Recipe for a Perfect Wife

by Karma Brown

  Alice sat straight up in bed. The garbage.

  She wasn’t used to the rhythm of suburban life. Rather than a garbage chute, they had two large bins in their garage, one for trash and one for recycling, which Alice was supposed to remember to put out Monday mornings. She’d forgotten entirely last week, had gone back to bed as soon as Nate left and slept right through the trucks worming their way through the neighborhood. Combined with a week of heat, the trash stank up the entire garage, and Alice had promised she wouldn’t forget this Monday.

  Tugging on the jeans she’d abandoned on the floor the evening before, she quickly zipped them up and pulled a sweater over her head before racing down the stairs, nearly wiping out on the wiggly tread, swearing as she did. Slamming her feet into her flip-flops, she threw open the front door and then noticed the bins lined up neatly at the end of the driveway. Her phone vibrated in her back pocket.

  I put the garbage out. Remember I’m home late—study session.

  Alice tapped back a quick response. On it with the lawn. I’ll wait up for you. Xo

  She ran a hand through her messy tangle of hair, pulling her fingers to the ends and gathering the stray strands as she did. A few got caught in the clasps of her wedding band, and she tugged those out as she perused the lawn. The grass was long, and patches of sunny dandelions and other weeds poked up through the green here and there.

  “Good morning, Alice.” Sally Claussen was on her front stoop. “Trash usually gets picked up by eight fifteen, but sometimes it’s closer to eight thirty,” she said, opening her own garage. “I like to wait until the last minute because of the squirrels and raccoons.” She disappeared inside the garage, was back a moment later lugging a large bin. “They can make a terrible mess. Smart critters, those raccoons. I’ve seen them pry open locked lids.”

  “No kidding,” Alice said. “Here, let me get that for you.” She took the bin’s handles from Sally. “Just this one?”

  “Yes. Thank you.” Sally wore beige slacks with a navy belt, and a light blue blouse with three-quarter-length sleeves, her white hair pulled back neatly in a low bun. She had a narrow silk scarf tied around her neck—blue and green polka dots—and the entire combination was well put together and stylish. Alice, by comparison, was a disheveled mess of denim and wrinkled cotton.

  Alice carried the bin to the end of Sally’s driveway, and it bumped against her thighs with each step. Sally walked beside her. “I wanted to ask, do you use a lawn company?”

  “There’s a young man a couple of blocks over who runs a summer business. He’s a student in the city but lives at home with his parents over the break. I’ll give you his number. Good prices, hard worker.”

  “The outside work feels like a full-time job.” Alice set the bin down and brushed her hands on her jeans. “So, yes, I’d love that number.”

  “I’ll get it for you right now. Do you have time for a coffee?”

  She thought about Georgia and James and the attorneys whom she had to face in only a couple of hours. “I wish I could, but I have an appointment. Maybe tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow it is.”

  Alice scowled at her lawn. “It would be a lot easier if I liked doing this stuff.”

  Sally nodded. “You might surprise yourself. I have to say the gardening has grown on me over the years.”

  The garbage truck turned onto their street, the screech of brakes interrupting them. Sally waved to the man who jumped off the back of the truck, and he waved back. “Morning, Ms. Claussen,” he said, taking one earbud out, tucking it swiftly under the brim of his ball cap. He had a trim beard and a dimple when he smiled, which made him look younger than he likely was.

  “Hello, Joel. How are the girls?”

  “Doing great. Eva learned to tie her shoes, and Maddie won her soccer game yesterday.”

  “Good for them!” Sally clapped her hands together with delight, as though they were her own grandchildren. “Joel, this is Alice Hale. She and her husband moved in recently.”

  “Nice to meet you, Alice,” Joel said. “Welcome to the neighborhood.” He swiftly emptied the trash cans, then held one in each hand. “Want me to run these back up for you, ladies?”

  “Thanks, I can do it,” Alice replied, then, after Joel swung himself back onto the truck and waved goodbye, added, “He seems like a nice guy.”

