The Affair

by Colette Freedman

  Kathy pulled away and stepped back into the kitchen. “Just getting a breath of air; the kitchen was stuffy. Nice cologne.”

  “Yeah. It’s new. I didn’t know if you’d like it.”

  “I do,” she said curtly as she closed the door and spun away from him, not looking into his eyes, fearful that he would see something in her face or that she would see something in his; after eighteen years of marriage it was difficult to keep a secret. She began to put return address labels on the last few cards. They were tacky wreath-decorated labels sent from a charity in their annual plea for money. Kathy always wondered if it was bad karma to use the preprinted labels without actually donating to the charity. “I left a couple of cards on the bed,” she began.

  “I saw them. . . .”

  “I don’t have the addresses, and besides they’re personal cards—it would be better if you wrote and signed them.”

  “What’s wrong?” he asked quickly.

  Kathy glanced sidelong at him. “Nothing.”

  He’d been thirty-one when she married him, tall and gangly with a shock of black hair that refused to stay combed. The hair had remained more or less intact and he’d filled out some, but in truth he’d aged well. Extremely well. Unlike her, she thought bitterly. He’d matured; she had gotten old.

  “Why do you ask?” she added.

  Robert smiled, the corners of his lips creasing, and he tilted his head to one side, a movement she’d once found endearing, but which now irritated her. “Because you’ve got the tone in your voice.”

  “Which tone?”

  “That tone.” His smile deepened. “The tone that tells me that you’re pissed off at me.”

  Kathy sighed.

  “Oh, and the sigh is another sure sign. The sigh and the tone. You’re like a great jazz band, Kathy . . . always in syncopation.”

  “Look, I’m tired. I’ve been writing cards for hours. Mostly your cards, to your friends and your colleagues,” she added bitterly. “I do it every year. And every year it’s last minute, and I’m always missing addresses. You don’t help.”

  She watched the smile tighten on his lips. “Kathy, I’ve just come in from a ten-hour day,” he said, his voice still light and reasonable. “I had a meeting in Framingham, the Pike was a parking lot, and I’ve got a really important presentation in the morning. Just . . . give me a minute to decompress, and I’ll go through my address book. Or you can; I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  “I’ve done them all,” Kathy said tightly, fully aware that people who claimed they had nothing to hide always had plenty to hide. “The four on the bed are all you have to do.”

  “We’re arguing over four cards?” he asked.

  “No,” she snapped. “We’re arguing over the one hundred and twenty I’ve already written. Without your help.”

  Robert nodded and shrugged. “I should have taken some into work with me.” Then he glanced up at the clock. “I’ll go and get the kids.”

  Before she could say another word, he turned and strode from the kitchen, across the dining room, and out into the hallway. She could see him snatching his leather jacket and scarf off the rack behind the door, and then he left, pulling the front door shut quietly behind him.

  Kathy leaned on the kitchen table and listened to the car start up and gently pull away. He’d done it again. Managed to twist and turn her words until suddenly she felt she was in the wrong, that she was arguing about nothing. And then, of course, he’d walked away. He was good at that. In all the years she’d known him, he had always walked away from an argument.

  A classic coward.

  If that had been her, she’d have slammed the door and revved off at high speed, spattering gravel against the side of the house. He was always just too damned controlled, a true Libra, far too evenly balanced.

  Kathy turned away from the table, opened the refrigerator, and grabbed a wedge of Skinny Cow cheese. There were only thirty-five calories in each piece. She ripped open the thin tinfoil packaging and popped the tiny triangle into her mouth. She hadn’t managed to lose any weight for the various Christmas parties they’d been invited to—and was feeling slightly guilty because she’d avoided going to a couple of business-related events that she knew would be populated by gorgeous twenty-somethings as thin as sticks, with designer little black dresses artfully draped on their bones. Robert had gone to the parties on his own; he didn’t seem to mind.

  Somewhere, in the distance, there was a long shrill ring.

  He’d left his phone.

