Fidelity Files (7 page)

I spotted Andrew Thompson at the far end with, thankfully, an empty bar stool next to him. I immediately made my way over, careful to keep my eyes attentively glued to the screen. I casually slid in next to Andrew, resting my suitcase off to the side and my purse on top of the bar.

I stared obliviously straight ahead as Andrew subtly gave me a once-over. I turned briefly to him and smiled. "Hi," I said aloofly, and then returned my attention to the game.

It took him a minute to come out of his trance, and then he finally replied, "Thirteen-nothing, USC."

"Damn it!" I cursed, shaking my head in disapproval. "Smith's been underestimating his injury. I knew they should have played Wilde."

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Andrew momentarily ignore the game completely and look at me in utter astonishment, trying to digest the words coming out of my mouth. Because he knew as well I did that they made perfect sense.

God bless the Internet.

He slowly turned his attention back to the TV screen, the look of bewilderment never leaving his face. It was as if he couldn't even believe women like this actually exist, let alone sit next to him in a bar. Only in his wildest fantasies.

I continued to concentrate solely on the game, managing to successfully order a beer from the bartender without ever altering the direction of my eye line.

The timer on my cell phone went off at 7:15 P.M. Exactly when I had scheduled it. And to anyone else, namely Andrew Thompson, the tone I had programmed as the alarm would sound exactly like a phone ring. Without turning my head away from the TV, I fumbled in my purse, pulled it out, and brought it to my ear. "Yeah, I saw it," I said informally, as if I didn't even have to look at the caller ID to know exactly who was calling me at this moment in time.

This is what happens when there's a Michigan football game on. I watch it, and whoever this person is calls to commentate.

I listened to the silent earpiece. "I fucking told you Grady was incapable of making plays like that." I paused to listen again, keeping my eyes straight ahead. "No, no, no," I argued with the phantom caller. "He's a fucking freshman. What did you expect? Four hundred sixty-six yards in one season is nothing to brag about."

I heard a small chuckle come from Andrew's direction. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye and flashed a knowing smile, as if we were sharing a mutual annoyance with anyone who has faith in a player like Grady (whoever the hell he was).

He smiled back, and I knew that my research was paying off.

"Look, I'll call you tomorrow, okay?" I waited for a response and then quickly added, "Yeah, whatever, bye." And hung up the phone.

I let out a frustrated sigh and tossed the phone onto the bar. "Fucking loser," I mumbled under my breath.

A commercial break came on, and I suddenly noticed the beer sitting in front of me. I picked it up gratefully and took a long, refreshing gulp. "God, what a day."

"So you had to have gone to Michigan," Andrew said, watching me intently.

I turned and grinned. "Hell, yeah!"

"Class of '85," he said proudly.

"'Ninety-nine," I shot back competitively.

"Ouch! Do I feel old?"

I looked him up and down in a mock assessment and then shrugged. "You don't look it," I said matter-of-factly.

"Thanks. So you're a flight attendant?"

I eyed him skeptically. "No, I just like to wear this outfit to pick up guys in bars."

He laughed.

Tonight I was a hard-ass and according to Andrew, quite an intriguing one at that. So far my "analysis" was right on course.

I chugged down the rest of my beer, and he rushed to order me another one. "A girl who likes football and knows how to drink beer. I can certainly appreciate that."

"If every woman had to be sweet and cheerful to the assholes I deal with on a daily basis, they'd chug beer, too."

He laughed again. "That bad, huh?"

"It's like fucking sugar and spice up there. Makes my teeth hurt."

The bartender brought my beer and we clinked glasses, offering a hopeful toast to the doomed fate of our beloved Michigan Wolverines, just in time to turn our attention back to the screen as the commercial break ended.

TWO HOURS and seven beers later, Andrew and I were wasted. Well, actually,
Andrew and
Ashlyn
were wasted. I was fine. I never allow myself to
get drunk on an assignment. I've spent the last two years building up my level
of tolerance to alcohol for specifically that reason. Alcohol makes you lose
focus, makes you do stupid things. Case in point: seventy-five percent of
the men who have failed my inspection were under the influence of at least
some
amount of alcohol, if not a very large amount. Some people might
try to argue the legitimacy of the inspection because of this factor. My public,
professional opinion: The legitimacy decision is entirely up to the client.
But my own private, personal, would-never-dare-share-with-anyone opinion:
They can shove their legitimacy issues up their asses. Alcohol is an everyday
part of life. If you can't drink it and still manage to stay faithful to your
wife at home, then you either shouldn't be drinking it or you shouldn't have
a wife at home.

