by Joy Fielding
“No, it’s more than that. I’m seeing a bit of the old spark coming back.”
We see what we want to see, I think. “I went to a therapist this afternoon. Elizabeth Gordon.”
He shakes his head at the name. “Don’t know her. Any good?”
“I hope so.”
“I think it’s a good idea, that you’re seeing her,” he says after a pause. “I think it’ll help.”
“I hope so,” I say again. I wait for him to ask what we talked about, to grill me as Jade did earlier, but he doesn’t. Does he wonder if we talked about him? He doesn’t ask that either.
“Any interesting new cases?” I ask after a silence of several seconds.
“Not really. Same old, same old,” he adds for emphasis, as if to convince me I’m not missing much.
“No juicy office gossip?”
He hesitates. “None that I can think of.”
“What?” I ask.
“What?” he repeats.
“You thought of something,” I tell him, a repeat of our earlier exchange, although our roles have reversed. “There was all this stuff going on behind your eyes.”
“Just trying to see if I could come up with anything sufficiently juicy. Guess you’ll have to talk to Sally about that sort of thing.” He looks toward the window, stares absently at the horizon.
I’m holding my breath. We’ve never had a problem talking to each other before. Words always flowed so effortlessly between us. Although truthfully, we never had much need for very many words.
“I ran into your brother this morning,” he says finally.
“Heath?” I haven’t heard from him today. I wonder how his callback went, if he got the Whiskas commercial. I hope he did. Heath needs for something good to happen.
“Gene,” Sean corrects.
I grimace. I’d forgotten about Gene. I’m used to thinking I have only one brother.
“He asked how you were coming along, if I’d spoken to you since that memorable afternoon here.”
“What’d you tell him?”
“That your recovery might proceed faster if he’d drop his lawsuit.”
I can’t help but laugh. “And what did he say to that?”
“That he was open to discussing the matter whenever you felt up to it.”
“Lovely. I feel better already.” I’m reminded of Claire, her worries about money. “Do you think I should settle?”
“I think that’s entirely up to you and Heath.”
“My father would have a fit. You know he would. You were his lawyer.”
Sean shakes his head. “Your father was a stubborn man, Bailey. And much as I respected him, he wasn’t always right.”
“So you think I should settle?” I repeat.
“I don’t think you should decide anything until you’re feeling stronger. Just remember that there’s lots of money to go around, and it’s your health that’s important here. At some point, it might be best to cut your losses, make peace with your family, and move on with your life.” He reaches over and pats my knee. “I should go.”
“Now? You just got here.”
He checks his watch as he rises to his feet. “It’s getting late. The girls …”
“… like their father to be home to kiss them goodnight.”
He’s walking toward the foyer. I reach out and grab his hand, feel his fingers sliding from mine as he moves to open the door. “Listen. There’s something I have to tell you. I’m going away for a week.”
“What? When?”
“We leave Saturday. It’s this family cruise Kathy booked months ago. The Caribbean. Believe me, this was not my idea.”
I bite down hard on my lower lip to keep from saying something I’ll regret.
“I’ll miss you,” I tell him. What else can I say?
“I’ll miss you, too.”
He leans over and kisses me. The kiss is soft and tender, longer than the one he gave me when he arrived. I can’t help wonder if there’s something more, something he isn’t telling me. I long to grab him close, to keep him from leaving. My arms stretch toward his neck. But he is already pulling away from me, and my hands brush ineffectually across his shoulders as he steps across the threshold.
“Take good care of yourself until I get back,” he says. And then he is gone.
I run down the hall to my room, grab my binoculars and stare down at the street, watching for his car. But it is dark, and one car looks pretty much the same as the next. I watch them as, one after another, they disappear into the night, taking their secrets with them.
— FOURTEEN —
It’s just after midnight, and a light rain is starting to fall when the lights go on in the apartment across the way. Immediately I raise my binoculars to my eyes, watching as Narcissus enters his bedroom. He’s not alone. A woman is with him, but I’m pretty sure she’s not the same woman he was with last night. This woman appears both taller and thinner, although she has the same long, dark hair as the previous one. She seems to be laughing, but I can’t tell for sure.
