The Arrangement

by Robyn Harding

  His daughter’s graduation was a ticking clock on his affair. Once Violet was at college or in fucking Honduras, he would have two options: end it with Natalie or end his marriage. There was a third option—tell Natalie he’d been married all along, that he’d like to keep her on as his mistress. But the girl was in love with him. She’d feel betrayed. She might freak out, contact Celeste. He could lose them both.

  He had to make a choice.

  A car pulled into the drive then. It would be Celeste returning home from chauffeuring her parents to LaGuardia. He’d suggested a car service, had offered to drive them himself, but his wife had insisted. She knew the way, was comfortable on the freeway. Gabe could stay home and catch up on work. He’d been grateful—three hours in a car filled with Quebecois banter was not his idea of a good time. But it would have been nice to be needed.

  Waiting for his wife to enter the house, he chewed his sandwich, thinking about Natalie. She needed him, unlike his wife and daughter, who were both so capable, so independent and strong-willed that he’d become extraneous. Other than the paycheck he brought home, Celeste and Violet were largely ambivalent to his existence. Natalie relied on him financially, too, but also emotionally, physically. His was the first number she called when she was afraid; he was the person she turned to when she was upset, or in trouble. It was his comfort she sought, above all others.

  Natalie had few friends, wasn’t close to her family, all she had was Gabe. And yet, when she needed him, he left her hurt, alone, damaged. Why? To placate his in-laws, who didn’t respect him enough to speak his fucking language? To be there for his daughter, who’d disappeared the moment her grandparents left? Or was it to please his emotionally distant wife, who was indifferent to his presence?

  Celeste walked in, looking weary from the long drive. “Hey,” she mumbled, barely looking at him. “Where’s Violet?”

  “She went into the city to see that play, remember? I told her she could stay at the apartment tonight.”

  “Right.” She grabbed a glass and filled it with filtered water. He watched her take a lemon from a porcelain bowl full of them and roll it on the marble surface to soften it. As she was cutting a wedge, Gabe set his sandwich down.

  “We need to talk.”

  Was he really going to do this? Was he going to end his twenty-nine-year marriage to be with his twenty-one-year-old sugar baby? The moment felt fantastical, dreamlike. But it also felt right. Natalie needed him. And he needed her. He needed her love, her devotion, her adoration. He deserved it.

  “We do,” Celeste agreed. “Let’s sit down.”

  What was happening? He was about to leave his wife, and suddenly she was hijacking the conversation. But he left his sandwich on the counter and followed her to the sofa. Celeste set her water glass on the reclaimed barn door that served as a coffee table in their casual family room and began.

  “I was waiting for my parents to leave. For Violet to be out. There’s something you should know.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “Violet’s been harming herself.”

  He felt himself go pale. “What?”

  “She’s been cutting herself. And burning herself with matches.”

  “Jesus, Celeste . . .” Parenting was his wife’s job—her only job. “How could you let this happen?”

  “She hid it from me. Under her clothes. I think it’s the pressure of living up to our expectations . . . And I think she’s worried about me.” Celeste swallowed. “About us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think she’s afraid that once she moves out, we’ll split up.” His wife’s eyes filled with tears. “She worries about my health. If the cancer comes back, and I don’t have your support . . .”

  “That’s not going to happen,” Gabe said, but his words sounded hollow and false.

  “And she’s afraid that, if we separate, she won’t see you. I know she doesn’t act like it, but deep down, she still adores you.” Celeste reached for his hand. “She still needs you, Gabriel. She needs you so much.”

  His world tilted on its axis. Moments ago, he’d been prepared to walk away from his wife, from his daughter, from all the years they’d invested. But this changed everything. His darling girl was hurting herself, cutting and burning her skin. Because she was afraid she’d lose him. Violet still loved him, adored him, depended on him. . . . He would not abandon her and her mother; he would not be a selfish, narcissistic cliché. When he got back to the city, he would end it with Natalie. He’d be there for his family. In a weird way, Violet’s self-harm had saved her parents’ marriage.

