Good Rich People(10)

We haven’t had sex in almost a year. I know this is true but I can’t believe it. I have this alternate reality in my head where we have sex the normal amount. It protects me from the truth: that even though I have sacrificed myself to be the same, we are not.

I have trawled through Reddit posts of other people with similar problems. I never post myself; I don’t need to. There are people out there who understand sometimes you’re in love with someone who won’t sleep with you. The replies from people who don’t understand suggest visiting a doctor. Who are these people? If I even hinted to Graham that there might be something wrong with him, he would never look me in the eye again. And even if I could somehow convince him to go, I’m afraid of what a doctor would reveal. That everything is fine. That the problem is me.

If you want my professional opinion, you’re not sexy enough.

“I’ve had a long day.” His voice is almost pleading. His animal scent mixes with the leatherwood shampoo in his hair as I press my cheek against his neck. I know it’s not my fault, but it can’t be his fault. I’ve been told all my life that a man will have sex with anything.

“Dinner.” His lids are hooded and he sets his hands on my hips and replaces me. He sets me back so he can stand, look down on me again.

“Graham.” I want him so badly. I want to make him beg and weep and cry out. I want him to worship me. But he walks away into the kitchen and all I see are cashmere throws and white sofas. “It’s okay,” I say but he doesn’t hear. I’m talking to me.

He opens the fridge, takes out a bottle of Mo?t. “Let’s celebrate.” He breaks the seal and pops the cork. “To Saturday.”





LYLA



Demi moves in on saturday. I go out right before she is supposed to arrive, so she will meet me coming back from somewhere. I want her to think I have a life.

Graham is away on one of his golf trips. He goes almost every weekend, comes back with complicated stories about breaks and birdies, which he recites like someone trying to pass a test.

“I thought you would want to see her,” I said yesterday morning. He was leaving straight after work, so that was the last time I saw him.

He shrugged. “You can tell me what happens.” That is a big part of the game: the story. It is always told over ornate private dinners, too many cocktails, expertly arranged views. It’s recited like the winners write the history books. The others can’t interfere with the game. They’re supposed to wait for the story. In fact, they’re not really encouraged to interact with the tenant at all. It can throw off the game. It’s also part of the reason that Margo and Graham are so unhappy with me about what happened with the last tenant. I wasn’t supposed to talk to her, let alone befriend her.

“You need to come up with a plan,” he reminded me, kissing me once on either cheek, last on the lips. “Margo doesn’t think you can do it.” Of course she doesn’t.

“She didn’t think I could marry you either, but look how that turned out.”

He tightened his tie in the mirror and walked out the door.



* * *





WHEN I ARRIVE home later that day, there is a large moving van parked in front of our house. Furniture is piled on the side of the street. I walk slowly, analyze it. Demi has unique taste.

There is a marble statue that looks like a woman but could be some kind of animal. There are two elaborately carved wooden structures, like towers. I think they might be bookshelves but I can’t be sure; you couldn’t fit many books on them. I don’t know where she found them. Everything is unexpected. Nothing is functional. Her taste makes my skin feel tight.

Graham would detest it. He would call it creepy and weird. He thinks anything that isn’t classic is a sign of madness.

I stay in the courtyard for a while, organize the plants as the movers journey up and down the stairs. I am hoping to get a glimpse of Demi, but she’s not here. Good move.

Finally, I go inside the house but I don’t close the blinds, even though the movers can see inside.

The housekeeper is there. “Is that your new tenant?” she asks.

“No,” I say. “It’s her things.”

Once they finish with the big furniture, they start with Demi’s shoes. Her collection. They descend the stairs with boxes piled three high: Louboutin, Lucchese, Pierre Yantorny. It’s like watching a processional, a funeral for shoes.

The housekeeper makes me tea and I sit on the corner chair, the one set so you can look out onto the street and not be noticed. It takes them three hours to unload everything.

“You’re very curious,” the housekeeper says.

I bristle. “So are you.”

I try to find Demi in her furniture, the human inside the possessions. But all I can think about is how invaded I feel. It’s like she is crawling inside my womb.





LYLA



She doesn’t arrive Saturday night. I stay up late. I lie on Graham’s side of the bed. Our bedroom window looks out onto the courtyard. I have lifted the bottom of the shade. I watch the space, clamped by nerves.

Sometimes I see shadows cross themselves, ferried along by headlights or security lights, a rush of wind through the trees, and I think: She’s here. But she isn’t. She never comes.