I adjust the lens to get a better look. The circles refuse to align properly. Everything remains hazy. Maybe it’s the rain. Maybe it’s because I’m so tired. Earlier I pulled the desk chair from my office into the bedroom, and I’ve been dozing in it on and off for the last few hours, alternating between the worlds of dreams and reality, unable to decipher which is which, equally uncomfortable in both.
The fog surrounding me suddenly lifts. The rain disappears. Everything becomes crystal clear, so clear that I find myself standing right behind the young woman with the slim build and long, dark hair as Narcissus offers her a drink. I can even make out the painted olives decorating the side of her glass as we reach for the drink together. I feel it cold against my fingers.
Narcissus and the woman raise the glasses to their lips, and I feel the liquor burn my throat as they drink it down. He mutters something in her ear; she smiles and mutters something back. Despite our close proximity, I am unable to hear their voices. We listen, but we don’t hear, I think. No matter how close we stand to one another, we somehow fail to connect.
The woman is laughing again, and I wonder what Narcissus said that was so funny. He strikes me as too self-absorbed to have much of a sense of humor, but perhaps I’m wrong about that. The young woman seems mesmerized by what he is saying. She is younger than his conquest of the night before, although not quite as pretty. She clicks her glass against his in an impromptu toast. To what? To life, to health and wealth, to people who live in glass houses?
I watch as Narcissus takes the now-empty glass from her hands and deposits it on the table by the window, then wraps her in his arms. I watch him kiss her, his arms moving up her back in a virtual replay of last night’s activities. A man who likes routine. I find myself as powerless to look away as I was the night before. I see him unzipping the back of her short red dress. I see it fall to the floor. Shockingly, she is naked beneath it, and I gasp as his hands reach around to clasp her buttocks.
His head snaps up, as if he heard me, and he smiles, as if he knows I’m watching. Does he? Is it possible?
I’m being ridiculous. There’s no way he knows I’m here, no way he can see me sitting here in the darkness of my bedroom. But the smirk pulling on his lips taunts me. I know you’re there, his eyes shout at mine. I know you’re watching. I drop the binoculars to my lap. There’s no way he can see me.
Enough of this nonsense. Enough hiding in the dark, spying on neighbors, no matter how recklessly they choose to display themselves. I’m too exhausted to think clearly, too hungry to function properly. It’s time to grab something to eat and get into bed.
But of course I do no such thing.
I see that Narcissus is naked now as well, and I watch a rerun of the same show I saw last night: the woman’s bare breasts and stomach pressed against the wide windowpane as the rain picks up its pace, the man’s groping hands, their hungry mouths. I watch her eyes close even as his remain open, staring toward me provocat
ively as he pounds into her from behind. And just like last night, I am as transfixed as I am revolted.
Soon, he is leading her toward the bed. Has he even changed the sheets? I wonder as he throws her down and climbs on top of her, lifting her legs toward the ceiling as he thrusts into her again, each thrust a dagger in my groin.
It is almost two o’clock when the lights in his bedroom finally go out. I push myself slowly out of my chair, bathed in sweat. I take another shower, do a final search of my apartment, and climb into bed, beyond tired, desperate for a sleep that never comes.
—
The same scene is repeated again the next night at eight o’clock. And the night after that. I watch Narcissus get ready to go out. He performs virtually the same pre-game ritual each time, choosing between two ties, holding one and then the other up against his shirt, then tossing the unwanted one toward the bed. Some nights his toss is good, and the tie reaches its destination. Other nights, the silk column unfurls in midair and falls to the floor, where it remains, to be trampled on later.
I observe him as he combs his hair and prances half-naked around the room, stopping only to periodically admire his reflection in the mirror before administering whatever final touches are required prior to turning out the lights and leaving his apartment. I watch him return at midnight with a different woman, although they all share similar characteristics. All are reasonably tall and slim, with dark hair that cascades down their backs like a waterfall.
