by Cate Holahan
There’s nothing save some generic pens. So that’s what I have to offer. My signature and some of the bookmarks and business cards that I always bring to these things. I force a smile that I hope could land me a job as an Olive Garden hostess and scan the sparse crowd.
There’s a well-dressed man at the other table who reminds me of Nick. They have the same dark hair worn long enough to have a slight curl at the nape. Same deep-set eyes. As I look at him, the room grows fuzzy, like I’ve moved from a sunlit space into a dim hallway. Suddenly, the overhead lights explode with shocking brightness. My head pounds. I hear phantom traffic sounds followed by an explosion. Instinctively, I press a hand to my left temple. Why is this happening now?
My stomach cramps from the blinding pain. I open my eyes just enough to take in my escape route. The elevators are to the left, a hundred paces beyond this room’s exit. I weave around the convention attendees, avoiding people by the placement of their feet on the gray hotel carpet.
By the time I enter my room, the worst of the migraine is over, though my temples still throb the rhythm of my accelerated heartbeat. The suddenness and severity of the headache makes me feel as though I was sucker punched. I want to speak to my husband.
His phone rings five times. I expect to leave a voice mail when an unfamiliar male voice answers.
“Hey. It’s Liza. I was calling for my husband.”
“I’m sorry. David is meeting with his secretary. May I . . .”
An orange sunset creeps through the hotel window, staining the pale-brown walls with rust streaks. The remnants of the migraine have made me light sensitive. I shade my eyes with a lazy salute and struggle to draw the curtains. Once the room is dark, I regain focus. The man is asking if he can take a message. From the tone of his voice, it’s not the first time he has posed the question.
“Sorry, I . . .” Talking hurts. “He’s meeting with Cameron?”
“I’ll tell him you called.”
The man hangs up. I flop on the center of the bed and bury my face in the pillowcase. Why am I suffering a stress migraine? Is it my fear of selling a so-so book? My anger with David for refusing to return my calls? Learning that Nick had been souring David on the idea of a baby? David’s desire to work all week? Cameron?
I groan into the fabric. David isn’t going to cheat on me with that girl. She’s too pretty for him. Too young. He probably spends all day ordering her around: “Take dictation.” “Where is my dry cleaning?” “Hang these missing posters.” But then, why do I feel so nervous about him in the office? Why the blinding pain in my brain?
My limbs are trembling from the migraine aftershocks and fear of another attack. I always travel with medicine. I dig in my bag for an Excedrin bottle and shake out two pills, swallowing them with bottled water from the minibar.
Afterward, I stumble into the bathroom, vision still blurry from the receding pressure in my head. I splash water on my face, over and over, until my breathing normalizes and the room no longer resembles a club at closing time. Then I flop on the bed and reach for my laptop on the nightstand table.
Deadlines do not stop for migraines. I send the marketing team a quick e-mail explaining that I left my signing early due to “illness” and then open up my most recent document. No more thinking about David or Nick. It’s time for Beth to have her revenge.
Chapter 8
A warm wind strokes my exposed shoulders as I exit my apartment building onto the street. The park stretches out before me. On nights like this one, couples have picnics on the lawn and illicit intercourse behind the bushes. The city runs the sprinklers around midnight to flush everyone out.
I meander toward Chambers Street and the A train, tottering in the high heels that my feet haven’t squeezed into in over a year. The whore’s apartment is in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Jake had her address saved in a Google chat. The conversation, dated more than two months earlier, had caught my attention. They’d been debating “sexual experimentation” in that abstract, pseudointellectual way people have of discussing intercourse when they still haven’t seen each other naked. I’d suffered through the whole exchange, figuring it had to end with a meeting place.
I won’t go there. Traveling into Brooklyn alone at nine o’clock isn’t dangerous. But waiting on a street corner until the wee hours of the morning for my husband and his lover to emerge from her building certainly would be. Moreover, I don’t know that they’ve actually gone to her place. Jake’s e-mail and chat history didn’t leave clues as to where he intends to take his girlfriend tonight.
