“Finish it. I’ll order another . . . or maybe you’d prefer a glass of wine?” He raised his eyebrows questioningly, and she noticed the crescent-shaped silver scar by his right temple.
She nodded. “Thank you.” Never before had a seatmate tried to comfort her on a flight; usually people looked away or flipped through a magazine while she fought through her panic alone.
“I get it, you know,” he said. “I have this thing about the sight of blood.”
“You do?” The plane shuddered slightly, the wings tipping to the left. She closed her eyes and swallowed hard.
“I’ll tell you about it, but you have to promise not to lose respect for me.”
She nodded again, not wanting his soothing voice to stop.
“So a few years ago one of my colleagues passed out and hit his head on the edge of a conference table in the middle of a meeting. . . . I guess he had low blood pressure. Either that or the meeting bored him into a coma.”
Nellie opened her eyes and released a little laugh. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d done that on an airplane.
“I tell everyone to step back and I grab a chair and help the guy into it. I was yelling for someone to get water when I see all this blood. And all of a sudden I start getting light-headed, like I’m going to faint, too. I practically kick the injured guy out of the chair so I can sit down, and suddenly everyone is ignoring him and trying to help me.”
The plane leveled off. A soft chime sounded, and a flight attendant walked down the aisle, offering headphones. Nellie let go of the armrest and looked at Richard. He was grinning at her.
“You survived, we’re through the clouds. It should be pretty smooth from here on out.”
“Thank you. For the drink and the story . . . You get to keep your man card, even with the fainting.”
Two hours later, Richard had told Nellie about his job as a hedge fund manager and revealed he had a soft spot for teachers ever since one had helped him learn to pronounce his R’s: “It’s because of her that I didn’t introduce myself to you as Wichawd.” When she asked him if he had family in New York, he shook his head. “Just an older sister who lives in Boston. My parents died years ago.” He bridged his hands and looked down at them. “A car accident.”
“My father passed away, too.” He glanced back over at her. “I have this old sweater of his. . . . I still wear it sometimes.”
They were both silent for a beat, then the flight attendant instructed the passengers to close their tray tables and tilt their seats fully upright.
“Are you okay with landings?”
“Maybe you can tell me another story to get me through it,” Nellie said.
“Hmmm. Can’t think of one off the top of my head. Why don’t you give me your number in case one comes to me?”
He handed her a pen from his suit pocket, and she tilted her head to jot it down on a napkin, her long blond hair falling forward in front of her shoulders.
Richard reached out and gently ran his fingers down the length of it before tucking it back behind her ear. “So beautiful. Don’t ever cut it.”
CHAPTER
FOUR
I sit on the floor of the dressing room, the lingering perfume of roses reminding me of a wedding. My replacement will be a beautiful bride. I imagine her gazing up at Richard, promising to love and honor him, just as I did.
I can almost hear her voice.
I know how she sounds. I call her sometimes, but I use a burner phone with a blocked number.
“Hi,” her message begins. Her tone is carefree, bright. “I’m sorry I missed you!”
Is she truly sorry? Or is she triumphant? Her relationship with Richard is now public, though it began when he and I were still married. We had problems. Don’t all couples, after the glow of the honeymoon fades? Still, I never expected him to tell me to move out so quickly. To erase the tracks of our relationship.
It’s as though he wants to pretend we were never married at all. As if I don’t exist.
Does she ever think about me and feel guilty for what she did?
Those questions batter me every night. Sometimes, when I’ve lain awake for hours, the sheets twisted around me, I shut my eyes, so close to finally succumbing to sleep, and then her face leaps into my mind. I sit bolt upright, fumbling for the pills in my nightstand drawer. I chew one instead of swallowing so it takes effect faster.
Her voice-mail greeting gives me no clues about her feelings.
But when I watched her one night with Richard, she looked incandescent.
I’d been walking to our favorite restaurant on the Upper East Side. A self-help book had recommended that I visit painful places from my past, to release their power over me and reclaim the city as my own. So I trekked to the café where Richard and I had sipped lattes and shared the Sunday New York Times, and I wandered past Richard’s office, where his company held a lavish holiday party every December, and passed through the magnolia and lilac trees in Central Park. I felt worse with every step. It was a horrible idea; no wonder that book was languishing on the discount rack.
Still, I’d pressed on, planning to round out my tour with a drink at the restaurant bar where Richard and I had celebrated our last few anniversaries. That was when I saw them.
Maybe he was trying to reclaim the spot, too.
If I’d been walking just a bit faster, we would have reached the entrance at almost the same moment. Instead I ducked into a storefront and peered around the edge. I caught a glimpse of tanned legs, seductive curves, and the quick smile she flashed at Richard as he opened the door for her.
Naturally my husband wanted her. What man wouldn’t? She was as delectable as a ripe peach.
I crept closer and stared through the floor-to-ceiling window as Richard ordered his girlfriend a drink—she had champagne tastes, it seemed—and she sipped the golden liquid from a slim flute.
I couldn’t let Richard see me; he wouldn’t believe it was a coincidence. I’d followed him before, of course. Or rather, I’d followed them.
Yet my feet refused to move. I greedily drank her in as she crossed her legs so the slit in her dress revealed her thigh.
He was pressed close to her, leaning down as his arm curved over the back of her stool. His hair was longer, brushing the collar of his suit in the back; it suited him. He had the same leonine expression I’d come to recognize when he closed a big business deal, one he’d been pursuing for months.
She tossed back her head and laughed at something he said.
My nails dug into my palms; I’d never been in love with anyone before Richard. At that moment I realized I’d never hated anyone, either.
“Vanessa?”
The voice outside the dressing-room door jars me out of the memory. The British accent belongs to my boss, Lucille, a woman not known for her patience.
I run my fingers under my eyes, aware mascara is probably pooled there. “Just straightening up.” My voice has grown husky.
“A customer needs help in Stella McCartney. Sort out the room later.”
She is waiting for me to emerge. There is no time to fix my face, to erase the messy signs of grief, and besides, my purse is in the employees’ lounge.
I open the door and she takes a step back. “Are you unwell?” Her perfectly arched eyebrows lift.
I seize the opportunity. “I’m not sure. I just . . . I feel a little nauseous. . . .”
“Can you finish the day?” Lucille’s tone holds no sympathy, and I wonder if this transgression will be my last. She answers before I can: “No, you might be contagious. You should leave.”
I nod and hurry to grab my bag. I don’t want her to change her mind.
I take the escalators to the main floor and watch pieces of my ravaged reflection flash in the mirrors I ride past.