Lies She Told

by Cate Holahan

  I stand to place my hand on his. “Let me get this.” I grab my wallet from my purse and slip a fifty into the leather folder, enough for the wine, tax, and tip. I slide from the interior seat. “You can pick it up the next time I save you from a bar brawl.”

  He towers over me. My eyes come to the level of his defined chest. I’d like nothing more than to walk home with my head leaning on his pectoral, his arm draped over my shoulder. But that’s not going to happen. I’m married. And though that means nothing to my husband, it means something to the man in front of me.

  The air outside is blanket heavy. It presses on my shoulders, adding to the weight of my embarrassment. I let myself forget that Tyler was only accompanying me because he felt sorry for me. I allowed myself to hope.

  We walk in silence toward our apartment buildings, crossing busy Twelfth Avenue, where the lights are too bright and the noises too loud, heading toward the river. The park is dark save for a few streetlamps along the promenade. Laughter sounds from somewhere on the lawn. Music wafts from the party boats over yonder on the Hudson. A couple pushes a baby carriage. Everywhere, life is being lived. Shared. But I am headed to an empty bedroom. The idea is so disheartening that I suddenly can’t stand being out in the open. I want to get home, crawl beneath the covers, hide from Tyler’s well-intentioned pity. Sleep for days.

  “My building is right up there.” I extend my hand. “Thank you.”

  “It’s late. I’m happy to walk you home.”

  The offer makes me even more pathetic. I’m a suicide risk who may not make it back to her apartment. Frustrated tears well in my eyes. I stare at the sky to keep them from falling. Clouds glow in the dark, reflecting the brightness of the New York skyline. They look lit by lightning.

  “That’s okay. I’m so close.” My attempt at a smile forces a tear from my eye. I recall my outstretched hand to wipe it away. “Thank you again. It was really nice of you to keep me company.”

  Tyler rubs the back of his neck. “Hey, Beth, Listen. I know there might be a temptation, given what you’re going through, to see tonight as a rejection. But please don’t. You’re a—”

  “Postpartum wife whose husband sleeps around while she’s at home with an infant.” I laugh. “I get it. Don’t worry. I’m a real catch.”

  His hand brushes my exposed arm. “You can’t let your husband’s actions determine your self-worth. I meant it when I said it’s about him. Not you.”

  “Everyone always says that. If I’m so desirable, then what’s stopping you?”

  His eyes go wide. He gestures with an open palm, one of those shrink-wrapped nonthreatening motions. “My license, for number one. You’re my patient.”

  “Not anymore.” I extend my arm for a handshake. “You didn’t have to take the time to build me up tonight, though it was nice of you.”

  He takes my hand, shaking his head. “I wish you believed me.”

  His grip is so firm. I want to feel this hand on my body. I want to see those brown eyes look at me with something other than sympathy. I want, more than anything, not to go back to my apartment, alone, feeling sorry for myself. “Make me believe.”

  He pulls me into him. Full lips land on my own. My mouth invites his tongue inside. He kisses better than Jake. He tastes better than Jake. Right now, I want him more than Jake.

  Tyler grabs my hand and takes me into his building. As we pass the doorman and head into the elevator, he explains that he lives eight floors up from his office. “Easy commute.”

  That’s the last thing he says. We make out as the car rises to the ninth floor, entering his apartment as a unit, tangled together, his arms encircling my waist, my hands wrapped around his neck. I catch glimpses of bookcases and a black leather couch. A king-sized bed is visible to the left of the living room.

  He peels off my dress and then devours the exposed parts of my body. I can’t undo the button on his jeans fast enough. We fall onto the bed. His mouth travels from my clavicle to my chest to my stomach and then to my thighs. Suddenly, he’s on top of me and I’m moaning. Screaming. The bed frame is banging against the wall and he’s telling me I’m beautiful. God, if I could only see. I’m beautiful.

  LIZA

  Writing about sex is tricky. Readers want details to stoke their own erotic fantasies, but they don’t want to be in the imagined room listening to each moan, witnessing every awkward position change. Intercourse, even for the most liberated observer, is embarrassing. Porn is rife with examples. People say uncalled-for, dirty things. They obviously fake orgasms. They scream words more suited to the hook in a Daft Punk song. Harder. Better. Faster. Stronger.

