The Hazards of Hunting While Heartbroken (38 page)

I push through an uneventful Monday back at work by forcing myself to get organized. I spend all available downtime between meetings and calls ruthlessly purging and re-cataloging old files, and sending boxes to off-site storage. I even disinfect my keyboard and phone by drenching them with the better part of a bottle of Lysol that Carol keeps in the kitchen for her intermittent germ-phobic episodes. I do all this because I’m not ready to face another break up. Even if it’s the right thing.

My body feels as if all my nerves have sprouted out through my skin. It doesn’t help that Max forbade me to mention anything about the investigation to my family, so of course they’re thinking, poor Zoë—she’s screwed it up for herself again. As Laurie rather insensitively put it, it might have been nice for me if I could have been the dumper, instead of the dumpee, for a change. Dad came to my defense and said I did just that, by turning down Oscar’s proposal. It sure doesn’t feel that way, though. Not even three solid sun-filled days at the pool did anything to improve my mood. I read the same page of my book about a thousand times without following the story at all, listened to sad songs on my iPod, put on a smile for my niece and nephew, and generally felt more pathetic than I thought imaginable. At night, I lay awake and listened to the ticking of the old wind-up clock on the nightstand and practically felt the bags forming under my eyes.

I thought it would be a relief to get out from under the parental roof and back to my regular life, but instead I feel empty. And stupid. I’d never felt so much like a failure as I did last night, when I admitted myself to the apartment chosen by Brendan and bought by Oscar. Not only can’t I get it right with men, it’s starting to hit me that I’m pretty lousy at taking care of myself, too. Which makes me feel stupider. I’m making more money now than ever before, so whatever the reason I can’t get out of my own way, it’s not financial.

As a matter of fact, the only bright spot I have right now is my job. I don’t want to go home when everyone else starts clearing out shortly after seven, but I’ve got no better offer, and I don’t have my gym stuff with me. I can’t even do any more work on the Silverblum wish list, because they’re still scheduling initial meetings with the first three lawyers I recruited for them. They were basically tripping over each other’s wingtips to secure an audience with Walker Smythe.

It’s pouring cold fall rain outside, and I’m drenched to the skin halfway home from the subway, even though I remembered my favorite oversized yellow umbrella. At least the weather matches my mood.

Oscar is waiting at my door. I’m rarely speechless. It’s not a trait that would serve me well in my chosen profession, but he’s so unexpected, and I’m not sure if he’s here to fight or make up. I can’t even form a hello.

“Can I come upstairs?” he asks. He’s soaked, too, despite carrying a golf umbrella.

I nod, completely unsure of whether I should be ecstatic or annoyed to see him.

Safely inside my apartment, we shed our sopping coats. He’s waiting for me to speak first. “What do you want?” I ask, abruptly. My voice sounds edgier than usual.

“I’m sorry I put you on the spot. The weekend didn’t go the way I’d planned. Not even close. We’d be lounging in the Caribbean right now if it had. I cleared my calendar, which was no small feat. And even though I should have thought twice about asking you at your parents’ dinner table, I’ve got to say, I’m a bit stunned you turned me down.”

He’s apologizing, in his own way, but it irks me that he didn’t stop to consider that I have a job and a life, too. Even if nothing else was wrong, I couldn’t have blown off work to go to Anguilla for the week without notice. Carol would have told me not to bother coming back. But is that enough of a reason to slam the door in Oscar’s face? I like that he’s successful and confident. Whether or not he focused on my end of the logistics, he did plan to clear his schedule to be with me. Which also might mean he’s up to nothing sinister. If he’s involved in some massive illegal enterprise, he probably can’t check out of his life for over a week. Besides, he’s so careful about hiding his past. Why would he risk the scrutiny that would result if he got caught committing a crime? I must have misunderstood something that’s none of my business.

