The Wife Between Us(51)

I was a thousand miles away from home, yet someone was still tracking me.

I pressed End Call and pulled myself out of bed. I yanked aside the blinds and peered out the sliding glass doors to our balcony. No one was there. I looked across the room, at the closed door of our closet. Had it been open when we’d left?

I walked over and reached for the handle, tugging it toward me.

Nothing.

I looked at my cell phone on my bed, the blue screen glowing. I grabbed it and threw it against the tile floor. A piece snapped off, but the display was still illuminated. I picked it up and plunged it into our ice bucket, reaching down until I felt the shock of the freezing water.

But I couldn’t leave it there; the maid would certainly find it when she refilled the bucket. I dug through the ice again and pulled it out, then looked frantically around the room until I saw the wastebasket containing that morning’s newspaper and a few tissues. I wrapped my phone in the sports section and crammed the papers back into the bin.

The cleaning crew would whisk it all away. The phone would end up in a giant Dumpster along with the trash of a hundred other guests. I’d tell Richard I’d lost it, that it must have fallen out of my beach bag. He’d bought it for me right after we got engaged, saying he wanted me to have the best-quality device, and I knew he’d simply bring home a new one for me. I’d already disrupted our vacation enough; there was no need to worry him more.

My breathing slowed down; the pill was conquering my fear. Our suite was airy and spacious, with purple orchids in a low vase on the glass table, blue tile floors, and whitewashed walls. I walked to the closet again and selected my flowing orange sundress and gold high-heeled sandals. I hung the dress on the back of the closet door and placed the shoes neatly beneath it; I’d wear the outfit tonight. Our mini-refrigerator held a bottle of champagne. I pulled it out and nestled it in the ice bucket, then arranged two delicate flutes beside it.

My eyelids were heavy now. I took a last glance around. Everything looked lovely; everything was in place. I slipped back under the covers. I curled onto my left side and winced. When I looked at my upper arm, I saw a red mark that was the beginning of a bruise forming where Richard had gripped me to pull me out of the boat.

I had a light sweater that would go with my sundress. I’d wear it to cover the mark.

I turned onto my other side. A short nap, I told myself, and then, when Richard came back, I’d suggest that we open the champagne and get ready for dinner together.

We were flying back to New York tomorrow; our honeymoon was almost over. I needed to erase the memory of this afternoon. I wanted one more perfect night before we went home.





CHAPTER





TWENTY




I watch the bartender pour a clear stream of vodka into my glass and top it with a foamy spritz of tonic. She wedges a lime on the edge and slides it across the smooth wood, then removes the empty glass from in front of me.

“Do you want some water, too?”

I shake my head. Damp strands of hair stick to my neck, and my thighs feel sweaty against the vinyl chair. My shoes rest on the floor beneath me.

After Emma dismissed me and disappeared into the taxi, I stood on the street corner for a long moment, not knowing where to go. There was simply no one I could turn to. No one who would understand how spectacularly I had failed.

Then, because I couldn’t think of an alternative, I began to walk. With each step, my anguish grew wider, like a yawn I could not contain. A few blocks later, I found the Robertson Hotel bar.

The bartender silently pushes yet another glass in front of me. Water. I look up, wondering if I did actually shake my head or just imagined doing so, but she avoids my gaze. She moves away, straightening the stack of newspapers on a corner of the countertop.

I catch sight of myself in the large mirror behind her, the one that reflects the rows of Absolut, Johnnie Walker, Hendrick’s Gin, and reposado tequila.

Now I see what Emma saw.

I’m looking into a fun-house mirror. The image I wanted to project—the old me, Richard’s Nellie—is distorted. My hair is brittle from overprocessing; more straw than butter. My eyes look sunken in my gaunt face. The makeup I’d so carefully applied is smudged. No wonder the bartender wants me to stay sober; I’m in the lobby of a fine hotel, one that hosts international businesspeople and offers two-hundred-dollar snifters of Scotch.

I feel the vibration of my phone again. I force myself to pull it out of my purse and see five missed calls. Three from Saks, beginning at ten A.M. Two from Aunt Charlotte in the past thirty minutes.

Only one thing can break through the dull ache engulfing me: the thought of Aunt Charlotte worrying. So I answer.

“Vanessa? Are you okay?”

I have no idea how to respond.

“Where are you?”

“At work.”

“Lucille called me when you didn’t show up.” My aunt is my emergency contact; I put her home number down on my application.

“I just needed—I’m going in late.”

“Where are you?” my aunt repeats, her tone firm.

I should tell her that I’m on my way home, that my flu has returned. I should make excuses to ease her worry. But the sound of her voice—the only safe thing I know—unravels me. So I give her the name of the hotel.

“Don’t move,” she says, and hangs up.