The Other Mrs.(27)

I’ve always dreamed of seeing the inside of the Waldorf, I said.

The Waldorf? he asked, standing before me, laughing at my suggestion. We were deep in the alcove of an apartment complex where no one could see us. We never talked about his marriage. It was one of those things that’s just there. One of those things you don’t want to believe is there, like death, aliens, malaria.

The Waldorf Astoria? he asked when I suggested it. You know that’s like four hundred dollars a night, maybe more.

I asked, pouting, Am I not worth that to you?

As it turned out, I was. Because within an hour’s time, we had a room on the tenth floor, champagne compliments of room service.

There’s nothing, Will said as he opened the door to the lavish hotel suite and let me in, that I wouldn’t do for you.

In the room, there was a fireplace, a terrace, a mini bar, a fancy bathtub where I could soak, staring out at the views of the city from the luxury of a bubble bath.

The hotel staff referred to us as Mr. and Mrs. Foust.

Enjoy your stay, Mr. and Mrs. Foust.

I imagined a world where I was Mrs. Foust. Where I lived in Will’s home with him, where I carried and raised his babies. It was a good life.

But I didn’t ever want to be mistaken for Sadie. I was so much better than Sadie.

Will meant what he said: that there was nothing he wouldn’t do for me. He proved it time and again. He showered me with sweet nothings. He wrote me love notes. He bought me things.

When no one was there, he brought me to his home. It was far different than the gloomy apartment where Sadie and I used to live, that two-bedroom in Uptown where drunks and bums hung around, accosting us for money when we stepped outside, not that we had any to spare. Even if I did, I wasn’t about to share. I’m not known for my generosity. But Sadie was, always digging away in her purse, and they clung to her, the drunks and the bums did, like lice to hair.

They tried the same with me. I told them to fuck off.

Inside Will and Sadie’s home, I ran my hands across the arm of a leather sofa, fondled glass vases and candelabras and such, all clearly expensive. The Sadie I once knew could never afford these things. A doctor’s salary came with all the perks.

Will led the way to the bedroom. I followed along.

There was a picture of Sadie and him on a bedside table, a wedding picture. It was charming, really. In the picture, they were standing in the center of a street. They were sharply in focus while the rest of the picture gradually blurred. The trees canopied over them, full of springtime blooms. They weren’t facing the camera, smiling cheesy grins at some photographer’s request like most brides and grooms do. Instead, they were leaned into each other, kissing. Her eyes were closed, while his watched her. He stared at her like she was the most beautiful woman in the world. His hand was wrapped around the small of her back, hers pressed to his chest. There was a spray of rice in the air. For prosperity, fertility and good fortune.

Will caught me looking at the picture.

To save face I said, Your wife’s pretty, as if I’d never seen her before. But Sadie was a far cry from pretty. She was ordinary at best.

He wore a hangdog look, said, I think so.

I told myself he had to say that. That it wouldn’t be right for him to say anything else.

But he didn’t mean it.

He came to me, ran his hands through my hair, kissed me deeply. You’re beautiful, he said, the superlative form of pretty, which meant I was prettier than her.

Will led me to the bed, tossed pillows to the ground.

Don’t you think your wife will mind? I asked as I sat on the edge of the bed.

I have little moral compass. I’m sure that much is clear. I didn’t mind. But I thought maybe he did.

Will’s smile was mischievous. He came to me, slipped a hand up my skirt, said, I hope she does.

We didn’t talk about his wife anymore after that.

What I’d come to learn was that Will was a ladies’ man before he got married. A philanderer, the kind of man who thought he’d never settle down.

As they say, old habits die hard. It was something Sadie tried to keep in check.

But, try as we might, we can’t change people. So she kept a tight rein on him instead, same as she once did me. Long ago, my lighters, my smokes would disappear if she found them, locks would change when I’d forget to close the apartment door behind myself. She was quite the disciplinarian, quite the despot.

I could see in his eyes the way she enfeebled him, the way she emasculated him.

I, on the other hand, made him feel like a man.



SADIE


It’s seven thirty. Imogen still isn’t home. Will doesn’t seem worried, not even when I press him on it, asking who she’s studying with and where the friend lives.

“I know you want to believe the best in her, Will. But come on,” I say to him. “We both know she’s not studying Spanish.”

Will shrugs and tells me, “She’s just being a teenager, Sadie.”

“A delinquent teenager,” I retort, my face expressionless. Otto, at fourteen, is a teenager, too. But it’s a school night and he’s at home with us as he should be.

Will wipes down the table from dinner and tosses the dirty dishrag into the sink. He turns to me, smiling his magnanimous smile, and says, “I was a delinquent teenager once, and look how I turned out. She’ll be fine,” as Otto comes into the room with his geometry folder.