Do This For Me

by Eliza Kennedy

“No details, please,” Jonathan said quickly.

  I thought about the previous night. Our lovemaking was good, but I had to be more engaged. And I would be. Now that I knew there was a problem, I could fix it. We could fix it, together.

  “Have you told him your big news?” Jonathan asked. “You two need to celebrate.”

  He was right. I needed to call Aaron and share my win.

  Look at me. Opening up already.

  I got up and walked toward my desk. Gaia Café and Hyperium. They were like bookends to my Very Bad Time. Not that I was going to forget about it. You’re never done. Sarah had said that. You’re never done, and you never should be done. Lack of vigilance—that had been part of the problem. I wouldn’t falter again.

  I thought back to the day after it happened, when Aaron and I argued across Brooklyn, and I told him he’d ruined everything. That he’d blighted the past, made our life meaningless. I was wrong. There was too much love remaining, too much happiness.

  So we collected the pieces of our marriage and put them back together. Who knows? Maybe the result was stronger for the trials it had been through. Either way, I was ready to move forward.

  My story was back on track.

  As I reached for the phone to call him, it rang.

  Let me stop. Right there.

  Arm outstretched. Hand almost touching the receiver.

  What if—

  Oh, forget it.

  What’s the point? There is no what if.

  There’s only what happened next.

  I hit speakerphone. “This is Raney Moore.”

  And a woman said, “This is Deirdre Nicholson.”

  PART THREE

  EIGHTEEN

  Four weeks later, on a blustery Monday afternoon, Marty tapped on my open door.

  “Got a minute?”

  I looked up from the memo I was drafting. “For you? Always.”

  He entered, stopping midway across the floor. “Look at this place!”

  The contractor had finished renovations a few days earlier. My beige carpeting was gone, replaced by shining dark wood and antique rugs. The white walls had been wallpapered with a pattern of silver trees. I’d exchanged my staid, bulky furniture for a midcentury desk, a low-slung sofa and comfortable armchairs in bright orange and red.

  It was warm and eclectic and fun. I loved it.

  “You always said my office was plain,” I reminded him.

  “True. I just never expected you to do anything about it.”

  He headed for the window. “Of course, it’s nothing compared to the other changes you’ve made.” He glanced over his shoulder. “You look marvelous, by the way.”

  Marty was referring to my new wardrobe. On that particular January day, I was wearing a sleeveless sheath dress of emerald-green wool, a slim alligator belt and perilously high heels.

  Or he was referring to my hair, which had been cut and defrizzed and restored to its original red-gold hue. Regularly tended to, it fell in soft waves around my face.

  Or he was referring to my face, which now had color and definition. My eyebrows were neatly shaped. My eyes were rimmed with brown. My lips were dramatic and red.

  Or he was referring to my glowing skin, my white teeth, my polished nails.

  Or he was referring to all of it. Because I looked like a different person.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  Marty nodded. “Yes. Lots of changes.” He pivoted to the bookshelves, where he pushed a volume back into place. His attention shifted to a painting on the wall, borrowed from the firm’s art collection. He roamed toward the sofa. Crossed his arms. Uncrossed them. He was uncomfortable.

  But Marty was never uncomfortable. He was a paragon of being at ease in the world.

  He sat down. “Is everything all right?”

  “Everything’s peachy.”

  “I worry about you.”

  “No need.”

  Unsatisfied, he rose and began another circuit of the room. “I know this is difficult, what you’ve been going through. To work so hard, to try, only to discover…” He inscribed a spiral in the air with one hand, heading upwards: poof! “It’s horrible, and I’m so sorry.”

  He frowned at the rug. “What I’m saying is, people—even careful, levelheaded people—do rash things when they’re in pain. What you’ve done is fabulous.” Out came that expressive hand, waving in my direction, up and down. “But are you taking care of yourself, Raney Jane? Are you…being safe?”

  I put down my pen. So Marty had heard the rumors. I was surprised it had taken this long.

  “Perfectly safe,” I assured him.

  “Let me in, Raney. Talk to me. I can help you.”

  “Why do you think I need help, Marty?”

  “Maybe because I don’t know what’s going on with you, and I always know what’s going on with you. The way you look, where you’re living, the car I’ve seen downstairs? It’s richly deserved, but—it’s not you.”

  “That’s the point,” I said, before I could catch myself.

  “Oh, Raney.”

  “Thank you for your concern, Marty, but everything is okay. And I have a conference call in a few minutes, so…”

  Ever the master of the graceful retreat, he raised his hands. “I’ll butt out. Promise me this, though. You’ll come to me if you need me?”

  “I always do.”

  He left, and I dialed into the conference call. When it was over, I finished drafting the memo. Athena dropped off a few new outfits. I met with my team. I ordered a book Maisie needed for a history project. I texted Sarah to see if she wanted to go out on Saturday. I asked Renfield to reschedule my weekly facial and order me a box of pens.

  Soon it was seven o’clock. I shut down my computer and pulled out my handbag (alligator, like the belt and the shoes). I freshened my lipstick and slipped on my coat.

