He’d silenced his phone during our appointment, but now it began to buzz with an incoming call. He checked the number, then kissed me on the cheek. “I need to take this. I’ll see you at home, sweetheart.”
As he walked down the street, I stared at the back of his head and willed him to turn around and give me a smile or a wave. But he just rounded a corner and disappeared.
That wasn’t the first time I’d betrayed Richard, and it wouldn’t be the last. Nor would it be the worst—not even close.
I’d never been the woman he thought he’d married.
During a lull in customers at Saks I duck into the break room for coffee. My stomach has settled but a dull ache lingers between my temples. Lisa, a salesperson from the shoe department, is sitting on the couch, nibbling a sandwich. She is in her twenties, blond and pretty in a wholesome way.
I pull my gaze away.
One of my psychology podcasts featured the Baader-Meinhof phenomenon. It’s when you become aware of something—the name of an obscure band, say, or a new type of pasta—and it seems to suddenly appear everywhere. Frequency illusion, it’s also called.
Young blond women are surrounding me now.
When I came into work this morning, one was trying on lipstick at the Laura Mercier counter. Another was touching fabrics in the Ralph Lauren section. Lisa raises her sandwich for a bite and I see the ring gleaming on her left hand.
Richard and his fiancée are getting married so quickly. She can’t possibly be pregnant, can she? I wonder again. I feel the familiar hitch in my breath and the cold seep into my body, but I force myself to ward off the panic.
I need to see her today. I need to know for certain.
She lives not too far away from where I stand right now.
Sometimes you can learn a lot about people online—everything from whether they had sour cream on their lunchtime burrito to their upcoming wedding date. Other people are harder to track. But with almost everyone, you can determine a few baseline facts: Their address. Their phone number. Where they work.
You can learn other details by watching.
One night, back when we were still married, I followed Richard to her place and stood outside her apartment. He was carrying a bouquet of white roses and a bottle of wine.
I could have pounded on the door, pushed my way in behind him, screeched at Richard, and demanded he come home.
But I didn’t. I returned to our house, and a few hours later, when Richard arrived, I greeted him with a smile. “I left dinner for you. Should I heat it up?”
They say the wife is always the last to know. But I wasn’t. I just chose to look the other way. I never dreamed it would last.
My regret is an open wound.
Lisa, the pretty young saleswoman, is gathering up her things quickly, even though some of her sandwich is still left. She tosses the remains in the trash, sneaking glances at me. Her forehead is creased.
I have no idea how long I’ve been staring.
I exit the break room, and for the rest of my shift, I greet customers pleasantly. I fetch clothing. I nod and give an opinion when asked about the suitability of dresses and suits.
All the while, I bide my time, knowing I’ll soon be able to satisfy my growing need.
When at last I can leave, I find myself being pulled back to her apartment.
To her.
CHAPTER
NINE
Nellie bent over the toilet, her stomach heaving, then slumped down on the marble floor in Richard’s bathroom.
Images from the previous night began to surface: The shots. The smoking. The kiss. And the look on Richard’s face in the taxi as they made their way back to his apartment. She couldn’t believe she’d nearly sabotaged her future with him.
Across from her, a full-length mirror reflected her image: mascara smeared under her eyes, silver glitter from the veil dotting her hair—and a crisp New York City Marathon T-shirt, courtesy of Richard.
She struggled to her feet and reached for a towel to wipe her mouth, then hesitated. They were all snow-white with royal-blue trim. Like everything else in Richard’s apartment, they were starkly elegant—everything but her, Nellie thought. She grabbed a Kleenex instead, then tossed it in the toilet. Richard never seemed to have garbage in his trash bins; she wasn’t going to leave her soiled tissue behind.
She brushed her teeth and washed her face in icy water that left her skin pale and blotchy. Then, even though she craved a retreat back under Richard’s luxurious down comforter, she steadied herself to find him and endure whatever he had to say to her.
Instead of her fiancé, she discovered a bottle of Evian and a container of Advil on the gleaming granite kitchen counter. Beside them rested a note on thick ecru paper embossed with his initials: I didn’t want to wake you. I’m off to Atlanta. Back tomorrow. Feel better. Love you, R.
The clock on the oven read 11:43. How had she slept so late?
And how could she have forgotten Richard’s travel schedule? She didn’t even recall his mentioning Atlanta.
As she shook out two tablets and downed the still-cool water, she studied Richard’s neat block letters and tried to gauge his mood. Last night’s images were jagged and incomplete, but she recalled him tucking her in, then leaving the room and shutting the door. If he’d eventually returned and climbed into bed beside her, she hadn’t noticed.
She picked up the cordless phone on his counter and dialed his cell, but it went straight to voice mail. “I’ll get right back to you,” he promised.
Hearing his voice made her feel the ache of missing him.
“Hi, honey.” She fumbled for words. “Um . . . just wanted to say I love you.”
She headed back to the bedroom, passing a few large framed photographs lining the hallway. Her favorite was of Richard as a boy, his small hand clasped in Maureen’s, as they stood at the ocean’s edge. Maureen had towered over him. Richard was five feet eleven inches now, but he hadn’t had a growth spurt until he was sixteen, he’d told Nellie. The next photograph was a posed shot of Richard and Maureen with their parents. Nellie could see that Richard had inherited his piercing eyes from his mother and full lips from his father. At the end was a black-and-white picture of his mom and dad on their wedding day.
It said so much about Richard that he decorated his walls with images of family, that these were the faces he wanted to see every day. She wished his parents were still alive, but at least Richard had his sister. Nellie would get to meet Maureen tomorrow at dinner at one of Richard’s favorite restaurants.
Her reverie was interrupted by the house phone ringing. Richard, she thought, feeling a rush of joy as she ran back into the kitchen and grabbed the receiver.
But the voice that greeted her was feminine: “Is Richard there?”
“Um, no.” Nellie hesitated. “Is this Maureen?”
Silence. Then the woman replied, “No. I’ll call him back.” Then came the dull, unbroken note of the dial tone.
Who would phone Richard on a Sunday and not want to leave a message?
Nellie hesitated, then checked caller ID. The number was blocked.
She had come to Richard’s apartment on many occasions. But this was the first time she’d ever been here alone.
Behind her, in the living room, a wall of windows afforded a stunning view of Central Park as well as several other residential buildings. She walked over and looked out, her eyes sweeping over the apartments. Many were dark or shuttered by blinds or curtains. But others had nothing covering the panes of clear glass.
From certain angles, she thought she could see the shadowy outlines of furniture or figures inside.
Which meant anyone in those buildings also had a view into Richard’s apartment.