Fidelity Files (3 page)

Backing out is one thing, but a blown cover is quite another.

He let go of my hand just long enough to fish his hotel key out of his back pocket. I giggled nervously as I watched him fiddle with the electronic lock. Trying it once, getting a red error light, and then trying it again. If only he had stopped long enough to read the red light and respond to its obvious implication.

There are always signs; most just fail to see them.

The green light finally illuminated and he turned the handle and pushed the door open with his back. He reached out his hands and grabbed me around the waist, pulling me in after him.

"THERE'S JUST one more thing..." Mrs. Jacobs had said to me as I was packing up my things to leave.

I tucked the photograph of Raymond Jacobs that she had given me into the pocket of my portfolio and placed it in my bag. Then I looked up at her. "What's that?"

She fidgeted in her seat, the inevitability of her forthcoming question making her visibly uncomfortable. But it was a question that needed to be asked. And she knew she would have to ask it eventually.

I, however, already knew what it would be.

Because it was the same question that always came at this point in the meeting.

The same disturbing image that would perpetually haunt her for the rest of the week, and possibly the rest of her life, unless it was addressed.

"What about sex?" she finally managed to get out. "Do you actually
have
sex with the...um..." Her voice trailed off. She was unable to even think about it, let alone say it aloud.

"Absolutely not," I said, without even the slightest waver in my voice. This point has always been nonnegotiable, so it was important that I presented it as such.

She breathed a heavy sigh of relief. "Oh, thank God."

I smiled warmly. "Mrs. Jacobs, I assure you, my test is based on an
intention
to cheat only. There is no sex involved."

She shifted again in her seat. "Intention to cheat," she repeated to herself.

"Yes," I confirmed with an emphatic nod of my head.

"So how does that
work
exactly?"

RAYMOND AND I stumbled clumsily through the extravagant, top-floor suite, his lips on my mouth, my neck, my face. Anywhere they could find.

As we fell onto the bed, I made sure that I was on top. It's a much easier escape route when the time comes to escape.

His hands immediately came up and landed on my ass. I moaned with pleasure.

He liked it.

They usually do.

He continued to kiss me as he slid my suit jacket over my shoulders. Then he went for my shirt. Unbuttoning the buttons one by one. I didn't protest. The shirt came off. He took one look at my lavender lace Balconette push-up bra and let out an appreciative sigh. Sure, it was flattering. How could it not be? But tonight, like every other night, the focus wasn't on me. And therefore, I usually took little notice of their "appreciation."

Next off was my skirt, revealing the matching Boyshorts I had on underneath. He touched my hip bones and squeezed. I shivered with believable excitement.

My fingers started unbuttoning his shirt next, stroking his chest and sliding it seductively off his shoulders.

He quivered with anticipation. "Oh my God, I want you so bad."

"Really?" I asked softly, still as demure and unsure as ever.

"Oh, yes," he replied. "You are
so
sexy."

"Good," I whispered.

And with that I rolled off of him, slid to the edge of the bed, and callously started gathering up my items of clothing. Without a word, I quickly located my skirt on the floor, reached down to grab it, and then stood up to put it back on.

"What are you doing?" he asked with more than a hint of annoyance in his voice.

"I'm leaving," I replied blankly, stepping into my skirt and pulling it up around my hips.

He sat up, seemingly too quickly, either because of one too many drinks or a lack of blood flow to the brain... possibly both. He put his hand to his head to steady the room. A look of total bewilderment stretched across his face. "Why?"

I knew exactly what he was thinking. That this part was definitely not in the script he had come to memorize. Boy meets girl. Boy buys girl drink. Boy invites girl to hotel room. Girl accepts. But girl certainly does not just change her mind and leave for no reason.

"Because I'm done here," I said matter-of-factly, sliding my arms into the sleeves of my shirt and proceeding to button it up.

And I
was
done.

He shook his head. "I don't understand. Did I do something wrong?"

I shrugged. "I guess you could put it that way."

This threw him off even more. The look on his face was one I'd seen many times. It was an expression of someone tracing steps back in their mind, trying to reassemble a pile of amorphous puzzle pieces that had absolutely no possibility of ever interlocking.

I finished buttoning my shirt and then bent down to help guide my feet into my shoes.

"Wait," he pleaded softly, hoping to sway me once again by his unyielding desperation for me.

But his tactics were useless on me now. I was no longer the same person he had met in the bar.

"Come sit down. Let's just talk. We can discuss car engines if you want," he offered in an artificial display of thoughtfulness.

I smiled without even the hint of feeling. "I'm not who you want me to be, Raymond."

His forehead wrinkled in aggravated confusion. "Huh?"

