An Anonymous Girl(105)

Rather than wait for my signal on how to proceed, you lean forward and kiss my cheek. “Thank you for having me, Lydia,” you say. “I brought you a little present.”

Aren’t you full of surprises? You are clearly up to something. Using my first name is a transparent attempt at a power move.

If you are trying to throw me off balance, it is going to take a lot more than this.

Your lips are curved into a smile, but they quiver ever so slightly. You are not as tough as you pretend.

It is almost disappointing how easy it is to parry with you. “Come inside.”

You shrug out of your coat and hand it to me. As if you expect me to wait on you.

You are still holding the silver package tied with a red bow.

It’s unclear what is going on, but you will need to be put in your place quickly.

“Let’s go to the library,” you are told. “Drinks and hors d’oeuvres are waiting.”

“Sure,” you say lightly. “You can open my gift there.”

Someone who does not know you well would not see through your bluster.

You are allowed to lead the way. This will give you the illusion of control, and make what comes next that much more satisfying.

As you step over the threshold into the library, you gasp.

You are not the only one delivering surprises today, Jessica.

You stand there, blinking, as if you cannot quite believe what you see.

The man on the love seat stares back at you in stunned silence.

Did you truly expect me to celebrate the holiday without my husband, the one you claim is a hundred percent devoted to me?

“Why is she here?” Thomas finally blurts. He rises as his head swivels from you to me.

“Darling, didn’t I mention that my subject Jessica would be joining us? The poor thing had no one to spend Christmas with. Her family left her all alone for the holiday.”

His eyes are wide and round behind his glasses.

“Thomas, you know how attached I get to these young girls.”

He flinches. “But you said she was harassing you!”

You recover from your shock admirably quickly, much faster than Thomas. By now you are visibly bristling, Jessica.

“Did I say that?” A pause. “Wait, is she the girl you said was following you?”

Thomas blanches. It is time to redirect this line of conversation.

“There must be some misunderstanding. Shall we sit?”

The small love seat and two straight-back chairs form a semicircle. The coffee table is parallel to the love seat.

Where you choose to position yourself will be informative, Jessica, just as it was on the first day you entered my office.

But you don’t move; you remain just inside the room, as if you might break for the front door at any time. You jut out your chin and say, “I don’t believe you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“There’s no recording of me in this house.”

You can be so predictable, Jessica.

The room is crossed and the slim silver laptop resting on the piano is opened. With a touch of a button, the digital recording plays.

The camera, which was purchased and hidden in the foyer at the same time the new deadbolt was installed, captured you entering the house and bending down to remove your shoes. The images are shadowy, but your distinctive hair is immediately recognizable.

The laptop is abruptly closed.

“Satisfied?”

You shoot an accusing look at Thomas, who shakes his head almost imperceptibly.

You hesitate a moment, no doubt running through mental calculations before accepting that there is no other option available to you, then your shoulders slump. You skirt the coffee table and choose the chair farthest away from my husband. You place the gift on the floor by your feet.

There could be many reasons for your seat selection. One is that if you ever saw Thomas as an ally, you do not now.

Thomas already has a Scotch on the coffee table in front of him, and the bottle of white Burgundy rests in an ice bucket. It is retrieved and two glasses poured.

The wine is crisp and refreshing, and the heavy crystal glass feels satisfying in my hand.

“What do you want from me?” This is a question that could be asked in many different ways, from belligerence to obsequiousness. Your tone contains pure resignation.

Your body language is protective now; your arms are folded across your lap.

“I want to know the truth,” you are told. “What is the true nature of your relationship with my husband?”

Your eyes flit to the laptop again. “You know everything. He cheated on you and you set me up to see if he’d do it again.”

Thomas recoils and glares at you.

If you and Thomas were a couple seeking marital therapy in my office on Sixty-second Street, establishing harmony would be the goal. Accusations would be discouraged; confrontation expertly diffused.

Here the opposite is sought. Your division is necessary to offset any collusion on your parts.

The fire crackles in the hearth. You and Thomas both flinch at the sharp, sudden sound.

“Mini-quiche?” The hors d’oeuvres platter is offered to you, but you shake your head without even looking at it.

“Thomas?” He reaches over and pops one in his mouth so quickly the gesture seems automatic. A napkin is passed to him.

He takes a big sip of Scotch. You abstain from drinking anything. Perhaps you want to keep your wits about you.