Confessions on the 7:45(36)

When she was done, she walked unhurriedly to the bathroom where earlier she’d propped up her phone and set it to record, turning it off after they were done. Back in bed, she played the video and watched the steamy image of Hugh and her in the shower. It was a little blurry, but there was no mistaking it was him—especially with all the moaning. Her back was to the camera. His groans were guttural, primal. It went on and on. She had to hand it to herself: stamina was her strong suit. Then, as Hugh climaxed clumsily, Anne turned to face the camera and smiled. It was a sweet smile, mischievous as if she expected that Kate would be in on the joke of it all. Because wasn’t marriage the ultimate long game?

She imagined that, on some level, Kate would feel a measure of gratitude to Anne for showing her once and for all that her husband was a cad. Kate, who had everything, who could probably take her pick even now from a hundred eligible men, would be well rid of Hugh. He didn’t deserve a woman like Kate. She liked the guy, but he was an unrepentant cheater.

Now, comfortably propped on the plush pillows, Anne did a little cropping, a little editing, even filtered just a shade—the skin on her back looked a little pasty in the white bathroom light.

Then, she showered alone, taking her time—relishing the hot water, the thick body wash, the whisper of water on the heavy marble tile. Once dressed, she sat at the desk and opened her laptop. Using the credit card number Hugh had given her, she purchased a slew of things—a pair of Jimmy Choo pumps, a Gucci tote, gleaming Prada sunglasses—she had saved in her Neiman Marcus shopping cart, then had them shipped overnight to an address that couldn’t be traced back to her.

She called housekeeping, asking for more of the luxurious toiletries, amber bottles with crisp black-and-white labels. When the maid arrived, Anne tipped the young, wide-faced woman generously. And the girl gave her even more from the cart, giggling and saying something in another language. Czech if Anne had to guess. Anne stuffed the haul into her roller suitcase, along with the unused bathrobe in the closet and some of the fresh towels.

Online again, she sent a few emails, managing a few more of the various personas she had running.

So sorry I’ve been out of touch, my love! I’m having a bit of a family emergency. Can we talk later?
Can’t wait for Saturday! It’s so nice to feel like a part of a family.
Then a text.

This one was being stubborn. She hadn’t had a response yet.

Was Anne going to get more aggressive about it? Or let it go? The whole thing was—sticky. That was Pop’s word. Some people were too smart, too intuitive. Or they were skeptical, slow to trust. Or they didn’t want enough. Then suddenly you were the one wanting something from the mark. And that was always a bad place to be. Anne watched her phone. No read receipt. No little dots that indicated the other party was typing.

Also, it was messy. A couple of moving parts that weren’t cooperating. And she’d already had to do more management than she liked. And the motive...well. For Pop, it was always about the money. Sometimes Anne had a different agenda.

She waited. No answer.

When Anne was ready by the door, bag packed, she took a last look at the gorgeous room, the beautiful view. Don’t forget to breathe. Take in the moments and appreciate them. They pass too quickly.

She did that.

Before she left, shouldering her tote, and rolling her stuffed suitcase over the plush blue carpet, she did two other things.

She sent the video to Kate. It stalled a moment, the file quite large. Then it was gone with a satisfying swish.

Yep, she thought. All done here, Pop.

Then she fired off another text, an adjunct to the one she’d sent earlier to her stubborn case—just to make sure there wasn’t any confusion.

It’s Martha, by the way.
From the train.


FIFTEEN

Pearl

“So—who’s your father?”

The storeroom was overwarm, the air conditioning on the fritz again. Pearl and Charlie were both sweating with the effort of packing up books.

“I don’t have a father.” She used to make up stories about the man she imagined could be her dad. She’d stopped doing that, now that she was older.

“Everyone has a father,” said Charlie, not looking at her. He was filling out a shipping label. He had very neat handwriting.

“Not everyone,” she said.

He peered at her over his glasses. “Biologically. Yes. Everyone.”

“I don’t know.” Pearl blew out a breath, annoyed. This was not her favorite topic of conversation.

“Your mother never told you.”

“She’s not sure,” she said. “Could be a couple of different people. You know Mom.”

He was quiet a minute and she figured he’d let it go.

“Aren’t you curious?” he asked.

She finished putting a box together with a swipe of the packing tape gun, then let her arms drop to her sides.

“Curious about a man who doesn’t know I exist? Who is basically a sperm donor?”

Charlie lifted his shoulders, still watching her over his glasses.

“Some people are even curious about the sperm donor, you know,” he said. “It’s normal to want to know where you came from.”

“The past doesn’t matter. That’s what Mom always said. All we have is right now.”

“That’s very evolved of you.”