I was all business now. "I was hired by a Mrs. Anne Jacobs, who suspected that you had unfaithful tendencies, and therefore requested my services as a fidelity inspector."

His eyes grew wide at the mention of her name. "What the fuck?"

And this is where that remorse comes in.

He dropped his head between his knees. His fingers ran through his hair and around to the back of his neck. He pulled his chin up long enough to say, "She
hired
you?"

I stood emotionless and looked him straight in the eye. "Yes." It was my duty now to be completely impassive. No pity, no compassion. Nothing.

He groaned loudly and shut his eyes again. It was time for me to leave. I grabbed my bag and jacket and headed for the door. But not before leaving a small black card on the dresser. The only thing I ever leave behind after an assignment.

I guess you could say it was my calling card. But I don't like to think of it as proof that I was there. More proof that something needs to change.

"Wait," I heard Raymond say again. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him get up and reach down to pick up his slacks, which had been kicked halfway across the room in our semi-authentic heat of the moment. He pulled a black leather wallet from the back pocket and opened it. "What's she paying you, a grand? Fifteen hundred? Look, I'll double it." He reached inside the billfold and started to count out hundred-dollar bills.

I turned around and watched him coldly sift through his pile of money like a miser with his beloved stack of cash. "This is not about money," I responded flatly, before continuing to the door.

"It's always about money," he pressed indignantly. "How much do you want?"

I stopped, contemplated for a moment, and then slowly turned to face him again.

Raymond cracked a triumphant smile at what appeared to be my sudden change of heart.

"I'm sorry," I offered sincerely. "But my loyalty is not for sale."

His smile morphed into a patronizing grin. "Trust me, honey. I have enough money to buy
anyone's
loyalty."

And just then a small, shiny object on the ground caught my eye. I immediately recognized it as Raymond Jacobs's wedding band, having evidently fallen out of his shirt pocket during our earlier disrobing scramble. I bent down to pick it up, and then with the delicacy of a surgeon mending an open heart, I gently placed it on top of the dresser. "Apparently not," I replied.

I never know what happens after that because it's not my job to know. My part is over. The intention has been confirmed. And that's all I'm here to do. To confirm it or deny it.

Now it was time for me to leave.

So I did.

IN EIGHTH grade I read the story of Pandora's box.

And I've never been the same since.

It spoke to me somehow. Not because I was morbidly obsessed with the fact that one woman alone managed to release all crime, sin, and disease into the human world (which is ironically the same story as Adam and Eve's) but because of the way the story shed a positive light on the subject of human suffering.

Pandora was asked by the gods to watch over a mysterious box that she was instructed never to open. But her relentless curiosity was no match for her waning discipline, and once she lifted the lid, she unwittingly released evil into the world in the form of ugly winged creatures that fluttered out of their prison in a burst of light and air. Upon seeing the hideous beings that had escaped, she panicked and slammed the lid shut again, immediately wondering if opening it had been the wisest decision after all.

But then she heard a tiny voice call from inside the box.
Open, open! Please let me out! I will heal you!
it cried.

She opened the box once again to find that the gods, in a last-minute, compassionate afterthought, had placed one benevolent creature in a box full of demons. That creature was called "hope" and its task was to heal the wounds inflicted by the evil spirits that were now wreaking havoc on our once-perfect paradise.

Upon reading this tale, I felt comforted to know that even thousands and thousands of years ago, when stories like this were written and then passed along from generation to generation, one universal concept held true. Just as it does today.

Hope heals disaster.

MY MISSION has been clear from day one.

Uncover the truth. Set minds at ease. Give women a chance to move on with their lives.

But not everyone sees this job as a worthy cause. And that's why not many people know about it. In fact, that's why
nobody
knows about it.

Not even my best friends.

Not even my family.

To everyone in my life, I am Jennifer Hunter. A hardworking, successful investment banker at Stanley Marshall Bank. And that's exactly who I
used
to be.

The transition was relatively seamless. A new phone number because of a long-awaited promotion and, as a result, a new company cell phone. Long hours and lots of traveling because of high-profile clients and a demanding boss. Nondisclosure on the details of my work because of confidentiality agreements. It really did make a very good cover.

I guess that makes me some kind of "double agent." Leading a double life: the one I know about, and the one that everyone else knows about. I would tell my family and friends what I do, but there's no way they would ever understand. My friend Sophie would call me a home wrecker and my friend Zoë would probably never be able to look at me the same way again.

They just wouldn't be able to see it how I see it.

They'd see me as a woman who knowingly flirts with married men and then breaks up relationships. Ruins families. Tears people apart.