  “Oh, he is,” Sally said, fiddling with the ends of her scarf. “Handsome, too. I always enjoy trash day.”

  Alice laughed, liking Sally more and more.

  * * *

  • • •

  The drive to the Scarsdale train station took fewer than five minutes, a quick hop across the Bronx River. Alice was getting better at driving; the suburbs offered a tranquil experience for those nervous behind the wheel, thanks to wide streets and an overall languid pace. As Alice pulled into a parking spot near the station, she marveled again at how quaint Scarsdale was. Tidy brick and stone storefronts, with colorful awnings and flags flying from antique-looking light posts. Perfectly placed trees and manicured green spaces. Outdoor café patios dotted with a smattering of white umbrellas to shield patrons from the beaming sun. It made her envious, how perfectly pulled together this town was—so unlike her current life.

  The train ride went too quickly for Alice, and an hour later she stood in front of the Wittington Group’s building on Broadway in her suit and highest heels, trying to muster the nerve to walk through the door. With a deep breath that did little to quell the acid rolling in her stomach from a too-large coffee and from the truth she’d been hiding for months, she squared her shoulders and marched into the building.

  “Oh, hey, Alice,” Sloan McKenzie, the receptionist, said when Alice pushed through the heavy glass doors of the Wittington Group’s offices. She beamed a sugary smile Alice knew from experience wasn’t genuine. “I’ll let Georgia know you’re here.”

  Sloan busied herself calling Georgia, and Alice waited by the desk, marveling at how straight Sloan’s hair was, nary a wave or stray strand in sight. Alice remembered her regular blowouts and frequent wax appointments with a whiff of longing, self-consciously tugging at her hair’s ends, which had flipped up with the humidity. It had been only a few months since she’d graced this office daily, but already Alice felt out of step and uncomfortable in her business attire.

  “She’ll be a few minutes. You can take a seat if you want,” Sloan said.

  “I’m fine standing. Thanks.” Her shoes pinched her toes and a nasty blister was brewing on her left heel and she really needed a washroom. The coffee had worked its way to her bladder, and her stomach was bloated inside the unforgiving waistband of her skirt, whose zipper was now one deep breath away from splitting. Sitting would only make everything worse.

  “Up to you.” Sloan shrugged, back to typing whatever she had been working on when Alice arrived. Probably something on social media, or maybe a note to her colleagues: Guess who’s standing in front of me right now?? Alice Hale!!!! She looks like shit, FYI!!

  Alice texted Bronwyn—who was on a business trip to Chicago for a couple of days—so she appeared as busy as Sloan was, but she didn’t get a chance to finish it before Georgia appeared.

  “Thanks for coming in.” Georgia said, her tone laced with disapproval. It had been nearly five months since they’d last seen each other and the mutual animosity remained palpable. “Please hold my calls.”

  Sloan said she would, then gave Alice a sympathetic smile, but again, it seemed fabricated.

  Alice tried to keep up, limping with her blistered heel, but trailed Georgia—whose heels were as high, if not higher. Soon they were at the large meeting room not far from Alice’s old office. There were two dark-suited people already inside, a man and a woman—the attorneys, Alice presumed—and a small plate of dried-out-looking pastries.

  Georgia didn’t bother introducing the others in the room, so Alice
decided to name them Tweedledee (woman) and Tweedledum (man) in her mind. “Before we start I’d like to remind you that I expect discretion here. Please try to keep what we discuss in this room between us. I hope you can manage that . . . this time.” She glared at Alice, who withered as she took her seat, setting her phone facedown on the table.

  The female attorney, Tweedledee, spoke first. “So, as I believe Georgia has already mentioned, Mr. Dorian has named you in the suit, Mrs. Hale, and he claims—”

  “Alice is fine,” she said, interrupting.

  The woman nodded, continued. “He claims he was having a private conversation, in a hotel room paid for by the firm he employed. The same one that signed a nondisclosure agreement.”