But that's just one of my own humble opinions. I keep those to myself.

Andrew and I had moved from the bar to a table in the corner, where we commiserated together and washed away the pain of a bitter loss to USC.

"I guess it's better that we lose to an undefeated than a nobody," I said, holding my head in what could only be interpreted as drunkenness mixed with wallowing in despair.

Andrew finished off his beer in one definitive gulp, slammed the empty glass down on the table, and then leaned across and looked me straight in the eye. "Has anyone ever told you how
hot
you are?" His eyes were starting to glaze over.

"Okay, no more beer for this one!" I called out to the now-empty bar, raising my hand up in the air and pointing at the top of his head.

He reached up and pulled my hand down, holding it in his own. "I'm serious. You have no idea, do you?"

I stayed in character, waving away his comment as if it was ludicrous. "Stop. You sound like a fucking lame ass right now."

He pulled my hand closer to him, and I immediately felt the wedding ring on his fourth finger. He hadn't even bothered to take it off. Or rather, he hadn't remembered. It made me believe that he was probably a first-timer. Not a professional like Raymond Jacobs, whose wedding ring slides on and off like a pair of flip-flops.

But it doesn't really matter. First-timers, old-timers, seasoned pros – they all blend together in my mind once it's over.

And anyway, it's not my place to judge. If a wife or girlfriend or fiancée chooses to forgive him on the grounds that it was his "first time" and he more than likely learned his lesson, then that's their choice. I only deliver the information that was requested of me. I don't tell them how to use it. And I don't make recommendations.

"Would it be weird if I asked to kiss you?" he asked, his expression suddenly turning serious.

I considered this for a moment, placing my fingertip thoughtfully on my chin, in an effort to continue my act of silly intoxication. "Um, no... but it might be weird if you asked to
smell
me."

He laughed. "Oh, I already smelled you at the bar. And you smell good."

"Hmm. Like airplane food?" I asked, struggling to maintain a serious expression, and then eventually bursting into uncontrollable drunken laughter.

Andrew laughed with me. "Do you want to get out of here?"

"Good idea."

"My room?"

I nodded vigorously, as if it was the best idea I'd heard in years, and how come it had taken him so long to suggest it.

His body shot up from his seat like a rocket, and with his hand still tightly grasped around mine, he pulled me behind him.

IN THE end Andrew Thompson never actually
asked
to kiss me. Once we were behind closed doors, he just went for it. He kissed me like a drunk boy at a frat party. Sloppy and horny. It was almost as if the football game had brought him back to his youth, and now he was reliving his carefree party days as a student at the University of Michigan. And to top it all off... with a flight attendant.

As he continued to kiss me, slowly peeling off the layers of his fantasy ensemble, he silently marveled to himself that it was just as amazing as he'd always imagined it would be.

Andrew never did take off his ring. It was almost as if he simply forgot it was there. Like it had become a part of him and his everyday life, but somewhere along the way its symbolic meaning had evaporated into the air of a monotonous marriage.

I didn't forget about it, though. I felt it every time his hand brushed over my skin. The cold, hard metal interrupting every inch of his touch like a constant reminder of exactly what I was doing. And, more important, exactly what
he
was doing.

But I didn't object. I let his lips explore and his hands wander, wedding ring and all.

Because it's my job to
not
object.

Always the willing participant.

No matter how much it disgusted me. No matter how much it repulsed me.

That's why I always removed myself from the situation. I was never Jennifer Hunter at that moment. Kissing a stranger. Letting his hands explore my body. I was always Ashlyn.

Because Ashlyn never came home with me.

Ashlyn never changed into my white cotton pajamas that smelled like fabric softener from Marta's diligent laundering. Ashlyn never snuggled in-between my white satin sheets, with the stuffed elephant I'd slept with for years. And Ashlyn never woke up and saw her reflection in my bathroom mirror the next morning.

