The Intermission

by Elyssa Friedland

  “So this is about revenge?” Cass asked cautiously, wanting to make sure she was getting the assignment right. She eyed the yellow tabs. Someone on Marty’s payroll was tasked with doing this, obviously.

  “Above everything, I’m a businessman. And we are taking it in the ass in Europe. So yes, I want my ex to see my name on every fucking billboard in London, but I also want to make money. And that’s where you come in. I looked up PZA’s work. Percy ran several successful marketing campaigns abroad for West End shows. And you’ve got fresh eyes. My old-timers churn out the same product over and over: hero brandishing weapon, opens this Friday; pretty boy and gorgeous woman kiss with skyline in the background, coming this Christmas. You’re new enough to shake things up a bit.”

  “To be totally honest, I didn’t work on any of the overseas campaigns.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” he said, licking the grease off his fingers. “Aidan tells me you’ve been a great addition to the team. We leave for London Wednesday night. We have a bunch of meetings set up with marketing people over there. And then we’ll take some time to just to soak things in.”

  Here again, there was only one option available to Cass. The lack of choice came as a relief. It was the opposite of the intermission.

  “Okay.”

  A business trip with her new boss, who was also her housekeeper’s father. If it wasn’t happening to her, she wouldn’t believe it was true. She had nothing to hide about the trip, but for some reason she wasn’t particularly keen to tell Jonathan about it. It would sound as though she was moving farther and farther away from him, slipping deeper into a new life in which he had no part. Yes, she had secrets she kept from her husband, but they were never of the mundane variety. And on good days she could delude herself into believing that a healthy relationship wasn’t based on revealing the deepest parts of oneself, it was about exchanging the day-to-day freely. That marriage was trading the bits and snippets that make up a life with someone who cared: what was had for lunch, whose breath was deadly at work. That had been her and Jonathan for years, and until it was time to have a child, it had seemed to be adequate. Now even that part was disintegrating.

  20. JONATHAN

  THE PROBLEM WITH putting your wife on a pedestal from day one is that she has nowhere to go but down.

  Well, strictly speaking, that wasn’t quite true. There were higher and higher pedestals to climb until your spouse is deified and you look in the mirror and think, How did a worthless sack of shit like me get her? That was not the case for Jonathan, though he certainly thought things were headed in that direction when he and Cass first got married. It wasn’t that he’d grown to dislike his wife—not at all—it was just that he was no longer as blinded by love as he had been at the outset.

  In the beginning, Cass was everything he’d ever dreamed of and more. Conventional wisdom will tell you the first year of marriage is supposed to be the most difficult. Maybe that was true for older generations, before living together became de rigueur, but for Cass and Jonathan, it was pretty seamless. They worked a lot, but when they came together in the late evenings for a ritualistic catch-up, it was with toes nudging each other on the coffee table, hands intertwined, wineglasses clinking each other in self-congratulatory fashion. There is nothing smugger than believing you’ve found what everyone in the world is looking for.

  His attraction to Cass seemed only to grow as he discovered new things about her to admire. She was pretty first thing in the morning, before the makeup and the clothes finished the story. Her skin was a milky white, and in cold weather inky veins surfaced and gave him paths to trace. Cornflower blue eyes, feline in shape, anchored an angular face topped with a sexy shade of blond strands—the kind of hair that made you think this woman just loved to screw. And those overlapping teeth. He loved to run his tongue over the ridge. Small breasts, tiny acorns, but still they fulfilled him. All this on the outside and whip-smart too, an answer for everything, one of those things he thought he was going to love about her forever. And her background? What wasn’t there to love about someone who came from nothing and had to work at least 50 percent harder to get to the same place as the one-percenters he grew up with? He was not an elitist, whatever those who misunderstood him said. Just look who he fell in love with. He never saw their relationship as some Henry Higgins–Eliza Doolittle scenario. Except, that is, on lobster night.

