A Good Marriage(66)

“Strange?” Vic had made partner at one of the biggest entertainment law firms in L.A. in a mere six years, slipping into that elusive groove between big-firm stability and interesting work. “I guess that’s better than some other alternatives like, say, excruciating.”

I’d told Vic months ago that I was leaving the US attorney’s office because I needed money to pay for IVF or adoption. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the truth. As close as Vic and I were, Sam’s drinking was my dirty secret.

“Hey, do you remember Zach Grayson?” I asked.

“Ah.” She made a sound like she was trying to think. “No. Should I?”

“I was friends with him first year at Penn.”

“Oh, wait, you mean shifty eyes?” she asked. “That guy was a weirdo.”

“Yeah, that’s him,” I said. “His wife is dead, the police think he beat her to death with a golf club.”

“Yikes,” Vic said. Then she was quiet, but only for a moment. “I feel like he probably did it. Don’t you?”

I laughed too hard. I couldn’t help it. The way she said it was so absurdly matter-of-fact. “I’m representing him,” I said when I’d pulled myself together.

“What?” Vic sounded genuinely alarmed. “Why?”

“It’s a long story. I kind of got cornered into it thanks to you and your obsessive need to send updates to our alumni magazine,” I said. “He knew I’d moved to Young & Crane.”

“Oh, no, no,” she said. “I’m not taking the fall for this. I stopped sending in those updates two years ago, after Amy had her first miscarriage. She’d told me it was okay to post about her being pregnant, thank God. But still.”

“Well, somebody must have posted it, because he called me at the office.” Somebody probably delighted that I’d been forced off my high-minded path. I’d been pretty sanctimonious about public interest law back in the day—even though plenty of reasonable people didn’t consider prosecutors public interest lawyers. “I felt bad saying no.”

“You felt bad?” she asked. “What if he killed her? Is this because you dumped him? Because, my God, that was so long—”

“Dumped him? What are you talking about?”

“Come on,” Victoria drawled. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. You were so in denial about the whole situation until I asked you what it was like to have sex with Zach and you freaked out. It was a totally genuine question, by the way. I’d assumed you two were having sex.”

And then there it was—me and Vic studying for finals one night in Philly so many years ago. Vic had so casually asked me about sex with Zach and I’d been so childishly appalled. Sex, with Zach? We were friends. Only friends.

But by the time I was walking to meet Zach for dinner that same night—as we did several nights a week—I’d accepted that Victoria’s question was a warning, one that I would ignore at my peril. As soon as I arrived at the restaurant and saw Zach, smiling so eagerly at me from a table in the corner, there was no more denying it: Zach thought we were dating, or on the verge of it. God, how stupid I had been. I did like Zach. I enjoyed his company. But I didn’t want to feel his warm breath against my bare neck, did not want to curl up naked against him. I had never once—not for even one split second—pictured our bodies entwined.

And so, that night in the restaurant, I’d chosen the path of least resistance, one suggested by Victoria: an imaginary boyfriend. Richard, I’d named him. I’d thought it would be so easy, mention the boyfriend and Zach would beat a hasty retreat. But instead, he’d dug in his heels. Zach had suggested—plainly, but very seriously—that I ditch the new guy. In the end, I had no choice but to get to the point. The real point.

“I don’t have romantic feelings for you.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Zach had laughed, like it was a joke. Except his laugh had been too loud and sharp. And when I looked up from my menu, he was smiling too hard. “Lizzie, relax, I’m joking. I’m happy for you.”

He wasn’t. I’d known it then. But I’d decided to believe Zach. Because I’d wanted to.

I startled when someone touched my shoulder.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Maude Lagueux gasped when I whipped around. She was standing behind me, a hand to her mouth. “I didn’t see you were on the phone.”

“What’s wrong?” Vic asked on the other end.

“Can I call you back? There’s somebody here.”

“Sure,” Vic said. “But you’d better. I need to know what the fertility doctor said.”

I’d forgotten that I’d actually manufactured details of a whole doctor’s appointment when Vic and I last spoke. The one where they did all the tests and told you what your actual chances were of having a baby. Sam wasn’t the only one who was good at lying.

“I’ll call back, definitely,” I said. And when we spoke again, I’d finally tell Vic the truth about everything. I would.

I turned back to Maude once I’d hung up. Her face was taut, and in her fashionable but formless black shift dress and dull, earth-toned ballet flats, she looked funeral-worthy.

“I really didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said.