Not To Us (24 page)

She’s making that point known with Mr. Court Chandler right now in our hotel suite. Neither of them realizes that I’m here. I’m supposed to be at the spa, but I’ve chosen not to do this today.

I am “spa”-ed out. I have grown tired of treatments for my hair, my skin, and my body. I’ve been pampered, massaged, and stroked. I’ve had makeovers and highlights and manicures. I’ve had mud baths and fragrant oil massages.

I consented to it all because there wasn’t anything else to do that didn’t involve too much evaluation of where I am and even more plausible where I’m going.

The spa treatments have taken five years of aging off my looks. I barely recognize the early-thirties sophisticate that looks back at me, now.

Court has bought me a new wardrobe of lingerie and clothes. Who knew that designer lingerie and maternity clothes even existed? I’m wearing one of these striking outfits, now. This white sheath miniskirt number that hides my baby bump with these carefully designed folds of silk across my somewhat expanding waistline. White strappy sandals adorn my feet. My toes are freshly painted with this blood red polish. My hair swings back in a ponytail pulled up in this diamond clasp that Court casually tossed my way just yesterday. He spends money on me like it is Evian water and very much in an endless supply.

I haven’t had the courage to even do a Google search of him to better understand who Mr. Court Chandler really might be.
No
.

I want this bubble world between us to last as long as it can. So does Court.

The conversation between Mr. Court Chandler and his PR handler, Kimberley Powers heats up. I’m broken from my reverie at their angry exchange and stand in the shadows in the guest bedroom which is separated from the main part of the suite. I’m caught in the uncomfortable position of being the very subject they are discussing. With a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach, I listen, unable to do anything more at the moment.

“Look! You pay me millions of dollars to give you this awesome image of philanthropy, not philanderer.”

“It’s
not
like that, Kimberley.”

“It doesn’t matter what it is or isn’t. You can’t afford the perception of cheating on Eve, even if you’re not. God damn it, Court! We’re trying to do this launch, put you in the best possible light, and you’re fucking around!”

“I am
not
fucking around!”

I’ve never witnessed Court’s temper before. Its intensity is surprising even from a distance of fifty feet. Only Kimberley Powers could withstand it. I envision her mahogany hair and flashing green eyes
.
She’s a powerhouse all on her own.

A long silence ensues. I step closer to the doorway out of hiding, debating with myself whether to enter into the argument or not.
What exactly would I say?
Kimberley’s right. It doesn’t matter whether we are together or not; perception is everything. Infidelity is so easy. It has been so easy,
even if our version of it is child’s play and nothing more. Even though I’ve done no more than kiss this man, lain with him at night beneath the covers, and only stroked his body without doing anything more than touching him, it doesn’t matter because I’ve left my husband and my children behind for him.

Court
. The charming Mr. Court Chandler is all I see, but Kimberley Powers is right: perception is everything.

“Fine,” Kimberley says with an insolent tone. “You have to go along with what I say in connection with Ellie/Elaina whatever the fuck she is calling herself these days.” I blush as I hear her say this. I’ve been evasive about my identity. Ellie Shaw has dropped off the face of the earth for the last week or so and Elaina Miles doesn’t care.

“And what
exactly
does that entail?” Court asks in a clipped angry voice.

“She stays in the hotel. She doesn’t leave. You don’t go out to dinner with her. You don’t go to plays with her. You do your CEO thing and then we move on to Paris. You do your thing there. Then! If you do what I say, you can go off and do your own private, whatever-it-is-that-you’redoing thing in Italy in some faraway villa. I don’t care, but God damn it, Court, if you fuck this up, we’re through. I’ll resign you as a client. I swear I will.”

“You like my money too much.”

“I do not!”

“You like
me
too much,” Court says now.

“I do not!”

“I’ll be good,” Court says in this solemn voice.

“You’d better. You’re on in two hours. You’re wearing the black suit with the charcoal shirt. Grow up, Courtney. Give it a try and do not fuck with me,” Kimberley says. I hear the anticlimactic sound of the suite door close with a single decisive click.

Now, it’s completely silent. I hesitate for a few more minutes. My mind is reeling with the implications of what Kimberley Powers has just said. Eventually, I step out of the shadows and into the bedroom doorway and look out across the suite where Court stands at the window. He senses my presence and turns toward me with his charming introspective smile.

“I’m making your life complicated.”

I gesture helplessly with my hands as Court walks over to me.

“You make my life
real.
You complete me and make me whole, Ellie.” Court holds my face between his hands and kisses me.

The words are Michael’s and remind me of him for a split second. I hesitate. Then, the fleeting thought of Michael disappears, like a rare Monarch butterfly
—
a thing of beauty you’ve seen only once, a very long time ago.