Adrenaline carries my anger to every limb. I want to run a marathon or bare-knuckle box. A drink will take the edge off. Finding one in this part of Manhattan, though, is unusually difficult. Like the Upper West Side, the Battery Park area is little more than a suburban breeding ground tucked in the city. Residential buildings, parks, and magnet schools are the draw here, not nightlife. Wine stores and takeout shops are common. Restaurants are rare. Bars have been pretty much exiled.
I pass the brick-and-glass building housing my former shrink on the first floor. What would Tyler think of me right now, dressed up and on the prowl? Would he say I’m having an unhealthy reaction to recent trauma? I imagine his handsome face. Arched eyebrows. Strong, broad nose. Perfectly trimmed goatee. The idea of Tyler distracts me as I reach the casement windows of the neighborhood’s only sports bar. Folks in soccer jerseys fill the place. Not what I had in mind, but beggars can’t be choosers.
As I head to the entrance, a red-faced man in a crimson jersey comes barreling out of the place, shouting over his shoulder about “gunners blowing.” At least, that’s what I think I hear. His slurred British accent makes it difficult to tell. The man’s thick, swinging arm connects with my side as he passes me, forcing me to hop back with a little yelp. The sound seems to attract him. He turns toward me, blatantly assessing my bedability.
“Hello, love. Well, isn’t it my lucky day?” The swinging arm rises and falls over my shoulder. “In there’s rubbish. Where are you headed all tarted up?”
I peel from beneath his arm. “I’m sorry. I’m married.”
His boozy gaze travels to my left hand, which he grabs and holds up. “No ring.” I yank my arm out of his grasp. The man’s eyes roll over my dress. He snarls at me. “Lying cunt.”
My eyes sting with sudden tears. I back away, stumbling in my heels, despising my husband. Jake should be here, deterring men like this. Instead, I’m alone, left to handle drunken idiots by myself.
“How dare you?” I yell. “You bump into me, don’t apologize, eye me like chicken on a rotisserie, and then call me a nasty name when I don’t want to go anywhere with you?”
The man dismisses me with a wave.
My body shakes with the force of my fury. “No. Really. Who the fuck do you think you are, asshole?”
He whirls with all the menace of a stuck bull. Red snakes in the whites of his eyes. His nostrils flare. “What did you call me?”
“Asshole.”
His hands twitch by his sides. He steps toward me and puts a hand to his ear. “Say again?”
I feign shock. “I’m sorry. I was sure you would have heard that term before. Let me help you. It means a misogynist, selfish prick who thinks other people exist as props in his crappy life. Also known as the place where shit spews out.”
“Listen here, bitch—”
The door swings wide and a man exits, tall enough to play center on a basketball court but broad enough for a tight end. He’s dark skinned with a neat goatee and an angry frown. Tyler? Does the subconscious send comforting images after being knocked into a concussion by a belligerent drunk? Have I missed a moment?
“Hey, hoss. This here woman is my friend.” Tyler’s accent is thicker than usual, a kind of singsong British cockney. He’s probably been drinking. “You should apologize to her.”
The bull glares.
“Now we all saw you bump into her and get grabby.” He points to his left while keeping his
eyes on my aggressor. “I’m sure there are half a dozen folks with camera phones held up to that window right now. Your best bet is really to say you’re sorry and walk away. Anything else, and you’ll be in jail facing criminal charges and God knows what else.”
The mention of legal action reminds me that my husband is a criminal prosecutor. I open my mouth to share this fact but then see Tyler’s strong set jaw and puffed out arms. To hell with Jake.
The bull starts lumbering away. “Fuck you. Fuck her.” He turns to the window and puts both middle fingers up. “And fuck Arsenal.”
I watch the man shuffle down the street. As he disappears around the corner, my legs start shaking uncontrollably. The fear that I should have felt moments ago when mouthing off to a drunk twice my weight rushes in like blood returning to a cramped extremity.