  It was July Fourth weekend and he and Cass had been engaged for two months. His parents were still treating Cass like she was hired help and he longed for them to get to know her better and show a little enthusiasm about their future daughter-in-law. He thought a weekend of togetherness on the Vineyard would do the trick. His soon-to-be wife had just been promoted at work, she was overflowing with chatter about Broadway shows and up-and-coming playwrights and he was certain she would impress. His mother pretended to be cultured, but she hadn’t stepped foot in a theater or a museum for as long as he could remember. Cass could school her any day. This wasn’t the gold digger his parents feared. Cass Rogers could easily stand on her own two feet.

  His mother reserved a table at the Cheshire for the annual holiday lobster night at 5:30 p.m. It was a ridiculously early time to eat and Jonathan couldn’t shake the feeling that she was trying to avoid the regular crowd who would all but give Cass a colonoscopy to suss out her story. If any of his mother’s snobby friends looked up Hazel Park on Wikipedia they would cringe at the median income. So no, he didn’t buy Betsy’s story about being ravenous after a long day on the golf course and needing an early supper.

  Cass looked beautiful in a bright pink summer dress and sandals. She easily could have passed for a regular at the club, and Jonathan felt himself relaxing the minute she emerged from his bathroom asking him to zip up her dress. It was one of the tasks he liked best. Cass had a sexy back, and he liked feeling needed. They arrived promptly and were the only ones in the dining room. The waiter took their drink orders and then turned to Cass first to ask which sides she’d like with her lobster. She eyeballed the printed menu card and selected potato salad and green beans. So far, so good. He scribbled it down and then asked, “And can I bring you a bib?”

  Jonathan watched Cass’s face screw up in confusion, unaware that it was customary to don a bib when cracking open a whole lobster. He knew how much his fiancée hated to feel uncertain, so he waited anxiously to see how she’d respond.

  She smiled and then broke into a giggle.

  “No, I don’t think I’ll need a bib. Though I appreciate how much you like my dress that you want to protect it.” Then she glanced around the table at Jonathan’s parents and siblings, waiting for them to laugh at her witty comeback.

  “Okay then,” the waiter said, looking just as confused as Cass had, and then turned to Betsy to take her order.

  “Bufala mozzarella salad and the insalata mista,” his mother said in the voice of a woman who had been to Italy before and wasn’t afraid to try the accent. “And a bib for myself and everyone else at the table besides her,” she added, looking toward Cass.

  “Of course, Mrs. Coyne,” the waiter responded, back at ease. Jonathan recognized him as the son of one of the members. It was a rite of passage for many to work as waiters at the club, often between junior and senior year of high school. This kid had been served at the club more times than he’d done the serving, and it showed.

  Things got worse when the lobsters arrived along with the tools. Cass eyed the cracker and tiny fork with a mix of suspicion and downright puzzlement and Jonathan desperately wanted to help her with the dissection, like a parent slicing a child’s meat. But there was just no way he could do it without mortifying Cass and further satisfying his mother. His father dug into his meal first and Jonathan watched Cass mimic his every move, first starting with the claws, then moving on to the body. She was slow and deliberate, but still as the only non–bib wearer, her dress was streaked with fish juice and butter in no time. And
of course, that’s when the Coyne friends starting showing up for their more appropriate dinner times. The evening ended awkwardly and they never talked about Broadway, Cass’s promotion or anything else that had been on his agenda.

  “I’m sorry,” he’d said to Cass when they piled into his car to drive back to the house. His fiancée, with more hubris in her thumbnail than he possessed in his whole being, turned to him and said, “About what?” At the time, he’d loved her for not admitting to anything having gone wrong at the meal. Only later did he realize that her reticence was driving a wedge between them. What if instead of Cass saying “About what?” all innocent-like, she had burst into tears and he had comforted her—promising he would make sure she never faced eating another whole lobster again without a private tutorial first. Or they could have shared a big laugh about the whole thing while they dabbed at her dress with club soda, terming the evening “LobsterGate” and adding it to their arsenal of private jokes.