That was Jennifer. And so therefore it was important to keep them as separate as possible. Because as soon as those lines are blurred, that's when everything starts to fall apart. That's when it becomes personal.

And in this business, nothing can be personal. It's like drenching your emotions in lighter fluid and then standing dangerously close to an open flame. And as much as I wished my arms and legs and heart were made of steel, I was still human. I was no robot.

Ashlyn, however, was my shield.

"I've always wanted to sleep with a flight attendant." His voice was muffled as his lips buried into my neck.

"I guess it's your lucky day, then."

"It most certainly is," he cooed.

And that's when I brought Andrew Thompson's lifelong fantasy to a crashing halt.

Maybe he would never fully understand the words that came out of my mouth when I told him who I really was. And maybe he would never fully appreciate the light I shed on the current state of his marriage. But there was one thing I knew for sure: He would never look at a flight attendant the same way again.

WHEN I stepped back inside my condo at the end of the night, the contrast with the dark hotel room I had just left was overwhelming. It felt like I had exited a whole different world and entered this one. The other world was dark, full of distrust and lies. This world was beautiful, spacious, sparkling, and white. Like a commercial for all-purpose cleaner.

It was a place I could be myself.

Not anybody else.

This week alone Ashlyn had been a lawyer, a grad student, a sorority girl, a research manager, and a flight attendant. It was nice to just be me again. Jennifer Hunter.

There was only one problem.

As I stared at myself in the mirror after stripping away all the mascara that covered my eyes and all the foundation that transformed my face, I couldn't help but feel like the girl staring back at me was becoming a stranger.

Less and less familiar every day.

And that was hard to ignore.

I exhaled loudly and shut off the light, extinguishing the unfamiliar face with the darkness.

I climbed into bed and snuggled under my white sheets. They felt soft on my skin. Like flower petals. I looked longingly at the pillow on the other side of the bed. Except for Marta's soft hands, it had remained untouched for more than two years. I reached under it and pulled out my tattered, stuffed purple elephant. The one I've slept with every night since I was twelve years old.

And I remembered that first night like it was yesterday.

SNUFFLES THE elephant had never been my favorite stuffed animal. He had been sitting on the window seat of my room since the day I was born, but I had never taken a particular liking to him.

I inadvertently named him Snuffles when I was two, because I would see him in my bedroom after watching
Sesame Street
and would shrewdly remark that he looked a lot like Mr. Snuffleupagus. Except I couldn't pronounce the entire name of Snuffleupagus, so I would simply point to the purple elephant and say, "Snuffle." Which later was changed to Snuffles.

But I had always favored other toys. Leo the Bear, Floppsy the Rabbit, Frank the Fish. Each night rotating them out, enjoying the variety and excitement of a new bed companion as I fell asleep.

Snuffles never really made it into the mix.

When my mom would tuck me in at night we would always go through the same selection routine, "the bedtime game," as we liked to call it.

I would happily climb into bed and nestle under the covers of my Rainbow Brite comforter or My Little Pony sheets (depending on the age), and she would walk to the windowsill and stand purposefully in front of each toy like a drill sergeant making a daily bunk inspection. Her hand would linger approximately six inches above the head of each animal, and she would wait patiently through my series of resolute head shakes until my eyes would finally light up and my head would fall into an eager nod as she approached the chosen one.

My mom would then pick up the toy privileged enough to be selected for cuddle duty and carefully deliver it into my outstretched arms.

"How come you never pick Snuffles?" she would ask me every once in a while, as I consistently, night after night, allowed her hand to graze past the purple elephant, as it never received my legendary nod of approval.

To which I would shrug and say, "I don't know. I just like the other ones better."

And then from time to time she would pick up the lonely, neglected purple elephant and hold it close to her face, breathing in the smell of his soft fur. "You're making him feel lonely, though."

I would simply roll my eyes and say, "Oh, Mom. He'll get over it."

And then my mom and I would share a laugh as she brought over my friend of choice and lovingly tuck him in next to me before kissing me good night. As the years passed I became less and less interested in stuffed animals. And by the time I was twelve my mother couldn't pay me to sleep next to one.

