by Heidi Lowe
"You're so full of shit!" Before I know it, my volume has risen, and I've lost all my composure. Swearing in public, with young kids around, making a scene in such a tranquil neighborhood is so uncivilized, but I'm too angry to give a damn. "Has that always been your task? Placate the lonely, vengeful wife, get her to sign the papers, attend the wedding, and be her head bridesmaid for a second time?"
She looks around nervously, gestures for me to keep my voice down. "Faye, calm down. Let's go inside and talk about this."
"There's nothing to talk about. Emily, come on, get dressed, we're leaving."
I lift my soaking wet daughter out of the pool, getting my clothes wet in the process, and storm into Sandra's house to dry her off and retrieve her clothes.
"How could you think that about me?" Sandra says moments later, once we're all inside. She watches me as I hurriedly and sulkily dry my daughter with one of the towels I found on the couch. The sun will have to do the rest of the work. If I stay here much longer, I'll lose it.
"I know you're hurting, and that you want to get back at her, but this isn't the way. Sign the papers for you, not for her. So you can move on."
I swallow, but the ball in my throat won't budge. "I want her to suffer," I say in a low, shaky voice, casting my eyes away so that she won't see how watery they've become.
"She will. She's never going to be happy with that woman. Let her have the divorce; and let her make the biggest mistake of her life."
Why does everything she's saying make sense all of a sudden? The thought of divorcing Nikki, of giving her what she wants, has never crossed my mind before. So why now? Is it because I believe Sandra, that the marriage will be hell for Nikki?
I let out a long sigh. "And what about everything?" I gesture with my eyes to Emily as I towel-dry her hair. "I don't want that woman anywhere near her." So far when Nikki's had Emily, they use Sandra's place as a sort of contact center, otherwise opt for the park or some other public place. She's agreed not to take her to Angel's apartment, though I'm not sure how long she'll be happy sticking to that.
"I'm sure you guys can work something out that doesn't involve that woman."
I sigh again, exhausted mentally and physically, and regretting my decision to leave the car.
"Tell her to contact my lawyer. I'm not signing anything until she's agreed to my terms."
EIGHT
My lawyer is a white-haired man who exudes power and authority upon entry into any room. Tall, serious-looking, well-dressed. He's been in the business for over thirty years and knows his stuff. At least, those were Ivy's words when she referred him to me.
"I've known William for two decades. You'll be in safe hands with him. He's handled some pretty high profile divorces in his time."
"I never thought I'd ever need someone like that," I said at the time.
That was two weeks ago.
There's a chill in the air from the air conditioner. I want to tell William to adjust the temperature, as I've started shivering. Though admittedly, the breeze might not be to blame.
Across the table, right opposite me, sits my soon-to-be ex-wife, and beside her, her lawyer, a man who has spoken very little since the session began. William, who sits beside me, on the contrary, has been doing most of the talking.
Nikki has thus far refused to look me in the eye. She taps her fingers on the desk and makes a conscious effort to look everywhere but at me. She can probably sense my glare; I've maintained it since the four of us stepped into the room.
"...you agree that Ms Everett will remain in the family home, until such a time that she is ready to sell it, whereupon the proceeds will be split equally," William's voice booms. It's so deep and commanding that, even if Nikki hadn't already agreed to my terms, his voice would frighten her into submission. I'm glad he's on my side. I'll have to buy Ivy a drink as thanks for the referral.
"...you agree to the alimony amount contained herein, and child support."
"...as regards the child, Emily, Ms Everett will have full custody, though regular visitation will be permitted, the details of which will be agreed upon by both parties. Overnight stays will not be permitted for at least a period of three years, after which time Ms Everett will revisit the agreement."
Nikki stops drumming her fingers on the plush mahogany desk, and looks at me for the first time today. "Three years? I thought we agreed on one."
"I changed my mind," I say sharply, my glare never ceasing.
