Nine Women, One Dress (9 page)

That Max Hammer dress helped me make an awesome connection in the art world; maybe this whole fake-life thing could help me get a real life after all. Apparently Thea Baxter, who graduated from Brown a few years before me and now works at Christie's, is one of my
900
new Instagram followers. On one of my many lazy Monday mornings she called me (Yes! Called me!) to say she had seen my Max Hammer post and had been searching all over for me at the library benefit, but to no avail. I couldn't help but chuckle to myself: while I was managing my virtual life by matching up the hottest NYC event with the hottest look at Bloomie's, she was looking for me IRL. She went on to ask me about my responsibilities at Sotheby's but, lucky for me, quickly turned her sights to what she really wanted to know: my salary.

“That Max Hammer dress you were wearing was gorgeous. You killed it. What are they paying you over at Sotheby's?”

I hemmed and hawed, mumbling something about not wanting to talk about money, as I Googled starting salaries at Sotheby's.

“C'mon, I'll tell you what my starting salary was at Christie's,” she pleaded.

“Fifty-two thousand,” I lied, adding a few grand to the Google results to annoy her.

“Are you off today?” she asked.

I paused and contemplated my two choices. “Yes,” I answered and held my breath.

“Oh, they give you Columbus Day off?” she whined, obviously at work.

I guess it's October
, I thought, realizing I had never checked to see what was new on Netflix this month. I looked around my bed for the remote.

“You know, we're looking to expand our Asian Contemporary department before the new year. Would you consider a move?”

I stopped looking for the remote. “I wrote my senior thesis on Japanese avant-garde!”

“I know—I've done my research.”

I was surprised.

“I'll invite you to our Christmas party and introduce you to my boss.”

“That would be wonderful. I'm definitely interested,” I answered.

We hung up and I felt the first glimmer of hope for my future. I opened up Instagram and took a selfie, sitting on my bed in the room I'd grown up in, eating Oreos from the package. My signed poster of the Spice Girls was slightly visible in the background. I wrote #hopeful. It was my first honest post in forever. And then, of course, I deleted it.

I was glad Arthur was honest with me. He came right out and told me that I had to leave because he was meeting Sherri and the girls at Elio's. I mean, I guess I had assumed that it was over with Sherri or he wouldn't have asked me to the Four Seasons to begin with, but people have strange rules about dating nowadays. I guess Arthur was following today's rules, not the old-fashioned ones we grew up with. Truth be told, I was too happy to care, even if I had, after all these years of avoiding it, become the other woman.

Our relationship was illicit all around. Office protocol says that employees cannot date each other. Partners can certainly not date their secretaries. Secretary—I said it again. It's become a bad word, taboo, along with
stewardess
and
garbage man
.
Assistants
—partners cannot date their
assistants
. I don't consider myself to be old-fashioned, yet much of my lingo dates me, and I don't get half the words these young associates and their assistants use:
bandwidth
,
wheelhouse
,
low-hanging fruit
. I wish they'd just say what they mean. As I ate my buttered sesame bagel and glanced at the girl in the next cubicle eating tofu and quinoa out of a bamboo bowl, with chopsticks, I was again thankful to be working for someone of my generation. God, I hope I didn't blow that by sleeping with the boss.

It would probably be quite difficult for me to get another job at my age, and anyway, I didn't really want to. I loved it here for reasons that went far beyond seeing Arthur every day. Even if he were to become my boyfriend and I were to see him every night, I'd still want to keep it a secret until I knew it was worth what I would need to give up. Oh god. I was really getting ahead of myself. What if Arthur were to walk in, call me into his office, and say,
Felicia, I'm sure we can both agree that yesterday was a one-time thing and we should just put it behind us
? I had to prepare myself for that. How could I think it was anything more than lust? I tried to plan ahead to avoid being blindsided. I would go along with it:
Of course, Arthur. I was going to say the same thing
.
I'm so glad you said it first.

I looked at the clock. He was late. He was never late. Oh my god. He wasn't coming in because he couldn't face me. How could I have let myself go like that? I was mortified. Why hadn't I controlled myself? I should've been smarter, I should never have let any of this happen. When he'd asked if I still wanted to cross the bridge, I should have said,
Yes, Arthur, I was looking forward to it.
He must think I'm easy. Me—easy.

