was a way to save them both.
“But I have so little hair to cut,” he said, half smiling.
“I want to do it. I’ve sat here and watched you write.”
Here was an ever-changing hotel room. Home, for them, was club sandwiches from room service and white towels and concierge requests.
“I want to share what I do with you,” she pleaded.
He smiled at her, soothed by her simplicity, and relented. “I want you to.”
This particular excuse to be missing for an afternoon was an easy one. “I’m going to get a haircut,” he told Tamara.
Ronnie laid a bath towel down on the floor, and after he came from the shower in a complimentary bathrobe, she slipped her scissors and combs from her backpack and placed them neatly on the bed. Charlie sat in an office chair facing the mirror, over the desk, next to a window with an endless view of the city.
She put her hands in his hair and then put one on each of his shoulders.
She stared at him seriously in the mirror. “I love you, Charlie.”
“I know you do.”
“Do you trust me?”
“Always.”
“I want you to leave your wife.”
“I know you do.”
They hadn’t spoken about her tests, the possibility of cancer, the possibility of surgery, since the crying jag at the pub. Ronnie had decided not to push Charlie to deal with reality until it was indeed reality. When she had results, when she had a plan, she would bring him in, but for now she wanted to protect him. To care for him. To hide it all from him.
They were silent for a moment, and when it was obvious that Charlie was going to say no more, she slowly ran her fingers along one side of his neck. He closed his eyes and let out a long, low sigh.
When he opened them again he nodded and she began cutting, carefully at first, and then with an intensity and speed that suggested she was lost in it.
She worked in silence, and he watched her in the mirror, her furrowed brow, the flicker of her eyes as she scanned and then confirmed each cut, soothed by the knowledge that when they went down, they would go down together.
And in that moment everything that was out of control wasn’t anymore.
( CHAPTER FORTY-TWO )
Fidelity becomes infidelity so quickly.
One touch becomes another. One word becomes another.
Safe becomes unsafe so quickly.
Pre-cancerous becomes cancerous so quickly.
One test becomes another. One treatment becomes another.
Safe becomes unsafe so quickly.
You nod through conversations about outcomes and expectations, and you know you can’t have your lover care for you in a hospital bed. It’s simply not practical. Despite the fact that you love him more than anyone else in the world, that he is the subject of songs and movies and visits you in dreams, that you smell your clothes in the hopes of catching the scent of him on them, that you have given your heart and soul to him in hotel rooms across the city on a weekly, almost daily basis, have suffered every risk and regret, perpetuated every lie to have him in your life, it’s difficult to explain the stranger at the foot of your bed, doting on you, as you lose weight and your hair falls from your head and your eyes sink back into your skull.
If you’re honest, you know how little this narrative means in the greater scheme. While your love is scandal, and has the capacity to wound so many, it’s all so meaningless. Your lives so small and insignificant. People tell lies and betray the people they love every day. Your mistake is thinking you are somehow special in this regard. You’re simply two extra people groping to find meaning where there is little to none.
The beauty of infidelity is that you love so quickly. There is nothing to lose in confessing the enormity of your love.
Everything is already lost.
( CHAPTER FORTY-THREE )
Ronnie was at the meat counter in the supermarket and something made her cry. Made her wonder if she was being punished for what she had done in hotel rooms and steakhouses, at university cocktail parties, in Bay Street bars.
Surrounded by endless cuts of meat, flesh segmented, carved up, shrink-wrapped and frozen, sliced and served on Styrofoam, all the parts of her that had been poked and prodded, all the parts that had been cut up and put in tiny plastic jars, labelled Veronica Kline, to be sent off to labs. The parts they had burned off. The parts that were discarded.
At the meat counter, she started to cry. She cried for the time she had shamefully bled all over the floor of the hospital room, and the nurse, sympathetic, handed her a maxi-pad and her jeans. She cried for the many med students who hovered above her, with their clipboards and busy questions, their vague interest and vaguer statements, their endless chorus of “we don’t know anything yet.” She cried for the time a male med student, likely ten years younger than her, said, “I know how you feel,” when he clearly didn’t and ne
ver could. She cried for the time the doctor threatened to put her out, put her under, if she didn’t “calm down.” She cried for the time she had cried from the moment she lay down on the table until well after they were finished. It always took so long for them to be finished. Took them so long to slice out the parts that they wanted and take them away for safekeeping. She cried for every question unanswered and every test inconclusive.
She remembered the time she cried when Charlie fucked her. The time she cried when Aaron fucked her. And how the two times were so different. How they both let her cry and didn’t ask any questions.
She remembered the time she left the house and went to a dive bar by herself in the middle of the night and drank half a dozen whisky shots and had to have Aaron come to get her. The time she wished she could have called Charlie instead. But Charlie was with his wife at a dinner party, and Charlie’s wife didn’t have cancer. Charlie’s wife was beautiful and not sick and not spending her afternoons being carved up on a gynecologist’s table.
Ronnie was at the meat counter and she wondered how, when the time finally came, she was going to tell Aaron that she couldn’t have children. When the doctor called to tell her surgery was the only option, how she could look Aaron in the face and explain that she could never give him what he really wanted. She wondered if that would be a good enough reason for him to leave her, because she longed for him to leave her. Longed for the relief that would finally bring. She of course could never leave him. He was beautiful and good and perfect and everyone loved him. She would never be able to explain.
Surrounded by cuts of meat, seeping, bleeding onto their Styrofoam trays, Ronnie cried for a baby she didn’t want, and a husband she didn’t want, and someone else’s husband that she did want.
The butcher wiped his hands on his apron and asked her if she was okay.
“He’s never going to leave her,” she said to the butcher with the clean hands.
( CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR )
Despite the fact that Charlie and Ronnie had moved their meetings to various hotel rooms across the city, far from the heavy, creaking wooden desk of his University of Toronto office, Sarah still had her suspicions and was bored enough with her own life to pursue them with calculated interest.
Infidelity Page 13