  Kathy stopped suddenly. He’d left his phone. He never left his phone. An oversight? Or, perhaps, the universe was conspiring with her. Tossing the empty foil into the garbage can, she darted up the stairs. As far as she could remember, he hadn’t had his phone in his hand when he’d come into the kitchen. She knew he hated carrying it in his pants pocket; it was just a little too bulky, and he usually wore it clipped to his belt, like a kid wearing a toy gun, or he carried it in his inside jacket pocket like an oversized wallet.

  She raced into the bedroom. His jacket was where she’d left it, and there, just visible, was the silver edge of the phone.

  She was abruptly conscious that the decision she made in the next couple of seconds was going to have repercussions for the rest of her life. She could hear her mother’s voice now, clear and distinct, the slightly bitter waspish tones managing to irritate her even though the woman had been dead eighteen months.

  “Never ask a question unless you’re prepared for an answer you don’t like.”

  Was she prepared for an answer she didn’t like? Her last accusation had almost ruined her marriage and destroyed the family. It had been based on instinct, rather than evidence.

  Kathy Walker sat on the edge of the bed and cradled the phone in her hands, index finger hovering over the screen. Somewhere deep inside her, she already knew the answer. All she was looking for now was confirmation. Something tangible. Something to corroborate her suspicions. Six years ago, she had been plagued with doubt. She wasn’t going to make the same mistake she had made the last time. Proof. She was looking for proof.

  And once she knew the truth, she could prepare for the consequences.

  Kathy Walker tapped the screen.

  CHAPTER 3

  Stephanie Burroughs.

  All of the lines beside her name in the phone were filled in: an address, a phone number, a cell number, two e-mail addresses, a note of her birthday. And a little red flag beside her name.

  Kathy’s fingers felt numb, hands trembling slightly as she tapped the flag on the screen. The calendar opened, a series of little rectangles representing the days of the month. Friday last had a little flag on it; the flag on Stephanie’s name was linked to it. She tapped the screen again, bringing up the day.

  Friday had been a busy day for R&K Productions—or at least for the R part of it. There had been breakfast with a client at eight a.m., then a ten a.m. meeting followed by a voice-over session at the studio at eleven thirty. Artwork was scheduled in for three o’clock, then nothing.

  Except for a red flag at five. No notation.

  Kathy frowned, remembering. Last Friday . . . Robert had been home late last Friday; he’d been meeting a client, he said. It had been close to midnight when he’d arrived home.

  Conscious that time was slipping by, she changed back to the month view and moved to the next red flag. It was for the previous Tuesday. Again, late in the afternoon, the last event of the day, with no appointments scheduled after it. The flag before that was for the previous Friday. She nodded quickly. He’d been late that Friday, but she couldn’t remember anything about the Tuesday. Robert was often late getting home from work; in fact he was late more often than not. The flag before that was for the first Tuesday of the month. Leave it to her husband to develop a red flag pattern.

  Now she scrolled forward in the calendar. The next red flag was for tomorrow night, Friday night. Red flag at four, with no appointments following it. Apparently, Tuesday
nights and Friday nights were date night in the world of red flags, Kathy thought bitterly.

  She changed back to the Contacts app and quickly scrolled down through the names. She only came across two other names with red flags, and she recognized both as longstanding clients.

  Feeling unaccountably guilty, she went through the other jacket pockets, not entirely sure what she was looking for. He’d taken his wallet with him, and all she found were a couple of parking receipts, a packet of mints, and a receipt from Au Bon Pain in the CambridgeSide Galleria. Two beverages. She smoothed out the receipt on the bed, trying to decipher the date.

  It looked like last Tuesday, at 5:10 p.m. What had Robert been doing in Cambridge last Tuesday? Robert hated shopping, hated shopping malls particularly. Getting out to the shopping mall in pre-Christmas traffic would have been a nightmare; getting back, even worse. When Robert wanted to pick up a quick gift, he usually just popped over to Brookline Booksmith and bought a book.