  Outside, the car idled at the curb. Jorge was polishing one of the chrome tail fins with a chamois. He opened the door for me and hurried around to the front.

  “Heading to the hotel, Miz Moore?”

  I relaxed into the plush red seat. “Yes, please.”

  Fifteen minutes later, we turned onto Sixtieth Street and pulled up to the large, well-lighted awning of the hotel. The doorman leaped to attention. I took the elevator to the lobby on the thirty-fifth floor. A young woman in a dark suit hurried past—when she saw me, she smiled.

  “Good evening, Ms. Moore.”

  I stepped into the bar, a soaring space with a stunning view of the city. All of the patrons were facing that direction, admiring it—except one man, at a small table near the window, whose eyes were on the doorway. He saw me, hesitated, then raised a hand.

  Dark hair. Chiseled features. Just like his profile picture.

  I was pretty sure his name was Garth.

  He smiled. I smiled back. I walked toward him.

  Garth, I reminded myself. This one’s named Garth.

  NINETEEN

  Four weeks earlier, I said: “I’m hanging up now.”

  Deirdre Nicholson said: “I wouldn’t if I were you.”

  * * *

  —

  “Three months?” Sarah cried, from the other side of the dressing room door. “It lasted three fucking months?”

  Two hours after Deirdre called, I was struggling with a reluctant zipper. I heard the rattle of ice cubes, and Athena’s silvery voice inquire, “More champagne?”

  “Just a splash, thanks,” Sarah said.

  Athena called out, “How are you getting along in there, Raney?”

  “Here I come.”

  As I emerged, she was easing the wine bottle back into the bucket. Sarah, Cameron and Amanda were crowded onto the leather sofa.

  I held out my arms and turned around. “Well?”

 
Sarah set her glass down so she could cover her mouth. “Oh, honey.”

  Amanda was holding her phone to one ear. She watched me, eyes wide.

  Cameron glanced up from the laptop balanced on his knees. “Hubba, Boss.” Then he kept typing.

  I turned to the three-way mirror.

  I was wearing an asymmetrical gold lamé miniskirt, a red silk camisole, a black velvet bolero jacket and a pair of shiny, thigh-high boots.

  “Your legs,” Sarah marveled. “Your ass. My God, woman.”

  I swiveled, watching my reflection. “I look…”

  “Amazing,” Athena said.

  Imagine that!

  “Honestly, though,” Sarah said. “Three months?”

  * * *

  —

  It had taken Wally and Jonathan a few seconds to place the name of my caller. Deirdre…Deirdre Nicholson…

  Then it registered, and they shot out of their seats. I’d never seen Wally move so fast. I watched the door close behind them, wishing I could leave, too.

  Instead, I braced myself and picked up the receiver.

  “Just out of curiosity,” I asked her, “how dare you call me?”

  “He told you it only happened once, right? San Francisco?”

  “Goodbye now.”

  “It was more than once. A lot more.”

  I felt a hollowness in the pit of my stomach.

  “You’re lying,” I said.

  “Check your in-box,” Deirdre said.

  * * *

  —

  “She’d sent me five e-mails Aaron had written her,” I told Sarah. “The first one from July. The last from September.”

  Cameron winced, but kept typing. Amanda studied the ground. I’d brought her with me to listen in on a conference call I couldn’t miss. She didn’t want to be there—once again a bystander to my marital operatics—but it couldn’t be helped.

  Sarah was watching me closely. “Did you read what he wrote to her?” I nodded. “And?”

  I tugged at the hem of the miniskirt. I straightened the collar of the jacket.

  “It lasted three months.”

  * * *

  —

  I closed the fifth and final e-mail.

  I felt calm.

  It wasn’t a precarious, pre-freakout calm. I was perfectly steady, perfectly relaxed. I drummed my fingers on the keyboard.

  After a moment, I forwarded the first e-mail to Aaron’s new account.

  I’d put Deirdre on hold. Line one was blinking. I picked up the receiver. “Are you still seeing each other?”

  “He ended it when you found out.”

  She was trying to sound businesslike. She just sounded bitter.

  I forwarded Aaron the rest of his e-mails. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because—”

  “Never mind,” I said. “I don’t care.”

  * * *

  —

  “What is wrong with her?” Sarah fumed.

  Inside the dressing room, I surveyed the ensembles arrayed along the walls. “She’s hurting, I think. Spurned.”

  “Okay, fine, hell hath no fury and all that, but she’s an awful, awful person.”

  “Maybe. I’m having a hard time getting worked up about it.”

  “No kidding. What’s that all about?”

  I came out of the dressing room wearing a lacy peasant blouse, a pair of crimson-colored leather culottes and a shearling vest.

  “That needs to go in the Yes pile,” Sarah said.

  “The Yes pile needs its own zip code,” I said.

  Athena sailed in, smiling, with a stack of shoeboxes. “We can arrange that.”

  Amanda muted her phone. “They’re talking about the motion for class certification.”

  “Tell them we’ll take the lead.”

