The Affair (41 page)

“What do you mean ‘set’?”

“I mean, he never has to work a day in his life. He’s got assets, baby. Everywhere. Stocks. Bonds. Mutual funds. He’s got
money in the Cayman Islands. He’s even got gold bullion.”

I laughed out loud. It all sounded so ridiculous, almost surreal. “You’re kidding, right?”

Diana just stared at me, sober as a gravestone. “They’re hidden somewhere in your humble abode.”

I reeled back in my seat. Gold? Hidden somewhere in my house? I mentally diagrammed every room, every nook. I thought I knew
every square inch of that place, especially since I started cleaning it like a woman possessed, from baseboard to ceiling.
I didn’t even know what gold bullion look like. Bricks? Sticks of margarine? I had no idea. But I planned to find out, even
if I had to rip every floorboard and ceiling tile out with my bare hands. That bastard.

“There are other things you can do now, you know,” Diana continued. “I mean, I’m sure your lawyer will tell you all this,
but you might as well start now, before Roger gets the chance to destroy any evidence.”

I watched Diana and was suddenly filled with a surprising affection for her. She really knew her stuff. I was impressed.

“Your lawyer can help you dig up the hidden assets. And you need to figure out what kind of income Roger pulls in. Trust fund,
income from teaching, royalties, whatever. But while you’re rooting around in his files—and this is critical, baby—you’ve
got to find anything that suggests he spent money on his lovers. Jewelry, clothes, gifts … all that gets deducted from his
portion of the settlement, you understand? You’ve got to really look, okay?”

“Yes, yes, okay already.” I was experiencing information overload. It was all too much. I looked at the clock. 5:30. I’d arranged
to pick up Pete at my in-laws at 7:00
P.M.
Roger supposedly had a meeting with his director. He said he wouldn’t be home until 10:00 at the earliest. Perfect.

I grabbed the yellow pages and found a locksmith with emergency hours. I punched in the number. Asked the guy to meet me back
at my house at 7:30
P.M.
He asked if I’d locked myself out of my car. “No, I want you to change my locks. All of them.” There were five altogether.
Front, deck, basement, the door leading into the garage, and the one leading from the garage into the family room. This would
cost me a thousand bucks at least. But hey, I have gold in my house.

“I’m not so sure that was a good idea,” Diana said.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because you don’t want Roger to know you’re cutting him loose. You need to buy yourself some time now. So you can dig up
information, get to the records before he does.”

I felt queasy. I didn’t want Roger back in the house. “Look,” Diana suggested, “if you’re hell-bent on changing the locks,
go ahead. I don’t blame you. Just tell him you caught him in a lie.”

“Yes,” I interrupted. “Just the other day, in fact. He said he was late because of some accident on the road. I called the
sheriff’s office. There was no accident.”

“That’s it,” said Diana, clapping her hands together. “When he starts pounding on the door, you tell him that. And say you’re
really mad and you don’t want to talk about it. Don’t even mention divorce. Let him think he has a chance with you. Let him
try to weasel his way back into your life. In the meantime, you’ve got to plot your strategy. Nail him to the wall.” Diana’s
eyes flashed. She was really getting into this. She asked me, “Do you have a good lawyer?”

“I’ve got a few in mind. Why? Do you know anyone?”

“Yes. The best.” Diana grabbed the pen and scribbled on my paper. Omar Sweet. “He’s a partner at Epstein Browne. A killer
shark. Exactly the kind of guy you want on your side of the table.” Diana’s fighting spirit was contagious. I was actually
excited about calling
Omar Sweet. I felt hopeful, even powerful. Diana turned toward the mirror and fixed her beret at a jaunty angle.

Then she pulled me into a suffocating embrace. “Now I’ve made my amends. And if there’s anything else I can do, you know where
to call. I’ve got a chain saw. And the Kama Sutra powder.”

I groaned and she giggled. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist.” She gestured toward Eddie. “Hey. The room’s on my dime. You kids have
some fun, okay?” And with that, Diana was gone.

I had to meet the locksmith in an hour and a half. I still had to pick up Petey. And I had to ransack my house! Sex was the
last thing on my mind. But Eddie apparently had other plans. He looked at me with beseeching eyes.