"Please do not address my client," William says, peering at her over his glasses.
Nikki rolls her eyes, lets out an agitated breath, and folds her arms. "This is ridiculous. Your client? She's my goddamn wife! I'll address her whenever I like."
Her lawyer mumbles something to her in order to get her to calm down. It works.
"Fine. Whatever. I agree. Can we move on?" she says after a moment.
I knew there would be some resistance – Nikki wouldn't be Nikki if she didn't put up a fight. Changing the time from one year to three was a sleazy move, and one I'm not proud of. Not because I don't want her to suffer, but because it makes me seem petty. Truth is, I don't want to deny Emily her mother, but at the same time, it eats me up inside imagining the three of them playing happy families. Not to mention the fact that there's evidence to suggest that Angelique is one tool short of a toolbox. Nikki wouldn't let her harm our daughter, I know that much, but you can never be too careful when it comes to your children.
Once William reaches the end of the document, I take a deep breath that hurts my lungs.
"Do you agree to the terms?" he asks Nikki.
Nikki mumbles her affirmation. She'll be sore about the three years thing for a while, if I know her. She'll have a lot to say about it and about me.
Her lawyer hands her a pen, hands her both copies of the documents, and she signs them in a heartbeat. I feel a stab of pain in my heart. The speed with which she signs, you'd think being married to me is causing her physical agony.
I'm not as quick to end five years of marriage. My hand shakes when it's my turn with the pen. The blank line awaits my signature, awaits my consent. Even though this woman, for the past four months, has put me through absolute hell, I'm hesitant. In my head, as if a recording is playing in the room, I hear her recite her vows to me on our wedding day.
"...I promise to love you and cherish you until the last moment I draw breath...You are my reason for living, for breathing, and I'll spend my life making sure I'm yours, too..."
One single teardrop hits the page, right where my signature should go. And then I scribble my name beside it.
It's all too much for me to bear. I get up hurriedly and rush out of the room. It's over. My marriage is over.
I run into the restroom and lock myself in a stall, thankful that no one else is there. I quietly sob into the sleeve of my cardigan. Up till now, I thought I was all cried out.
The door creaks open outside, and I get it together. The last thing I want is to stroll out of the stall looking a mess.
I splash water on my face and take a look at myself in the long mirror above the sinks, looking for any signs that I've been crying. There's a redness to my eyes, but hopefully if I pass Nikki outside, she won't notice. After all, I'm supposed to hate her – I'm supposed to be past this.
Nikki and the others are just leaving the boardroom when I exit the restroom. She looks along the corridor at me, her expression indecipherable. She might not be able to see traces of my tears from where she stands, but my hasty exit from the meeting would tell her everything. There's a sadness in her eyes. She opens her mouth to say something, when someone calls her name.
"Nikki, baby, how did it go?"
Angelique comes striding toward her, and throws her arms around her. Some of the associates have stopped to watch, and I recognize the lecherous looks on their faces. Lust. Unadulterated lust for the blonde bombshell that's just graced their office with her presence. Her tight-fitting jeans and even tighter blouse are worn to acce
ntuate every curve. The six inch heels look impossible to walk in.
Within mere seconds of her arrival she has the law offices of Meek, Grantham and Little mesmerized.
I feel my stomach start to turn.
"Fine," Nikki says. "It's done. We need to appear before a judge in a couple of weeks, to finalize things, but...it's done."
Angelique spots me. The smile that spreads across her face is so joker-like, so heinous, it sends a shiver down my spine.
"That's great." She snakes her hands around Nikki's waist and initiates a kiss that's far too graphic for this setting.
Nikki pulls away uneasily after only a short while. "Not here," she mumbles.
"You're right," Angelique says, taking her hand. "We have all the time in the world to do that...and more. I can't wait to be your wife."
Her display is all for my benefit. That much is evident from the self-satisfied grin she shoots in my direction. It's not enough that she's destroyed my marriage, now she wants to rub it in my face that she'll be the next Mrs Cox. The ink isn't even dry on our divorce papers.