The elevator dinged, and in walked Arthur Winters. It was a sight I had seen five mornings a week for nearly eighteen years. And I'm embarrassed to say that for most of that time it was a sight that caused my stomach to flutter and my knees to wobble ever so slightly as I stood to follow him into his office to go over his schedule. Today my stomach fluttered and my knees wobbled, but it wasn't just from love, it was from fear as well. Before we'd consummated this fantasy of mine, the notion of Felicia and Arthur kind of kept me going, in the romance department at least. It was what I dreamed about when falling asleep at night. Now that very notion might be dead.

As I followed him into his office I braced myself for what might come out of his mouth. I closed the door behind me and steadied myself against it. I knew I wouldn't make it without physical support. He didn't even bother to hang up his coat. He just came right out with it. “Felicia,” he said. I pushed my hands against the door and held on. I wasn't sure if I was capable of speech, but the word
yes
somehow came out of my mouth. He came closer and said my name again, this time as if he had something important to say. He stood right in front of me. “Felicia—I…” And then he kissed me. He pinned me against the door and kissed me with as much passion as he had yesterday. Maybe more. By the time he reached his hand under my skirt my anticipation was evident. Today I was embarrassed by it until I saw his reaction. As he touched me there he smiled the slowest, warmest smile of satisfaction I had ever seen on his beautiful worn face. I couldn't believe that smile was all for me. We slid down and in purposeful silence made love on the floor of his office. It was different from yesterday. It was slow, in the way that you sometimes take your time with each bite of a decadent dessert. Our eyes were locked on each other's the entire time. When it was over a tear ran down my cheek. He kissed it but didn't ask why I was crying. He knew. He knew that even though we'd had sex twice before, and even though we were lying on his office floor, we had just made love for the first time. And it was beautiful. We sat up and he looked at me, his eyes sparkling with the first happiness I had seen there in a long time. We smiled at each other for what seemed like hours. But the growing bustle of the office outside as it got closer to ten brought us back to reality.

“What else is on the schedule for today?” he asked, barely stifling a laugh.

I laughed too, stood up, adjusted my skirt, and started to read him his schedule. It was a busy day.

It had been one week since Caroline Westmont had visited my office and I had not one shred of evidence against her husband. He was the most artfully deceptive cheater I had yet to come across. I went through my entire arsenal of weapons, from mobile trackers to encryption software, and got nothing in return. He was almost too clean. It only made me more suspicious.

The practicalities of his infidelity were as untraceable as they come. There were no clandestine meetings, or e-mails or texts back and forth confirming where these clandestine meetings would occur. He had a regular session with his masseuse every Tuesday at eleven o'clock, at her office; he was cheating by appointment, which was the perfect cover. No chance photos of his naked body through a hotel window. No fake out-of-town conferences to expose. Other than the cheater, there was only one person who had the evidence I needed, so I made an appointment to see this masseuse myself.

I was confident that given an hour alone with Anna I'd be able to get something useful out of her. Getting stuff out of people was kind of my specialty. Ever since I was a kid people liked to confess to me. At sleep-away camp my friends would call me the Catskill Confessional because of the long, drawn-out letters I received from my home friends chronicling their summertime sins. It's like they forgot that come September I would see them in person and be able to hold them accountable. Not that I ever did; I was never very judgmental.

I arrived for my scheduled massage a few minutes early. It was in a partially converted apartment, not a proper office, though all the necessary framed documentation was on the walls. On the one hand it was legit, on the other the perfect place to cheat. The scenario that Caroline had presented, an affair conveniently divided into weekly seventy-five-minute sessions, was completely plausible. She said that John had first come here under the direction of his physician for back problems. I wondered how many affairs to date had been covered by Obamacare.

A woman leaving the inner sanctum interrupted my thought. I was up next. A few minutes later Anna appeared. I was slightly taken aback to see that she looked close to my age. She reached out a strong hand to greet me. I suddenly felt a bit uncomfortable, as undercover work isn't really my thing. Plus this undercover work meant being naked in front of a stranger. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that I was doing this for Caroline, for all the wives out there whose husbands are screwing the masseuse. I followed Anna into a darkened room that smelled like lilacs. She told me to undress and get up on the table facedown, then left the room again. I kept my thong on, so as not to feel completely vulnerable, and slid under the white sheet. I was glad to be facedown—much easier for me to interrogate her from that direction.

She came back in and turned on a white-noise machine set to ocean waves. I thought about how badly I needed to relax and considered forgetting the investigation, taking this massage just for me and making another appointment for next week. But I thought of poor Caroline. She had told me that today was their anniversary and the thought of smiling and making nice all night was killing her. She said that she was close to just giving up and leaving him without the proof she needed to break the prenup. Twelve years of marriage, and she would leave with half of what he earned as a professor at Columbia. The injustice made me rally.