  To pen a love scene without verging into comedy, I have to close my eyes and imagine not what my characters are doing in bed but what they want deep down. Are they using sex to achieve greater emotional intimacy? Is it an opportunity to dominate someone or to be dominated? A chance to procreate? Sex is never about getting off. It’s a physical form of communication, stripped of the linguistic armor inside of which people cloak their true feelings. A person cannot have a sarcastic orgasm.

  After I finish writing, I feel hot and bothered. Itchy. I fire off an e-mail to myself with the latest version of my story attached and then stare at the photo of David and me on my home screen. I’m looking up at him, adoringly. He’s mugging for the cameraman. In my head, Beth says he’s handsome, but he’s no Tyler.

  I can’t be in the room alone with her and my thoughts.

  *

  The hotel bar is the Moulin Rouge gone modern. Black velvet chairs surround tufted ottoman-style coffee tables topped with mirrored drink trays. A sanguine light shines on the seating areas, emphasizing the bordello decor and the fact that most of the patrons are too buttoned up for this kind of establishment. The space is noisy. Though there’s no music, a myriad of half-sober conversations create a sound cloud. Bits of discussion splatter my ears as I head toward the far end of the room where a glowing amber wall illuminates shelves of liquor bottles. The left side of my head still feels held in a vice, but the bar isn’t spinning.

  I spot my editor. He sits on a barstool, elbows on an onyx counter, underlit to highlight the brown veins in the golden surface. Trevor’s face shines in the glow. Pickney flanks him, along with Harrison Mance, whom I’ve met twice before. Harrison is a decorated detective turned best-selling author who publishes with my house’s biggest competitor. He inked a movie deal for his latest book. Trevor is getting his woo on.

  Pickney sees me hovering. He waves me over with a broad smile that I, and everyone else pretending not to watch his every move, can’t help but notice. I approach, still feeling dazed from my marathon writing session. Imagined details seep into my present. Are the silk threads in Trevor’s cobalt suit catching the light or is my subconscious supplying a halo? Is he really that handsome?

  I glance at my reflection in an antique wall mirror beside the bar. My eyes are lined in kohl and painted with extra mascara. My lips are scarlet. I look ready for something. Anything.

  Trevor stops midsentence to remind his famous friends of my much less well-known byline. “Brad, you remember Liza.” He turns to Harrison. “This is one of our authors, Liza Cole.”

  I half-hug Pickney first. He leans forward to receive my back pat, too cool to rise yet sufficiently generous to allow some familiarity. “Brad, it’s been awhile. Congratulations on your latest.” Since I wrote through the awards ceremony, I’m guessing that he won Master of Suspense. It’s an educated assumption. He’s accepted the award for three straight years. And even if he didn’t get it, there’s never a dearth of reasons to praise Pickney on his latest novel.

  Pickney accepts my compliment with practiced humility. He congratulates me on my newest book without saying anything more about it. I’m sure he hasn’t read it. Given the reviews, I’m almost thankful.

  Trevor asks if I’d like a drink, saving me from sharing any details about my bland addition to the larger canon. Before I respond, he calls over the barte
nder and orders a gimlet, my go-to cocktail at every conference. I’m flattered that he remembers.

  Harrison is grinning in that awkward way folks have when they don’t remember somebody but think they should. I bestow a bro-hug—half embrace, half back pat—and tell him how nice it is to see him again. As I disengage, Trevor’s forearm brushes my back. He’s reaching for our drinks. Still, the hairs stand up on my neck. I become hyperaware of his presence, of how many inches there are between his body and mine.

  “It’s good to see you, too,” Harrison says, regaining his footing. “These things aren’t the same without your face brightening the room.”

  I thank him for the compliment and make small talk, throwing in ample flattery for both novelists as I carefully sip my drink. Imbibing to excess isn’t exactly frowned upon in my profession. My own literary heroes would fill a church basement had they not been such unrepentant boozers in real life. Still, technically, I’m working. Plus, I can’t be sure that the stiff drink combined with the hormones won’t make me sick. I don’t want to leave too soon.