The little voice in my head, who’s been so conflicted all weekend, barks at me to stop making silly rationalizations. The FBI would not be involved if the allegations weren’t extremely serious. Oscar probably flew to the Caribbean without me this weekend, strolled into a bank, and deposited that enormous check with his Andorran passport. A surprise honeymoon would have just improved his cover story. Instead of beating myself up, I should be glad I was bright enough—or lucky enough—to detect a problem. At least I wasn’t blindsided by the police banging on the door at midnight. They would have hauled Oscar away, and left me in the bed, scrambling to cover myself and make sense of what just happened. Alone.

“Zoë, say something. Are we okay?”

“Yeah, we’re okay.” I manage a smile. He doesn’t need to know that he’s on double secret probation.

“So okay that I can spend the night?”

“Of course.”

The little voice in my head groans and scolds me for thinking below my belt.

I silently snap back that she’s got it wrong. Now that I’ve opened the briefcase and spoken to Max, I want a look at Oscar’s computer. If he’s involved in something unsavory, I want to see for myself. Maybe because it would give me a sense of control over how it all ends. She sighs and mutters something along the lines of, “
Okay, Mata Hari
.”

The little voice shuts up when she sees I can’t bring myself to have make-believe make up sex with Oscar. I tell him my period came early and he falls asleep before Jon Stewart comes on.

Angela’s email hits my BlackBerry during the first commercial break. Claudio took her to Pastis, and she broke the news before their table was ready, over an untouched glass of Veuve Clicquot. She says at first he looked confused, then he smiled and gave her a huge hug, right in front of everyone, and ordered himself a scotch, which he doesn’t normally drink. She thinks the news began to set in an hour or so later, when the waiter cleared the soup, because he started to get a bit white in the face. It took him until the arrival of the dessert menu to ask if she’d thought about what she was planning to do. She told him she wanted to have it, and he said his family would insist they get married. As he took care of the check, he suggested that Angela take a few days to consider if that’s what she really wants.

I write back: “Glad you told him. It must be a relief, at least somewhat. You don’t have to marry him because his parents would expect it. Or because of whatever yours would want. You don’t have to do anything because of anyone, actually. I’d give him a day or two to digest the bombshell, see if he’s in or out, and go from there.”

I scroll back through my reply before hitting send. It’s a sudden, almost seismic role reversal for us. Angela usually dispenses the advice that I eagerly accept. It feels strange, and also kind of good, to be in the opposite role.

An epiphany, which I imagine by definition is supposed to come as a beautiful illumination, instead hits me like a blinding flood of search lights, as soon as Oscar gets out of bed to leave shortly after six in the morning. Even if, as I’ve been hoping against all reason, Oscar hasn’t done anything illegal, something is not right. In this rare moment of pre-dawn clarity, I concede to myself that the primary problem could be one of several things.

The most obvious possibility is that, after our first couple of dates, Oscar hasn’t much cared what I think about anything. He’s lavished me with attention, but made no attempt to solicit my opinion on us, or where we’re going. He kind of steam rolls ahead, certain his chosen course will be right. Some people might say it’s old-fashioned, charming and romantic, but now, in the absence of any mind-altering postcoital glow, I think it’s off-putting. It’s like Oscar has this slot in his life to fill, he’s decided to place me in it, and he’s assuming I will go along with all of it, happily.

Another possibility I consider as I hoist myself up, fish my slippers from under the bed, and pad to the kitchen to make coffee, is that maybe we had too much spark and not enough substance. Which would explain why my initial suspicions revolved around the possibility of another woman, despite a complete absence of evidence of one’s existence. I imagined he had somebody somehow superior to me, who could give him whatever it was I lacked. Perhaps our initial connection wasn’t much more than a physical one, we tried to pretend it was more, and now it’s run its course. Which I guess would be the easiest scenario to deal with, if he hadn’t just presented me with an apartment, not to mention the ring I rejected over the weekend. There’s no way it was worth less than $25,000.

