by Leylah Attar
16. Guilty Lingerie
December 19th, 1995
“Please tell me we have everything.” I flop on a bench, flanked by tall, golden urns of festive poinsettias.
“You’re a terrible shopper,” says Jayne, picking up the brightly colored bags at my feet. “One more stop. I need something for Matt. Come on.”
I plod after her, mentally checking off every person on my list. Yup, I’m done. I’ve even got Maamaan covered, in case she decides to show for Christmas. She’ll arrange herself like royalty and make sulky faces about adopting traditions that are not our own, but then she’ll see the smiles on the kids’ faces and secretly enjoy herself.
“I thought you said you needed something for Matt.” I follow Jayne into a luxe lingerie boutique.
“It is for Matt.” She winks. “He appreciates a well wrapped present.”
The inside of the store is like a courtesan’s boudoir—damask walls, plush chairs, gilded mirrors. One wall is covered with bra-thong-garter combos in jewel toned silk and racy lace. The other showcases waist cinching corsets and diaphanous negligees.
“This!” Jayne holds out a sheer chemise. “And this.” She takes a hot number off the rack. “And this. And this, and this.”
The salesgirl follows her through the store, collecting a pile of slinky under things, before showing her the fitting room.
“Don’t you want anything? Something sexy to spice things up?” Jayne peers at me through the draped velvet curtain before disappearing behind it.
I think of the pink baby doll I had put on for Hafez, now quietly folded away. Then I think of the plain bra and panties Troy took off me, with his lips and his teeth, like he was uncovering the most exquisite thing he’d ever seen.
“This would look divine on you.” The salesgirl brings me a metallic black showstopper with boob-sculpting cups that looks like it’s designed to be ripped off in minutes.
“I don’t think so,” I reply.
“No harm trying, right?” She hangs it up before me.
I look away, but all I can think of is Troy’s hand slipping under the gauzy chiffon, sliding the cheeky thong down my legs, undoing the silky ties...
I catch myself, caressing my stockinged calf with eyes half-closed. Shameless. Like a cat in heat.
“You know what? I think I’ll try it on after all.”
“Great. Let me know if you need a different size.” The salesgirl smiles at me.
I hear Jayne come out of the adjacent room. “I’m going to take these four.”
“Sure. Your friend is in the fitting room.”
“Oh?” Jayne walks over. “Whatcha got in there, Shayda? Let me see.”
“Jayne!” I shield myself as she barges in and draws the curtain behind her.
“Holy shit.” She gapes at me. “Oh mama! I knew you were hiding beneath all those layers, but damn. You got it going on, girlfriend.” She circles me, fixing the straps, pulling here, tugging there.
“I was just killing time. It’s really not my style.”
“Not your style?” She laughs. “You are so getting this!”
I look at myself in the mirror. “You think?”
“Um...YA!”
I hesitate at the register before pulling out my credit card. “It’s so extravagant.”
“Every woman should have something in her closet that makes her feel like a sex bomb. You just found your secret weapon, darling. Hafez won’t know what hit him,” says Jayne.
The thing about having an affair is that one minute you’re having a Holly Jolly Christmas, and the next, Frosty the Snowman dumps a pile of guilt on you, so high, that you wonder if you’ll ever be able to shovel your way out of it. And I deserve every bit of it. I should be used to lying. To Hafez, to the kids, to Jayne. But I don’t know if it will ever come without this soul crushing weight. I feel like a total fraud as I take the bag from the salesgirl.
We head to the food court, barely managing to juggle the shopping bags.
“You’re sure you don’t want to join us over the holidays?” asks Jayne as we sip cinnamon spiced vanilla lattes.
“Yes. Hafez finally has some time off. I think he’s just looking forward to some peace and quiet.”
“It’s a huge chalet, if you change your mind. Nothing but mountains and snow for miles and miles.”
“Who’s going?”
“Well, there’s Matt and me. Ryan, Ellen, the kids. And two other couples. Maybe Troy. Ellen’s been trying to play matchmaker, so if Ryan convinces him to come along, her friend will be there too. You know, surprise!”
“What happened to the girl he was with at Thanksgiving?”
“Who? Rachel?” Jayne shrugs. “Who knows? All I know is that everyone and their uncle is trying to fix that man up. I don’t think Troy Heathgate is not going to be single much longer.”
17. Call Me
December 22nd, 1995
“You need any help?” asks Susan as I walk past the reception.
“That would be great.” I hold the door open, juggling gift baskets and festively wrapped boxes.
Susan picks up the rest of the gifts. “Your clients really love you.”
“I’ve come to know them over the years.” I slide my things in the back seat and open the trunk for Susan.
“It’s because you’re good at what you do.”
“Thanks. I love being a part of their milestones.” I smile. “Enjoy the holidays.”
“You too. See you in the new year.” She waves goodbye.
I make it to the grocery store in time to grab the last of the turkey. The express line is a mile long. I push my cart to another check-out. The place is a zoo, none of the Christmas cheer here, just tired, harried shoppers, eager to get home.
My line stalls for a price check. The customer starts shouting at the cashier. I feel sorry for the poor girl. She wipes her brow and looks up. It’s Marjaneh.