  He knew most couples eventually trod a similar path of disillusionment. The midnight snacking once considered cute and childlike becomes a nuisance. The refusal to walk more than three blocks because of high heels? It starts off with feeling proud that your wife stuffs her delicate feet into stilettos to make her legs look sexy, but after a while, you just wish she’d wear flats and stop complaining. Neither of those examples applied to Cass specifically, but he liked to imagine the scenarios that chipped away at other people’s foundations. It was maybe the only perk of going out for drinks with the guys from work. After a scotch or two, they were all willing to open up about their pesky wives and Jonathan didn’t feel so alone.

  The universal question for every married couple was this: How long? How long would it take for the charm to fade? Would the erosion of chemistry be a drawn-out journey, like the gradual evaporation of boiling water? Or a sudden combustion of two incompatible gases? How long would it be before quirks devolved into maddening habits that made you lie in bed and contemplate what life would have been like with someone else? Of course, neither of you was so stupid as to think that your other mythical partner wouldn’t have attributes equally—if not more—cloying. So you hope your marriage will have staying power, that you’ll both be gray-haired and in failing health before you want to kill each other, and at that point, your lives will be fully commingled with children and grandchildren and a shared history of highs and lows. You would be so dependent on each other for rides to the doctor and reminders to take medication that divorce would be a laughable idea. Something for younger people to do. What you don’t do is leave a marriage that’s a solid B+ or A− because there’s a tiny chance to find something better. Especially when children would likely give it a half-grade boost.

  But was he really surprised with the way things were going for Cass and him?

  Their relationship, even in its blissful infancy, always had a chesslike quality to it. Chess was Jonathan’s favorite game as a child, probably because he was able to beat his father from an early age. One of his greatest accomplishments was teaching the game to Leon, who went on to found a chess club at his high school. In Coyne chess, Cass was the queen, the most powerful piece. And she was out to capture him, the king. This tactical play of their marriage didn’t bother him—he suspected more men would be happy with their spouses if they accepted the natural dynamic existing between husband and wife. It was only when Cass moved to California that he returned to the chess analogy with fresh eyes, seeing himself the way Cass must have viewed him all along. As a pawn. Not unique or powerful. He just couldn’t figure out what the endgame was. Most days, he questioned seriously if even she, the great and mighty Cass, had any clue.

  Cass’s contradictions, her unpredictability, had once been it for him. She was hoity-toity and blue-collar. Compassionate while clueless. A professional badass who couldn’t get to work before ten. An antisocial creature who still wanted everyone to like her. A faithful wife who openly flirted with other men in front of him. These were the puzzles that once flamed his desire. She was the walnut he wanted to crack, preferably with his teeth. Now he saw her differently, though not so extremely that he wanted to make any drastic changes. He believed that as soon as he saw traces of Cass in his son or daughter, he would come to appreciate her again, even more magnanimously than before. Once again her traits would take on a cherished quality; seen in miniature, they’d be infectious again. Especially because their future babies wouldn’t just be little Casses—pieces of him would be there too—a collision of DNA would make something else entirely: a Cassathan. A living, breathing human that represented their unity as a couple. Talk about chemistry.

  But until then, he wouldn’t have minded shouting at her, Cass, can’t you just man up already about how you want to be perceived? Are you the girl from Hazel Park who overcame shit parents to become the savvy Manhattan professional you are today, or were you raised to know the hostess raises her fork and knife first and that seasons are both nouns and verbs? Are you a wife who genuinely loves sex, or do you wish you were sleeping half the time? And, most importantly, do you even love me?

  Over the course of his five-year marriage, he’d imagined an alternate life with Brett on occasion. Like when he split open a fortune cookie at Shun Lee on Valentine’s Day a few years ago that said “First loves are eternal,” and let the message percolate for a long moment before showing it to Cass. Cass just laughed at him and said, “Lame. Mine says I’m going to learn Mandarin.”