"Mom," I would say in a warning tone when every once in a while she would ask me if I wanted to play our beloved nighttime selection game again... just for old time's sake. "If word ever got out that I sleep with a stuffed fish named Frank, my reputation would be ruined."

My mom would then shake her head and laugh. "I'll bet every single girl at your school has a secret animal that she sleeps with." But I never believed her. There was no way I was ever going to fit in with the popular eighth-graders at school next year if I was still acting like a five-year-old at home.

BUT THEN one night, everything changed. Everything became different.

And everything would
remain
different from that night on.

My mom had gone away to visit my grandmother in Chicago, who I was told was having an operation on her knee.

"Her knee is getting too old for her to use, so they have to give her a new one," my mom had explained to me as we drove her to the airport.

"A
new
one?" I asked in a snotty voice, trying to maintain my usual "I could care less about anything my parents say" attitude.

"Yes, they're going to take her knee out and replace it with a metal one."

"They can do that?" I blurted out in amazement, and then quickly regained my cool. "I mean... that's kind of weird."

"Fortunately for Grandma, they can," my mom said, reaching back and gently patting my own healthy knee.

"Well, why can't I come?" I asked, folding my arms defiantly across my chest. As much as I wanted to be the cool preteen girl who didn't care where her mom traveled to or how long she would be gone, I still didn't like the thought of being away from her.

"Because Daddy needs you to stay here and keep him company."

I rolled my eyes and groaned loudly enough for both of them to hear. I so wished my parents would start talking to me like an adult and not a twelve-year-old. But deep down, my mother's comment made me feel needed. And I liked that. Without saying another word, I settled into the decision that maybe I should stick around and serve my civic duty as "only child."

My dad had been married once before. A long time ago. He had a daughter with his first wife. But I rarely ever saw my half-sister Julia, except at large family gatherings. I didn't really mind our infrequent contact, though. I always got the feeling that she didn't really care for me all that much. Which was probably true. She was ten years older than me, and looking back on it now that I'm almost thirty, I can understand how the new baby from the new wife could be a bit of a downer.

So as far as I was concerned, it was just Mom, Dad, and me. And I had absolutely no complaints about that. I enjoyed being an only child. Most only children beg for siblings, but after seeing how much Julia resented me, I was content not having any.

But as it turned out, my dad didn't really need me there to keep him company. He had to go to a business dinner that same night, and instead I was stuck with the babysitter, a twenty-year-old college student named Elizabeth who my mother had recruited from my summer camp two years earlier. She had been a counselor there and, as my mom explained to me after a lengthy discussion with the camp director one day, was "very responsible and trustworthy."

"Why do I have to have a babysitter?" I argued with my dad.

"We've been through this, Jenny," he warned. "You can stay home alone when you're thirteen, but not twelve."

"I'll be thirteen in nine months!" I shouted back. "I don't really see how nine months can make all that much of a difference."

But there was usually no arguing with my father. And I would have called my mom and let her argue for me, but I knew that she wouldn't have taken my side on this one. Thirteen had always been the magic year to look forward to in my life. It was when I was promised to have my own phone line, my own TV, and the ability to stay home without a dreaded babysitter there to tell me what to do.

For the most part, Elizabeth was perfectly nice and pleasant to be around. And I always admired her good looks and sense of style, hoping that one day I would grow up to look and dress similarly, but at this stage of my life she represented another chain that locked me to my youth while all my friends were being allowed to grow up.

And to make matters worse, Elizabeth would send me to bed at ten o'clock. She never let me stay up late. You would think that being not so far removed from the awkward preteen years herself she would be empathetic to my struggle and understand the pure exhilaration you experience when you're allowed to stay up past your normal bedtime. It was like every five minutes of forbidden awake-ness was equivalent to five extra years tacked onto your age.

But she would simply wait by the door as I got into bed, switch off the light, and then hurry back downstairs, eager to return to whatever show was blaring from the TV, and, of course, whomever she was blabbing to on the phone.

After she left I would usually sulk in my bed for about five minutes before drifting off to sleep to the faint sounds of her laughter and gossip mixed with late-night infomercials.