The way everyone would see it.

But to me, that's just the surface. When you dig deeper, there's so much more. But I guess to really understand it the way I do, you'd have to know what I know. You'd have to have seen what I've seen.

And that's why I keep it to myself.

Plus, anonymity is what allows me to do what I do so well.

Some people might wonder how I'm even able to go through with it every single time. How can I be so objective? So far removed?

And how can I not
want
them to pass?

Well, the answer is simple: It's not about what I want.

If you asked anyone on the street if they wanted crime to no longer exist, they would probably say, "Sure, doesn't everybody?" But that still doesn't change the fact that it does.

The same goes for infidelity. It is what it is. It's out there. I can sit around wishing it didn't exist all day long, but that's certainly not going to change anything. Or I can get out there and reveal the fact that it
does
exist. And hopefully make a difference.

The way I see it: I've already changed over two hundred people's lives. And I'm proud of that.

Doubt can wreak havoc in a relationship. Insecurity can torment your life. And in the end, most people just want to know for sure.

More than two hundred women have been offered the truth about their relationships. About the ones they love. And as far as I'm concerned, that's better than living in the dark.

It's better than living in denial.

Because aren't we all just living in denial? Infidelity is all around us. It's the topic of our talk shows, on the covers of our magazines, at the center of our political scandals. But it doesn't seem like anyone's doing anything about it. Except complaining and pointing fingers.

Well, my fingers are getting tired. I'd rather do something about it.

Raymond Jacobs was the kind of assignment that makes me feel good about what I do. Ashlyn definitely wasn't the first girl he'd ever cheated with (or
intended
to cheat with), but now, at least, I could fly back to L.A. knowing that she would probably be the last.

And that's what allows me to sleep at night.

"I'M TOTALLY freaking out!" My best friend Sophie's voice came loudly and frantically through my Bluetooth headset as I was driving home from LAX.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"I'm losing him. I can tell," she said with an exasperated sigh.

Sophie has a tendency to overreact. It's rooted in her insecurities, and as a result, she has a hard time trusting men. She's constantly afraid they'll walk out on her. Probably because all of them have.

"You're not losing him," I reassured her patiently. "What happened?"

"He's not coming," she said simply.

"What do you mean, he's not coming?"

"I mean, he was supposed to fly out this weekend, remember? You were
supposed
to finally meet him. And now he's got some stupid work thing!"

"Well, you can't blame him for that," I told her. "Work is work."

Sophie and Eric had been dating long distance for the past eight months. He was a third-year resident at a hospital in Chicago, and because of his crazy schedule he would usually just pay for Sophie to fly there. The few times he had come to Los Angeles I was away on "business." And even though I had never met him, I could tell by the way she talked about him that he was crazy about her.

Eric was different from all the rest of them. I can't say how I knew that; it was just a feeling I had. And I've learned to trust those instincts without reservation. I just wished I could convince Sophie to do the same. Whenever she falls into one of her panic spirals, I want to sit her down and tell her that I've seen plenty of men who were on the verge of straying, and Eric is definitely not one of them. He didn't exhibit any of the signs of a cheater. And I, of all people, know the signs. But that would probably require a much longer explanation, one I wasn't prepared to give her. So I usually just resorted to more traditional methods of calming her down.

"All I know is once they start canceling dates, that's when it starts to go downhill," she said in a hopeless tone.

"Sophie," I began warningly, "this isn't a 'date.' He lives in Chicago, you talk on the phone at least twice a day, and you've seen him every other weekend for eight months! I think you can safely say that you're past 'dating.'"

"But I really wanted you to meet him... finally."

"And I wanted to meet him, too," I assured her. "But I have a feeling this won't be the last opportunity for that to happen."

She paused and reflected. "Well, with your schedule and his... you never know."

"Well, I guess I'll just have to meet him at the wedding, then," I jested.

"Shhh!" she urged me. "You'll jinx it! According to
Marie Claire,
the eight-month mark falls right into the beginning of 'prime proposal time' while still lingering in the novelty wear-out phase. It's a dangerous intersection. I have to be very careful of what I say."

I rolled my eyes as I turned my SUV onto Wilshire. "Sorry."

"Are you in town?" she asked.

"Yeah, just flew in from Denver an hour ago. I'll be here until nine tomorrow morning. Why?"

My friends had gotten used to my hectic schedule. Well, they had gotten used to Jennifer the investment banker's hectic schedule. Being in town for mere hours at a time was nothing new to any of them. And as far as they were concerned, I had just as normal a job as any other traveling businessperson. Selling consulting packages, negotiating million-dollar deals, schmoozing with hotshot clients – the usual. I'm sure the image of me dressed up like a sexy corporate bimbo in order to see if some rich woman's husband is capable of committing adultery is the last thing on their minds when they think of me "on the road."