  He took his wife’s hands. “I have no intention of leaving you,” he said adamantly. “You and Violet are my life.”

  “I know our marriage hasn’t been . . . complete,” she said. “Since I got sick, since the medication . . . I haven’t felt very sexual.”

  “It’s okay.” He gathered his wife in his arms. “You’re all I need, Celeste. You and our daughter.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured into his shoulder, and he felt her tears of love and gratitude wet his collar. After a moment, she pulled away and wiped her eyes. “What did you want to talk about?”

  “I was worried about you,” he said quickly. “I thought you seemed tense.”

  “I knew I couldn’t hide this from you. You know me so well.”

  He reached for her hands, took them in his. “Violet will be okay, Celeste. I’ll take care of you both.”

  She smiled, her eyes still shiny with emotion, and collapsed back onto his chest. He kissed her hair and stroked her back. She needed him now. She really needed him. It was what he’d wanted all along.

  32

  * * *

  The Necklace

  By the time Nat met Gabe for lunch on Monday, she’d largely recovered from the trauma of Tag a Sugar Baby. While she’d wanted to spend the weekend with her lover, his absence had given her time to process and handle the situation. She’d smoothed things over with a call to her mom, who hadn’t really understood the concept of the mean-spirited page anyway. And she’d convinced herself that people her age had short memories. By the time she started third year, everyone would have forgotten. And if they hadn’t . . . ?

  It was on a solo walk on the High Line that she’d realized her options. She could drop out of school. Her relationship with Gabe hadn’t diluted her passion for art, but it had dampened her enthusiasm for higher education. It felt traditional and confining. With Gabe’s support, she could rent a warehouse space and explore art on her own terms. She had two years of lessons under her belt, a solid foundation upon which to develop her skills, to hone her artistic viewpoint, find her signature style. Becoming a children’s book illustrator suddenly seemed pedestrian, evidence of her cautious, small-town thinking. She could envision herself as a legitimate artist now, with gallery showings, selling pieces to collectors and celebrities. With Gabe’s money and connections, she could thrive as an artist.

  They were now seated in a bustling Italian restaurant not far from Gabe’s office. He’d been so eager to see her that he’d suggested they meet for lunch, couldn’t even wait for their standing dinner date. Happily, she’d agreed. When she’d arrived at the busy eatery, dressed in a formfitting shift dress and wedge heels, he’d planted a chaste kiss on her cheek. He probably had colleagues, even clients in the restaurant. She knew enough to play it cool.

  Gabe looked handsome but a little tired as they ordered. He got the pasta with clams. She, the cannelloni. He ordered them a bottle of white wine, even though it was the middle of the day. But the reunion felt celebratory, in a way. Nat’s school was finished. Violet would be graduating in a month. It felt like they were poised on the precipice of a new chapter.

  “How was the fund-raiser at Violet’s school?” she asked, chewing a mouthful of tender cannelloni.

  “Good,” Gabe said dismissively, taking a sip of wine. “I got you something.” He pulled a black velvet box out of his pocket and passed it to h
er.

  Natalie accepted it with trembling hands. Gabe had gotten her gifts before—a book he’d read that he thought she’d like, clothing, or a bottle of prosecco—but this was different. This was jewelry. Expensive jewelry as indicated by the insignia on the box. Tentatively, she opened it.

  “Oh my god,” she gasped, as she looked at the diamond-and-white-gold necklace nestled in a bed of satin. “It’s stunning.”

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  She touched the delicate chain, the oval pendant. “I don’t know what to say.” Her voice was husky with emotion. “No one’s ever given me anything this beautiful.”

  “I wanted you to know how much these past few months have meant to me.”

  It was the delivery, not the words themselves, that made her stomach plummet: cold, clipped, final. She looked up at Gabe—his tense jaw, his ice-blue eyes. She looked down at the necklace. It was not a gift. It was an omen. She snapped the velvet box closed.

  “What’s going on?”

  “You’re an amazing woman, Natalie. You’re gorgeous and smart and funny . . .”