  Lights suddenly flared against the bedroom window as a car pulled into the driveway. Calmly, Kathy put the parking receipts and the mints back into his jacket pocket. She stuffed the Au Bon Pain receipt into her own pocket. Then she slipped the phone into her husband’s jacket pocket, and she was in the process of descending the stairs when the hall door opened and Robert, followed by Brendan and Theresa, bundled into the house in a tumult of noise and chill air.

  “We got takeout,” Brendan called, holding up the brown paper bags.

  “More than takeout, I see,” Kathy muttered. There was a smudge of chocolate on her son’s upper lip, the hint of white on his cheek. They’d probably stopped for ice cream on the way home.

  She looked up at Robert. He saw her looking at him and raised his eyebrows in a silent question. Kathy wondered when Robert had become the “fun” parent who took the kids out for dessert before dinner and she had become the disciplinarian who nagged them about homework and chores. She could be fun. She was fun . . . She used to be fun. Kathy smiled at Brendan. “Great. I was going to suggest takeout.” She was looking at her husband, at the man she had thought she knew and realized she didn’t.

  Robert caught the quizzical look and tilted his head. “Everything okay?”

  “Fine,” she lied, “just fine.”

  CHAPTER 4

  “I was thinking,” Kathy said suddenly.

  “Always dangerous . . .” Robert quipped.

  Kathy could see him through the bathroom door, standing in those ridiculous L.L. Bean pajama bottoms designed with pictures of little duck boots that she absolutely hated. She was sitting up in bed, supported by a trio of pillows, holding a People magazine in front of her face. Although her head was tilted down, as if she were reading, she was watching him over the top of the page.

  “You’ve been working so hard lately. . . .”

  The electric toothbrush began to buzz and whine. Robert was paranoid about his teeth. Two years ago, when they’d least been able to afford it, he’d spent nearly three thousand dollars having them straightened and bleached. Now he went to the dentist every three months to get them whitened. They were shockingly bright against his tanned face, and she thought they looked artificial and false. Lately, he’d been talking about having LASIK on his eyes, even though he only needed glasses for reading and close work on the computer screen. “I can still hear you,” he said.

  But Kathy waited until the whine of the toothbrush faded away, then she tried again. “I’ve been thinking, you’ve been working so hard lately, I’ve barely seen you. We should try to have a date night.”

  “Good idea. Great idea,” he said around a mouthful of toothpaste.

  Kathy heard the faucet turn on and she raised her voice. “What about tomorrow?” And how will you answer, she wondered. Will you say yes to me, and make me feel ridiculous because I’ve doubted you or will you . . .

  “I can’t.” He shut off the water and came out of the bathroom, patting white toothpaste off his chin with a towel. “Not tomorrow night. I’m entertaining a client. Christmas drinks and some dinner.” He stared directly into her eyes, with those huge brown innocent eyes of his, as he smiled at her.

  “You never said.”

  “I’m sure I did.” He pulled on the pajama top.

  “I’d have remembered.”

  He shrugged and turned to toss the towel back into the bathroom. It missed the rail and slid to the floor, where she would pick it up in the morning. She caught him looking at himself in the mirrored closet doors, just a quick glance. She saw him straighten, suck in his belly, then nod.

  Still keeping her head down, turning the magazine pages slowly, pretending to read, she raised her eyes and looked at her husband. Really looked at him, trying to see him anew. She’d once read in a magazine that you really only looked at someone when you first met them, and after that you never really looked at them again. The picture the brain establishes in that first glance is the one that remains. How long ago was it since she’d looked at her husband, seen him as a person, an individual, she wondered.