  Mutual praise meanders into a discussion of beloved new books and detested television dramas, the stuff of idle conversation that, for writers, amounts to shoptalk. Pickney groans about the latest adaptation of Superman heading to the small screen. Hollywood won’t take a significant risk on a new show unless it’s adding to a masked-man franchise. Shame, really, since he had high hopes for his current series.

  “What are you working on now?” he asks me, possibly because he realizes that there’s nothing less sympathy inducing than the complaints of the rich, famous, and ridiculously successful.

  “An affair-slash-murder mystery.”

  Trevor smiles at me as though he knows a secret. His dark eyes threaten to reveal it. “She won’t say any more,” he says to Pickney. “No outline.”

  I attempt a hearty laugh. What comes out is an unappetizing low-cal version. “I like to discover my endings along with the reader.”

  Trevor winks. “She wants to keep me in suspense.”

  Pickney excuses himself two more drinks in. He’s sorry for being an “old man,” but he must surrender the all-nighters to us “young ’uns.” The apology is nice, albeit unnecessary. We all know that Pickney’s popularity, rather than his age, demands the early bedtime. He’s been chatting up fans and midlist writers like me all day, each of us courting his friendship. Fame must be exhausting.

  Once Pickney departs, Harrison becomes increasingly drunk and incredibly forward. He brags about his latest work during a conversation of far better-known authors and tells me that I’d be the perfect female foil for his oversexed trilogy hero. “You’re . . . How do the British say it? A ‘fit bird,’ eh, Trevor?”

  To his credit, Trevor pretends not to hear him and calls over the bartender. I parry the remark with some ridiculous segue about the best books having bird references in the titles: To Kill a Mockingbird, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, The Goldfinch, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. Afterward, I feign a yawn and say, speaking of birds, I really need to return to the nest. I’m on an early panel.

  Trevor confirms my “packed” schedule, though he must remember that he and Pickney are the only ones with breakfast speeches tomorrow. My sole appearance isn’t until ten. Most likely, he is happy to have me gone so that he can resume convincing Harrison to switch houses.

  My fellow writer bestows a tight good-bye hug, way too familiar for someone who needed to be reminded of my name ninety minutes before. I pull away, feeling like a field mouse wresting free from a python. As a result, Trevor gets nothing but a halting wave, which I regret while making my way to the elevators. As I wait for the next car to arrive, I think about penning an e-mail apologizing for my rudeness. Sorry I had to run. Harrison was giving me the heebie-jeebies. Thanks for the drink. What would he write back to that?

  The imaginary exchange so engrosses that I almost miss the presence of the man behind me. Once I sense him, my body goes into a full alert. I can tell he’s large, strong, and standing inches closer than he should. There’s latent intent in the lack of space between us. For a moment, I wish I had my gun.

  When the elevator arrives, I step to the side, allowing the person behind me to enter so that I may check him out. Trevor lords over me. His Adam’s apple peeks above the unbuttoned collar of his white shirt. “Realized I should call it a night too.” The spark in his eye says he doesn’t typically do what he should.

  I swallow the urge to flirt. In my head, Beth is comparing his neck to a cannon, his shoulders to kettlebells. She’s no Shakespeare. She needs to shut up.

  “Something wrong?”

  “No. Nothing.” Again, I pretend a yawn. “I had a marathon writing session before I came down to socialize. Everything is still hazy.”

  We file into the elevator along with a couple of badge-carrying conference attendees: a man and a woman, married according to the gold rings on their held hands—though, not necessarily to each other. Business trips are notorious for bad decisions. The couple exits on the fifth floor. I repress the number seven.

  “How’s the writing? Or are we still not discussing that?”

  “I’ll talk about it all you want—in a month.”

  He pouts. I tell myself that the full lips pulled beneath his neat mustache make him look like an unhappy Schnauzer. In no world, however, would such a derogatory description fit. If Trevor were a canine, he’d be something sleek and powerful. A Rottweiler or a Doberman.

