Unfaithful (13 page)

Tokyo City Hall, with a height of 800 feet, is located in Shinjuku-ku, a two-tiered tower design paying homage to Notre Dame in Paris. The second tallest building in Tokyo, only behind Tokyo Tower, an Eiffel Tower replica, and at fifty feet taller than its Parisian counterpart, the world’s tallest self-supporting steel structure. This, Olivia muses, would be fascinating to someone who gave a shit right now. Sadly, she is not in that camp. Far from it, in fact.

She and Ryan find themselves on the forty-seventh floor, high above the city, in a lounge area decorated in shades of gray and black. All the furniture is white supple leather over aluminum or steel frame. Candles flicker, providing the only light. Outside, a heavy downpour obliterates the normally unobstructed floor-to-ceiling view. Now, there’s only gray—inside and out. The room feels cold and sanitized.

Their host is Tetsuo Kuriowa, the VP and general manager of business development for NTI. He is a thin, wiry man, bespectacled, with an affinity for Rin cigarettes. Over sushi, fresh sashimi, and green tea, he pontificates about the architectural history of Japan, all the while waving his smoke over a shock of blue-black hair. Ryan and Olivia listen intently, sitting opposite each other, their eyes on the rest of the entourage, making minimal eye contact with each other. They barely spoke during the 14 hours in the air. Ryan slept most of the way; Olivia read, worked, and watched several DVDs.

Ryan sighs as he reaches for his third green tea. Anorexic attendants in dull gray uniforms are there to refresh his cup. He produces a weak smile for the one who attends to him and takes a sip while pondering the situation here. The good news is that the NTI folks have been appeased—at least for the short term. Olivia, he has to admit, has done an excellent job of schmoozing with the higher ups. They have been convinced that the problem with the chipsets has been nearly eliminated—a simple bug. Olivia is quick
not
to call it a design defect; defect suggests larger implications. This, she assured the senior staff, was an annoying bug…nothing more. The production runs should commence again within a day; NTI should expect their first delivery by courier shortly thereafter.

Ryan’s job has been to monitor the situation from his cell phone and Wi-Fi capable iPaq, and report back to NTI’s chief technology officer, who will undoubtedly brief the president. Ryan has been on the horn with Dennis every hour on the hour, and checking in with his own staff to get the unbiased, unfiltered reports. The news has been good. True to form, as usual, Olivia is indeed correct. A design bug, something that Dennis’ engineers uncovered about ten hours into their examination, and a quick fix, with much help from Ryan’s team. Chinny is standing by to receive the mods via FTP, which should take no more than an hour. Afterwards, they will be QCed and then programmed into the line; and the first chips are set to roll off by daybreak, fingers crossed. Ryan says a silent prayer of thanks. Now if only his personal life can be sewn back together as quickly.

Dinner comes to a close about thirty minutes later. The elevator ride to the lobby is swift. Most of Kuriowa’s entourage follows them down, so there is zero opportunity for discussion in the cramped steel quarters. A car service is waiting outside to take them back to the Dai-ichi Hotel Tokyo, located next to the renowned Ginza district and walking distance from the Imperial Palace. The ride should take no more than twenty minutes; instead, it takes close to fifty due to maddening traffic and the inclement weather. Olivia and Ryan make small biz talk, and a quick debrief with Rod on speakerphone as the rain pummels the streets and their vehicle. Ryan’s head lays gently on the leather headrest, his eyes attempting to focus on vibrant neon that whizzes by. Soon, he is seeing without really seeing, his mind projecting images onto his retinas as the drumming of the rain soothes him. He is thinking of the three women in his life: his wife, Carly; his lover, Reese; and his best friend, Olivia, who sits silently beside him checking voice mail messages.

When they first boarded the plane, he was still waiting for an opportunity to talk to Olivia—to really talk, get back to the way things were, if that was indeed possible. There was a sense of hope that lofted him as the Boeing 777 lifted off from Dulles; this romanticized view that all would be forgiven—that somewhere over the Pacific, Olivia would gaze longingly at him the way she did six months ago—back when she thought of him as beautiful.

Indeed, Olivia had called him beautiful once. Ryan smiles now at the remembrance.

