The Wife Between Us(88)
The address on the check is our Westchester home; any New Yorker knows that suburb is exclusive.
Betty stares down at my license and hesitates. The photo was taken several years ago, roughly the time I first planned to leave Richard. My eyes were bright and my smile genuine.
“Please, Betty. Tell you what. You can call the manager at the branch on Park Avenue. Richard alerted him that I’d be cashing this check.”
“Excuse me for a moment.”
I wait while she steps to the side and murmurs into the phone. I feel light-headed from the strain, wondering if Richard has outmaneuvered me yet again.
When she returns, I can’t read the expression on her face. She clicks on her computer keyboard, then finally looks up at me. “I apologize for the delay. Everything is in order. The manager confirmed the check was authorized. And I see that you and Mr. Thompson used to have a joint account here that was closed only a few months ago.”
“Thank you,” I breathe. When she comes back a few minutes later, she holds several stacks of cash. She runs the money through the bill counter and then tallies each one-hundred-dollar bill twice as my insides clench. At any moment I expect someone to hurry toward her and pull it all back. But then she slips the money through the shallow opening beneath the window, along with an oversize, padded envelope.
“Have a nice day,” I say.
“Good luck.”
I zip my purse shut, feeling the reassuring heft against my ribs.
I deserve this money. And now that I’ve lost my job, I need it more than ever to help my aunt.
Besides, it is exquisitely satisfying to think of what Richard’s reaction will be when a bank official tells him his money is gone.
He kept me off-balance for years; whenever I displeased him, I suffered consequences. But he also clearly relished being my savior and comforting me when I was upset. The dueling sides of my husband’s personality made him an enigma to me. I still don’t completely understand why he needed to control everything in his environment as precisely as he organized his socks and T-shirts.
I’ve regained a bit of the power he took away from me. I’ve won a minor battle. I am filled with exhilaration.
I imagine his rage as a tornado, swirling and rotating outward, but at the moment, I am beyond its reach.
I exit onto the sidewalk and hurry to the nearest Chase branch office. I deposit the cash into my new account, the one I opened after Richard and I separated. Now I’m ready to go back to Aunt Charlotte’s. But not to the safety of my bed; I am determined to shed that defeated woman like a husk.
I am suffused with energy at the thought of what I will do next.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO
“I am twenty-six years old. I’m in love with Richard. We are getting married soon,” I whisper as I look in the mirror. More lipstick, I think, reaching into my cosmetics case. “I work here as an assistant.” I am wearing a blush-colored dress that I bought just this afternoon at Ann Taylor. It isn’t an exact replica, but it’s close, especially with my new padded bra.
My posture isn’t quite right, though. I pull back my shoulders and lift my chin. That’s better.
“My name is Emma,” I say into the mirror. I smile—a wide, confident grin.
Anyone who knows her well wouldn’t be fooled. But all I need to do is get past the cleaning crew at Richard’s office.
If one of his colleagues is working late tonight, it will be over. And if Richard happens to still be here—but no, I can’t even let myself think about that or I won’t have the courage to go through with this.
“My name is Emma,” I repeat again and again, until I am satisfied with the throaty timbre of my voice.
I walk to the door of the bathroom and crack it, peeking out. The hallway is empty and the lights are dim; I can’t see around the corner to the double-glass doors that lead to Richard’s firm. I know they will be locked, as they are every evening. Few people have the keys. The financial information of hundreds of clients is contained on the company’s computers. They are all protected by passwords, plus I’m certain the company’s cyber-security experts would be alerted if anyone tried to hack the system.
What I’m after isn’t an electronic record, though. I need a simple document from Richard’s office, one that would have no importance to anyone else at the firm.
Even if Emma had the chance to read my letter, and even if a few fleeting doubts have begun to form in her mind, I know she is a savvy, logical young woman. Who will she believe in the end—her accomplished, perfect fiancé or his crazy ex-wife?
I need proof to sway her. And Emma is the person who revealed to me how to obtain it.
When I confronted her outside her apartment building, I told Emma to ask Richard about the missing Raveneau that he sent me to retrieve from our wine cellar the night of our cocktail party. Who do you think placed the order? she asked just before dismissing me and leaving in a cab.
It was a brilliant move on Richard’s part to have Emma, as his assistant, order that wine for our party.
He hadn’t needed to punish me in a long time. I’d been on my best behavior for months, rising early with him and exercising every morning, and cooking us healthy dinners at night. These acts of service made Richard feel benevolent toward me. By this point in my marriage, I was under no illusions about how dangerous my husband could be when he feared my love was slipping away.