The Affair (4 page)

On the other hand, Betsy could be viciously sarcastic. Maybe she was just playing with me. I e-mailed her back: “Are you kidding?”
She must have been on-line just then because the phone rang a moment later. “Not on your life.” Her voice was hushed. Her
kids must have been in the room. “You go, girl!” (Now that this hip urban expression has finally made it to Betsy’s prim hamlet
in suburban Iowa, “You go, girl” has, shall we say, lost some of its appeal.)

She couldn’t talk: Child No. 4 was wailing in the background. But after I hung up the phone, my old friend’s exhortation stayed
with me. With good Betsy’s blessing, the possibility of taking Eddie to bed felt tantalizingly real.

’Til next time,

Wound up having lunch with Eddie today. He jumped into the elevator just as the doors were closing. “Mind if I join you for
lunch?” No one else was in the elevator. I could feel myself flush. “Sure.” Truth is, I hate eating alone. It could have been
anyone and I would have said yes. (I’m aware that I sound as if I’m rationalizing now.) I had the sudden impulse to hit the
emergency stop
button and pin him against the wall. Judging by the look on his face, I think he was thinking the same thing.

We found a quiet booth in the back of Peking Palace. It felt so illicit sitting back there. Eddie pulled a little box out
of his coat pocket. “Got something for you,” he said, smiling. I looked at his beaming face and I felt… I don’t know how to
put this …

I just felt this overwhelming pity for him. Yes, I’ve imagined slipping my hand inside his briefs. Yes, I’ve even concocted
complicated stories in which his wife and my husband just happen to be on the same plane, which tragically explodes in flight.
Yes, he makes every nerve ending in my body come alive just by walking into the room.

But I never thought he’d actually give me presents. Gift giving comes with a relationship. We don’t have a relationship. Or
do we? Do I want him to love me? Or just lust for me? Do I want him to be my second husband, or my first lover?

So I take the box in my hand. I shake it. I try to smile. How could he know me well enough to buy me something I’d like? And
what’s he doing buying me presents on his plant-guy salary? I open it and pray it’s not jewelry. I look. Oh no. It’s a tiny
brass bust of Sigmund Freud.

Poor Eddie. Does he think all therapists are Freudians? I’ve never been especially fond of Freudian theory (especially that
penis envy nonsense). I could see Eddie looking at me with a hopeful, expectant look on his face. He so badly wanted to please
me. I realized then: he’s really falling for me. I don’t want that. I don’t want his adoration. I want his body. I don’t want
to see Eddie as a puppy. I want him as a wolf.

After lunch, I ran into Diana in the rest room. We’re both fixing our makeup in the mirror. With her trademark arched eyebrow
she says, “So how’s your garden stud?” I tried not to let her see the terror on my face. What, exactly, does she know? Then
she says, “Has he shown you his hose yet?” I tried to sound light. “Good one, Diana. But you know I only have eyes for Roger.”
She smirked but I left before she could say anything else.

What’s really nerve-racking is that this woman is coming for dinner in six days! If she’s like this when she’s sober, what
is she likely to say after she’s had a little wine?

’Til next time,

The night I’d been dreading for weeks is finally over. I feel strafed. Almost everything that could have gone wrong, did.
Pete woke up from his nap with a fever. My in-laws were supposed to take him for the night but he was so miserable I couldn’t
bear to send him away. He spent most of the evening in my arms, sweaty and irritable, while I labored to reach around him
with my fork. My period hit in the middle of dinner and leaked through my pants and onto the upholstered chair (I don’t think
anyone noticed but I almost died when I saw the stain). I got my foot tangled up in the Christmas tree lights and pulled the
tree down (Roger caught it before it hit the floor but two glass ornaments smashed).

But none of this compared to the agony of having
Diana in my dining room for three and a half hours. Diana is what I call a “nonporous surface.” Every conversation is strictly
one-way. She can talk about herself ad nauseam but has zero interest in other people, except to the extent that they have
something to offer—if you can get her a courtside ticket to the basketball game, she’s your best friend.

Worse than her self-absorption is her sadism. As I’m serving the salad she says, “These greens remind me … have you told Roger
about your new friend?” I froze.

“Which new friend is that, Diana?” Roger looked up quizzically, midbite.

“You know, your
friend.”
I tried hard to seem confused. After a long, painful pause she said: “Maggie Belky, the new social worker. Nice girl.” Roger,
uncharacteristically, must have been paying attention, because he said, “What does that have to do with greens?” Diana looked
at me, smiling. “I don’t know. Just some weird train of thought, I guess.”

