Leaving Sophie Dean

by Alexandra Whitaker

  “I doubt that very much.” He crossed the room and switched off the music. The boys and Valerie wailed with disappointment.

  “Oh, what a party pooper you are! Okay now, boys. Time to go backstage.” They groped their way dizzily down the hall, Valerie calling after them, “And check out the groupies!”

  Adam poured himself a drink. “I saw Sophie today,” he said.

  Valerie felt a prickle of fear that she covered with a light tone. “Oh, yeah? She stirred up more fun at the office?”

  “No. We got together after work to discuss the settlement.”

  “I see.” So it had been planned in advance, and she hadn’t been told. “Well, the sooner you settle it, the sooner we’ll be out of here. Did she say when she’ll be reclaiming the house?”

  He took a drink. “She’s not coming back. She’s all set up in her new life—with some man, apparently.”

  “Fine. Then we’ll sell and move on.”

  “I’m not sure I want to move the boys. This is their home.”

  “Hey, either she moves back in here with them or we sell up and the kids go live with Mom and her fancy man. It’s that simple.”

  “He doesn’t live with her! At least I didn’t get that impression.” He frowned into his glass, and the lines from Donne came to him:

  But if in thy heart, since, there be or shall,

  New love created bee, by other men,

  Which have their stocks intire, and can in teares,

  In sighs, in oathes, and letters outbid mee,

  This new love may beget new feares—

  Watching his face, something hardened in Valerie. “Oh Christ, Adam, you’re jealous! Of all the pathetic—”

  “I am not selling this house! It would be the last straw for the boys. They need some sort of stability in their lives, and since their mother’s carrying on with… God only knows who… that stable base has got to be me. Me and this house, their home.”

  Valerie looked at him in silence, her anger trickling away. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to be, Adam. This isn’t how it goes.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You. You don’t have a clue, do you? You haven’t seen the storyboard. Let me talk you through it. We open on an unhappily married man. He meets his true love. He leaves his wife and children and lives with her happily ever after. That’s the end. There’s no more about the wife. She drops out of his life. That’s the end of the kids, too. Oh, sure, there are birthday presents and Christmas, but that’s it, Adam. And in my case there wasn’t even that. When Daddy left, he was gone. Off into the sunset with the woman he loved. And that’s how it’s supposed to be. When a thing’s over, it’s over. My father had the guts—the courage!—to make a clean break. But you, Adam…” Tears started into her eyes. “You are so weak and cowardly that you drag your old life around after you like a goldfish trailing shit.”

  “Is that what this is all about? Your childhood and some childish wish for revenge? For Christ’s sake, Valerie, grow up. There is no storyboard. No rules. This isn’t a game.”

  “There does seem to be one rule: No matter what, Valerie gets the shit end of the stick. When she was the kid, nobody gave a fuck about the kid. But now that she’s the other woman, guess who nobody gives a fuck about? Huh? Take a wild guess who nobody gives a fuck about, once again!”

  “I don’t have time for this. It’s all been a mistake, your moving in here.”

  “I’ll say it was a mistake! You son of a bitch!”

  The boys had appeared silently at the doorway, drawn by the sound of angry voices, and they watched with wide eyes as Valerie shouted, “I gave up everything to come here and help you—my apartment, my social life, my friends, everything—to be here with you, because you asked me to! I’ve done my best with the children, Adam, I really have! I’ve done everything I can to make this work, and you just… you just…” She dropped her arms to her sides and burst into tears.

  Matthew came forward bravely. “Daddy, don’t be mean to Valerie!” He stepped between them, and Hugo followed, wrapping his arms protectively around Valerie’s leg.

  “I never asked you to move in,” Adam said. “It was you who insisted.”

  “Bastard!” Valerie sobbed.

  “Stop it, Daddy!”

  Valerie knelt and put her arms around the children. The three clung together, all in tears now, and Adam looked down at the weeping group with a sense of unreality.

