The Trophy Wife (42 page)

“I
am
sorry. Truly, sorry.” His voice was choking with remorse.

“But that didn't kill our marriage,” Emily went on. “I mean, it was damn tough to take, but it wasn't something directed at me. I figured that you had been offered a smashing piece of ass to play with and that it was too much to pass up. You were tempted and you gave in. You were weak, not evil. You weren't perfect, but I've never demanded perfection from myself and I certainly wasn't going to demand it from you. I thought you'd have your fling, be crushed with guilt, and try to sneak back into the house. And I wasn't going to make it tough for you. Just let you know that I knew so that we both wouldn't be living a lie. Accept your apology, just as I have now, and then try to get on with our lives.”

“But, then … what?” Walter wasn't sure whether she was leaving him or coming back.

“Our marriage didn't die because you were screwing Angela,” Emily said, using her name for the first time. “It ended because you were screwing me.”

He was bewildered. His hands came up in an imploring gesture. “I don't think I understand …”

“You decided that I wasn't good enough for you. You wanted to trade me in and start all over again with a new model. You decided I wasn't flashy enough to capture the attention
you
deserved. I wasn't smart enough to mix it up with the circle of friends
you
belonged in. I didn't speak all the languages of
your
global empire. I wasn't hot enough to make everyone envious of
you.
I wasn't good enough in the sack to satisfy
your
needs. You wanted a goddamned trophy to stand in your house as a tribute to what a great man
you
had become and I just wasn't big enough, or shiny enough to fit on the pedestal
you
had built.”

Emily was losing her calm veneer as she recited the litany of abuse. She heard a shrill, nagging tone in her voice that
she couldn't stand. She stopped, took a breath, and then drank from her wineglass. When she felt composed, she continued.

“You stopped thinking about
us
, Walter, which is what a marriage is supposed to be about. You discarded me and started to think only about
you.
And that's not a marriage, that's an arrangement. I don't think either of us should settle for an arrangement.”

“I never stopped thinking about you,” Walter protested.

“Oh, I'm sure I was on your mind,” Emily agreed. “You must have been sick wondering what I would say, how much I would demand, whether I'd go away quietly or whether I'd kick up a fuss. But face the truth. All those thoughts were really thoughts about how I would affect
your
happiness. You see what I mean. Planking Angela wasn't nice. But throwing me on the garbage heap was the real killer. It wasn't sex that killed our marriage. It was selfishness. When I understood that, then I understood that I was all alone and that I better start taking care of myself.”

An automobile horn beeped discreetly outside the front door. Emily took a final sip from her glass, set it down, and stood. “That's my car, Walter. I'd appreciate it if you gave me a hand with the bags.”

He followed her through the kitchen toward the front door. “I never traded you in like an old car. How can you say I threw you on the garbage heap?”

She stopped when she reached the luggage. “Probably not in so many words. But what did you intend for me after you rode off into the sunset with your new bride? Was I supposed to be thrilled with alimony checks? Was I supposed to devote my life to tennis? Become the queen of the singles bars? We had a life together and then you went off and found another life for yourself. Now I have to find one or else I'll be as good as dead.”

“But I want our life together,” he said. “Angela is gone. There is no one else.”

“She's gone?” Emily questioned. Walter's glum silence confirmed what she already knew. “I'm sorry to hear that, Walter. I can only hope she was wonderful in bed and that
she did wonderful things for your ego. Because, God knows, you certainly have paid top dollar.”

She stepped out the door, leaving Walter to struggle with the luggage. Emily waited by the car door until the driver had lifted the bags into the trunk and slammed the lid. When he was getting back behind the wheel, she turned to the confused, slumped, totally defeated man beside her.

“Good-bye, dear.” She kissed him on the cheek.

“Emily, please don't go. I've lost everything. I have nothing left to fall back on. What's going to happen to me?”

