Lies She Told(14)

David’s secretary, Cameron, enters with a steaming mug of coffee. Amazonian gams scissor beneath a pasted-on pencil skirt as she approaches David’s desk. Her blonde hair bounces above her ample chest. Cameron should really play a secretary on television rather than be one. She has that hot-cheerleader-got-a-job thing going for her. Part of me wishes that David had a less attractive administrative assistant. All the thinking about affairs has made me wary of pretty women in close proximity to my spouse.

She smiles at me like I’m a professional photographer as she sets the cup on the desk. I am about to engage in some polite conversation when she begs off to man the phones. “Things are so busy with Nick gone,” she explains.

As she opens the door, I spy my spouse hovering in the hallway. He still wears a dark suit jacket and pants, court attire, rather than the khakis I’d expect for a ride to the Hamptons. I hear Cameron announce me, followed by something from him in a lower tone. Something unintelligible. She shuts the door behind her.

Beth’s voice whispers in my mind. Maybe they’re flirting, not fucking. Maybe you already know. I blink at my screen and try to focus on the last paragraph of Beth’s psychiatrist visit. There’s no reason for me to be suspicious of David and Cameron. More than likely, he is sharing details about a case that I can’t overhear without him violating his attorney-client privilege. Cameron would be covered under the exception for law firm staff. He’s meeting with her in the hallway with the door closed because I’m in his office.

Though I tell myself all this, I still lift my butt from the couch and peer through the frosted glass window in David’s door. The fuzzy image of a blonde stands beside my husband’s distinct shape. Their outlines don’t overlap. He steps toward the door. Quickly, I drop back onto the couch cushion and pull the computer onto my lap. My snooping is silly. I don’t want him to catch me doing it.

Jake wouldn’t touch another woman if he knew that I was watching, Beth says . . .

David enters the room and shuts the door. I jostle the laptop back into a front pocket of my navy travel duffel, as though I’ve only now stopped working, and slip the bag’s strap over my shoulder. “Ready to go?”

A frown draws down David’s face. I know this expression. It precedes disappointment—usually mine. “I can’t come out this weekend. I have a motion on one of Nick’s cases.”

“You just found out?”

“I’m sorry. I should have called before.” It’s a lawyer’s answer. David is not admitting that this information is recent. He’s implying that he learned it today by suggesting that his mistake was not notifying me earlier this afternoon as opposed to belatedly changing his mind. He gestures to my travel bag. “You should go, though. You’re all packed, and I’m going to be stuck here all weekend.”

“Can’t you write it Sunday? I’ll be off to the conference then.”

“I need to prepare. I can’t pull legal arguments out of thin air.” David gestures to his shelves. “I need my reference books.”

“And this was sprung on you this morning?”

David presses his lips together, annoyed with me for asking the same question in a more direct manner. His lack of affirmative response is all the confirmation I need. He was never actually planning on coming with me to the Hamptons. The agreement was a war tactic, meant to disarm me when I was on my home turf. Now I’m on his.

I think of my belly, bloated with hormones and swollen follicles. My ripe eggs will rot inside me. There aren’t enough fertility drugs in the world to fix a husband refusing to bed his wife.

Maybe that’s because he’s sleeping with someone else. I want to shout at Beth to stop projecting her story onto my own. I slump back into the couch and press my thumb and forefinger to my eyelids, trying to forestall the hot, disappointed tears I feel building behind them.

“What do you want me to do, huh?” David’s tone is not apologetic. “Nick’s cases are more complicated than I thought. I can’t wing it. If the firm is to continue, I need his clients to stick with me. Let me tell you, we won’t be able to keep the apartment if my business is cut in half, unless we sell the summer house, which you don’t want to do.”

He’s right on all counts. My flailing career certainly can’t pay our mortgage, and I won’t sell my house. Some force—maybe my mother’s spirit or simply the memory of her—will not let me part with the place.

With no counterargument to David’s case, I wallow in a mental image. I’m lying on our mattress, doubled over with cramps from passing multiple unfertilized eggs at once. No doubt this month will end the same way.

“Some of Nick’s clients are big names worth a lot of money to us. I can’t just Google some facts and win cases.” This last statement is a dig at me. David often quips that my job is searching random information on the Internet.

I rub my eyes until my vision clears enough to see David standing beside his desk, not yet sure enough in his victory to sit. “I guess I’ll go home and wait for you,” I mumble.

David’s hands land on his hips. “Oh. So quid pro quo, huh? I don’t do what you want, because I need to work, and you forget about the favor of asking your policeman friend for information on Nick’s case.” He throws up his hands and strides to his desk. “Honestly, Liza, sometimes I can’t believe you’re this selfish.”