I watch them walk off, hand in hand at first, before Nikki lets go. Today is my worst nightmare realized. Hatred wells up inside me. For both of them. I'm beginning to think it will never subside.
NINE
"One minute left on the clock!" the host shouts in my direction.
I risk a quick glance at the huge custom-made clock that's in the design of a pepperoni pizza and takes up nearly half the wall. I hurriedly sprinkle tarragon and grated coconut on my dish, before adding a finishing touch of mint leaves as a garnish. To my left and right are two other self-proclaimed celebrity chefs, both of whom I had never met before today. Cameras pan the kitchen, while the studio lights blaze down on us.
Three children are sitting off screen on a sofa as the ten-second countdown begins. They join the host in shouting the numbers out. Everyone rushes to complete their dishes.
And then it's over. A loud, over-dramatic gong sound blasts from speakers to signal the end.
"So, guys, whose dish are you going to try first?" the host, a young, good-looking man says to the children. He's one of the latest YouTube sensations to get big funding put behind his show, and this is all courtesy of that. The children: Three of this week's contestants, tasked with choosing the ingredients with which the chefs have to cook. It sounds bizarre, but it's actually an interesting and fun cooking game show formula. I've been a fan for over a year, so when the host said he wanted me on his show, after reading my book, I couldn't say no.
Now's the crunch. The kids sample my dish last. I can't believe how nervous I am. It's just a silly show that will have no bearing on my life, but I want to win. For the past seven months there have only been losses.
The ingredients were impossible to work with. I've seen this show many times, and it seems I got the hardest episode. It's as though the kids went out and chose the most obscure ingredients, which lack versatility and go with nothing! But as chefs I guess we're supposed to be able to weave magic no matter what we're working with.
The host and the other chefs, who are used to their celebrity, crack jokes between themselves. I'm not funny and never have been, plus this is all new to me.
"And now we come to Mama Kitchen's dish. Smells nice, looks a little Sweeney Todd, though."
He is, of course, referring to my souffle, which looks like it's about to sink in.
I laugh. "Don't be silly. I stopped putting people in pies years ago."
He laughs at my poor excuse for a joke, though I'm sure he doesn't find it funny. I cringe inside.
"What do you guys think?"
"It's nice," the kids say. Then they hold up their score cards. 7, 8, 8. I'm second.
The winner gets presented a state-of-the-art indoor electronic herb garden, courtesy of one of the show's sponsors, then the show wraps up.
"How did I do?" I ask Ivy once I've left the kitchen. She's texting someone when I meet her in the studio hallway.
"Hm, what?"
"You didn't watch it, did you?"
"Of course I did. You were fantastic!"
I don't believe her. A normal person would have fired her by now, I'm sure. But she is great at her job, she simply lacks people skills. Negotiating more money and perks, though, I'd take her over anyone any day.
"When does the footage go online?"
"About a week. It's not like TV, everything moves fast." She slips her cell away. "What about you; how was it out there?"
"Okay, I guess. I'm glad there was no studio audience. I think I would have frozen up. Just promise me that's it for a while. I can't bear to do any more appearances or radio talks. I'm a blog writer, not a TV personality."
"You're hot right now, Faye. You should take advantage of that. It all translates to money. With only one income coming in now, more money wouldn't go amiss."
She knows that she's put her foot in her mouth as soon as the words come out.
"Thanks for reminding me," I say.
"I didn't mean that. I'm sorry. I just want you to capitalize on this new-found fame."
My wounds haven't yet healed. Every time I think I've recovered, someone says something unintentionally insensitive, and I'm transported back to that sad, dark place. I am, however, past the worst of it. I don't cry anymore. When I think about Nikki with Angelique I'm only nauseous for a minute. And when I think about the life we shared together...well, I don't think about that at all now. It's taken me seven months to get to this point.