  * * *

  Valerie went back to her own apartment to sleep that night. And the next morning Milagros didn’t show up, so after waiting nearly an hour, Adam dropped the boys off at school himself, making them late and himself very late, which was a pity, because there was an important meeting that morning to discuss the firm’s “future trends.” He peeked in through the glass doors of the conference room and saw that everyone was there. Of course. James was leaning back in his chair, fiddling with a pen and frowning, obviously in disagreement with what was being said by Masterson, who was holding forth with that exaggerated look of concern that always meant he was shafting the staff. Then Valerie spoke, and when she finished, there was laughter and a ripple of applause. Masterson smiled, said something to which she riposted, and there was more laughter. Adam couldn’t make out the words through the glass, only their tones of voice. He checked his watch. He was an hour and a half late. An air of restlessness signaled that the meeting was about to break up. To go in now would only draw attention to his absence, so he decided to wait where he was. Sure enough, people began to sweep up papers and tap them into piles. James got up, stretched, and yawned. The meeting was over. The boss walked over to Valerie, took her arm, and said something to her. She hesitated, glanced at Adam through the glass door, then smiled at Masterson and shook her head, gently disengaging herself. Adam and his boss exchanged a hostile glance, and then Adam opened the door and walked in.

  “Adam!” Masterson said with false heartiness. “We missed you!”

  “I got held up,” Adam said. “Unavoidable, I’m afraid.”

  “Ah, well. If it was unavoidable, then it couldn’t very well have been avoided, could it?” Masterson creased his face at Adam, more baring his teeth than smiling, then nodded amiably to Valerie and turned away.

  “What happened to you?” she asked when they were alone.

  “Milagros was late. What did he want with you?”

  “Just to continue our discussion over lunch.”

  “And will you?”

  “I told him I couldn’t make it today.”

  “Another day, then?”

  “Possibly. What’s wrong with you? You were crazy to miss this meeting! Everyone noticed.”

  “What are you suggesting? That I should have left the children at home alone? To burn alive if the house caught fire? Or so that the first social worker to walk by could have them taken into foster care? When I say that Milagros was late, I shouldn’t need to say anything else. To one who understands the details of my home life, that explanation is complete in itself. Need I really say it again? I will if I must: Milagros was late!”

  She tossed her head in annoyance, and he continued, “Anyway. It seems you were brilliant, as always.” She looked to see if he were being sarcastic, but his face had softened.

  “It’s because I knew you were there, listening. I kept looking at the door, hoping you’d come, and I saw you the minute you got here. I wanted to show off for you. I’m sorry about last night.”

  “No, I’m the one who’s sorry. Let’s get out of here.” He took her elbow in a proprietary gesture and steered her toward the door. In his office they kissed. “I’ve been thinking about what you said… about giving up your social life,” Adam said into her hair.

  “Forget what I said,” she murmured.

  “No, you were right. I was thinking—why don’t we have some people over for dinner? I’d like to meet some of your friends. It might be fun, make a change. What do you say?”

  She lifted her face
to his. “Whatever you want, darling,” she whispered, and they kissed again.

  * * *

  A dinner party? Hmm. A dinner party… Okay, a dinner party! Back in her office, Valerie spun girlishly on her swivel chair and automatically, as she had done so many times recently, reached for her cell phone and punched “1,” her speed dial for Agatha, before she remembered to hang up again. It was a reflex: Something happened in her life; she punched “1.” Without that ritual she felt unsettled, as if things couldn’t become fully real until she had hashed them over with Agatha, but it was a lazy habit, she told herself, and a good thing they were on the outs. It was high time she got back into the healthy habit of thinking for herself, and not always aloud. They hadn’t spoken since their fight a couple of weeks ago, or was it three already? Ages anyway. At first Valerie had been sure Agatha would call to apologize, but as time passed, she realized that Agatha was pouting and trying to make Valerie call first. Well, to hell with that. If they never spoke again, whose loss would it be? Agatha would come to her senses. Valerie could win any waiting game. The days went by, and she checked her answering machine, her voice mail, her e-mail—nothing. What insults exactly had they hurled at each other, anyway? Agatha had called her a home wrecker, and then what? Valerie had retaliated in some way, obviously, something about… oh, yes, about being a poseur and not having a personality. The unadulterated truth, of course—but mean, too. Well, of course it was mean—they were fighting, for God’s sake!