“Come on, love.” He ran a finger slowly up my face, across my lips, and let it linger there. “Let’s not waste this bed. You
have absolutely nothing to lose now.” I felt myself soften under his touch. He was right. I had nothing to lose.

I protested (halfheartedly) while Eddie kissed my neck. “Mmmm. I missed your smell,” he whispered into my hair. “Estée Lauder
Pleasures, right?”

“Eddie, I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

“It’s not a good idea,” he said, now slipping my jacket off my shoulders. “It’s a great idea.”

He pulled something from his back pocket. It was that little book of sex positions Diana had sent us both. I had to laugh
when I saw that Eddie had bookmarked several pages with Post-it notes.

“You can’t imagine how it turned me on to picture you buying this for me. Just picturing you flipping
through the pages, holding it in your hands.” He shook his head like a frisky pony.

I reminded him that Diana bought that book, not me. “True enough,” he said, now working on my blouse, “but I’d rather think
it came from you.” He slipped off the rest of my clothes (with a little help from me, I must admit), then ordered me to sit
on the bed and slipped off my tights. “You’ve been through hell today, honey. Why don’t you just relax and let me take care
of you, okay?”

I watched that sweet face staring up at me and thought, in another life, this man might have been my husband. We were two
damaged souls. We needed each other, in all the healthy and unhealthy ways. I lay back on the bed and let him take care of
me.

Over the next forty minutes or so, he managed to get us into four or five of the positions from that little book. He was tender,
playful, and extravagant in his attentions. Through it all, he declared his love for me.

But I was distracted and, ultimately, never came. Lola Jacobson. Jackie Leland. Dara Rosario. My skull throbbed with images
of every woman my husband screwed, fondled, or kissed. I pictured the computer repairwoman’s head bobbing between his legs.
Knowing Roger, he was probably typing while she serviced him. I thought of the actresses, the counselors. I thought of Alyssa,
and felt the blood drain through me. I suddenly felt cold and achy. I wanted to go home and begin the business of dissolving
my marriage.

Eddie came and eased out of me. He knew I hadn’t climaxed and seemed disappointed. “I just want to make you happy, sweetheart,”
he said, brushing a hair from the corner of my mouth. I loved how he said that word, sweetheart. It’s not a word I particularly
like. Just
looking at it on the page now, it looks so corny, so dated. But coming from his lips, there was always something sexy and
loaded about the word. I could feel his longing in that word.

It was time to go. I dressed quickly while Eddie suggested he help me ransack my house. I was tempted. I wanted him to swoop
down and take care of everything. But I knew this was something I had to do myself. I needed to purge and purify on my own.
And I didn’t want Eddie in the house when Roger started throwing himself against the door, as I knew he would when he discovered
the key didn’t fit. Eddie would undoubtedly beat the crap out of my husband. Frankly, I’d love to see that happen, but I know
it would only hurt me later, when our lawyers start haggling.

I grabbed Eddie for one last, long kiss and ran to the Jeep. On the way home, I punched in Omar Sweet’s number and left a
message on his voice mail. I could tell from his voice he was a hell of a lawyer. He sounded smart and tough—and expensive.

I cringed when I thought of the legal expenses, but if this guy does his job right, money shouldn’t be an issue. I fleetingly
entertained the idea that I might actually wind up a rich woman—not merely comfortable, but actually loaded. I had no idea
what Roger was worth, but I do remember his sister confiding (after a few too many gin and tonics) that the siblings once
considered buying an island off the coast of Spain. My father once estimated that my in-laws probably had close to a hundred
million in assets, maybe more. It seemed impossible. His parents lived so humbly. They wore old clothes, drove an old car,
and never hired anyone to do anything they could do themselves, even if
they didn’t do it particularly well (which explains the windows patched with cardboard).

I picked up Pete from my in-laws, swung by the Burger King drive-through for dinner, and sped home. My heart thrummed as I
prayed that I’d arrive before Roger did. I needed time alone in the house to search, not just for the gold, but for papers
that could help me calculate my husband’s worth. And I’d be on the lookout for anything to suggest Roger had spent money on
any of his lovers.

As I approached the house, I saw that Roger wasn’t there, and I blurted out, “Thank you, God.” Petey asked me, “What are you
thanking God for, Mommy?” and I almost started to cry. Is this what it’s come to? That I thank God for my husband’s absence
so I can tear apart my house? I glanced at Pete in the rearview mirror. His world was about to explode. Only he didn’t know
it yet. Happy New Year, Petey.