I came at Anna from every angle, from “So, are you married?” to “Do you feel weird massaging a man?” all the way to “Has a client ever made a pass at you?” She answered no to every question. That's it—no opinions, no elaborations. Just no. She wasn't the chatty type, and it didn't seem like any confession would be forthcoming. As she worked on the knot in my right shoulder I tried to think of questions requiring more than one-word answers. But it was infinitely easier to relax than to concentrate. Done with my shoulders, she put more oil on her hands and came around to the side of the table. She rubbed her hands briskly together and worked on my left hip from above and below. As she did, she pressed her hand into the scar from the emergency C-section I'd had when I gave birth to my twins nearly eight years ago. Within seconds I found myself crying.

She noticed my tears. “I'm sorry,” she said. “Did I hurt you?”

I shook my head. She hadn't at all. And it wasn't the memory of the C-section that made me cry, though remembering the moment when my birthing plans had gone out the window as I was rushed away for surgery had certainly brought tears to my eyes before.

No, I was crying because I suddenly realized that hers were the only hands aside from my own ever to have touched that scar. I had my girls for both of us, Derek and me. I was brave as it was happening, and equally brave during the months of healing that followed. But Derek always looked at my scar with slight distaste, as if the sacrifice had been mine alone. I wished then and I wished now that I'd married the kind of man who would have loved my scar. Who would have traced it with the tips of his fingers before kissing me and telling me that I was beautiful. I don't remember Derek telling me that once after the twins were born. Some scars never heal.

I was silent for the rest of the session, but my mind wasn't. I wondered if I would ever be part of a couple again. I had yet to meet a man that I trusted enough to even show my scar to. I'd had a few flings right after my divorce, but getting close to another man wasn't on my divorce to-do list. That's what I call it. After my divorce I made a list of all the things I'd ever thought of wanting to do when I was married that I never could do. You know, those illicit thoughts that run through the mind of every married woman about things they never got around to before they jumped the broom. I married young, basically going from my parents' home to my marital one. I didn't get much out of my system pre–wedded bliss, and unlike my ex, I wouldn't have dreamed of breaking my vows. My only dream was to have a happy, loving marriage. When that failed, I needed to find an upside, and doing all the things a married woman can't do was the only upside I could think of. And it really did help. For those of my clients whose cases result in divorce, I always recommend the divorce to-do list.

The first step, as I advise all future divorcées, is to sell the engagement ring and take a trip with the proceeds. My ring, a two-and-a-half-carat empire cut, didn't yield as much as I expected—it turned out the ring was as flawed as the man who gave it to me—but when I threw in the diamond wedding band, the spoils of my spoiled marriage got me through the first item on my list: a solo trip to Sicily. There I spent the week with a beautiful Italian, the second item on my list. He didn't speak English, but we managed to communicate just fine. Back home I followed up that decadent week with a couple of one-night stands and a three-month fling with a much younger jazz musician whom I met on his cigarette break (yes, I briefly took up smoking again) outside of Minton's jazz club in Harlem. He played the bass nearly as well as he played me, and I learned that even with all that extramarital practice, Derek wasn't a very good lover. These flings were just for fun, though. I never introduced anyone to my girls, and mostly only saw the men when the girls were with Derek. I didn't need a boyfriend to make me happy, just them—to me the best nights involved the three of us seeing a Broadway musical or even just singing along to one at home in our pajamas. I was happiest when I was with them, and soon I tossed my list in the trash, satisfied that I had sowed my oats.

Concentrating on forming my company as opposed to lasting relationships was a healthy move for me. Many newly divorced women take a different approach. They want to find a new man straightaway. I don't think one way is better than the other. It may seem like my approach renders me the stronger, braver woman, but I'm not so sure. Those women who get right back on the horse seem pretty brave to leave themselves vulnerable again. I couldn't even take off my thong for a masseuse.

My thoughts had distracted me, and before I knew it my time on the table was up. I left the appointment feeling slightly enlightened about myself and completely unenlightened about John Westmont. As I stood by the subway entrance on the corner of 59th and Lex, the tension began to seep back into my neck and shoulders. I called CC, who was actually at the office on a Sunday, to admit my failure. She was comforting and suggested that she take a crack at John Westmont herself. Every now and then, when all else fails and we are sure of someone's infidelity but lacking proof, we resort to an entrapment scenario. I'm not particularly proud of this aspect of our business, but sometimes it's necessary to use a few tricks to catch a rat in the act. We'll usually hire a younger woman for the job, to maximize the temptation factor, but since Anna was close to my age, and since Caroline said that John wasn't the college-coed type, I knew that CC would do for the part. She had played temptress on a few occasions when an older woman seemed to fit the bill. She'd acted in college and was more attractive than most women half her age. She didn't mind doing it, but I wouldn't take her up on it. I knew her husband, who was still out of work and feeling increasingly demoralized, was not a fan of his wife's fake-seducing a stranger, even if it was paying the bills. I can't say I blame him.