All look vaguely like me.
Or maybe I’m just imagining a resemblance. In fact, maybe I’m imagining the whole thing. It’s possible. It’s been raining for days. Lots of thunder and lightning. I haven’t slept. Or maybe the reverse is true. Maybe sleep is all I’ve been doing. Maybe none of this is real. Maybe it’s all a dream.
The phone rings, and I jump, glancing at the clock. It is seven o’clock on a Saturday night. Who would be calling me? Claire is working the late shift at the hospital; Jade is spending the weekend at a classmate’s beach house on Fisher Island; Sean is off cruising the Caribbean; Heath has dropped off the face of the earth; the police haven’t called in days.
Caller ID identifies the person on the other end as my friend Sally. She’s called several times, and I haven’t picked up or returned her calls. I know she means well, but I simply haven’t had the energy for her benign chatter. Work is what brought us together, and I don’t know that our friendship will survive my prolonged absence. Still, maybe she’s phoning to inform me that she had her baby early or that, God forbid, something went wrong. Maybe she’s calling to tell me there’s been a tragedy at sea, that the cruise ship Sean is on was struck by lightning and has capsized and sunk. Maybe someone else at the office has been beaten and raped.…
“Hi,” I say, picking up the phone before I’m overwhelmed by maybes.
“Finally,” she says, with obvious relief. “You’re a hard girl to get a hold of. When are you going to get a new cell phone? Then we can at least text.”
“Soon,” I say. “Things have been a little hectic.”
“Yeah?” she asks hopefully. “Is there anything new …?”
“No,” I say. “Nothing.”
“Oh.” The disappointment in her voice is palpable. “But you’re feeling better,” she states more than asks. “You sound better.”
“I feel better,” I say, and if she knows I’m lying, she doesn’t let on. “How are you?” I ask. If I can’t be honest, at least I can be polite. “The baby …?”
“Still cooking. And kicking.”
“Good.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to drop by this week. It’s been a madhouse at work.” Without any prompting, she launches into a story about the high-profile divorce case that the firm just landed.
My attention is diverted by the lights snapping on in the bedroom across the way. I watch as Narcissus strolls into the room, chest bare, pants unbuttoned at the waist. I grab my binoculars and creep toward the window as Sally’s voice continues in my ear.
“Anyway, this is all very hush-hush, of course,” she is saying, “but guess who hubby’s been sleeping with? Bailey? Bailey, come on. Take a guess.”
What is she talking about? “What?”
“Didn’t you hear me?”
“The firm got this big divorce case.…”
“Not just big. Huge. Aurora and Poppy Gomez! We’re repping Aurora, thank God. Turns out Poppy’s been screwing around on her for years. Can you imagine? The sexiest woman on the planet, not to mention she’s sold … what? Three billion records? And he’s this ugly little gnome and he still plays around. I don’t get it. What’s wrong with these guys? So, are you going to take a guess?”
“At what?”
“At who he’s been sleeping with in his South Beach mansion while she’s busy touring the universe in order to keep him living in the style to which he’s become accustomed?”
“I haven’t got a clue.”
“Oh, this is just too good. Are you ready?”
“I’m ready,” I say, obligingly.
“Little Miss Pop Tart, ‘I’m-Saving-It-For-Marriage’—Diana Bishop, herself.”
“You’re kidding.” I utter this as if I’m truly shocked, but the fact is I have no idea who Diana Bishop is and what exactly she’s saving for marriage. The name is vaguely familiar, someone I probably knew from my previous life, I think as I watch Narcissus walk toward his window and stare out at the storm, his hand disappearing down the front of his pants.