But all of that evaporated the moment Olivia settled into her business class seat, retrieving her laptop and legal pad, her body language making it perfectly clear that she had no interest in conversing with him on anything other than work.

Now, 48 hours later, Ryan’s view of Olivia has changed. She no longer commands the same level of respect. Less than an hour ago, as he watched her grasping a piece of sashimi gingerly between chopsticks, he realized that her manicured fingers were no longer enticing. Her head was tilted back as she laughed at a joke Tetsuo Kuriowa made about the hip-hop mogul, P. Diddy, breasts heaving, spreading the buttons of her crisp white cotton blouse as she cackled. Ryan observed all of this silently, watching her disinterestedly. Once, not long ago, he would have been captivated by that laugh and the ropy muscles at the base of her neck that undulated like a serpent; but not now. He glances over at her for a second. She eyes him for a moment before turning her attention back to her fucking cell phone. They are sitting 24 inches away, but it might as well be 24
thousand
. He feels nothing. Nothing but growing contempt.

Shift to Carly.

For several seconds, her image is there—right behind his forehead, like a nagging headache—his wife sitting alone in the dark a few nights ago, regal nose, high-yellow cheekbones, thin, sensuous lips. Cut to a quick memory of the way they used to make love, as husband and wife: Ryan on top, Carly’s tight, lithe body wriggling underneath him, marveling at the way his length would disappear inside her, only to reappear moments later; Carly’s eyes closed to mere slits, mouth half open, hardly a sound emerging; but he could sense desire in her eyes.

Stop it.

Shift to Reese.

He has to.

The pain is right there beneath his forehead—a throbbing, mind-numbing migraine. Threatening, like a stroke, to strike him down where he lays his head.

Their last night together, Reese and Ryan—the same night Carly threw him out of his own house. He nuzzled behind her, entombing himself deep inside her, connected in a way that stirs him even now.

“What?”

Ryan turns toward the sound. Olivia is facing him now. “Excuse me?” he says.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Oh, now you wanna talk?” he retorts.

Olivia ignores him.

“Just what exactly did Miles say to you that night when the two of you were alone?”

Ryan lifts his head and abruptly turns to face her.

“What?”

“I want to know exactly what Miles said. Something went down between the two of you…something concerning you and me, but I suspect it’s more than that. He’s being evasive, I know that. I just don’t know what exactly was said.”

Ryan responds with a snort-laugh.

Olivia glares. “Just what is your problem?”

Ryan leans in. “I’ll tell you just what my problem is! You sit there with your ‘everything’s alright in my world’ attitude, staring down your nose at me like I’m some pauper in stinking rags, and you have no clue how fucked up your own house has become!”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“It means, honey, your shit is fucked up.”

Ryan puts his finger in her face. “And you need to check yourself and your man before you tell me about getting my own marriage in order.”

“Okay, Ryan, you know what?” Olivia leans into him so to not be heard by the driver. “Why don’t you cease speaking in tongues and just tell me what is really going on?”

Ryan shakes his head.

“You deserted me,” she says. “You turned your back on your best friend. You left me to rot out in the open all by myself. You have some fucking nerve not speaking to me, leaving it all up to Miles to sort out.”

Ryan laughs out loud. “Miles! He’s the most comical out of all of us. You and Carly are so fucking concerned about my comings and goings. Well, let me tell you, honey, it’s your husband you need to be concerned with. Not me!”

Their car pulls to a stop under the huge awning of the Dai-ichi Hotel. As the driver steps out to open Olivia’s door, her face turns up in a snarl.

“Fuck you, Ryan!” she roars as one mule hits the wet pavement.

Ryan grabs her arm before she can duck out.

“No longer interested, Olivia. But why don’t you ask your husband instead? That is, if he can remember which team he’s batting for.”

Next morning, Ryan sits alone after finishing breakfast. He scans the headlines disinterestedly before brushing the paper away. Pulls his cell out and places a call to Olivia.

No answer.

When he goes to a house phone and asks to be connected to her room, Ryan finds she’s already checked out.

“When?” he asks.

“Last night,” the desk clerk informs him with perfect English diction. “Had us book the first flight out to the States.”

Ryan thanks her.