I watch as she rings through one person after another.
“Hello.”
Scan, scan, weigh, scan.
Bag, bag, bag.
Ding, ding, ding, goes the register.
“Thank you. Merry Christmas.”
Smile.
Next.
“Hello Marjaneh,” I say when it’s my turn.
She looks surprised to have someone acknowledge her.
“Hi, Shayda.” There’s no time for chit-chat.
I see the thin film of perspiration on her upper lip, the stains under her arms as she bags the turkey.
“Here you go.”
“Thanks.” I take it from her, and then I pause. “Listen.” I reach for my business card. “If you ever think about doing something else, call me.”
She takes it and shoves it in her vest pocket. “Merry Christmas.”
Smile.
Next.
I get in the car and wait for it to warm up. There is no snow on the ground, but the windows are frosty and the air is biting cold.
I hear a muffled chiming, like the ring tone of a cell phone. Strange. I don’t have one, but something in the car is definitely going off. It stops for a while and then starts again. I rummage through the packages, letting the sound guide me, until I find a red box with a cell phone inside.
“Hello?”
“Shayda.”
Shayda with the ahhh. In that rich, baritone, coffee-over-marshmallow voice. I feel the chill in my bones melt.
“You there?”
“Yes,” I reply. “What’s with the cell phone?”
“Well, I can’t call you at home and I don’t want to go through your receptionist every time I want to get a hold of you.”
“I have a pager.”
“Always on the cutting edge of technology.” He laughs.
“But I didn’t sign up for this.”
“I did. It’s in my name.”
“So the bill comes to you?”
“Yes.” He sounds like he’s in a bar, or maybe some fancy restaurant, with tinkling glasses, and s
oft jazz playing in the background.
“I can’t accept it.”
“Humour me. Please.”
The way he says ‘please’, like his tongue just licked the back of my knees.
“Fine. I’ll hold on to it. For now.”
Silence.
We’re both thinking of the last time we were together. I can picture his fingers skimming the rim of his glass as he recalls how he played with my skin.
“Will I see you over the holidays?” he asks.
Arrows of anticipation shoot through me at the thought of it.
“I...uh...Hafez...the kids...”
“I understand.” He spares me the agony.
I hear the striking of a match.
“What are your plans?” I ask.
He blows a puff of smoke away from the receiver. “I think I’ll take Ryan up on his offer and join them at the chalet.”
The chalet. Where Ellen is waiting to fix him up with her friend.
“Great,” I reply, dying a little inside. “Have fun.”
“I will.” He takes a sip of whatever it is he’s drinking. “And Shayda?”
“Yes?”
“I’ve programmed my number. Call me.”
18. Brownies
January 1st, 1996
Hafez and I catch the countdown on TV. The city skyline explodes in a dazzling display of fireworks as revelers huddle together to ring in the new year. Confetti covers Nathan Phillips Square in bursts of colorful celebration.
Hafez turns off the TV and heads for the stairs. It’s a familiarity born out of habit, the comfort of not having to ask, of knowing when it’s time to sleep or eat or wash the car.
I soak our coffee cups and turn off the lights. Natasha and Zain are already in bed. I stop by their rooms, wondering what this year will bring—maybe Natasha’s first period or another loose tooth for Zain.
“Happy New Year.” Hafez gives me a kiss as he leaves the bathroom. It’s a tiny peck, the kind we’ve exchanged countless times before, but I feel like I’ve violated a sacred trust, touching him with the same lips that have kissed Troy. I shut the door behind him and lean against it. Then I walk to the sink and splash cold water on my face. The uneasiness lingers. I brush my teeth and step out.
“I’m going to call Maamaan,” I say.
I tip toe downstairs and pick up the phone.
“I can’t talk too long,” says Maamaan. “I’m waiting for your brother to call.”
“Go to sleep. They’re probably out.”
Maamaan will wait by the phone all night, but she will never dial Hossein’s number. It’s beyond her, akin to admitting a weakness.
“He doesn’t care.” She sniffs.
I can picture her in her nightie, standing by the kitchen table, tapping her fingers on the counter.
“Happy New Year, Maamaan.”
“Our new year isn’t till March,” she reminds me.
“Happy New Year anyways.”
She tells me how inconvenient it is that things are closed—her doctor, the convenience store, the food court where she meets her friends.
“One more day,” I say.
“Zarrin is in the hospital again.”
“What? When?”
“Last night,” replies Maamaan. “It’s not good.”
“I’ll pick you up tomorrow. We’ll go see her.” I pause. “And Maaman?”
“Yes?”
“When was the last time you had your mammogram done?”
“In May. You took me.”
Some things are so mechanical, I don’t remember. I hang up, thinking of my early days in Toronto, days spent with Khaleh Zarrin in her nutmeg scented kitchen.
“Food connects people,” she said. “It brings us together. Nothing says love like the taste of home. These brownies are my personal creation. Remember me when you make them for your own family some day. It will remind them of you, a little bit of magic only you can create.”
She showed me the secret to her fabulous recipe.
“Don’t make them too often. Or your man will go rolly-polly.” She puffed up her face and laughed long and hard, her round belly lifting up in little contractions against her apron.