All I can see is Mr. Courtney Chandler and I kiss him back.

≈≈

Paris. Paris is a spectacular place filled with the promise of romance and sentiment. Yet, all I see is endless flower bouquets from my vantage point in the hotel suite where we’re staying. Court upholds the bargain he’s made with Kimberley and keeps me hidden in his life. After a week of such confinement, I yearn to be outdoors. I’ve grown tired of being out of sight and long to be outside and escape this imposed captivity that has brought the edge of reality into my bubble world. In reaching for that edge of reality, I’ve powered up my laptop and plugged into the Internet without Court’s assistance, since he’s gone so much of the time.

Since our arrival in Paris, Kimberley Powers has kept Mr. Court Chandler mostly occupied for the past seven days. There have been presentations, keynote speeches, interviews with various high profile publications, late dinner meetings, clothes fittings, stylist consultations, breakfast meetings, strategy meetings and Kimberley has made sure that Mr. Court Chandler has attended them all. When he finally returns to the suite, I’m usually asleep. Sometimes, he’s gone again before I’m awake.

He leaves me these little notes, telling me how amazing I am. His last note simply said:

I love you, Ellie.

C

I click on Outlook and see that I have no less than fifty e-mails from Michael. I cannot even read them all. I cannot even read one. There are five new e-mails from Dr. Lisa Chatham each marked urgent. There are fifteen from Robert. I dully note that Michael has sent me three times as many. There are sixteen from Mathew, one for each day that I have been gone. Eight are from Carrie; these are also marked urgent, but I am sure that her reasons for this are very different than Lisa’s. I’m overwhelmed by them all. I haven’t communicated beyond the note I left at the Gramercy for Michael. My cell phone has been powered off. I did that as we boarded the plane to fly out of New York.

I continue to lie to Mr. Court Chandler. Well, I continue to keep secrets and withhold the truth. I don’t tell Court that I’ve confirmed Michael’s infidelity with Carrie. I don’t tell Court about my cancer or chemo or my team of doctors who are most likely besides themselves about their missing patient and their treatment regimen, at this point.
We have the plan, but no Ellie.

He knows I’m Ellie Shaw but I’ve only allowed him to see the persona of Elaina Miles. I am fictitious, made up, living a life of fantasy, avoiding reality as if I can stop both time and cancer.

It’s been uncomplicated so far because we haven’t fully consummated this relationship. I think we’re both afraid that if we take our relationship to the next level, we would irrevocably untie ourselves permanently from the lives that we both need to return to. Yes, we agree this thing between us is still untenable and cannot last, but neither of us wants it to end.

≈≈

Court is late. It is late. The moon hangs low in the Paris sky. It’s after one in the morning and Mr. Courtney Chandler has yet to make an appearance. I haven’t powered on my cell phone, while we’ve been in Europe, but I do it now out of some kind of desperation to connect to someone,
anyone
.

This prisoner in the luxurious hotel suite at Le Meurice in Paris has had enough. There are fifteen voice mails for me. I imagine, after a while, the communication with voice mail became impossible as the mysterious server for voice mail filled up and those callers, my family and Michael, trying to reach me just gave up. I press the speaker button and find myself looking at the list of callers as I scroll through. The majority are from Michael. It upsets me more than I thought it would to hear his broken voice, begging me to come home. He promises to do whatever I need him to do, if I will just please come home.

“I don’t know where you are” he says in the next one. “I know why you left, but I don’t know where you are.”

Emily is next and she’s pleading with me to come home. Somehow, she’s overheard Mathew and Michael talking about my chemo. “Mother, you need the chemo,” she says in this sassy little voice and then she starts crying.

There are three more messages from Michael. I hear the desperation in his voice as he recites his wedding vows to me. Was it just over two months ago that we got married? It seems like a lifetime away from me, now. All the new messages have played, but the next one is an old one that I’d saved.

“Mom, it’s Nick. Are you coming to get me or what? Come on, Ellen Kay. It’s day ninety-one. Your act is supposed to be together by now. Elaina’s here, too. We’re waiting for you. Okay, love you. It’s Nick, by the way.”

I replay the message just to hear my son’s voice again. I play it again. I play it again.

I have kept the cancer at bay for more than nine weeks by refusing chemo therapy, by generally ignoring it, but the grief? I’ve only been successful for these past two and half weeks to close the door on that dark place that captured me for so long because of Mr. Court Chandler. But, Court isn’t here, so I can’t hide from grief any longer. It finds me. And, it all comes back at the sound of Nick’s voice, as I play his message over and over.

I can’t get back out of the abyss. Court has carried me to bed and I just lay there with my eyes wide open staring at the white ceiling. I cannot speak. I cannot even cry. I hear the desperation in his voice as he pleads with me to talk to him, but I can’t speak.