  Was it her imagination, or was he was looking a lot more tanned and toned? He’d always been careful about his weight and was positively obsessive about his hair. Squinting slightly, she stared at his hair and noticed that some of the gray was gone. A few years ago he’d started to develop gray wings—distinguished and handsome, she’d thought—just above his ears. Now she saw that they had faded and almost vanished. Indeed, his hair was lustrous and shining, making her wonder if he had started to color it. It looked like he’d lost a little weight too; his stomach seemed flatter, and there was the hint—just a hint—of muscle. Even though it was the depths of winter, and they hadn’t been on a tropical vacation, his skin was an even tan. She couldn’t see a tan mark on his wrist where he habitually wore his watch, but the tan looked too perfect to have come from a bottle—there were no streaks, no darker patches. Good God—was he going to a tanning salon?

  Kathy turned the page of the magazine. The words were dipping and crawling across the page and she was unable to make sense of them, but she concentrated on moving her head as if she were reading. Who was he tanning for? Not for her, certainly. Suddenly that single thought—not for her—deeply saddened her. When had he stopped trying to impress her? When had she stopped being impressed by him?

  “Who are you meeting tomorrow?” she asked casually.

  “Jimmy Moran,” Robert said without missing a beat. “We’re having dinner and drinks at Top of the Hub.” He threw back the covers and slipped into the bed, sending a wave of chill air radiating through the sheets. “You didn’t turn on the blanket,” he said, almost accusingly.

  “I didn’t think it was that cold.” Ever since she’d started to put together the pieces, she’d been running hot and cold. She felt almost schizophrenic. She was forty-three; maybe menopause was coming early? Both her mother and older sister had gone through the change in their early forties. Perhaps her paranoia was simply a matter of out-of-control hormones. She tossed the magazine onto the floor and slid down in the bed, pulling the covers up to her chin.

  “Aren’t you going to read?”

  “No.” She reached up and turned off the light over her side of the bed.

  “Well, I’ll read for a bit, if you don’t mind.”

  She knew even if she did mind, he’d still keep the light on. He reached down to the side of the bed and lifted up the book he was reading, The Road Less Traveled.

  She waited in silence for a moment, then she heard a page turn. He was an infuriatingly slow reader. She could read two books a week; he’d been reading his current book for at least a month, maybe longer. Not looking at him, she asked, “When do you think we’ll have a chance to get a night out?”

  There was a pause. She heard another page turn. “I think we should wait until after Christmas. It’s a nightmare trying to find a place to eat, and parking is impossible.” He attempted a laugh. “All the restaurants in the city are full of people like me, treating clients like Ji
mmy to too much wine.” She heard the book hit the floor, and then his light clicked off. “After Christmas, we’ll find a little time. Maybe even head out to the Cape for the weekend. Or Martha’s Vineyard. What do you think?”

  “That would be nice,” Kathy said. He had said the same thing last year. They hadn’t gone away; there wasn’t time.

  There was never enough time.

  CHAPTER 5

  Friday, 20th December

  “So how sure are you?” Rose King rested her elbows on the kitchen table and reached out to take her friend’s hands.

  Kathy Walker shook her head. “I’m not sure.”

  “But you’re suspicious.”

  “I’m suspicious.”

  “And you’ve been suspicious before?”

  Kathy nodded. “I have.”

  “Hell, I’ll bet there’s not a woman in the Greater Boston Metropolitan Area who hasn’t been suspicious about her husband at least once.”

  “Have you? Been suspicious, I mean?”

  Rose’s smile tightened, lips thinning, lines appearing at the corners of her mouth. “I have. More than once.”

  “Of Tommy?” Kathy was unable to keep the squeak of surprise out of her voice.

  “Yes. Tommy.”

  “But he’s . . .” Kathy wasn’t sure how one could discuss Tommy’s weight in a politically correct manner.

  “Big boned? Fat? Chunky? Or shall we go straight to clinically obese? It’s okay; you can say it. And I know what you’re thinking: Tommy shouldn’t have a chance with women.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You were thinking it. I could hear you thinking it. My Tommy. My blubbery and bald Tommy swaying that enormous manhood of his. I’m not sure who I feel sorry for more: me, or the unfortunate woman who had to take a gander at that without being warmed up. I had years of the Thin Tommy before the fatty deposits took over.”

  “He’s very polite,” Kathy murmured.