I wait for the coffee to brew before letting my brain contemplate the worst case scenario. Oscar might truly be leading a double life. I’ve watched enough tabloid television, particularly in the weeks right after the Brendan break-up, to know that it happens. Some criminals look like criminals, but many others fool everyone, sometimes for decades. Everyone has seen those interviews with neighbors, who say they’re shocked, they had no idea. That could be Oscar. Or all this could be my imagination running amok. Still, it’s easier to wrap my brain around the more sinister possibility after seeing the check for half a million dollars and the extra passport.

And if I’m convinced he’s
capable
of something so reprehensible, I suppose I have my answer, whether he’s actually guilty or not. It’s time for the two of us to part ways. As if the other, more common reasons for moving on aren’t enough.

By the time I reach to refill my coffee, it hits me like a ton of bricks. I’m not even sad about the looming break up. Disappointed, yes, but nowhere near devastated. What I feel, more than anything, is an insistent curiosity. I need to know whether Oscar is up to something rotten. I’m not sure why, if I’m planning to cut him out of my life. Maybe it’s a desire to know if I’ve once again grossly misjudged a romantic interest. Or maybe it’s mere, cheap, garden variety fascination with the criminally seedy. Or a little of both. Either way, it means I can’t give him the it’s-not-you-it’s-me speech quite yet.

That night, I lie awake into the wee hours while Oscar snores softly beside me in his king size bed with the luxurious Pratesi sheets I’ll probably never experience again. At a quarter to three, I slip out, wrap myself in the fluffy pink bathrobe he bought me a few weeks back, and fish his wallet out of his pants pocket. My heart feels like it’s about to burst through my ribs as I remove the computerized security card that generates a new password every few minutes. I replace the wallet and slink down the dark hallway into his study. It takes what feels like five minutes to slide the door shut without a sound. I tiptoe across the room and switch on the desk lamp before settling into the leather chair and moving the mouse. The screen lights up and asks for a password. I type in the twelve digit code from the card and Oscar’s desktop pops up. The Internet Explorer history shows he checked three email accounts yesterday: his work one, his Gmail, which I use most of the time, and a Hotmail account. I click on that one and hold my breath. I can hear my heart thumping.

The computer thinks for a second. It can’t possibly be this simple.

Except it is. “Welcome, TS45JQ7!” flashes on the screen. “You have no unread messages.”

I freeze for a second and listen. No sound, other than the white noise hum of the heater. I grab a pen and scrawl the login name on my left palm. I exhale and click on his inbox, which is empty. The Drafts folder, however, contains 127 messages. The first shows $4,500 hitting some bank account. The second shows a $7,300 deposit into a different account. There are no transaction comments or details listed, other than today’s date.

I keep reading. There are dozens of emails showing various amounts between $1,000 and $9,999 entering and leaving various accounts, all today. I start to do the math in my head, but the numbers get staggering.

I scroll down to the messages dated yesterday and the day before, and count twenty-three, which seems like a lot of emails to have in progress.

They’re all innocuously titled and many have unnamed attachments. The first several contain short cryptic missives, like “Units 7347-7353 transferred to residence BT. Confirming 23:45 travel 12/12,” and “Units 8413 and 8414 from KL to BH 12/14 at 4:50.” I have no idea what I’m reading, but its appears unrelated to Oscar’s work in advertising. I open the first attachment. The PDF displays several pages of naked full body photos of girls, most Asian, but some white, each staring listlessly at the camera and holding a card with a number. At least two of them can’t be very much older than my niece. I feel vomit creeping up my throat as I hurry to click the message shut and pray the image won’t be seared in my mind forever.

With shaky hands, I click on sent items and trash, but both are empty. The only other messages in the account are spam ads for cheap Cialis in the Bulk Mail folder.

I click back on the Drafts folder and mark all the messages as unread. I’m signing out when the door swings open.

Oscar stands in the doorway, looking especially imposing in the dim lighting. “What the hell are you doing in here?”