She settled into the rear seat. “Don't give me set-up lines like that, Walter. Because I really do give a damn.”

She pulled the door closed. The car rolled down the Belgian block driveway, leaving him standing alone by the open front door.

A
NGELA STRETCHED OUT ON
the hot tiles along the edge of the pool and peered over the top of her sunglasses to get the attention of the waiter. He circled behind the chaise lounges so as not to cast a shadow on any of the guests and then dropped to one knee beside her.

“Ahh, Signorina. Be careful. The sun is very high. Your skin…”

She smiled. “I don't suppose I could get you to rub some oil on me.”

The young man tried to look serious. “I think you may need it. You're already getting a little pink.”

“Where you're looking, I've always been pink,” she said, making a point of following his glance down under her bikini top. “And on your way back, could you bring a bottle of mineral water. Ice cold.”

“Of course, and some extra ice.” He looked as if he might walk on the water in his haste to fetch the suntan lotion.

The hotel was built into a cliff on the Amalfi Coast, with rooms above each other so that every guest would have an unobstructed view of the Mediterranean. The swimming pool actually projected beyond the cliff line and had no visible edge to contain the water. Instead, the water flowed over the top on the seaward side, dropping into a catch trough that was there to keep sun worshipers from falling off the cliff. From inside the pool, it seemed as if the water were flowing gently into the sea, which was actually five hundred feet below.

She glanced through the door that opened out from the small, intimate lobby. It was empty, as it had been for the past hour. There was just the desk clerk, leaning his elbows on the counter, trying to appear alert while actually sleeping. Angela tasted the first hint of apprehension backing up into her throat.

Today was supposed to be the day. This pool, at this hotel, at exactly twelve noon. An exclusive hotel, with a reputation for assuring the total privacy of its guests. An international clientele, with no particular loyalty to the laws of any country. A view that looked down on the world's finest watering holes and on a sea that led everywhere. It was the perfect place for two multimillionaires to begin their lives of luxury. But so far, Angela was the only one who had arrived.

She checked her watch and found that it was after two. Had something gone wrong? She was about to run through the list of all the possible legal and physical disasters, but then the smiling waiter appeared, the oil and water in his hands, the towel draped over his arm. He was trying to disguise his anticipation with the bored professionalism of a physician.

He unhooked the clasp of her bra and pushed the straps off her shoulders. When he had oiled her the day before, he had managed to stretch two minutes of work into nearly half an hour. Angela had found the massage exciting and his suggestions of why he should visit her room amusing. Heck, maybe she should invite him to Sardinia.

His hands and his voice began having their effect. She felt herself relaxing into a dark, hypnotic abyss, soothed by the heat of the sun and the touch of a man's hands moving under her arms. Without meaning to, she let herself drift off to sleep.

She was awakened not by a sound, but by the silence. His melodious voice had gone still, making her aware of the water tumbling over the pool's edge. And his touch was different, more medicinal and less arousing. Angela blinked her eyes opened and was reassured by the shadow that was still hovering over her and spilling out across the tiles. But then she was suddenly aware that the shape of the shadow was different. She rolled over abruptly, clutching the untied bra against her breasts.

“Ah ha! It's you. Thank god, I was beginning to worry.”

Emily sat back on her heels. “You didn't look terribly worried to me.”

Angela sat up, reaching back to reclasp the top. Emily
stood and walked to a table, set out in the shade of a tall pine. She took off her wide-brimmed straw hat and tossed it on the table, smoothed the colorful skirt she wore under a white, sleeveless blouse, and sat. Angela wandered up next to her, pulling on a beach robe.

“Want some bottled water?” she asked.

“Seems weak for a celebration,” Emily said. “Maybe a bottle of champagne.”

Angela smiled. “Why not? We can afford it.” She signaled to the waiter and sent him to find the best bottle in the house. Then she settled next to Emily.

“You were absolutely right,” Emily said, after panning the horizons of the view. “Totally spectacular.” Then she asked, “Had you been here before?”

