My Life in Black and White (2 page)

“You didn’t tell me you were coming tonight,” Dean said without warmth. “You know my wife, Clara?” He knew full well the producer knew who I was. I was never certain if Dean thought these types of awkward moments were funny or fodder for his next reality show idea: pitting a celebrity journalist and a furious star against each other, fight to the death!

“Clara,” the man croaked my name.

“George,” I said and forced a smile.

“George was just telling me about his show.” Here it comes. I braced myself. “The ratings have gone up despite the negative press,” Dean said, making it clear to George whose side he was on. I wanted to disappear.

“Yes, some stars are impervious to the
media
,” George said pointedly. I wanted to point out how the
media
helped boost those ratings, but he kept talking. “So when do you go to London?” he asked Dean.

“I leave on the weekend,” he answered and stood straighter, chest puffed up. “You know the Brits, they always want to push the envelope. And that’s hard in reality TV.”

Ah, London. Dean was flying to England to produce a new show called
Come to Daddy
, which brought reality TV to new heights of
low. The premise was this: a houseful of buxom beauties vie for the attention of a super-rich sugar daddy who is at least forty years older than all of them. Dean insisted it was a stepping stone in his quest to direct films. Just how that worked was a mystery to me, but it paid the bills.

“They’ve come to the right man,” George said and thumped him on the back.

“I’ll be gone at least six weeks. They’re putting me up in a suite at The Savoy, so I’m going to be well taken care of,” Dean continued.

George turned to me and looked as if he might choke when he said, “You’re going to miss your wife.” Dean nodded slightly.

I had a secret. I’d bought a plane ticket to London to surprise Dean. Armed with romantic visions of moonlit walks along the Thames, inspiring nights at the theatre and afternoons spent in galleries when he wasn’t shooting, he would find me irresistible all over again. Time away was all we needed. But there was another reason to go; I wanted to get pregnant. I had a miscarriage when we were first married; in fact, the pregnancy was why we got married. Not that we’re old-fashioned, but we were both from broken homes and so it just felt right. Besides, I was crazy about Dean. So I was devastated when early in the second trimester it was all over. I’d never felt such loss before, never felt so incomplete. Dean was distraught too. We decided to postpone trying again until our careers were more established. I’d agreed, in part because emotionally I couldn’t handle losing another baby. And at the time, I still held the ambition of being a working screenwriter, not a celebrity writer. Nearly six years had passed, and at thirty-five I didn’t want to wait anymore, but all attempts had failed and my period still arrived jarring and unwelcome like an alarm clock that’s been set too early.

Dean wasn’t convinced that we should have a baby until he’d directed his first film. It seemed like an excuse, a reason to say no,
which made me lie awake at night wondering if I hadn’t gotten pregnant the first time would the man I loved be lying in bed with me. Of course, as a writer I had a vivid imagination and that wasn’t always helpful. Dean was still my husband, no need to be paranoid.

But as I stood there in the midst of a party celebrating his latest achievement, it didn’t seem to matter that Dean wasn’t thrilled to see me. Once I became pregnant it would be different. He would be a proud father and he would realize what he had: a wife who adored him and would give him everything he wanted. I smiled and touched my husband’s arm. He looked down at my hand on his sleeve and went back to talking to George. What Dean didn’t know was that tonight was prime time for making a baby. Tonight would be perfect, and if not tonight, then we had six weeks in London to make it happen. Then we would be happy.

I
kissed Dean as soon as we entered our apartment. Gently at first. He hated it if I was “aggressive.” He took my hand and led me to the bedroom. We kissed some more and I waited, limp in his arms, for him to make the next move: a hand on my breast maybe, or a nibble on my neck. Dean was restrained as usual, his arms at his sides like a tin soldier, but I kept kissing him until I could almost see the passion seep out like liquid mercury.

I didn’t give up. I lifted my stained dress over my head and threw it to the floor. I kicked off those damn heels so I was a few inches shorter than him. Little, unthreatening me.

“I love you,” I whispered in the hope he’d take the cue.

When he didn’t respond, I glided to the bed and removed my bra and underwear. Dean undressed too. I climbed beneath the covers and he slid in next to me, my hand once more lightly touching him, only this time, the layer of protective denim gone, he swivelled his hips away, pecked me on the cheek and smiled.

“I’m wiped out,” he said breezily, as if we’d come back from a hike with flushed cheeks and cold hands.

“I think we have enough energy for one more thing …” and I kissed him again. This time his lips didn’t part.