The night my mother went to Chicago started out like any other night Elizabeth was hired to watch me. She stood in the doorway, waiting as I climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to my chin.

"Five more minutes," I tried to negotiate for the tenth time.

"Good night, Jenny," she said vacantly, and then turned off the light and closed the door behind her.

I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, my arms crossed, my whole world on the verge of collapsing, and, in truth, missing my mom terribly. I knew she wasn't coming home for another three days, and it saddened me to think about that.

I exhaled my frustration loudly, and then reluctantly turned onto my side, tucked my hands underneath my pillow, and tried to fall asleep.

I must have dozed off for nearly two hours, because when I was awoken by distant voices and muffled giggles, the clock on my nightstand said it was midnight.

I turned my ear toward the door and listened as the sounds became more and more intrusive. I rolled my eyes and groaned softly. Another late-night Elizabeth gabfest.

Most of the time, I was able to drift back to sleep despite the noise, but tonight was different. Tonight it seemed incessant. And unusually irritating. So I climbed out of bed, quietly opened my door, and tiptoed down the stairs, determined to put a stop to this annoying interference. But as I grew closer to the living room I heard something I had never heard before. I stopped and listened. It was the distinct sound of a male voice, coming from the next room.

I smiled mischievously as I continued to tiptoe my way down the hallway, hoping to catch my so-called "responsible and trustworthy" babysitter with an uninvited male visitor in the middle of my parents' living room.

I felt a surge of sinful exhilaration flow through my body, knowing full well that once I caught her in the middle of doing something inappropriate while I was under her care, it would be the end of her. That would certainly teach my parents to leave me alone with a lovesick college student.

Maybe they'd finally decide to loosen their death grip on that stupid "not until you're thirteen" rule, and next time I would finally be able to stay home by myself.

I placed my palms flat against the hallway wall and stealthily stuck my head around the corner of the living room, ready to jump out and scare them enough to send the unwanted guest packing.

But what I saw in that room sent me into a spiral of shock. It was a cold-blooded numbness like nothing I'd ever experienced before, not even when my friend Sophie and I found that videotape in her dad's closet. The one with naked men and women doing what we only assumed to be things that were done on TV and no place else.

But unlike the videotape we had found, which neither one of us was able to bring ourself to shut off, I had no trouble tearing my eyes from the sight that lay in front of me.

With a rush of sheer panic I spun my head back around the corner and shot up the stairs, careful to tread lightly so that the sound of my bare feet on the wooden steps wouldn't draw attention.

The last thing I wanted was to be discovered, seeing what I had seen.

The stairs seemed to go on forever. As though there were ten times as many as there had been when I came down less than a minute ago. When I finally reached the top I crept into my bedroom and silently closed the door behind me. The room was quiet. And I managed to drown out the whispered voices and muffled moans coming through my door by focusing on the sound of my heart thumping loudly in my chest.

I felt tears of fear and disbelief well up in my eyes as I allowed my body to crumple to the ground, trying desperately to make sense of what I had just witnessed. Trying to figure out what it meant and what it
would
mean for the future.

In the darkness of my bedroom the same image repeated in my mind. Like a scene from a movie, being rewound and played over and over again, without any signs of stopping.

It was Elizabeth, on the couch, her head tilted back on one of the throw pillows, her trendy top casually thrown onto the nearby coffee table. Her bra was red and black, like the kind I used to see in the Victoria's Secret catalogs that I would steal from the trash compactor after my mom had taken them from the mailbox and thrown them away. And the hand that was gratifyingly caressing up and down her bare stomach and ravenously around the sides of her slender waist... was my father's.

He was kissing her in a way I had never seen him kiss my mother. Like he was devouring her. But yet, her satisfied moans were agonizingly similar to the ones Sophie and I had heard on the videotape, and it made me believe that she didn't exactly mind being devoured.

When my parents kissed, it was tender and sweet. A gentle brushing of the lips that lasted maybe a second or two, three if they were saying good-bye before one of my dad's business trips.

But there was nothing tender and sweet about what my father was doing downstairs. His lips weren't even closed. They were open, and so were hers. It was almost like the way the eighth-graders kissed in front of their lockers, but much more adept.