Confessions on the 7:45(17)

The buzzer on her phone rang. She answered.

“Yes.”

“Hey, Anne.” Brent, Kate’s assistant. “Kate would like to see you.”

“On my way,” she said brightly.

She let five more minutes pass. Delaying, making people wait, was a power play.

When the phone buzzed again, she didn’t bother to answer. She rose and walked down the hallway to Kate’s office, a big corner space with plush couches and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, an enormous desk.

Anne had imagined herself there one day, before she realized what the balance of power really was at this firm: Kate at the helm, Hugh there but by her good graces. Hugh acted like the boss, and Kate let him, because clearly he needed that. A good marriage was the ultimate long game, everyone happy as long as everyone is getting what he wants.

Brent was not at his desk, so she walked over the plush carpet to Kate’s office, where the other woman sat at her desk. Anne tried to read the room before she entered.

Kate sat cool and composed at her desk, her body stiff, eyes alert. Once again, Anne had to admire her beauty. Patrician, slim, blond hair cropped close, Kate had all the money necessary to maintain her considerable physical assets, her dewy skin, her tall, toned body. She didn’t wear her usual kind, open smile.

Her expression was grim. That was bad. Even worse, Hugh slumped on her couch. He looked like he had food poisoning, greenish, dark circles under his eyes. He glanced over at Anne, and he gave her a nod. A nod.

“Good morning,” Anne said brightly.

“Good morning, Anne,” said Kate. “Have a seat.”

Anne sat, pulling herself up in the chair that seemed small and distant from the desk. She was a child in the principal’s office. A prisoner before the parole board. A suspect in the interrogation room.

Brent closed the office door, and all the air seemed to leave the room.

This could be about a number of things.

Hugh. That was the most likely, of course. Anne had been sleeping with Hugh for months. He was in love with her, or so he’d said, intended to leave Kate so that they could be together. Not that she wanted him to love her, or to leave his wife. Not that she loved him, or had any intention of staying with him.

Or it could be about the money. Anne had found a way to discreetly siphon funds from various of the firm’s accounts into one of her own. Tiny amounts that were adding up nicely.

Possibly this was about the client. A has-been pro basketball player who’d been fobbed off on Anne. He’d made a pass last week, and she’d rejected him. He hadn’t taken it well. She wasn’t too worried about that one.

She kept her face open, innocent, a wondering smile on her lips. It was an expression Pop had helped her to perfect. They don’t know what you’re thinking or what you’re feeling. Keep it off your face, whatever it is.

“So,” said Kate, her eyes clear, posture straight. “I’ll get straight to the point. Hugh and I have been married a long time, twenty-five years.”

Kate folded her hands on the desk in front of her, then went on.

“You’re a young woman, so I don’t expect you understand the nature of such a long relationship. There are good times and bad. There are phases when you’re in love and moments when you’re not. Hugh and I—we’ve both made mistakes, hurt each other.”

Anne nodded, kept her face open but wrinkled her eyes in a kind of mild confusion as if she couldn’t imagine why Kate would confide such a thing in her.

“Friendship and the willingness to forgive, that’s the foundation of all long marriages.”

Better to stay quiet. Always better to say nothing.

“So,” said Kate with a breath. “Hugh and I had a big row last night, about something else completely, but it led him to confide in me that you two have been having an affair.”

Anne marveled at the other woman’s calm. It didn’t seem put on at all. There were no tells of a quivering inside—no foot tapping, lip biting, hand wringing. Her gaze was steely.

“These things happen. You’re a beautiful woman. And, men—” She cast a glance over at her husband with mild annoyance. “Well.”

Anne hung her head, an imitation of shame, regret, which she did not feel. It seemed like the right body language, though. Kate kept her eyes levelly on Anne.

What was going to happen here? The whole “Me Too” thing was really going to work in her favor. They couldn’t exactly fire her; she could claim harassment and would, as loudly as possible. Kate would not want that kind of embarrassment. If it were Anne in Kate’s shoes? She’d fire Hugh, kick him out on his ass, and move on. That wasn’t going to happen, of course. Anne was going to be the one holding the fuzzy end of the lollipop.

Shit.

Anne rather liked her job, the office, the money, the travel. She’d really fouled this one up. She would have been better off having an affair with Kate.

She remained quiet and Kate went on.

“I don’t imagine that you’re in love with Hugh. And—in spite of what he’s told you—I assure you that he’s not in love with you.”

Kate looked back and forth between Anne and Hugh. What did the older woman see? Anne wondered. Was Anne just some tramp, an inconvenience in an otherwise very orderly existence? And Hugh? What was he to her, a possession? A showpiece? Did she truly love him? And, if so, why? These questions, they fascinated her. Why did people do the things they did?