  Valerie yanked open a drawer and took out a piece of paper. It was all very annoying, but she had to forget it and get on with more important things, like planning this dinner party. But of course that was exactly it. She needed Agatha in order to work out the menu, the guest list, everything. These details required intense discussion. And Agatha was a star when it came to food presentation.

  That was a thought. If Valerie didn’t invite Agatha, who would do the cooking? Now, under the pressure of necessity, her old determination not to give in and be the first to call gave way to an eagerness to prove that she was the less childish of the two, the bigger person. She pounced on her phone and punched “1.”

  “Pron-to!” Agatha trilled. A new affectation. But one Valerie was equal to.

  “Ciao, ragazza,” she purred. “É tanto che non ci si vede. Come stai?”

  “Valerie, hi! I was going to call you! Wait a minute, is my Italian failing me, or did you actually ask me how I am?”

  “I said ‘Come stai?’ all right.” Despite everything, it was great hearing Agatha’s voice again. Valerie had missed her.

  “Molto bene, wow! This is one for the records! We should speak Italian more often. Look, how are you? I’ve been meaning to call, but I’ve been so busy.” (Sure, Agatha, sure.) “I’ve been away the last couple of weekends.” (Yeah, right.) “How’s Adam?”

  Valerie could detect no mockery in the question. It sounded disconcertingly transparent and friendly, as indeed Agatha’s whole tone had been thus far. Not a trace of ill will. Funny. “We’re just fine,” she said smoothly. “In fact, we’re having a little dinner party. Want to come?”

  “Sure. When?”

  “Next Friday. You’ll get to feast your eyes on my suburban paradise at last.”

  “Oh, damn, I’m sorry, I can’t make it. Does it have to be Friday? Is the date set?”

  No, it wasn’t. Any weekend Sophie had the kids would do, but Valerie wasn’t about to change the day just to suit Agatha. There are limits to how magnanimous one can be, especially when dealing with someone this willful and manipulative. “ ’Fraid so,” she cooed. “It was a good time for everyone else.” Let her think she’d been invited last.

  “Oh, what a pity. Nuts.” She didn’t sound incapacitated by disappointment, though. “Well, maybe another time. I’d love to see your place, and meet the kids, too.” How condescending that sounded, and how very much more insulting than just saying frankly, Your life is a sickening bore. But even more unsettling was Agatha’s marked lack of bitchiness. Either her acting had improved, which was unlikely, or she was truly not engaging in any kind of battle, and if so, how humiliating for Valerie to be fighting alone! Furthermore, it was clear that Agatha was not going to lift a finger to help with this party. It was a bitter double blow.

  “Sure, we’ll do that. Well, I’ll be seeing you, then.”

  “Bye, Valerie, and have a great party. I’ll be dying to hear all about it.” Again, pure lighthearted friendliness. Valerie hung up scowling, then smoothed her facial expression and got busy inviting the other guests.

  * * *

  The reason Milagros had been late to Adam’s was that her car was acting up, and the following day she called Sophie from the garage to say she wouldn’t be able to pick up the boys that afternoon and bring them home, unless she came in a taxi—should she do that? No need, Sophie said. She would run them back, not to worry. It made her realize how fortunate she had been all this time to have Milagros as go-between, but she felt no trepidation about dropping them off at his house just this once. It would only be a matter of seeing them safely in the door and vanishing; she wouldn’t even need to look at him. So that afternoon she walked up the path to his house holding a son’s hand in each of hers and keeping her eyes down, which forced her to notice the flagstones. Adam had once mentioned the British name for that pattern—now, what was it? At the door she lifted the brass knocker and tapped briskly.