  She unmuted. “Calder Tayfield is happy to take the lead.”

  My own phone, which had been ringing regularly for the last two hours, now pinged three times in quick succession.

  —Please pick up.

  —Talk to me, Raney.

  —Everything I told you about why it happened was true. Everything about us, and how much I love you. The only lie was how long it lasted.

  I deleted them, as I’d deleted the dozens that preceded them.

  “I’m so sorry, honey,” Sarah said. “I know this is breaking your heart.”

  I inspected myself in the mirror. “I’m fine.”

  She looked at me closely. “How can you be fine?”

  “Because when she told me, I wasn’t surprised,” I said. “Some part of me must have known all along. Think about it, Sarah. He happened to get caught the very first time? How likely is that? But I wanted to believe it. I chose to believe it.”

  If only I’d dug deeper into his e-mails when I had a chance. If only I’d asked Tom Nicholson more questions.

  If only, if only.

  Sarah’s voice was full of trepidation when she asked, “What are you going to do to him?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Not a thing,” I said. “This time, it’s about me.”

  * * *

  —

  I replaced the receiver. My eyes rested on the phone.

  I heard a hesitant tapping. Wally and Jonathan poked their heads around the door. I waved them in, and they took their seats, looking like stricken schoolboys.

  “Everything I told you a few minutes ago?” I said. “How much I’ve learned about myself, about Aaron, about my marriage?”

  They nodded.

  “Scratch that.”

  I summarized the phone call.

  “Unbelievable!” Wally cried.

  “That fucking scumbag!” Jonathan spat.

  Their outrage swiftly turned into action.

  “We’ll handle your divorce,” Wally said.

  “We’ll find you a gun,” Jonathan said.

  Wally eyed him. “Where are you going to find a gun?”

  Jonathan shrugged. “I know a guy.”

  “You live in Summit, New Jersey,” Wally said scornfully. “You don’t know a guy.”

  “Walter—”

  “Your whole life, you’ve never met a guy.”

  “Shut up, Fanucci! We’re here for Raney right now.”

  “Right,” Wally said. “Sorry.”

  I was still staring at the phone.

  “What can we do?” Jonathan asked.

  They leaned forward. My friends were eager to do anything, say anything, help in any way they could. I looked up.

  “Tell me how to make men want me.”

  * * *

  —

  I left the dressing room in a pair of flared white jeans, a cerulean silk plissé blouse and an ocelot-print faux-fur coat.

  “Oh my lord,” Sarah breathed.

  Amanda was watching me closely, as if she were trying to puzzle something out.

  Cameron consulted his phone. “Good news, Boss. The bank has transferred the funds to your new account. And the hotel says your suite will be ready by five.”

  —I’m sorry. I am so sorry.

  —It didn’t matter. Truly. She didn’t matter.

  Athena swooped in with an armful of coats and looked me up and down. “Love it, but we need accessories.”

  Sarah reached for my sleeve and flipped over the price tag. She smiled grimly. “I sure hope Aaron’s selling a lot of paperbacks.”

  “More champagne?” Athena asked.

  Sarah dropped the tag and held out her glass. “Just a splash.”

  * * *

  —

  Wally and Jonathan considered my request.

  “The revenge fuck,” Jonathan said. “A tad shopworn, but undeniably effecti
ve.”

  “You can’t argue with a classic,” Wally agreed.

  “It’s not about revenge,” I said.

  “Then what is it about?” Jonathan asked.

  I didn’t feel like explaining. I felt like getting started. “I’ll tell you later. Right now, I need some tips. How do I get men to have sex with me?”

  “By walking up to them and saying, ‘Will you have sex with me?’ ” Wally said.

  “It’s that easy?”

  “Easier,” Jonathan said. “Just walk up to them. You don’t even have to say anything.”

  “A few months ago, you said I’ve let myself go. How can you be sure anybody’s going to want to?”

  Wally stretched his long arms across the back of the sofa, ready to expound. “Here’s the thing, Moore. People make a lot of jokes about how men are sex-starved savages, right? Far from being the paragon of animals, godlike in our apprehension, yada yada, we’re little more than walking, talking, intermittently sentient sex organs. Ha ha, right? It’s a big cliché.”

  “Which happens to be one hundred percent accurate,” Jonathan said.

  “Men do, in fact, want sex all the time,” Wally continued. “Our dicks are nothing more than powerful, self-activated divining rods, pulling us toward any and all sources of pussy, regardless of danger, humiliation or the potential for wholesale financial ruin.”

  “Don’t sweat it, Raney,” Jonathan said. “You’re not going to have a problem finding someone willing to sleep with you. Especially if you’re making the first move. That’s irresistible.”

  * * *

  —

  I headed back into the dressing room. “Let’s work on my dating profile.”

  “You got it, Boss.”

  “I have to say I love your new attitude,” Sarah remarked. “Why waste another second weeping over that asshole when you can go out and have some fun?”

  Cameron called out, “Describe your dream first date.”

  I didn’t have one. I wiggled out of the white jeans and nearly fell over. “Sarah?”