"Hey, I'm throwing a cocktail party next weekend. You should come." She changes the subject quickly. We make our way to the studio parking lot.
"I'm not in the mood for partying."
She laughs. "It's in nine days, how do you know you won't be in the mood?"
"I just know," I say. I'm still not ready for that type of pageantry, even though Ivy keeps insisting I put myself out there again. People disappoint me; people break my heart.
"Say you'll think about it."
I sigh. I won't, but anything to shut her up. "Fine. I'll think about it."
She gives me her signature air kisses and we climb into our cars and go our separate ways.
Nikki is waiting on the doorstep with Emily by the time I pull into my driveway. My stomach lurches when I see her. Every time. Because I see the liar that she ultimately became, and the monster. I see my enemy when I look at her. The hairs on my arms rise.
"Hi," she says shyly. She has a hard time looking at me even now. It seems the guilt is still eating at her. Good.
"You're early," I say, kissing my daughter, before stepping past Nikki to open the door.
"Yeah, I know. Something's come up. I tried to call you but your phone was off."
"I was filming," I say curtly. I'm incapable of speaking to her with civility. Well, when she left me for her father's fiancee, that wasn't civil!
We load into the house. Emily runs off to play in the living room. Nikki and I remain in the hallway. She doesn't get to come any further than that. This isn't her house anymore.
"I really wouldn't have come back early if it wasn't important."
"What was so important that you cut your visitation with your daughter short?"
She shifts uneasily. "I'm having a fitting done. It's the only time the tailor can squeeze me in at such short notice."
"A fitting? And that's more important than spending the day with your daughter? That's your emergency?" I ask with scorn.
Her head bows a little. "It's my wedding suit...I'm getting married next weekend. There was a cancellation."
I don't say anything. There's a ball in my throat the size of a fist and it won't budge. Six weeks have passed since our divorce was finalized. I knew this day would come, but it stings to hear that it has finally arrived.
"Oh," I say, my voice croaky.
"Sandra said she would bring Emily. It's my day to have her, but I just want to check if it's all right with you that she comes?"
No! Hell no is
it all right with me! I don't want my child to watch you marry another woman; I don't want you confusing her. That's what I'm screaming inside. But what I really say is, "Like you said, it's your day to have her." My shrug is so forced and weak. Despite my attempt to play up my indifference, I can tell she sees right through it.
"As long as you're okay with it..."
I don't respond. I can't. There's no way I would ever be okay with it, and she knows that. But I won't refuse her. The diplomatic ex-wife – that's me.
When she leaves, I cry for the first time in four weeks.
"Are you sure this is what you want for dinner, honey?" I ask Emily that evening. It's this new thing we do. Since she turned four, I've been giving her autonomy to choose her meals. Sometimes. She already knows what she likes, what flavors appeal to her, and what level of spice she can take.
She nods her little head.
"You can't just have pasta and pesto on its own. Should I whip together some roasted carrots and parsnips? Maybe make a nice sauce to go with them?"
She thinks about this for a second, then nods again. "Okay."
I'm surprised by her choice. Usually her meal requests are more inventive than simply pasta. After all, she's the child of a chef. The pasta and pesto is probably something they had at daycare, and now she's obsessed with it. That's how children are. This will likely be the only thing she wants to eat for the rest of the week, until she gets sick of it.
"Pasta, pesto and roasted vegetables coming up, madam," I say. She giggles at my address of her. "Are you going to watch me cook?"
She shakes her head. "No," she says simply, and runs off to play while I prepare her meal.
The kitchen has always been where I feel most at ease. I think it goes back to when I was a child, dragging my stool in there and watching my mother cook. She was always cooking; I can't remember a time when she wasn't in the kitchen. Those memories are fond ones. I want Emily to have that, too, but she doesn't seem very interested in any type of culinary pursuits – besides eating, of course. That's a trait she's inherited from Nikki.