I look at Tyler as I shiver. “Thank you.” Again, tears threaten my eyes. I close them, promising myself that I will not cry. My mascara is not waterproof, and I’ve looked pathetic in front of this man far too often.
He scratches his head. “Nah, don’t mention it. You all right?”
I chuckle. “I could really use a drink.”
“Were you meeting someone?”
“No. My mom’s watching Vicky.” I blink hard, still trying to stave off tears. “It’s a beautiful night. I didn’t want to spend it alone in the apartment.”
“It is real nice out.” He smiles. The warmth flows back into the air. I’m reminded that I’m in a twinkling city on a hot summer evening with money in my purse, no parental responsibilities, and no phone for Jake to track me down on. I came out to make the best of all this.
“Well, nice except for that guy,” I say.
He gestures to the red jersey outlining his developed pectorals and grins as though he’s done something even more spectacular than coming to my rescue. “Arsenal had a good night. That guy had been drinking himself into oblivion over it.”
My legs begin to feel normal. I test out a step toward my savior. “May I buy you a drink?”
Tyler bites his lower lip, his eyebrows raise. His head tilts to the side. I can read this expression even though I don’t know him well: That would be a bad idea, don’t you think?
“I owe you one.”
“No. You don’t. The man was out of line. Anyone would have—”
“Please.” I’m directly in front of him now. I’ve drawn closer, but he’s also stepped farther out onto the sidewalk. “It would help me feel more, I don’t know, normal.”
I catch a small flick of his tongue against his lip as he points down the street. “There’s a wine bar down that way.” He wrinkles his nose and gestures behind him. “Give me one minute to settle my tab. Too many drunks in there. I don’t want to be fighting them off all night.”
Was that a compliment? He didn’t say “off you,” but it was implied. Wasn’t it? It’s been so long since I’ve heard genuine flattery that I can’t be sure. Jake tells me I’m beautiful, but it’s a rote response. “How do I look?” “Beautiful.” “Beautiful as always.” “You know you’re beautiful.” I can’t believe him. He lies about everything.
Tyler returns with a shy smile. I ask him if I’m spoiling the game. He swears that it was over anyway and fills me in on the history of the bar. Thursday nights are for the expats, particularly the British that the banks are constantly shipping over. The owner, an Irishman, has a satellite dish propped on the back of the building. Tyler spreads his arms, displaying his impressive wingspan. “Thing is bigger than my apartment.”
I glance at his hand. There’s no ring or visible tan line around the finger, though I’m not positive I’d notice, given his darker complexion. Not that it matters. It’s just a drink, and he’s only agreed to it because he thinks I’m a fragile soon-to-be-divorced patient who might do something drastic. This is pity date, courtesy of the Hippocratic oath.
I ask him about the game, even though I’m not interested in soccer and only have a vague sense of how it’s played. Clearly, he’s a fan. He boasts about a Trinidadian “right-back” who plays on Arsenal and came very close to scoring in the recent match. I like hearing him talk. His baritone is deep and comforting, a good voice for his profession. Moreover, it’s taking much of my concentration to keep pace with his stride without wrenching my ankle in my stilettos. Instead of looking at him, I’m forced to eye the ground for subway grates.
The wine bar reminds me of the inside of a barrel. The ceiling is wooden with exposed beams that arch toward a line in the center. The floor is cork. It’s dark, lit only by electric candles on the tables and three hanging pendant lights above the bar. The counter is a slab of unfinished wood staffed by a young man in a black apron and button-down. Behind him are rows of exposed shelves alternately topped with bottles and bell-shaped glasses of various sizes.
The bar is nearly full. I start toward the only visible free stool, figuring that we’ll both hover around it for our drink. Tyler’s fingers brush my bicep. He gestures to a table in the corner. “It’s seat yourself here.”