“Just by way of the Internet,” Angela said. “It looked great when I suggested it, but it was really incredible when I first stepped out of the lobby. As soon as I saw it, I knew we had picked the perfect place to meet.”

“Absolutely perfect,” Emily agreed.

The waiter raced toward them, carrying a dark bottle with shiny tinfoil surrounding the cork and dragging a chrome-plated ice bucket. He set two glasses in front of them, and began twisting the wire off the cork.

“Does he have time to wait on anyone else?” Emily asked.

“I try to keep him busy. In fact, I thought I might bring him with me for a few months. I could use someone who speaks the language.”

“Get a phrase book. You won't get attached to it, so it will be easy to throw away when you move on to France.” Emily raised her glass and held it to the sun so that it came alive with color. “Where do the bubbles go?” she asked.

“Wherever they want,” Angela said. Then she gestured a toast. “Congratulations. You really pulled it off.”

“It had its moments,” Emily admitted.

Angela reached for the bucket to pour refills, but the waiter appeared almost magically and did the honors. “You know,” Angela said as soon as he had backed away from the table,
“you might want one of your own. I could ask if he has a friend.”

Emily laughed. “I have underwear that's older than he is. You'd have to ask if he has an uncle.”

They drank again and then Emily settled back with her face in the sun. “It had its moments,” she repeated softly. “It seemed so simple, but I doubt if I could ever do it again.”

“I'm amazed you could do it all,” Angela added in genuine admiration. “When you first came to me, I thought you were up to some sort of trick. Something to break up Walter and me and get your husband back. And then, when I realized you were serious, I thought you were crazy. I mean, to have yourself kidnapped…”

“It had to be that way. It had to be set up so that even if everything went wrong, I would be in the clear.”

Angela remembered their first meeting when Emily had suddenly appeared at her apartment. She had expected hysteria and then threats. Instead, she had listened to a very orderly presentation of how she could have everything she wanted, without having to put up with unwanted affections and submit to the tyranny of sexual harassment. By working together, they could force Walter to rob his own bank and then turn the money over to them.

Angela had picked holes in the plot, only to learn that Emily had already stitched them closed. How could they hire kidnappers? They wouldn't know where to find those kinds of people. Emily had the answer. Her charitable work involved her with many desperate people. She had already identified a team of petty crooks who would do the actual kidnapping and she had just reviewed the file on a woman con artist who could be persuaded to mind the victim and keep her comfortable and safe. “We had never met,” Emily explained. “But her record showed an absolute genius for making money without ever doing anything violent that might attract attention. Most of the judges she appeared before had decided she was harmless and dismissed die charges.”

Angela had looked at it from every angle. Emily was the one who would be in danger, while she would have very little
to lose. And yet she would be getting half the reward. It was too good to be true. And things that seemed too good to be true had a way of turning out that way.

“You remember that at first I didn't like the idea,” Angela said.

Emily nodded. “I remember. I thought that maybe you really were in love with Walter. I was suddenly worried that I might be cutting my own throat.”

“
You
were worried.” Angela laughed. “All I could think of was that you were the scorned woman, and that
hell hath no fury.
I kept trying to figure out exactly what fury you were planning for me.”

“What convinced you?” Emily wondered.

Angela thought. “Walter, I suppose. He kept telling me what a wonderful person you were. Gradually, I found that I liked you. Besides, I really didn't have much in the way of choices.”

Emily was surprised. “No choices? I thought you were the rising star of the banking world.”

Angela laughed sarcastically. “I was, as long as I went along with Walter. But if I had told him the truth and turned him down, he would have been too embarrassed to keep me around. He wouldn't have wanted to see me every day, knowing that I didn't worship at his shrine. Sooner or later, he would have found some way to get rid of me. Something nice, like the Paris branch, or an office in Hawaii. But something distant and dead-end.”