  Alice cleared her throat, tried to calm her pounding heart. “I’ve been out of the game for a few months, but does a drunken chat with your publicist really count as a privileged conversation?” The attorneys ignored the question, and Georgia muttered something under her breath. Alice knew the contract terms as well as everyone else in the room.

  “On the note of alcohol,” Tweedledum said, flipping through a few pages in the folder in front of him, “James Dorian says he asked for water—repeatedly—and that Mrs. Hale, Alice, kept giving him vodka instead, saying it would relax him for his speech.”

  “That’s bullshit!” Alice lurched forward, slapped her palms against the shiny mahogany table, which looked like a surfboard. She had spent many hours huddled around that table, and despite the unpleasantness of the current meeting, a wave of nostalgia moved through her.

  “Alice, calm down.” Georgia sighed and looked at the male attorney as though to say, See what I’ve had to deal with?

  “Mr. Dorian claims you put words into his mouth. He had mentioned his student, uh—” The man paused to find the name. “Robert Jantzen, was hired to help him with the book as a fact-checker and in a minor research capacity, and you misconstrued his role. He mentioned you had been drinking to excess, as well.”

  “Again, complete bullshit.” Alice’s head whipped between the attorneys and Georgia. “Georgia, you know what James is like. He’s a drunk. And I tried to keep him as sober as I could.” She pressed her fingers to her closed eyes, counted to three as she inhaled as deeply as her skirt allowed, which wasn’t enough to quell her light-headedness. Alice was frustrated by how meek her voice sounded when she continued. “Besides, you told me to ‘take care of him’ and do whatever was necessary to make him happy.”

  Tweedledee looked up from her papers, frowning. “What did you mean by that, Georgia?”

  Georgia waved a hand. “Nothing. Alice tends to be overly dramatic during crisis situations.”

  The male attorney spoke before Alice could defend herself.

  “Alice?” He faced her. “Care to elaborate on that last part?”

  “Let’s just say James Dorian likes his booze, and I was told to make sure we always had vodka and bourbon—his favorites—on hand.”

  “Told by whom?”

  “By Georgia,” Alice said. “But it was a balancing act, because James got handsy if he drank too much, you know?” Tweedledum raised an eyebrow, glanced at Tweedledee, who leaned forward, her gaze piercing Alice.

  “‘Handsy’?” The attorney narrowed her eyes.

  Alice looked at her, confused another woman didn’t understand what she was saying. “You know, a bit touchy-feely. The drunker he got, the higher the probability his hands would end up on your knee, or somewhere else.”

  “Alice, did James Dorian make any unwanted advances without your explicit consent?”

  Alice barked out a laugh. “Is that a real question?” James Dorian’s hands-on ways were no secret at the firm, or more generally within New York’s publishing world.

  “If there was some sort of sexual misconduct, well, that could change things,” Tweedledum said to his colleague, who nodded as she took a few notes. Alice felt the shift in the room, Georgia’s sudden fidgeting with the top of her water bottle. Twisting it repeatedly as she stared at Alice, her expression difficult to read.

  “I assure you, nothing sinister happened,” Georgia said. “I would never put an employee in that sort of situation. James Dorian is a pompous ass who likes his liquor, but sexual misconduct? Never.”

  Alice stared at her former boss. “Georgia, come on. You and I both know that’s not true.”

  There was a long moment of silence, and then the woman attorney said, “Have we missed something here?”

  Georgia sighed, finally uncapping her water bottle and taking a sip through the straw that popped up. She was a pro, and Alice knew Georgia was trying to work out her spin before she spoke.

  “Georgia?” the woman asked.

  Alice watched her former employer sip at the straw, waiting for her to respond, which was when she saw it: the uncharacteristic alarm in Georgia’s expression—subtle, likely undetected by those who didn’t know her as well. In a flush of satisfaction, the never-rattled Georgia Wittington unsteady, Alice acknowledged how powerless she had become these past few months . . . and how badly she wanted to change that.

  14

  Be a good listener. Let him tell you his troubles; yours will seem trivial in comparison.