  “Are you dumping me?” Her voice was shrill, louder than she’d intended. She saw Gabe’s jaw clench.

  “It’s my daughter,” he said, leaning toward her. “She’s going through a difficult time and she needs me.”

  Nat’s voice trembled. “I’ve always respected your relationship with her.”

  “I know you have. But . . . Violet wants to move in with me. Part-time at least. She and her mother aren’t getting along. She’s emotionally unstable. She’s been cutting herself. I—” His voice cracked. “I can’t go on seeing you.”

  This couldn’t be happening. Gabe had assured her that what they had was real. He had found her an apartment so she could be close to him. His daughter was growing up, was going traveling or to college. They could finally think about a future.

  “Maybe I could meet her?” Nat tried. “She doesn’t have to know about us. I could be her friend. I could talk to her and help her with her problems.” Without a trace of irony, she added, “I remember how hard it is to be her age.”

  “I think a clean break is for the best.”

  She was speechless. Blindsided. The room was swirling around her, and she felt sick to her stomach. “No,” was all she could say.

  “Yes,” he said coolly. “We had an arrangement. And, now, that arrangement is over.”

  Who was this man, so heartless and cold? She didn’t know him.

  “It was more than that,” she said, tears pooling in her eyes, “you know it was.”

  He didn’t respond but reached in his pocket, extracted a thick envelope. “I want you to have this.”

  She looked at the white package next to her plate of cannelloni. He was buying her off. “I don’t want it.”

  “Yes, you do. I’ll pay for the apartment until the end of the summer,” he continued, taking a sip of wine. “In the fall, you might want to move into campus housing. Or you could take over the rent payments. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding another man on the website to support you.”

  It was like he’d punched her. Or spat in her face. “I don’t want another man,” she said, tears falling from her eyes. “I want you.”

  “I’m sorry, Natalie,” he said, sounding firm, adamant, like a lawyer. “It’s over.” He stood then and tossed a stack of bills on the table. He was paying for lunch. “My driver will take you back to your apartment.”

  She watched him stride out of the restaurant.

  33

  * * *

  The Reason

  Nat lay in bed for four days, barely eating, rarely sleeping, crying incessantly. It may have been indulgent, but she had nothing to do, nowhere to be, and no one who cared about her. Her isolation would have been overwhelming, had she cared about her mental health. But she didn’t. She couldn’t think about pulling herself together, about moving forward. All that mattered to her was Gabe.

  Between the wall and her bed, discarded and forgotten after a lovemaking session, she found his tie. It was dark gray, with a dense pattern of leaves, vines, and flowers, reminiscent of Victorian wallpaper. (It was, in fact, a design by the English artist and philosopher William Morris.) Nat kept it draped around her neck, kissed it, dried her tears with it. At one point, she considered hanging herself with it, the symbolism achingly delicious. But who would find her body? A neighbor, likely, when she’d started to decompose and stink up the building. And Gabe would never even be alerted.

  Her feelings toward him vacillated wildly. When she woke in the mornings, she pined for his love, sending him desperate texts pleading for him to talk things through, not to give up the beautiful connection they’d shared. By midday, she’d begun to negotiate, suggesting they discuss redefining their relationship, perhaps stepping back, slowing things down. In the evenings, after she’d had some wine or vodka, she’d be consumed by anger and loathing. That’s when she’d call him, leaving venomous, slightly slurred messages.

  “You can’t just tell someone you love them and then buy them off with a fucking necklace!”

  “You’re a liar! And a monster! I hate you!”

  “I’m going to find your daughter and tell her everything. She deserves to know what kind of man her father is.”

  Gabe did not respond to any of her overtures.

  It was remorse that finally got her out of bed and into the shower at five forty-five that morning. Light was peeking through the fog of anger and desperation, and she realized her actions had been melodramatic. Gabe would think she was pathetic. Or psychotic. And his opinion mattered to her. She was still hopeful for a reconciliation. Perhaps when Violet was a little older, had dealt with her issues, had absconded to college or an NGO in South America, Nat and Gabe could be together again.