It was like this all night. She’d gesture toward the potted azalea on the kitchen counter and say, “Your plant doesn’t look
so hot. Anyone you can call for expert advice?” Or, “Can you recommend a good landscaper?”

After she’d finished off the bottle of wine, she wrapped her arms around Roger’s waist and told me, “You take care of my Roger,
you hear? If I’d had any brains I would have grabbed him when we were juniors at Penn. I was such an idiot.” Roger blushed
and gently extracted himself from her grip. He moved to my side and muttered something lighthearted. I felt a wave of guilt
as I contemplated his loyalty. Diana finally left at 11. I practically had to shove her out the door.

As I loaded up the dishwasher I remembered that
next week is the office Christmas party. Everyone’s invited, including service staff (computer tech people, the coffee lady,
and, yes, Eddie). Significant others are also invited, but Roger hates these things so I usually go alone. Just then a song
came on the radio, a song about a furtive kiss, the flicker of a tongue, an affair. I put another plate in the dishwasher.

’Til next time,

The Christmas party was everything I’d hoped and feared it would be. Eddie and I made small talk most of the night. Diana
trapped us by the buffet. Beer in one hand, unlit cigarette in the other. “You know that song,” she started, hooking a painted
fingernail into my sweater. “Oh, you know that great Bonnie Raitt song. I just love her, don’t you?” My mind clicked through
every Bonnie Raitt song I knew.

Which one could she possibly be thinking of?

Then I realized. Oh no. Not
that
one. “People are talking …” Diana began to sing. “That’s right, Valerie and Eddie, they’re talking about you,” she crooned,
lounge lizard style.

I could feel a stinging wave of heat pass through me. Eddie, on the other hand, seemed completely unruffled. He smiled and
raised his beer. “Diana, I think you missed your calling.” She curtsied and sidled up to me. “He’s a peach, kid.” She paused
and looked me in the eye. “But then again, you already have a peach at home, now, don’t you?”

Some peach. Roger has said barely four words to me in over a week. We sleep back to back, without even a perfunctory good-night
kiss. He is animated and happy when Pete is in the room, but when he’s alone with me he seems to die by degrees. Our marriage
is in a free fall. So am I.

It was during this gloomy contemplation that I felt a warm hand on my arm. “Meet me in the stairwell,” he said. I’d never
seen him so serious. My heart felt like the engine on my old Mustang, racing so hard and fast I thought it might explode.
When I got there he was sitting on the stairs. Even in my crazed state I could step back for a moment and admire him. God,
he is sexy. And so big. Everything about him (as far as I can see) is just so deliciously big. His neck. His arms. His legs.
All muscle. When I’m near him I just want to curl into him. Roger is so pale and slight sometimes I think I’d have to protect
him if we ever got attacked by muggers. With Eddie, I feel so sheltered. It feels so unfamiliar and so good.

“You look beautiful tonight.” I could feel him taking me in. “I have something for you.” He had nothing in his hands. I was
confused. He stood up and moved close to me. He smelled of beer and Eternity. I thought I was going to pass out. He dipped
down and put his mouth on my cheek.

A kiss.

“Don’t look so scared,” he said, touching a finger to my cheek. The spot that he’d kissed felt warm and moist. “We’re friends,
right?”

“Of course,” I answered, unsure of where he was going with this.

“Well, friends kiss, don’t they?” he asked, smiling
wryly. “It’s not like I kissed you on the lips or anything.” My lips tingled at the thought.

He held out a hand. “Friends?”

I reached out and shook his hand. “Yeah. Friends.” My voice wavered. My hand felt scorched. He started to pull me toward him—I
felt an almost imperceptible tug—then he stopped. He must have sensed my terror. I wanted it so desperately. I was not ready.

I have replayed that kiss a hundred—no, a thousand—times since then. The office has been closed for the holidays. I’m almost
afraid to go back.

’Til next time,

I am sitting here in the same clothes I’ve worn all day, the same clothes I slept in, sweatpants so rank I can smell them.
I haven’t showered in forty-eight hours because I haven’t been able to carve out the six minutes I need to hop in the shower,
blast my hair with the dryer, and slap on some makeup. Instead, I’ve spent the last forty-eight hours preparing for this most
joyous of holidays. I’ve assembled Pete’s new Fisher-Price workshop (Roger, as usual, pleaded mechanical incompetence), I’ve
hauled out the Christmas dishes and set the table. I picked up the Santa costume Roger insists on renting every year (though
vanity prohibits him from faking the fat belly, which invariably leads Pete to ask, “Mommy, what’s wrong with Santa?”).

’Til next time,