And although this whole thing started out as somewhat of a mini-quest, being a fidelity inspector had actually turned into quite the lucrative career. I worked on a referral basis only. But once word of my services had started to spread, there weren't enough hours in the day to take on all the requested assignments. It had never been about the money... but it certainly hadn't made things worse.

"Can we meet up tonight?" Sophie asked. "I could seriously use a 'session.'"

"I'm sorry, hon. I can't," I said regretfully. "I have to work tonight."

Sophie sighed again. It was a phrase she had heard many times. "Okay. But those slave-driver bosses of yours better give you the weekend off. You've worked the last two weekends. Nobody's
that
important."

I laughed. "Yes, I do have the weekend off." Which was actually something I'd been looking forward to all week. "We'll get everyone together. It'll be a
group
session."

"Yeah. For sure," she said, trying to sound upbeat. But I could tell she was disappointed.

"Don't worry," I reassured her again. "Eric's a good guy. I'm sure you're overreacting. A textbook case of long-distance relationship paranoia."

"Okay, thanks," she relented. "I better get back to work. Love you."

"Love you, too."

I clicked off my headset and tugged it out of my ear.

I felt bad that I couldn't be there for Sophie tonight. It wasn't the first time my job had stolen time away from my friends. And it broke my heart every time I had to lie to them. As if it wasn't bad enough that I couldn't be there for them when they needed me, they didn't even know the real reason
why
I couldn't be there.

But I was sure we would analyze Sophie's boyfriend drama quite thoroughly this weekend, when the group was assembled for her "session."

Sophie and I had adopted the term when we were in elementary school. Her dad was a psychologist, and while we were growing up, he saw most of his clients in his home office. He used to come upstairs to Sophie's bedroom in the afternoons and tell us to be quiet because he was "in a session." We always liked the way the phrase sounded: important and confidential. So we decided to make it our own.

After dinner Sophie and I would sneak into her dad's office and take turns sitting in his large, brown leather chair while the other person sprawled out on the couch and came up with ridiculous-sounding problems like "I can't stop making fart noises in class. It's ruining my social life." The "psychologist" would then open up one of the heavy, leather-bound books on the nearby shelf, flip to a random page, and in their best
Masterpiece Theatre
voice say, "Sounds like a textbook case of 'fundamental attribution error.'" Or whatever the longest, most important-sounding term on the page was.

As the years went on, our sessions eventually moved out of Sophie's dad's office, and evolved from silly make-believe problems to real, adolescent issues. But we still always managed to throw in a "textbook case" reference for each and every problem we encountered. It offered a comforting implication. Knowing that all of our problems were documented in some pretentious leather-bound book somewhere made us feel better about the situations we found ourselves in. As if despite all the agony and hardship, there was nothing we could say or do that hadn't already been solved, sorted out, and properly labeled by some hotshot shrink along the way.

In recent years, however, it had mainly been Sophie calling for the sessions. For some reason, drama seemed to have a strange attraction to that girl.

As I turned off of Wilshire Boulevard, I began my usual six-turn routine. As a rule of thumb, I never drive directly home. No matter what. I take five separate side streets before finally turning onto my own street and into the garage of my building. It makes it easier for me to spot anyone who might be following me. Wilshire is a huge street, and someone can tail you easily from a couple of cars back. But the five turns I make before returning home are all on smaller, quieter streets. Anyone making that many unnecessary turns behind me would certainly be noticed. In my line of work I couldn't take any chances. The last thing I needed was some lunatic, enraged husband banging on my door at two A.M.

I waited patiently at a stoplight while the car behind me passed to my left, the driver throwing me a dirty look in the process, and then turned onto my street. I pulled into the parking garage of my complex and parked my Range Rover in its reserved spot. I then quickly gathered up my things and hurried inside. I had only about ten minutes at home before I had to be out the door again to meet with my client, Raymond Jacobs's wife.

I dragged my rolling suitcase behind me, then turned my key in the lock and stepped inside to find the place exactly how I'd left it: immaculately clean.

My work afforded me the luxury of employing a housekeeper, Marta, who comes twice a week. She does an excellent job making my house look and smell new every time I walk through the door. And I know how hard it is to keep a house clean that's decorated entirely in white: white carpets, white walls, white sheets, white comforters, white throw pillows, white countertops.

I remember when my friend Zoë first came over to see my new condo after the interior decorator had artfully transformed it from the washed-up bachelor pad it had been into the chic masterpiece it is now.