The locksmith was a surprisingly bookish young man in an Old Navy sweatshirt. While he worked on the locks, I fed Pete, got
him down for the night, and crept into Roger’s study. The room, which I’d always felt comfortable entering, seemed alien now,
almost dangerous. Twenty-four hours ago, the prospect of opening one of Roger’s drawers wouldn’t have caused heart palpitations,
but now I felt faint as I tugged them open. I was terrified he’d walk in, then reminded myself that he was locked out. I was
still nervous.

I pulled open a drawer of files and rifled through the folders. I didn’t even know what I was looking for. I yanked on another
drawer.

Locked. Damn. Futilely, I pulled at the drawer, then kicked it. I knew that it—whatever the hell “it” was—resided somewhere
in that drawer. Rather than waste
any more effort on the locked drawer, I grabbed a box of Hefty bags and headed for Roger’s closet. I flicked on the light
and sighed. Here, Roger’s obsessive-compulsive inclinations came to life. Cedar hangers were arranged in neat rows, with hooks
all facing toward the wall. Clothes, color-coordinated, ranging from neutrals to black. He’d designated a separate section
for his racquetball clothes: there were soft white cotton polo shirts and gym shorts hung together in sets and a big mesh
bag filled with balled-up white crew socks. Spring and summer garments were stowed away in cedar boxes on the highest shelves.

Oh, how Roger loved his closet! His was twice the size of mine, a walk-in with a vaulted ceiling and window overlooking the
hemlock trees on the side of the house. Mine was tiny by comparison, with no lighting. It barely held more than a season’s
worth of clothes; I had to put some of my stuff in Pete’s closet, and the rest in the basement. The first time we saw the
house, Roger jumped into the bigger closet and said, “I’ve got dibs on this one.” When I made a face, he held up a hand to
silence whatever objections I might have considered expressing. “Don’t even
think
of trying to talk me out of this.” Truth was, I didn’t have much of a case. What did I own, after all? Three pairs of black
pants, six black skirts, a few tops, and a horrible blue plaid dress I bought at Talbot’s that made me look like a rectangle
with legs. And everything I owned wound up in a crumpled ball at the bottom of the closet anyway.

The real estate agent who showed us the house flashed me a confused look. She was a brave old gal: she risked losing the sale
by reminding Roger that “usually the ladies of the house get the bigger closet.” Roger just chuckled and shook his head.

My throat tightened when I saw the violet Jhane Barnes jacket Roger wore during his Alyssa period. I’d never thought to ask
why he felt compelled to dress up for a bunch of loser students at the Learning Attic. Now I knew. He wasn’t dressing up for
a bunch of loser students, just for one whore.

The memory filled me with a manic rage. I pawed wildly at my prissy husband’s clothes, yanking them off hangers, stuffing
them into the trash bags. I heaved the bags down the steps and dragged them into the kitchen, then dumped everything I could
find onto those beautiful garments. First the coffee grinds, then the tuna. I found moldy ricotta cheese, expired yogurt,
and a full bottle of ketchup, and splattered everything over his clothes. I broke eggs onto the Jhane Barnes jacket and marveled
at how lovely the bright yellow yolks looked against the violet knit fabric. I remembered Petey’s paints in the cabinet under
the kitchen sink, and gleefully dumped those in, too. Then came the bleach.

Never in my life had I experienced such gleeful nihilism. I felt no shame, no guilt, no reservations, and no recriminations.
Something shifted inside me. I had my first taste of blood. I wanted more. I opened the door cautiously and checked for Roger’s
van. Except for the howling of the Saint Bernard on the corner, the street was completely still. I scurried out, threw the
bags on the curb, and rushed back in.

Then the phone rang. It was the lawyer, Omar Sweet, returning my call.

As I gave him a frantic synopsis—Roger’s pathological philandering, the money he’s rumored to have amassed and stashed away,
my decision to file for divorce—I listened for Roger downstairs. When he realized his key wouldn’t open the door leading from
the
garage to the family room, he’d undoubtedly ring the bell. And when I didn’t answer the door, he would pound and yell. I prayed
he wouldn’t smash the windows or wake up Petey.