  “Mommy, can you tie my shoe?” Hugo asked, and she bent down to oblige. She was making the first “bunny ear” when the door opened, and so it was that for one unearthly moment Sophie found herself kneeling at the stiletto-heeled feet of her husband’s mistress. She rose slowly, her eyes traveling up Valerie’s silky legs, her chic black dress, her slender waist, her full breasts, her graceful neck, and coming to rest on her face, framed by gamine-cut tousled black hair, the eyes narrowed, the pouty lips holding an unlit cigarette, and in her fist a lighter, her thumb poised on the top. “Good-bye, Mommy!” The boys kissed Sophie’s cheek, then air-kissed Valerie, mwah, mwah, and ran inside. Valerie’s thumb spun the wheel on the lighter, and she lit her cigarette, inhaling deeply.

  Then she exhaled.

  The two women eyed each other, the one in jeans and a ponytail, the other in black, smoking. Young, was Valerie’s first thought. Spooky, was Sophie’s—who would want to come home every night to Morticia Addams? Then she remembered who: her husband.

  “I hope you don’t smoke in front of the children,” she said.

  “I smoke outside,” Valerie answered. “Alone.” She flicked her ash. “Except for the garden gnomes.”

  “Good,” Sophie said. “Because they love you, Valerie. And they worry about your health.”

  Valerie studied her for a moment, then laughed. “Nice one.”

  She watched Sophie turn and walk back down the path. Back down the crazy paving, back to the city, back to her roof deck and her brand-new lover.

  * * *

  The great thing about Henry was that he chatted easily and everything interested him, so he would give the same careful consideration to a discussion of beauty products or throw pillows as he would to a philosophical or political debate. He was a good vegetarian cook, and he repaired broken household items swiftly, improvising tools and materials. As a lover he was spirited and skillful, and he cuddled superbly. In short, he managed to combine the fun and exuberance of a girlfriend with the seriousness and sexiness of a boyfriend, making him so balanced and capable a person that beside him other men seemed incomplete.

  He lived in a big house in East Cambridge shared by five housemates, a mixture of artisans and alternative-medicine practitioners in their thirties and forties who all got along well together. About his family, Sophie knew that his American-born mother had remarried in France and that a half brother lived in Paris. There was little contact between the three, and none at all with Henry’s father in Pakistan, married and with many children, for whom Henry and his mother could be only a distant memor
y.

  “Do you speak French, then?” Sophie asked him once.

  “Mais oui, bien sûr. I have a whole other life as Henri.”

  It had been a long time since Sophie had told a lover when her birthday was, or what music she liked, or where she grew up, and her feelings about it were mixed. It was refreshing to begin anew, but it was also saddening to find herself back at that stage. It seemed impoverished to have no well of knowledge of each other to draw upon, no shared experiences or memories, and it was strange to share a bed with a man who knew nothing about her children. But meeting someone new is an opportunity to reinvent oneself, or at least to present the latest version, and as Sophie talked about herself, she made a conscious effort to not merely repeat the supposed “facts” but to ascertain whether they were still true, and modify them if needed. It was not always easy to describe her tastes or goals; she was a moving target, and moving faster of late.

  In the course of describing her childhood, it was inevitable that she should tell him about her brother, Patrick. “Every family has some problem, big or small, and ours was Patrick.”

  Henry nodded, and Sophie went on. “One day when I was eight, I came home from school and found my mother crying because she was worried about what would happen to Patrick after she was ‘gone.’ It was the first time she had talked about her death, and I was scared. Scared for myself! But the question was Patrick, not me, so I pretended to be calm. I said that because I was two years younger, I would live two years longer, and that meant I’d be able to take care of him his whole life long. She said I was very sweet, but when I grew up, I wouldn’t feel that way. I’d have my own life, maybe children, and I’d change my mind. But I swore to her I would take care of him no matter what. And she hugged me and told me I was the best little girl in the world.”