Hangs up.

Checks his watch. Four plus hours until his flight to Malaysia.

Plenty of time to take a stroll in the brilliant sunshine.

Olivia steers around the corner, the dazzling sunshine temporarily blinding her. For the first time in close to sixteen hours, her heart rate slows. She can feel the light at the end of the tunnel; a hot shower, some rum vanilla herbal tea, and a long nap will revitalize her spirits. It’s good she is home early; good she’s arriving in the middle of the day when Miles is not around. It was smart to leave Tokyo when she did—in the midst of that madness with Ryan—because her whole demeanor was becoming polluted. The office doesn’t expect her in until tomorrow. Perfect. She desperately needs to decompress. To clear her mind of those thoughts that have swilled around like scum against a city pier.

When she pulls onto her street, Olivia breathes easier. Seeing her home always does that. The grass is immaculately cut; the hedges trimmed with the skill of a barber. Parked beside her mailbox—the shiny one with the brass numbers embedded in black metal—is a silver Audi coupe. Temp tags. Olivia stares at it as she presses the garage door opener. She wonders why the sports car is parked right there—next to
their
mailbox. Residents usually park their cars in their garages or in driveways; the street is hardly ever clogged with cars. In fact, someone a few years ago raised this very issue at their homeowners’ association meeting—the fact that they’ve all spent this money on garages and gleaming asphalt driveways. So, the message was clear—use them, and don’t park on the street. And most comply.

This thought is fleeting, however. The last thing on her mind right now is why this Audi is parked in front of their mailbox. Instead, a steaming hot shower is calling her name, along with a mug of rum vanilla herbal tea. Perhaps watch television—catch
Oprah
later on this afternoon. When was the last time she got to do that? she muses.

Olivia glides into the kitchen, dropping her purse onto the countertop. She wheels her carry-on to the base of the stairs, contemplates dragging it upstairs to their bedroom before nixing that idea. Flinging off her mules, she climbs the steps slowly, suddenly aware of something.

A noise…a sound…something not quite right.

She reaches the top landing and pauses, cocking her head to the right towards their bedroom. The entrance is less than thirty feet away, past the guest bedroom and full bath. There are definitely sounds emerging from their bedroom—muted voices.

TV?

Clock radio?

Olivia wrinkles up her nose, suddenly aware of a scent she can’t quite place. She grips the handrail before pushing off, toes curling into the carpet.

When she comes to the door, she pauses for a half beat before entering, glancing left to their large bed. The covers are rumpled and unmade. She takes in the clothes on the chaise lounge, before settling her eyes on Miles, who lies beneath the white sheet. His mouth is open, lips forming a silent “O.” The scene is surreal—like from a foreign film.

Before she can question her husband, before he has an opportunity to respond to the inquiry that has been birthed on her own lips, the bathroom door opens with a flourish, and someone walks into view. The person is male, bald-headed, and nude, just out of the shower, Olivia can tell, because water droplets cascade down his taut chocolate body. Olivia’s eyes connect with his—Aden’s—Miles’ co-worker, before panning left to her husband. The scene has shifted from surreal to unbelievable.

In the blink of an eye, Olivia’s world has shattered. Her heart rate spikes and threatens. Now it’s no longer about soothing hot showers, sipping herbal tea on the back deck, or long uninterrupted naps—not anymore. Now it’s about her new life that has suddenly become a car wreck.

Olivia takes in Aden, who has retreated to the bathroom, wrapping an oversize fluffy towel—her fucking towel, she notices with disdain—around his athletic frame. Suddenly she finds herself sick, and pivots on the balls of her feet, running from the room and into the hallway, past the guest bedroom, past the bathroom, down the stairs as the muffled voice of Miles calls out her name, stinging her ears. She hits the bottom landing, almost twisting her ankle in the process, practically losing her balance as she skids on a mule; running into the hallway and ripping open a door, descending onto one knee then another, hugging the toilet as she vomits, heaving uncontrollably as her eyes water and burn.

Miles is at her back, his touch on her shoulder, feather-like, but it is vile and almost foreign, so she shakes him away.

“Baby, it’s not what you think—”

“GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!” Olivia screams.

