Confessions on the 7:45(34)

“Of course. We’ll be here.”

She closed the front door as he walked down the path.

“Selena,” said Graham.

In the kitchen, her phone was buzzing. She walked away from her husband, slipping instantly into crisis management mode. She’d call her mother and ask her to take the boys for a few days until this all worked itself out. Then, she’d call Beth and tell her what was going on—as little as possible. Will was a lawyer; he would be her next call. Not that they needed a lawyer. But they might. William was famous for saying that if the police show up at your door and you don’t call your lawyer, you’re basically handing over your rights. It sounded dramatic, very lawyerly. Until it sounded like solid advice.

When she picked up the phone, there were a string of texts from yet another unknown number.

Hey, girl.
How’s your day going? Time for a drink after work tonight?
It’s Martha, by the way.
From the train.


FOURTEEN

Anne

Anne let her finger drift over the diamond bracelet on her slim wrist. A Tiffany Victoria line bracelet. Small, the lowest carat count. But still. More than ten thousand, for sure. Closer to fifteen. The sun coming in from the windows caught on the gems and cast rainbow shards of light on the walls, on the ceiling. It should have been enough, the payout from Kate. The look on her face. But somehow it just wasn’t.

“Do you like it, darling?” said Hugh. She loved that even though he’d been caught, that surely his whole life with Kate hung in the balance now, he still couldn’t resist her. The power of that was delicious.

“I love it,” she gushed. “It’s beautiful.”

The grift. The con. It was almost an old-fashioned idea, the stuff of noir novels and black-and-white movies.

The Nigerian prince seeking help from afar: Give me your bank account and I’ll transfer my wealth, pay you handsomely for the favor! The shell game: Next time you’ll get it! The pigeon drop: Hey, buddy! Did you drop your wallet? Whoa—look at all this cash. There were a hundred ways to separate a fool from his money. Except it was never about the money. It was about the thrill, the intimacy of being taken into someone’s trust, of extracting from them a thing they didn’t even know they wanted to give. And they did want to give it.

You can’t con an honest man. That’s what Pop always said.

That was true without being the whole truth. Anne had a bit of revision. You can’t con someone who doesn’t want something, who wasn’t willing to wade into a gray area to get it. You can’t con someone who is a stranger to desire, to need.

Take Hugh for example. He thought that he’d seduced Anne. But in a way, hadn’t she led him to it, gently, delicately? Even though she’d come to the firm, ostensibly, to work, to go straight, as Pop liked to say. Hadn’t she seen an opportunity pretty quickly, maybe even subconsciously? She knew immediately what kind of man Hugh was. A flat come-on would not have worked. He needed to think it was his idea.

A little flattery: I’m learning so much from you! A little vulnerability; she’d let him catch her crying over a breakup. (Except there wasn’t a breakup. And she’d never actually cry. Especially not over a man.) Standing a little too close in the elevator. One or two accidental brushes of her hand against his. It was so subtle. She was subtle. Maybe too subtle. After a while, she thought maybe she had him wrong. That he was a faithful husband, in love with his wife.

Then the hand on her knee. Right there, her plan to go straight went right out the window.

See what I’m saying, kitten? A tiger can’t change her stripes.

What did Hugh want? He wanted to be wanted. He wanted to be young again. He wanted to have something, anything, that didn’t belong to Kate. There was a thrill in knowing that, in giving that—and in taking it away.

Anne and Hugh lay entangled on the king bed, their hotel room looking out over Central Park. She luxuriated in the exquisite sheets, watched the bubbles in her champagne glass.

She’d let him text her for days.

I’m so sorry, Anne. Forgive me.
I can’t leave her. She needs me. She’s—not well.
I can’t stop thinking about you. Oh, god. Please meet me.
Anne.
I’m desperate.
She rather enjoyed it. In fact, she kind of liked Hugh, which was not always the case. He was an acrobatic lover, in great shape, generous, gentle. He could be funny. Anne could see why Kate held on tight; most men were monsters deep down. Not Hugh. Deep down he was a little boy.

He moved a strand of hair from her eyes, touched her cheek.

“I was drowning without this. Without you.”

“This is the last time, Hugh,” she said, trying to look bravely hurt. “I’m not a mistress. I thought we’d be together someday. Really together.”

“I know.” He sighed, kissed her deeply. “I know. It’s not fair to you.”

The game. It was so sweet.

It was Pop who taught her that her beauty was a weapon. Her lean, strong body—not too thin. Her flawless olive skin. Her long, (currently) blue-black hair that hung blade-straight down to the middle of her back. She groomed—waxed, plucked, exfoliated, manicured, moisturized, exercised religiously. She took care of herself. Her beauty was a commodity, a thing that people wanted. It could be used to manipulate men and women. Men wanted to possess it, control it. Women wanted to believe that it was a thing within their reach, a weapon that they too could wield. Who does your hair? What’s your secret?