“Clara, I’m tired,” he said firmly.

“Is it me?” I asked, just as I had done many times over the past year and always with the same result.

“Don’t make me feel bad about this. I’m just not in the mood. Is that okay?” He pouted at me like a child.

“Of course it is,” I said with forced warmth. “I just miss you.”

“I’m right here,” he said, sounding relieved, as though excused from the dinner table after refusing to eat his broccoli. Then Dean rolled over and went to sleep. I lay on my back and stared at the ceiling. I felt the tears run down my face and I didn’t wipe them away. Part of me wanted Dean to see me cry and feel bad or guilty, anything but indifferent. But I knew that wouldn’t happen. I was playing to an audience of one: me.

This was what being left by your husband looked like: him standing at the foot of the marriage bed. You sitting up naked—the sheet pulled up to your chin like a deflector shield. In his hand a packed duffel bag, and a set of keys discarded on the duvet.

This was what being left by your husband felt like: an ambush.

“I love you, I’m just not in love with you,” Dean explained with a note of pity in his voice. “It hasn’t been good between us in a long time. You can’t really be shocked, Clara.”

“But I am shocked!” I cried. I couldn’t bring myself to admit I knew he wasn’t happy. “I believed you when you said you were just tired all the time. I didn’t realize you meant you were tired of me.” I grabbed my robe and leapt out of bed and threw my arms around him. “We’ll
be better. You have to try, Dean. You
do
love me.
You
know you love me.” The words sounded hollow even to me. He didn’t move a muscle; he just stood there allowing me to grasp the last breath of us before he gently pried my arms away.

“I’m sorry, Clara. It’s not you, it’s me.”

“You’re leaving me and all you can say is a cliché?” I retorted dryly. “Your writer’s criticism never leaves you, does it?” he snapped. That got me.

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re always so sharp and clever when it comes to words, especially mine or my work for that matter.”

“That’s not true! I’ve always supported you. You know I think you’re talented.”

“You look down on what I do,” he said accusingly. “You don’t think it hurts me when you write about how bad reality TV is?”

I was taken aback. “I always showed you those articles before they ran. And besides, I’ve been off the reality TV beat for ages and you know it,” I said weakly. “What’s this really about? Surely you’re not leaving our marriage because I don’t like
The Bachelor
.”

“I’m leaving because I need more.”

At first I didn’t say anything. What more could I have given Dean? My marriage was my proudest accomplishment, and I gave more than I got but never complained. I felt my eyes well up and prayed that when the tears fell it would be in a single dramatic stream down my face like you see in movies, the kind of tears that somehow makes the actress even more beautiful. No such luck. The tears flooded down my cheeks in uncontrollable torrents as words sobbed out of my mouth incoherently. “More than a wife who adores you? Who thinks you’re talented and believes in you?” I stuttered. “What about our baby?”

Dean flinched. “We don’t have a baby.”

“But we were trying! You wanted to have a baby with me,” I moaned, aware that my nose was running too. I grabbed a tissue from the nightstand. “You were so happy when I was pregnant the first time!”

“Let’s not bring that up again,” he said coldly.

The blood was pumping through me so hard that my ears were pounding. I wanted to say what I’d always feared and suspected … that he only married me because I was pregnant, but despite my reporter skills of being able to pull the truth from others, some truths were better left unspoken. This was one of them. I began to tremble and clutched the robe tighter around me. Then I remembered Kiki’s words last night.
“He’s just a man …”
What had she been trying to say? That Dean had cheated on me?

“Is there someone else?” I asked. “I know the rumour.” I lied about the rumour, but what Kiki let slip was close enough.

“What rumour?” he said in a panicked voice.

“You forget what business I’m in,” I said, making myself sound more in control than I was. “I hear things.”

A very long pause filled the room, and I felt my stomach churn like rancid butter. He ran his fingers through his hair and then he said it.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he spoke clearly, defiantly, as though it was me who had done something wrong. “But it did happen.”

No wife wants to be right about this sort of thing. Suddenly, the tears stopped, as if my insides were flash-frozen.

“Who is she?” I managed to squeak out.

“It’s none of your business.”

“Who is she?” I repeated. “I deserve that much after all we’ve been through together.”

“She’s just a girl I met at a bar.”

My jaw tightened.

“What do you mean some girl at a bar?”

“She’s a waitress.”

“A waitress? You’re leaving me for a waitress?” I realized how snobby that sounded, but I didn’t care. If he told me he left me for a successful producer or a movie star it wouldn’t have lessened the pain, but I could say he left me because I was only a tabloid reporter.