She heaves, vomits some more. After flushing, she shoves Miles with a force that amazes even him. Rinses out her mouth, spits into the basin, wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, and recoils from the stench of her own throw-up.

Out the door, on auto-pilot now.

Into the hallway.

Back into the living room.

Breezing past Miles, who’s slid on his pants, his chest and feet still bare.

To the kitchen, yanking open the refrigerator, grabbing the first thing she sees—a liter of Coke—twisting off the top and guzzling the liquid down as if her insides are on fire and this is her only fire hose.

“Take it easy, baby…use a glass.”

Olivia stares at him in disbelief.

She flings the open bottle at him; it spins on its vertical axis as it leaves her grip, Coke spilling forth in an ever-expanding arc. Miles ducks, the bottle and its contents coming to rest on the carpeted floor twenty feet away.

“HAVE YOU LOST YOUR FUCKING MIND!?” Olivia yells. “I catch my husband in bed with another man, and all you’re concerned about is me drinking from the bottle?”

Miles creeps closer. “Olivia, listen. It’s not…baby. We just stopped by for lunch…and Aden took a quick shower…”

His palms are up, like some deity.

“Do I look like I was born yesterday, motherfucker? Or should I say, fatherfucker? I can’t believe this shit.” Olivia turns her back on him, rummages through the open fridge, grabbing at deli meats and cheeses. She rips open plastic wrappers, stuffing the food into her mouth as if she is crazed and ravenous. Bits of cheese fall from her mouth onto the tile. She ignores this while Miles comes up behind her, hand again on her shoulder. Olivia recoils like a disturbed cobra.

“DON’T TOUCH ME, YOU FUCKER!”

“You need to calm down,” Miles responds.

Behind them, Aden has appeared. He’s fully dressed in a navy sports coat, tan pleated slacks, and camel-color lace-ups. A large diamond is sparkling from his right ear. Miles turns, glances at him for a moment before returning his stare to his wife.

“I think it’s best that I leave,” Aden says softly.

“You think?” Olivia snickers.

Aden disappears down the hallway. Olivia hears the front door open and close. She stares her husband down.

“Olivia, listen—”

“No, fucker, you listen,” Olivia says, getting in his face. “I want your cock-loving ass out of my house. NOW! I got nothing else to say.”

“Ain’t gonna happen.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me!” Miles exclaims. “Last time I checked, I pay half the bills up in here. My name’s on the deed, too.”

“You think I give a fuck about whose name is on the deed? I just caught you in bed with another man. Miles, you are fucking disgusting—”

SLAP
.

When the intense dizziness subsides, Olivia finds herself facing away from him. Her cheek stings. Raising a hand to her face, she can feel the rising welt. She glances backwards.

“You hit me.” The words emerge as a mere whisper.

“I’m not leaving,” is Miles’ response.

Olivia stares at her husband as if she’s seeing him for the first time. The weight of what has just transpired crashes down upon her. She has no idea who this man is standing before her. Surely he is not the man she married.

Her husband was kind. He was gentle. On so many levels, he was amazing.

But all of that was past tense.

Now, it’s all been erased…

Olivia stares at Miles in disbelief, taking in his features that once upon a time made her happy and content.

She grabs her purse and retreats to the living room, slipping on her mules, reaching for the handle to her carry-on, and pulling it behind her. Entering the hallway, Olivia passes her reflection in the mirror as she heads for the door. She steals a glance, spying one half of a reddened face that makes her wince.

Olivia leaves the house without glancing back.

At the end of the street, Olivia has no choice but to pull over. She’s crying uncontrollably. There are so many thoughts slamming into her skull that she swears her brain will burst.

She puts her car in park and reaches for her cell phone while trying to control her shaking limbs. She stares at it for a moment in her lap, the thing swimming in and out of focus as tears meander down her chin. Should she call?

Yes.

She has no choice.

Carly answers on the third ring.

It takes Olivia ten seconds to spit the words out.

“I…I just caught Miles in bed…with a man…he slapped me…not sure what to do…”

Olivia’s former best friend listens for a moment.

“Another picture-perfect marriage down the drain,” Carly responds finally, without a trace of compassion. “Welcome to my world.”

Then the line goes dead.