Nine Women, One Dress(55)

I touched her shoulder. “What is it?”

She recoiled. “Don’t touch me!”

I was totally confused. She sighed, looked again at her shoes, and then explained. She was calm and straightforward.

“John, there is a photographer taking pictures of us from across the plaza. He was hired by your wife, who’s trying to prove that you’re cheating.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. It felt like I’d been sucker-punched. “How do you know that?” I managed to stammer.

“I know because I’m a private investigator and I sometimes use that same photographer.”

At this point I thought she must be joking. I even laughed, relieved that she was just fooling around. But she went on.

“Your wife, Caroline, hired me a few months ago to try and find evidence that you were having an affair so she could take advantage of the infidelity clause in your prenup.”

“My prenup? What the hell do you know about my prenup?” I was feeling unsteady on my feet. Betrayed. Confused. My heart was racing; my neck felt like it was on fire.

“I told you, your wife hired me as a private eye. I’m sorry, John, but it turned out she was the one having an affair. She’s cheating on you but wanted to make it look the other way around, for the money.”

The fountain in the middle of the square started to spin before my eyes. It was hard to comprehend what she was saying. I steadied myself against the wall.

“Give me a minute,” I said. She lowered her head and let me stand, leaning against the side of a building, while I tried to wrap my head around what was happening here. Was this the end of my marriage?

When I could feel my feet on the ground again, I asked her, “You mean this was all a setup? You and me—we’re a setup to catch me being unfaithful?”

Tears started to run down her face. I felt a flash of anger that she was playing the victim.

“No, no, no!” she shouted. “Only our first meeting, the one in the dress department at Bloomingdale’s—I was on the job then. But I fired Caroline when I found out the truth about her. I guess she’s hired someone else. I’m sorry, John, I should have told you, but it’s unethical. God, listen to me talking about ethics.”

I looked into her eyes searchingly.

“We never met because of fate. I kept on tracking you even after I fired her. I know that sounds so stalkerish and awful. But the awful thing is, today was truly an accidental meeting.” She paused and looked down, dejected. “And now, I’m sure, it’s our last meeting…of any kind.”

I was so nonreactive that she just kept on talking. It was a lot to take in, and I wasn’t sure what I wanted to say.

“John, I don’t want to contribute to her false case against you. As of now there isn’t one compromising photo of us—we came out of the theater like two friends who just saw a movie. If I need to, I will testify to the truth—that she’s trying to set you up and that there’s nothing going on between us.”

“The photographer is still watching us?” I asked, finding my voice.

She looked over my shoulder. “Yes, his lens is pointed right at us.”

“Why did you keep tracking me?” I asked her, praying for the words I wanted to hear. “After you fired my wife—Caroline, I mean—why did you keep following me?”

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I…like you. I missed you. I tried, but I couldn’t stay away from you.”

And there it was. All of a sudden the whole mess seemed to resolve into clarity. My wife of twelve years wanted to get away from me so badly that she had resorted to entrapment, and Andie couldn’t stay away from me. My silence must have scared her, because her next words were spoken in a tone that was all business.

“Listen to me,” she said. “This will be a long fight and most definitely a court battle, but no matter what happens to my career, I will testify about what I’ve done and what we haven’t. I can testify to her attempt at collusion and procurement. It won’t be easy, but she will leave your marriage with nothing more than she came in with.”

Scenes from every divorce movie from Kramer vs. Kramer to The War of the Roses ran through my head. The fountain in front of the Plaza began to spin again. I squeezed my eyes tight. Maybe it was the cinematic setting, maybe it was the sudden moment of clarity, but I knew what I had to do.

In one of the most storied spots in all Manhattan, I took Andie Rand’s face in my hands and kissed her with a passion I had not felt in years. In my head I imagined I could hear the shutter of the photographer’s camera.

She broke away in protest. “What are you doing? Are you crazy?”

I smiled at her, feeling sure of myself for the first time in a long time. “Kiss the girl or waste months in a drawn-out court battle with my cheating wife and, let’s not forget, the mother of my child? I am most definitely not crazy.”

I kissed her again. This time she gave in. When we finally came up for air, she laughed. “That kiss is going to cost you.”

I laughed as well. “What’s five million dollars, give or take, when you have more money than you could ever use?”

She smiled. “I meant lunch.”

“How about the Oyster Bar?” I asked.

“It’s a date.” She laughed again.