I took Khaleh Zarrin some brownies a few days after her first chemo.
“You still make them.” She smiled and took a small bite. “I bet Hafez hurries home for them.”
But Hafez doesn’t have a sweet tooth. Troy does.
My eyes linger on the coat closet. I can almost see the red box, stowed away in the corner.
Call me.
I turn on the cell phone. There is just one number under the contacts list. I select it and hold my breath.
The phone rings five times before he picks up.
“Hello.”
I slink into the guest bathroom and shut the door.
“Troy.” I can hear the loud kathumping of music behind him.
“Hold on.” He puts his hand over the phone and says something. A door closes. The noise fades.
“Yes?”
“It’s Shayda.”
A pause, and then a soft, “Hey.”
“Happy New Year,” we both say at the same time.
I laugh. He laughs.
“I’m glad you called.” The music comes back on at his end. There’s muffled talking. “Listen, I have to go, but I’ll be back in a couple of days. See you then?”
“Yes,” I reply.
“Bye, Beetroot.”
“Bye.” I smile into the phone.
19. Opening The Door
January 4th, 1996
“Check it out.” Jayne spreads the newspaper before me.
‘First Kiss of the New Year,’ reads the caption. ‘Heir to Accord Hotels, Matt Cavelry, and his wife Jayne, ring in the new year with the first kiss of 1996.’
I smile at the photo. It’s typical Jayne, standing out in the middle of a dance floor full of other couples. And then I see him, a few feet to the left—the casual, messy way he wears a suit, the turn of his profile...
“What’s wrong?” asks Jayne.
“Nothing.” I hand her back the paper, trying to erase the image of Troy with a tall woman in a bare-backed gown, his arms around her waist, his lips locked in a passionate kiss. A thousand black and white pixels come flying out of the page and attack me like raw edged shrapnel.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Yes.” I collect my defenses. “I’m fine.”
“All right then.” Jayne looks me over. “I wish you’d come. We had a wonderful time.”
I picture Troy skiing down the mountain, heading for the chalet after wards, the fire roaring, warm and toasty. Him and Ellen’s friend. A wonderful time.
“I’m sorry. I have to get going.” I pay for my half. “I just remembered I have an appointment.” I leave a bewildered Jayne, sitting alone with her half-eaten lunch special.
Listen, I have to go...
The words echo in my mind. The muffled talking, how happy he sounded. It wasn’t because of me or my call.
Silly, silly, silly Shayda.
He had to get back. To his date.
I drive downtown and park outside the building Bob showed me after closing Troy’s commercial deal.
‘Heathgate Group.’ I follow the dots next to the listing...Suite 910.
The desks are empty. I make my way through the sawdust, the haphazard electrical wires, the drilling, the clanging, and then, more chaos—Troy, behind a glass wall, shooting hoops in his corner office. Who has a basketball net installed at work? How did I allow myself to get involved with a man who thinks the whole world is his playground?
I don’t knock. I walk straight in.
“Shayda.” His face lights up. Then he frowns. “What’s wrong?”
“I just want to return this.” I put the cell phone on his desk and turn on my heel, but he stops me in one swift move.
“What’s this about?”
“You want to know what it’s about?” My voice quivers.
I walk over to his desk and unfold the newspaper. “This.” I point to the photo. “This is what it’s about, Troy.”
“This?” He casts a cursory glance at the image. “You’re worked up over this?”
But it’s not just this. It’s the things he doesn’t see, the ghosts of my father and brother in that photo, staring back at me. Men who can never limit themselves to just one woman.
“I’m done, Troy. It’s over.”
I head for the door, but he grips my wrist and swings me around.
“Really? Just like that? Because you see me with another woman?” He tangles his fist in my hair and pulls my head back. “Do you think it’s easy for me? To think about you lying in bed with another man, night after night?”
“He’s not another man. He’s my husband!”
“That’s just it, Shayda! He’s your husband. I can’t compete. I can’t demand. I can’t win!” His breath is hot and harsh against my ear.
“Stop it, Troy. You’re hurting me.”
But he twists my hair tighter. “You think I like waiting on the fringes of your life, wondering when I’ll see you? Maybe Christmas? Maybe New Year’s? And when I do, you walk in here and throw this in my face?”
“You don’t know anything.” I spit out.
“No? Then tell me, Shayda. Do you make the same sweet sounds for him? Does the rose scent of your skin drive him fucking crazy? Do you soak your panties for him like you do for me? Tell me, Shayda. Godammit!”
It’s not like that, I want to say. But I say nothing. Because that would open up secrets that are not mine to tell. And isn’t it enough that I have already betrayed Hafez?
So I let him swallow the jagged pill, I let him wash it down with the bitter concoction of me in my husband’s arms, sharing all the things that I share with him.
“I’ll take you any way I can, Shayda,” he says. “But everything else is off limits. You don’t get to be married and keep me on a leash. And if you can’t handle that, if you can’t handle this,” he waves the paper at me, “then we end it. Right here, right now.”
Yes. That’s what I came to do. End it. Ignore the sharp pain stabbing at my insides and hack away in spite of it.