I follow him and perch on the inside stool, back against a brick wall. He straddles the outside seat, closer to the door, and waves over one of the waitresses. She brings a menu and asks what kind of wine we like. I’m about to say Cabernet but think better of it. Red makes me weepy. Instead, I ask for a dry white. She suggests a sauvignon blanc from New Zealand with herbal, peppery notes, which I say sounds great, though I never taste anything in white wine besides pear and acid. Maybe the postpregnancy senses will change that. When Tyler says he’ll have the same, she recommends that we buy the bottle. It’s ten dollars more and we’ll get two additional glasses for the cost of one.
“Sure.” I glance at Tyler to see if his expression disagrees.
He gives a noncommittal shrug. “Good value.”
I watch her head off to the bar and then return my attention to Tyler. He’s out of place here in his soccer jersey, jeans, and sneakers. But he’s so handsome that he makes the button-down set look overdressed.
“What brought you here from Trinidad?”
“Am I from Trinidad?”
“Aren’t you?”
“What gave it away?”
The answer is his accent coupled with the nationality of his favorite “footballer.” But I smile rather than say any of that. He’s playing defense, making me work for small answers so that our conversation stays on the surface. He knows my most humiliating secret. Is it wrong to want to know something real about him in return?
He nods slowly, acknowledging that I’ve figured out the game. “Ex-wife. She was a general manager at the Hyatt down there and got offered a dream job to run one of the brand’s Manhattan hotels. I came with.”
The waitress returns with the bottle. She pours a taste in my glass, which I pass to Tyler. “I don’t really know wine.”
“Not sure that I do either.” He sips anyway and then pauses a second before nodding approval. I’m relieved. Rejecting wine is something only royal pains do to look fancy. I would have thought less of him if he’d done anything other than accept it.
She splits half the bottle between our glasses. The wine sparkles in the flickering light of the flameless candle. I raise my glass, viewing Tyler for a moment through its pale-gold filter. He has such a nice complexion, smooth and dark, like a stained piece of oak.
“To you.” Our glasses clink. “Thank you for standing up for me.”
The drink tastes light and nearly nonalcoholic, though I know it must be at least 12 percent dangerous to classify as wine. I should be careful with this. “Do you like New York better than Trinidad?”
“It’s not exactly home.”
“Why stay?” I sip my wine to cover the fact that my back has tensed. This is when he’ll tell me that he left his wife for another woman who, conveniently, was also living in New York City.
“My daughter is here. She splits the week between me and her mother.” I flash back to the conversation in his office about not needin
g to stay with a cheating spouse for the kids. The advice may have come from personal experience. “And there’s the job. I built a pretty decent practice in the past thirteen years. I wouldn’t want to abandon my clients and start over.”
My muscles relax. “I imagine that would be difficult.”
The wine lubricates conversation. We chat easily about the city, our neighborhood, kids, the news. The latter discussion segues into my job covering crime and the courts. I share the highlight reel of my most interesting cases, happy to show off that I was not always a betrayed housewife on maternity leave. I have value, even if my marriage is falling apart.
As I talk, he seems to look at me differently. A wide smile takes shape on his face. “You have to be pretty confident to be a journalist.”
I shrug. “Not really.”
“No. I think you do. You put your words out there. Have to stand by them. Don’t sell yourself short.”
I feel a smile forming. I grab the bottle to cover it and pour another few swallows into my glass. The bottle feels light. An hour and we’ve nearly finished the whole thing.
“Of course, you have every reason to be confident,” he says.
“What do you mean?”
He looks squarely at my face and tilts his head.
My cheeks grow hot. I pick up the wine bottle and pour the last of it into his glass.
“Will you be covering that rock star’s wife who hit all those people? The one who has the case coming up next month?”
“No. I’d have to recuse myself.” I take a long sip, trying to act casual. “I know the prosecutor.”
“Your husband.”
Though his tone is matter-of-fact, the statement works like a shrill high note, breaking the glass that had blocked out reality. Again, I’m the depressed patient married to the cheating spouse. He’s the shrink. He drains the last of his drink. The waitress must see the deliberate way he polishes it off because a second later, she slides the check in the center of the table. He reaches for it.