I walked down the stairs to the subway, stopping just before the entrance so as not to lose the call. “We'll just hire someone older,” I said understandingly, even though I couldn't remember what it was like to have someone around to care whether I fake-seduced all of the Upper West Side.

“Too bad you don't have the guts,” she taunted. We both knew I didn't. “Hold on!” she said, suddenly sounding alarmed. “Where did you say you were?”

“At the subway station by Bloomingdale's,” I told her, and she gasped.

“So is John Westmont.”

My eyes darted around the subway platform. I couldn't see anyone who looked like the man in the photographs.

“It's packed, but I don't see him,” I said, scanning the crowd. A train came, and nearly everyone on the platform got on. After it pulled away I asked, “Is he still here?”

“Yup,” CC responded. “I bet he's in Bloomingdale's.”

I thought about Caroline, about myself, about all the people being cheated on all over town right at this very moment. All of a sudden it seemed imperative that I find and catch this one cheater today. My adrenaline kicked in and I announced my plan: “I'm going to seduce John Westmont myself.”

“It's a big store, Andie. You're gonna have to find him first.”

“Maybe I can narrow it down. I bet he's buying Caroline an anniversary gift. Trust a cheater to wait until the day of. Just keep your eye on the screen and call me back if he leaves.”

I knew it would take a while, but Derek had the kids tonight—he even had Franny, our dog, so I had nowhere to be. With anniversary gifts in mind, I started my search in the jewelry department. No John Westmont. Figures—he was probably in housewares, buying her a vacuum cleaner. I covered the handbag and perfume departments quickly and headed to the escalator. I knew the store like the back of my hand. I grew up in the suburbs, and Bloomingdale's was the first place in the city my friends and I were allowed to go on our own. It's where I was measured for my first bra and bought my first lip gloss. It really is like no other store in the world. As I made my way up, I told myself that if I didn't find him I'd go get frozen yogurt on seven as a consolation—win-win.

I reached the third floor about twenty minutes into my search. I called CC to check that he was still in the store. Just as she answered, I spotted him.

“I have eyes on him!” I whispered, in full detective mode.

“Keep me in your ear and I'll tell you what to say.”

“I've got this,” I said, and hung up. I wanted to do this sans CC de Bergerac.

John Westmont was standing in the middle of the ladies' dress department with an armful of dresses. He began laying them out on a table shoulder to shoulder as I approached. I thought quickly and came up with my first line.

“That's a lot of dresses. Are you outfitting a black-tie women's basketball team?” I said with a confident smile. I thought it was pretty witty. He looked up, confused.

“Do you work here?” he asked.

I shook my head, having that awkward feeling you get when you speak to a stranger and don't get a warm response.

“Do I know you?”

“I don't think so,” I replied, thinking I might have blown it. My mind raced, trying to think of something to say to cut the weirdness. He seemed to smell the air.

“You smell familiar,” he said, blushing.

Of course I do
, I thought.
I smell like the lavender massage oil that your mistress rubs on you. Cheating dog.
Maybe this would work in my favor, remind him of Anna and sex.

He sheepishly looked down at the dresses. “My anniversary's coming up and I'm trying to buy my wife a dress,” he explained, sighing in a way that seemed heartfelt.

“I can help,” I said.

“Would you?” He seemed relieved. He had no idea that his wife was on to him. This was the part of my job I liked best—knowing something the dishonest spouses didn't.

“Sure, but a dress is a really hard thing to buy for another person. Why don't you get her something she doesn't need to try on, like jewelry?” I said. The whole time I was thinking that this was an odd MO for a philanderer, talking about a gift for his wife. But I do hear that certain women are more attracted to married men, and I guess he had to explain the fact that he was shopping in the women's dress department.

“I know what you mean, but it's our twelve-year anniversary,” he said, as if that explained the need for a dress.

“So?” I asked.

“Oh, so, the twelve-year anniversary is silk. It's a less-known thing than paper or silver, but I looked it up and I thought it was a nice idea.”