Good Riddance(5)

The will and trust that marched me unwittingly down the aisle didn’t stipulate that Holden had to stay married. Nor did he have to be a faithful spouse. Everything ended the night he didn’t come home because . . . what was his lame story again? He’d had too much to drink at his staff dinner and didn’t want to be sick in a taxi.

“First of all, that’s ridiculous. Second, I’ve never seen you get drunk. And where was this staff orgy?”

He named a fashionable SoHo hotel, where ingenues drank martinis at the bar. And here he was at eight a.m., freshly showered, mouthwash rinsed, hair wet, not meeting my eye. I asked, quite dramatically for me, “Who is she?”

“Who is who?”

“The woman you spent the night with.”

“I did no such thing. I couldn’t go home. The bartender wouldn’t let me leave, so he had someone walk me to the front desk, and the next thing I knew, I had a room upstairs.”

“Was that someone a woman?”

Now deeply fake-offended, he asked, “What are you implying? That I didn’t go upstairs alone?”

“Only an idiot would believe that a bartender sends a drunk guy over to the reception desk.”

“Daff,” he said. “I should’ve called—”

“But you couldn’t because your phone was dead and the hotel had no landline?”

“I was wasted. I didn’t want you to know that. You can be very judgmental about my drinking.”

“When have I ever said a word about your drinking?”

More scoffing, and now too casually leafing through the previous day’s mail, he said, “It was late, past your bedtime. I didn’t want to wake you.”

“And there you were, in the bar, no wedding ring, possibly just having ordered an expensive single-malt Scotch. You probably offered to buy her a drink, too. And maybe you told her that you owned the company that was here doing team building. Is that what happened?”

He walked past me into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee. “You’re irrational,” he finally said.

About this confrontation I was waging: It was the opportunity I needed to end this marriage of his convenience. “Just tell me the truth. I won’t get mad,” I lied.

He put his arms around me in my homely bathrobe, and asked, “We’re good? That was just wifely worry? Now that you know I’m not lying in a ditch—”

“Just tell me: Was it someone you work with? Because sex with an employee can get you sued for a fortune. But I can live with whatever you tell me.”

What a good actress this was provoking me into being. He said he was going to be honest. He trusted me, trusted that I was being sincere. Good old Daphne. It won’t happen again. Thank you for worrying about rules of the workplace. She was not one of his employees. Hell no; he wasn’t that stupid. He had indeed met her at the bar. How did I know that? Not only was I insightful but so fucking understanding as well. He only knew her first name: Amanda. He wasn’t going to see her again. She wasn’t that bright. He hadn’t even asked for her contact information.

“You don’t have her contact information? No business cards changed hands?”

“No, I swear—”

I yelled, giving him a shove, “You liar! Of course you’re going to see her again. Go back to the hotel. Go live there. You can afford it. Take your grandmother’s money and buy yourself a penthouse apartment next to Donald Trump’s.”

“You tricked me!” he yelped. “You weren’t trying to be understanding. You gave me the distinct impression that it was going to be truth without consequences.”

“We’re newlyweds! I can’t be married to someone who cheats before we’ve gone on the postponed honeymoon.”

“That’s not fair! I want to take you to New Zealand, but it’s winter there. I’ve been saying that since day one.”

“New Zealand, my ass. This is the first time I’ve heard that mentioned. I will not stay married to a cheater. I have way too much self-respect. Oh, and by the way? I don’t even like you.”

“Welcome to the world, little girl. You know who’s monogamous? No one.”

I said, “You’re wrong. I am. And so is everyone I know.”

“Maybe in Picayune, New Hampshire. But not in the real world. Not even animals are! Just some birds, but not us mammals. The sooner you give that up, the better for all concerned.”

“Pickering, New Hampshire,” I spit back. “I never should have married you. You tricked me—”

“It’s not my fault. Maybe I need treatment.”

I was too stunned at “not my fault” to answer in properly flabbergasted fashion. All I could say was “Treatment? For what? Your drinking didn’t make you cheat.”

“Not that. For sexual addiction.”

More stunned nothingness.

“I hoped marriage would cure me. I’m so sorry.”

“Sex addict? Maybe that’s something you tell a fiancée before she walks down the aisle?” (A figure of speech. There was no aisle. We’d gone to city hall, then gathered at a restaurant with his boisterous friends, his mother, and my father. For brunch.) “Because if you’re a sex addict . . .” I raised my eyebrows, implying Not so apparent in the marital bed.