“She may not be a movie star,” he said as though reading my mind. “But she cares about me.”

“Do you love her?” I asked, my lip quivering.

“I don’t want to hurt you more than I’m doing. Do you think it’s easy leaving you? I know how much you love me.”

That stung—the one-sidedness of it all. “How much
I
love you? You never loved me, did you?”

“I did love you, Clara. But what we had is gone. I always felt that our marriage was a mistake. I’ll go to London, and it will give you time to get your head around a divorce. It’s better this way.”

I heard him speak but I wasn’t listening. I wanted one answer. “Do you love her?” I repeated.

He exhaled deeply. “Yes.”

Then the tears returned. This time more slowly, perhaps there was only one stream, but I doubted it made me beautiful.

“What’s her name?” I asked him.

“Not that it makes any difference, but her name is Amber. Amber Ward.”

Amber? A reality show name if ever there was one. The irony! If my life wasn’t so pathetic it would be amusing. Dean stepped towards the door. It was my last chance.

“I love you! Don’t go, Dean. Stay,” I pleaded. “We can work through this. Let’s go to counselling or take a vacation. We’ve haven’t been away in ages.” I paused, not wanting to reveal that I’d bought a ticket to London.

“It’s too late,” answered Dean flatly without looking me in the eye. I gazed at him longingly, taking him in for the last time. He was wearing a khaki linen shirt and faded black jeans. We bought that shirt together on a trip to San Francisco last winter.

But I wouldn’t be buying shirts with him anymore. He cleared his throat, pulling me back to earth or hell, I wasn’t sure which. “Our marriage is over,” he touched my cheek with his hand, and I closed my eyes longingly. “I’m not coming back.”

Then he left. I listened to the door click shut. It was hell.

There was only one window in the room, and I was looking out of it. It had begun to rain, and on the street below people were scattering for shelter in shops and office towers or running for a bus that was idling at a traffic light. I heard Sergeant Hooper shuffle the loose pieces of yellow paper ripped from the pad. He had filled them with my words
.

“So you see, I know Amber Ward. But she’s no friend.”

“Indeed,” he said. “If you don’t mind my saying so, your husband sounds like a complete bastard.”

This made me smile
.

“How on earth did you end up with a bloke like that? I know you said you were pregnant, but surely shotgun weddings are a thing of the past? Especially in America, I think?”

I stopped smiling and walked slowly along the length of the room, running my hand gently across the cinder-block wall. I stopped when I reached the next corner, turned and faced Hooper
.

“I always wanted a family of my own. I was almost thirty and wanted to have a child sooner than later. I wanted several children in fact. I’m an only child myself, you see. And my own family history is, well, complicated. I was hoping to avoid repeating the mistakes of my mother and grandmother. I
thought Dean was the answer. And, as I explained, I was in love with him. Crazy about him, really. You don’t know Dean, the effect he has on women. He’s dashing in that dark, brooding, artistic way; he has a rock-star quality to him. Remember what I said about my life being a screwball comedy? He found me funny. Men don’t often like funny girls.”

I waited for a reaction; Hooper shrugged. “Besides, I didn’t exactly have a lineup of men outside my door. Dean paid attention to me.”

“Hard to believe you didn’t have a lineup of men, seeing you in that gold slip dress.” He smiled kindly
.

“I’ve changed a little.” I leaned against the wall; my neck was sore so I rubbed it with my hand. “Why does anyone love anyone?” I continued. “Who can explain every attraction? Women fall in love with the wrong men all the time. And men fall in love with the wrong women just as often.”

He nodded as though it was the wisest thing he’d ever heard. “I’ve been known to fall head over heels for girls who think I make good money or who like the uniform. They never stick around once they learn the truth or they get tired of the outfit. Been cheated on a fair bit myself.”

I walked back to the desk and sat down again. “Then you understand.” I ran my fingers through my hair; the soft waves tumbled down my back and shoulders. I reached into the pocket of the trench coat and pulled out another cigarette to play with. Hooper picked up his pen once more, then flipped through the pages
.

“One more thing. You do realize this is an official statement. You said at the beginning you are a screenwriter. You just said you are a celebrity journalist. Which is it?”

I examined the cigarette in my hand and without looking away said, “I’m a screenwriter. Like I told you, I was a screenwriter in the beginning, then I became a celebrity reporter. I’m a screenwriter again. That clarify things?”

“Not entirely. But continue, Miss Bishop. Tell me what happened next …”