Turning Point(54)

    He didn’t stop by on Monday or Tuesday when she finished work, as he sometimes did. He didn’t call her to see how she was, or say he was excited to see her.



* * *



—

He arrived at seven-thirty on Wednesday night, with a bottle of wine, as he always did, knowing that she would provide dinner. He didn’t take her out anymore, in case someone saw them. Though he didn’t admit it, she was his dirty secret. She didn’t cost him a penny except for her birthday and Christmas. She saw it all so clearly now after being away for a month. She wasn’t even his passion. They made love on Wednesday nights after dinner, but everything about their time together was orderly, scheduled, predictable, and as organized as he was. She suddenly realized what it would be like to be married to him. He controlled everything around him, and had the precision of a surgeon in all things. There was nothing spontaneous about him. She wondered how much fun Jane had with him, or if she was as cold and unemotional as he was. Maybe they made love on scheduled nights too.

He looked as handsome as ever when he parked his Mercedes in her driveway, and let himself into the house. He was wearing a suit, and she was wearing jeans and a lavender sweater she had bought in Paris. She usually dressed up for him, but this time she didn’t. She had set the table and cooked dinner, and he smiled when he saw her. He didn’t rush over to kiss her or tell her how much he’d missed her. Probably because he hadn’t. She wondered if he ever did, and surely not the way she missed him for the six days a week she didn’t see him over the last six years.

    “You look great, Wendy,” he said. “You cut your hair.”

“Just a little.” She smiled back, and felt all the same familiar pulls and tugs that broke her heart, or maybe this time it was her heart trying to set itself free from bondage.

He opened the wine he had brought, handed her a glass, and she took a sip. They talked about his work until dinner. He didn’t ask her about Paris. By nine-thirty they were finished, and he went upstairs to shower and go to bed. He hadn’t touched her yet or kissed her, and she realized that he never did. It hadn’t shocked her before, but it did now. He hadn’t seen her for a month, but she got the impression he hadn’t missed her at all. He knew she’d be back. They talked about him during dinner, just as they always did.

He was already in bed, waiting for her, when she came out of her bathroom in a satin nightgown, dropped it on the floor, and slid into bed with him, and for an instant she hated herself for being so willing to sleep with him, no matter how little effort he made. But she saw it all so clearly now. She’d had a month to think about it, away from him.

He made love to her as he always did. He was an artful lover, but he never made her feel like he loved her, no matter how much she loved him. And afterward, he washed up and came back to bed, and ten minutes later he was asleep, without touching her again. She lay in bed looking at him, thinking that this was the last time she would lie next to him. She had given herself this one night so she could remember forever what it had been like and how little he gave her. And she wanted to be sure of what she was doing. Now she was.

    She got up before he did, and was at the breakfast table when he came downstairs in his suit and a fresh white shirt he had brought in his briefcase. He looked impeccable, and she was disheveled and didn’t care. He read the paper, and at exactly eight o’clock, he got up, smiled at her, and said, “See you Wednesday, if not before.” And from there she veered off the script. She looked at him with sad eyes, and spoke softly.

“Actually, no, Jeff. I’m done. I’m sure you’ll find another Wednesday night girl.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, frowning at her. People didn’t fire Jeff Hunter. He fired them.

“It means just what I said. I wanted to see you one more time, but this is it. We should have stopped a long time ago, and I finally realized it. Somehow, I kept stupidly hoping that one day you’d leave Jane and end up with me. That’s never going to happen. It’s all so clear to me now.”

“I never said that’s impossible, Wendy. In a few years…”

“In a few years, I’ll be forty, and I’ll have wasted nine years with you. I’ve decided to quit at six. You’re never going to leave Jane, and I don’t want to be your Wednesday night piece of ass for the rest of my life, or until you turn me in for a newer model.”

“That’s a disgusting thing to say.” He looked furious, and for once he wasn’t controlling what she did. He no longer could. She wouldn’t let him.

    “It was a disgusting thing to do to me, but I let you, so I’m as much to blame as you are. Take care, Jeff.” She opened the kitchen door leading to her driveway and he stared at her and didn’t move, which surprised her.

“This is ridiculous. Let’s have dinner tonight, and we’ll discuss it.”

“What are we going to discuss? How many more years you’ll stay married? We don’t even go out anymore. You just come here once a week for dinner, get laid, and drop by for a glass of wine once in a while, when you feel like it. I deserve a hell of a lot more than that, I need a man who loves me, for starters. You haven’t loved me in years, if you ever did. I’m just some kind of tune-up you give yourself once a week. I don’t want to be your tune-up anymore.”