“Can you imagine? The shit is going to majorly hit the fan in the next couple of days. We’ve been trying to keep it quiet, but we’re already fielding calls from Entertainment Tonight and Inside Edition. Plus National Enquirer is all but camped out in our reception area. Sources say this; sources say that. You know how it goes. You can’t believe anybody. And we have to dig up as much dirt on Poppy as we can as fast as we can. Dirt we can actually use in court, that is. Which is, of course, where you come in. Turns out Aurora’s pre-nup—which our firm didn’t draw up; when will they ever learn?—isn’t quite as iron-clad as she thought it was. So, any idea when you’re coming back to work?”
“What?”
“We could really use your help on this one.”
“I can’t.”
“This request is coming straight from Phil Cunningham himself.”
“I’m not ready, Sally.”
“You don’t think it might be good for you? Getting back in the saddle and all that.”
“I can’t,” I say again. “Not yet. I’m sorry.”
“Well, do us both a favor and think about it some more. Okay? It might help get your mind off, you know, stuff.”
Stuff. Such a strange word to describe what I’ve been through.
“Anyway, that’s not the only reason I’m calling.”
I hold my breath, afraid of what fresh horrors await me. I note that Narcissus is now openly masturbating, his hand working furiously inside his pants, his head lolling from side to side, his jaw slack, his mouth open.
“You’re coming to the shower, aren’t you?”
“What?”
“I knew it. You forgot all about it, didn’t you?”
What is Sally talking about now?
“The baby shower Alissa’s throwing for me. Tomorrow night at seven. Her place. You RSVP’d weeks ago. Before …,” she says, then breaks off. There’s no need to continue. We both know what comes after “before.”
“I can’t.”
“There you go again. Of course you can. It’ll be good for you to get out.”
It seems Sally has become quite the expert on what is good for me. I bite my tongue to keep from voicing this thought out loud.
“I mean, you just can’t stay cooped up in your apartment all day and night. It’s not healthy. And this is a joyous occasion, a reason to celebrate. I’m having a baby and you said you’d be there.…”
“Before,” I remind her, watching Narcissus’s frantic exertions come
to a satisfied halt.
“Everyone from the office is coming, and Alissa’s doing this whole pink theme, on account of the baby being a girl. We’ve decided to call her Avery. Did I tell you that? Anyway, Alissa’s serving pink sandwiches and a pink cake, and you probably don’t remember but she even requested all pink presents. Not that you have to buy me anything. Your presence will be present enough.” She laughs nervously.
I nod, my head spinning. I watch as Narcissus extricates a tissue from his pocket and wipes his hands.
“So you’ll try to make it?”
“I can’t. I’m sorry, Sally. I just can’t.”
Silence. For a minute, I wonder if Sally has hung up, and I’m about to do the same when she speaks. “Okay.” Another second’s silence. “I understand. Really. I do.”
“Thank you.”
“We’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you, too,” I say, the words reminding me of Sean’s last visit.
“And while we’re on the subject of babies, what do you think about Sean Holden?” she asks brightly, as if my thoughts have somehow prompted hers.
I brace myself as Narcissus turns his head in my direction, a bolt of lightning flashing in the distance. “What are you talking about?”
“Nobody told you? Sean’s wife is pregnant!” Sally exclaims as my entire body goes numb. “Nobody’s supposed to know yet, of course. But apparently, she blurted the news to Sean’s assistant. I can never remember that girl’s name.…”
“Jillian,” I say in a voice not my own.
“That’s right. Jillian. Don’t know why I can never remember that name. Anyway, she swore Jillian to silence, but word kind of got out once they left on their Caribbean cruise. The first vacation he’s taken in years. Can you imagine? Nice to know they’re still doing it at their age. Bailey? Bailey, are you there?”
“I have to go.” I disconnect before she can utter one more awful word. I stand in front of the window, my eyes closed against the small, hard circles of my binoculars. So this is what Sean came over to tell me. This was the secret behind his eyes.
Another flash of lightning turns the sky from black to white. I see Narcissus standing at his window, a pair of binoculars at his eyes, trained directly at my apartment. I cry out, my body folding in on itself, collapsing forward from the waist in slow motion, as if I’ve been kicked in the gut. My whole body is on fire.