  Now that he had an actual date with Brett coming up—yes, he had decided that’s what it was—the scenario of an alternative life was running through his mind more frequently. He saw Brett insisting he try her pasta, actually foisting it onto his plate; the two of them playing tennis in matching whites—the tennis skirt that barely covered her ass distracting his serve; Brett making him lemon meringue pie on his birthday. When Cass wheeled her suitcase out the door in March, he never imagined he’d feel excited for dinner with another woman just a few months later. ABC Kitchen was almost fully booked when he called for a reservation; he’d requested a table in the corner. If nothing else, he and Brett had a lot of catching up to do.

  And then there was the prospect of sex. Except for the one time with Marielle, there had been no one else but Cass for the past six years. Which he knew was nothing to boast about, monogamy being the basis of marriage and all. To his credit, he had had the chance for a repeat with that magnificent French gamine. Before Marielle returned to Paris, she made it abundantly clear that she would meet him again, anytime and anyplace, but he’d declined. Once was a mistake; twice was an affair. Cass was a better writer than him, the queen of catchy slogans for which Percy adored her, but he was certainly capable of linguistic gymnastics when it counted. Since he’d removed his wedding ring, sexy women goggled him everywhere, suggesting in the least subtle ways he could have them. He was tempted but also nervous, as though sex with one of these unknowns would be the land mine that blew up his marriage.

  The thing was, no matter how much he tried to downplay his indiscretion (his colleagues all slept around; it only happened once), he was stricken with guilt. It didn’t help that Cass seemed to regard adultery as one step below homicide and was fond of complimenting him on his loyalty. The only mitigating factor was that his wife was unfairly punishing him at the time of his indiscretion. Pushing him away, making him feel like a bystander to their shared heartache. Tricking him. Setting a trap for him like he was a dumb lobster. And he’d been exactly what she’d predicted he would be. Dumb.

  He really should tell her the truth. Over the phone, when she was three thousand miles away and her disappointment and anger would have to ping off a dozen cell phone towers before it reached him. He thought back to what Cass said the night she announced her intentions—if they were going to start a family, they should truly know each other. While he didn’t take much of what she had said all that seriously—it was the ranting of a woman left reeling from her boss’s death and fre
aking out about becoming a mother—she had a point. They shouldn’t keep things from each other. Even the ugly stuff.

  * * *

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “JONATHAN, CAN I talk to you for a minute?”

  It was Laurel, his quasi-protégée. He hadn’t had much contact with her since he had, laughably in hindsight, offered her marriage advice a few months earlier.

  “Yes?”

  She closed the door to his office and looked around surreptitiously before taking a seat.

  “It’s not bugged if that’s what you’re thinking,” Jonathan said, lifting his computer mouse and revealing its underside to her. “No camera. I can’t imagine you’re here to seek my counsel again? I thought all of Winstar knew my situation by now.”

  “We do,” she said, offering a sympathetic smile. “Sorry. But that’s not why I’m here. I have a concern I’d like to discuss with you. Confidentially.” She waited for him to reassure her, which he did with a vigorous head nod.

  “Okay. My cousin works for the SEC in their Washington headquarters. She’s basically a glorified assistant, and she’s in charge of managing one of the regulator’s schedules. He had a meeting about Winstar Capital yesterday with one of the most senior directors there. She texted me because she remembered that I work here. I’m nervous. Do you think everything is okay?” She crossed and recrossed her legs, and let out a sharp exhale that ruffled the papers on his desk.

  He was startled, because it was rarely a good thing when the SEC came nosing around. He didn’t know of any malfeasance, not that it meant the government wouldn’t spin something to press Jerry against a wall. The current attorney general hated hedge fund managers, particularly ones like Jerry, who hosted five-thousand-dollar-a-plate dinners to raise money for her political foes. But he knew his boss well, believed strongly he was on the up-and-up. Jerry vetted his analysts like he was recruiting for the CIA and then micromanaged the hell out of them after. No, it wasn’t possible anything shady was happening here, though the numbers could lead some to believe otherwise. The returns were compounding daily and his computer screen wasn’t showing much red at all. Everything was solid though—strong employment numbers, nice GDP growth, a confidence-inspiring rate hike—and Winstar analysts had just bet on the right horse time and time again. Hadn’t they?