  —Edward Podolsky, Sex Today in Wedded Life (1947)

  Alice

  JANUARY 9, 2018

  It happened earlier in the year, at an event where one of the Wittington Group’s best clients, the mega-bestselling author James Dorian, was up for yet another award. And Alice had been tasked, like always, with making sure James showed up and made it to the stage when his name was called.

  The Wittington Group had booked a pre-party room for James at the hotel where the literary awards were being held, so he could relax before the event but also so they could be sure he wouldn’t be late. James arrived already drunk, and with a pointed interest in Alice’s smooth, taut legs under her skirt. James Dorian had been married for twenty-five years, but that was beside the point. He loved the power he presumed came with his status, which occasionally meant a valuable, career-boosting endorsement for an up-and-coming writer and at other times meant his hands landed in inappropriate places.

  “Do not leave his side,” Georgia had barked out as she left the office for her blowout. “Whatever he wants, you give it to him.” She was fairly certain Georgia didn’t literally mean anything, but then again Alice wouldn’t have put it past Georgia. She was ruthless when it came to business.

  While Alice didn’t care much for Dorian or his ego or his sloppy hands, she did care about the promotion Georgia had been dangling in recent months. Director of publicity. The title meant James Dorian would no longer be her problem—he would be relegated to a lowlier publicity manager—and Alice would get a decent salary hike, both things she coveted. But tonight she would do the job asked of her and babysit Dorian until she delivered him to the awards ceremony.

  “Why don’t you join me?” James said, patting a spot beside him on the hotel room sofa. “Get yourself a drink.” Alice poured water into the crystal glass, sat beside him. His breath was boozy and bourbon spiced as he leaned toward her, resting one hand on her bare knee. This she was used to, sadly, and she didn’t let it bother her.

  “We have to be downstairs in five minutes, James,” Alice said, taking a sip of her water. “Perhaps we should make that the last one for now?” She glanced at the glass in his other hand, which was tipped at a precarious angle, the dark amber liquid threateningly close to the edge.

  “Now, now, Alice,” he slurred. “I know Georgia wants you to make sure I’m happy.” He drained the glass, smacked his thin lips. “And I’m not done yet.” He held out his glass, and she begrudgingly filled it once more.

  Alice handed him the glass, and he took it, patting the sofa again as he did. She sat with a restrained sigh, and he settled his palm on her thigh, tucked a lazy finger under her skirt’s e
dge. “This is nice, isn’t it?” he murmured.

  “Can I get you anything else before we go?” Alice asked, her voice strong, her words purposeful. Dorian’s fingers continued making lazy circles on her upper thigh. “James?”

  “Georgia should watch out for you.” He pulled his hand away to waggle a finger, cocking his bushy eyebrows tinged with wiry gray hairs. “You’re twice the publicist she is, and I suspect you’re going to knock her right off her fucking pedestal.” He made a sweeping motion, and his drink spilled on Alice’s lap. She jumped up, the pooling liquid draining off her skirt.

  “Shit.” She opened a bottle of sparkling water and used a linen napkin to dab at the spot. Dorian seemed unaware of what he’d done; he kept talking and swinging his glass around.

  “You’re a good writer too. Show plenty of promise. Maybe I should be the one to watch out.” He chortled into his glass, amused with himself.

  “Mmm-hmm,” Alice mumbled, only half paying attention. James was often free with his praise when he was drunk, but it didn’t usually amount to much, she had learned.

  “I like you, Alice. There’s something different about you. You’d make a great character. You’re soft and sweet on the outside . . .” His fingers reached for her, but she was far enough away to avoid his touch. He stood, swaying, and poked her breastbone with a sharp finger, hurting her. “But not on the inside. No. You’re hard in there. Calculating. You have secrets, all locked up. I can tell.”

  Alice stepped back so his finger no longer made contact. “Is that right?” She was so done with James Dorian. She couldn’t wait for that director title; she had earned it a hundred times over.

  “Tell me one of your secrets, Alice.”

  Her phone buzzed in her clutch, the sound of it reverberating on the glass coffee table. Likely Georgia.

  “I don’t have any secrets.”