  She had to see him. She had to apologize.

  Wearing a bright, flirty dress, she took the subway uptown. The doorman at Gabe’s prestigious building would have orders to block her access, so she loitered down the street, sipping a paper cup of coffee she’d picked up on Madison, trying to look casual, unobtrusive. It was almost seven now. The town car would be arriving any minute to shuttle Gabe to his downtown office. Perhaps she should approach Oleg first? The driver liked her, even understood her. He could be an ally in her quest to access Gabe. On the other hand, Oleg was the hired help. He may have been asked to be a gatekeeper, even a bodyguard. No, she would wait until her former lover emerged and go to him directly. Tentatively. Carefully.

  She had been standing there for over an hour when she suddenly realized it was Saturday. Fuck. In her fug of grief and alcohol, she had lost track of the days. Gabe might have gone away for the weekend. If he was in his apartment, he could be inside for hours, might not emerge all day. And what if he exited with Violet? Could Nat approach the pair without seeming like a deranged stalker? Gabe would never engage with her in front of his daughter. She decided to give up and go home, return on Monday. But after the large cup of coffee she’d been nursing, she would have to pee first.

  The coffee shop where she’d so recently purchased a latte refused to let her use their restroom without a purchase. Annoyed, she left and went to a vegetarian breakfast place next door. She hadn’t eaten more than toast and crackers for days, and she was suddenly famished. Ordering a tofu scramble and gluten-free toast, she used the facilities and then returned to the booth. But when the plate arrived, her stomach revolted. The crumbled tofu was a poor substitute for eggs, but she wouldn’t have been able to ingest the genuine article, either. She was still too desolate, too disappointed, too destroyed to keep food down. Still, she sat there, nibbling some toast (if you could call this sawdusty item toast) and sipping a bitter cup of coffee. Her studio apartment, once her haven, now felt sad and lonely. Returning home would mean more crying, more drinking, more wallowing.

  And that’s when the girl walked in.

  Nat recognized her right away. The dark hair, the pierced septum, the striking bone s
tructure. What Nat hadn’t expected was her demeanor. A girl with Violet’s looks, money, and pedigree should walk with confidence, with the air of someone who had the world at her feet. But Violet’s energy was dark and heavy; somehow hostile and vulnerable at the same time. Gabe hadn’t lied. His daughter was troubled.

  She was accompanied by a pale girl, a little heavy, with artfully shaved blond hair, a prominent lip and eyebrow ring. Nat watched the pair slide into a booth just ahead and across from her. Moving her tofu around on the plate, Nat watched Gabe’s child peruse the menu. When their young waitress approached, Violet and her friend asked a lot of questions about the food. Their words were not discernible, but Nat assumed they were inquiring into the ethical harvesting of the soybeans, the use of chemical fertilizers on the tomato plants, the wages paid to the fruit pickers. Nat ordered another cup of coffee and watched the girls drink green tea, embroiled in a deep, serious conversation. When their food arrived, they ate heartily. Clearly, this restaurant passed muster with their dietary requirements.

  The fair girl tossed her napkin onto her near-empty plate and stood. Leaning down, she kissed Violet on the lips and then left. Nat was mildly surprised by the incongruous pairing. Violet was miles out of her blond girlfriend’s league; she just didn’t know it. Violet was tall and beautiful and radiant. Of course, she was. She was Gabe’s daughter.

  When Violet signaled for the bill, Nat signaled for her own. As the younger girl paid, Nat dug some bills out of her wallet. Tossing them on the table, she followed Gabe’s offspring out of the restaurant.

  34

  * * *

  The Met

  Nat followed Violet Turnmill at a discreet distance for several blocks. The girl was headed uptown, her stride casual but purposeful. Nat wondered if Violet was meeting her father. Her pulse quickened at the thought of seeing Gabe. And at the thought of him seeing her. He would be angry, protective of his daughter. He’d think Nat was obsessed, unhinged, a stalker. She should turn around right now, go back to her apartment. But she couldn’t. Violet Turnmill was pulling her along in her force field.