It had been two weeks since my interaction with John Westmont, but I was still thinking about it like it was yesterday. I had nearly skipped the whole way home from Bloomingdale’s. I mean not really skipped, but there was an extra bounce in my step. I was anticipating my phone call with Caroline and the relief that she would feel when I told her the good news. I thought about what I would say. He’s a keeper, Caroline! You got one of the good ones! A little unprofessional, I thought. But it was such a rarity for me to have this kind of storybook ending. In fact, it’s only happened twice in the three years I’ve been in the business. When one spouse thinks the other is cheating, they’re most often right. I’m not talking about the ordinary paranoia people sometimes feel in a marriage, I’m talking about enough paranoia to cause you to seek professional help. But the Westmonts had restored my faith in the sanctity of marriage. At least for the half hour it took me to not really skip home.
I called Caroline’s cell and left her a message asking her to call me back. She called back within minutes. My cheerful “Hello, Caroline!” was met with a whisper from the other end.
“Why are you whispering?” I whispered in return.
“Because I’m hiding in a closet,” she said, adding, “John is right outside.”
“Right outside?”
He had said he was meeting her at Le Cirque straight from Bloomingdale’s. My heart sank. Had he put one over on me? It couldn’t be. Oh my god, I bet the present wasn’t even for Caroline. I felt sick.
“Yes,” she said quietly, “I’ve had to spend the whole afternoon with him! I’m hoping you have enough dirt for me to cancel our dinner plans in a fitful rage and at least save my evening!”
“You spent the whole afternoon with your husband, John Westmont?” I said incredulously.
“Yes, and every minute with him leaves me feeling more and more demoralized. I can’t take much more of this. Please tell me you know something.”
“I know that you’re lying to me. Though I’m not sure why.”
“What are you talking about? What part am I lying about?”
“It can be so hard to tell once you start, can’t it? You tell me. Go through all your lies and throw one out at me. Let’s see if it sticks.”
My question was met with silence, and my anger boiled over.
“I spent the afternoon with your husband,” I said, breaking the silence. “At Bloomingdale’s, helping him pick out an anniversary present for you. Let’s start with that. Why are you lying to me about that?”
She laughed. Laughed. As if her response was going to humor me.
“All right, you caught me. I should have just been straight with you to begin with, but I didn’t know if you’d take the case and get me what I needed if you knew the truth. I’m the one having the affair, not John.”
I couldn’t even find the words to express how betrayed I felt. Her swollen eyes and monumental lies were all just an act to get me to take on her case. And it didn’t help that John was such a nice man. I was furious. I hadn’t been lied to like that—to my face and so cavalierly—since Derek, and it really struck a nerve. She continued without missing a beat.
“This is getting tiresome, and it’s clearly not working. We’re going to need to do things differently. I knew there was a chance that there’d be nothing to get on John, the patron saint of husbands. I was hoping he’d do something that looked at least halfway suspicious, but he’s too boring even for that. It’s okay—I have a backup plan.”
She went on about her plan and I listened quietly as my mind reeled. I could have just said, I’m not interested in your plan, you lying cheat, and you are no longer my client, but I waited—partly out of curiosity, partly because the extent of her duplicity was slow to sink in.
Her plan was quite elaborate. I was to make another appointment with the masseuse and plant evidence, including a naked picture of John, when I was left alone to disrobe. She would come in later that day to confront her and find said evidence.
At that point I stopped her. I told her that it would never work and that I don’t plant evidence, and I fired her as a client. It actually might have worked, but obviously it was criminal and immoral and I wanted no part of it. I spent the rest of that night wallowing in my Cabernet and thinking of poor John with the elegant black silk evening bag and the pink envelope with the heart on it.