The Wife Between Us(10)

“Are you okay with landings?”

“Maybe you can tell me another story to get me through it,” Nellie said.

“Hmmm. Can’t think of one off the top of my head. Why don’t you give me your number in case one comes to me?”

He handed her a pen from his suit pocket, and she tilted her head to jot it down on a napkin, her long blond hair falling forward in front of her shoulders.

Richard reached out and gently ran his fingers down the length of it before tucking it back behind her ear. “So beautiful. Don’t ever cut it.”





CHAPTER





FOUR




I sit on the floor of the dressing room, the lingering perfume of roses reminding me of a wedding. My replacement will be a beautiful bride. I imagine her gazing up at Richard, promising to love and honor him, just as I did.

I can almost hear her voice.

I know how she sounds. I call her sometimes, but I use a burner phone with a blocked number.

“Hi,” her message begins. Her tone is carefree, bright. “I’m sorry I missed you!”

Is she truly sorry? Or is she triumphant? Her relationship with Richard is now public, though it began when he and I were still married. We had problems. Don’t all couples, after the glow of the honeymoon fades? Still, I never expected him to tell me to move out so quickly. To erase the tracks of our relationship.

It’s as though he wants to pretend we were never married at all. As if I don’t exist.

Does she ever think about me and feel guilty for what she did?

Those questions batter me every night. Sometimes, when I’ve lain awake for hours, the sheets twisted around me, I shut my eyes, so close to finally succumbing to sleep, and then her face leaps into my mind. I sit bolt upright, fumbling for the pills in my nightstand drawer. I chew one instead of swallowing so it takes effect faster.

Her voice-mail greeting gives me no clues about her feelings.

But when I watched her one night with Richard, she looked incandescent.

I’d been walking to our favorite restaurant on the Upper East Side. A self-help book had recommended that I visit painful places from my past, to release their power over me and reclaim the city as my own. So I trekked to the café where Richard and I had sipped lattes and shared the Sunday New York Times, and I wandered past Richard’s office, where his company held a lavish holiday party every December, and passed through the magnolia and lilac trees in Central Park. I felt worse with every step. It was a horrible idea; no wonder that book was languishing on the discount rack.

Still, I’d pressed on, planning to round out my tour with a drink at the restaurant bar where Richard and I had celebrated our last few anniversaries. That was when I saw them.

Maybe he was trying to reclaim the spot, too.

If I’d been walking just a bit faster, we would have reached the entrance at almost the same moment. Instead I ducked into a storefront and peered around the edge. I caught a glimpse of tanned legs, seductive curves, and the quick smile she flashed at Richard as he opened the door for her.

Naturally my husband wanted her. What man wouldn’t? She was as delectable as a ripe peach.

I crept closer and stared through the floor-to-ceiling window as Richard ordered his girlfriend a drink—she had champagne tastes, it seemed—and she sipped the golden liquid from a slim flute.

I couldn’t let Richard see me; he wouldn’t believe it was a coincidence. I’d followed him before, of course. Or rather, I’d followed them.

Yet my feet refused to move. I greedily drank her in as she crossed her legs so the slit in her dress revealed her thigh.

He was pressed close to her, leaning down as his arm curved over the back of her stool. His hair was longer, brushing the collar of his suit in the back; it suited him. He had the same leonine expression I’d come to recognize when he closed a big business deal, one he’d been pursuing for months.

She tossed back her head and laughed at something he said.

My nails dug into my palms; I’d never been in love with anyone before Richard. At that moment I realized I’d never hated anyone, either.

“Vanessa?”

The voice outside the dressing-room door jars me out of the memory. The British accent belongs to my boss, Lucille, a woman not known for her patience.

I run my fingers under my eyes, aware mascara is probably pooled there. “Just straightening up.” My voice has grown husky.

“A customer needs help in Stella McCartney. Sort out the room later.”

She is waiting for me to emerge. There is no time to fix my face, to erase the messy signs of grief, and besides, my purse is in the employees’ lounge.

I open the door and she takes a step back. “Are you unwell?” Her perfectly arched eyebrows lift.

I seize the opportunity. “I’m not sure. I just . . . I feel a little nauseous. . . .”

“Can you finish the day?” Lucille’s tone holds no sympathy, and I wonder if this transgression will be my last. She answers before I can: “No, you might be contagious. You should leave.”

I nod and hurry to grab my bag. I don’t want her to change her mind.

I take the escalators to the main floor and watch pieces of my ravaged reflection flash in the mirrors I ride past.

Richard is engaged, my mind whispers.

I hurry out the employees’ exit, barely pausing for the guard to search my purse, and lean back against the side of the store to slip on my sneakers. I consider a taxi, but what Hillary said is true. Richard got our house in Westchester and the Manhattan apartment he’d kept from his bachelor days, the one he slept in on nights when he had late meetings. The one where he hosted her. He got the cars, the stocks, the savings. I didn’t even put up a fight. I’d entered the marriage with nothing. I hadn’t worked. I hadn’t borne him children. I’d been deceitful.