  The elevator dings. “Saved by the bell. This is my floor.”

  “Courtney booked us all on seven.”

  The door opens. We both exit, me first since I’m a lady and Trevor has British manners. “Why seven? Lucky number?” A twinge of horror follows my question. Did I really just ask him that?

  “Maybe.” He smiles with one side of his mouth and steps forward. The motion opens his jacket. I glimpse the outline of his torso in his thin shirt. Beth’s voice continues chattering. His stomach is a mountain range designed by a symmetry-obsessed God. This man is so sexy, he’s turning my inner prose purple.

  I force myself to look down the hallway, increase the speed of my walk. Heavy footfalls echo behind the click of my stilettos on the worn carpet. I pull my keycard from my purse as I stride to the door.

  “This is me.” I push the keycard into the slot.

  The footsteps stop. “Good night.”

  He’s standing a foot from me, close enough for me to smell his cologne. There’s musk and tobacco smoke. Cigarettes and sex. I say good night. Or at least my brain does. But my mouth, outfitted with Beth’s sultry voice, says something else.

  “It was nice chatting with you earlier on the plane.”

  “You too.”

  “I appreciate the time.”

  Each word brings him closer. Is he moving or am I? My heart is racing.

  “We should definitely talk more,” he says.

  The door beeps. I pull it open and escape into the jamb. Beth is still yammering in my head about Trevor’s body. “Let’s make a date for early next month, after you’ve read the book.” I allow myself one last glance over my shoulder. “Good night, Trevor.”

  He gives me a smile and sign-off wave. I shut the door and then flop onto the bed. Beth is screaming. I bury my head in the pillow. “My husband didn’t cheat on me,” I whisper. “I have no excuse.”

  Part II

  Everybody lies about sex.

  —Robert Anson Heinlein, Time Enough for Love

  Chapter 9

  After sex, I don’t sleep. Instead, I lie on my back and stare at the smooth ceiling pockmarked by pot lights, daydreaming about revealing my revenge to Jake. I imagine returning home at 6:00 AM, just as he is showering for work. I picture him peering through the steam-clouded glass door, his puzzled expression when he realizes Vicky is not in my arms. “Is she asleep?” he’ll ask.

  “Oh, I don’t know, I haven’t picked her up yet.” I’ll smile. “I’m only now getting in.”
>
  He’ll ask me whom I saw, cocky as ever, assuming I spent the night crying over a bottle of Cabernet with one of my girlfriends. Again, I’ll don a Cheshire cat grin. “Since you went out with your lover, I decided to find one of my own.” He’ll step from the stream, uncertain whether he actually heard me above the waterfall. “Well, I mean, since you unilaterally decided that we should have an open marriage, I figured I better get with the program. And you know what? Best orgasm of my life last night! I didn’t know sex could be that good.”

  My fantasy fails me after that. In an ideal world, Jake would shut off the faucet and stumble from the shower, soaking wet, blinking in shock. I’d repeat my words for him for maximum absorption and then watch him shrivel from arrogant jerk to penitent spouse. He’d beg my forgiveness, tell me how sorry he is for making me feel this wrenching pain that he suddenly understands so well. He’d call up Colleen and end things over the phone while professing his love for me and our family over and over.

  But my husband is not so easily broken. More than likely, Jake would argue that his affair is somehow more virtuous than my actions. I can imagine his case: what he did was selfish and cruel, but he never meant for me to find out and get hurt. I, on the other hand, slept with someone deliberately to skewer him. Intent is nine-tenths of the law.

  Tyler murmurs something. Here, with my head against his chest, listening to the familiar whoosh of the sprinklers beyond the window, I can almost convince myself that Jake’s reaction won’t matter. I loved my husband. Probably I still love him. But much of my adoration isn’t unique to Jake. I thought I loved Jake’s arms around me at night. What I love, in fact, is the presence of a strong man in my bed. I thought I loved dressing up for Jake and seeing that impressed spark in his eye. But Tyler had that look tonight, and I loved it then too. I thought I loved talking to my spouse. But when was the last time Jake and I really had a good conversation?