Someone Is Watching (19 page)

Narcissus and the woman raise the glasses to their lips, and I feel the liquor burn my throat as they drink it down. He mutters something in her ear; she smiles and mutters something back. Despite our close proximity, I am unable to hear their voices. We listen, but we don’t hear, I think. No matter how close we stand to one another, we somehow fail to connect.

The woman is laughing again, and I wonder what Narcissus said that was so funny. He strikes me as too self-absorbed to have much of a sense of humor, but perhaps I’m wrong about that. The young woman seems mesmerized by what he is saying. She is younger than his conquest of the night before, although not quite as pretty. She clicks her glass against his in an impromptu toast. To what? To life, to health and wealth, to people who live in glass houses?

I watch as Narcissus takes the now-empty glass from her hands and deposits it on the table by the window, then wraps her in his arms. I watch him kiss her, his arms moving up her back in a virtual replay of last night’s activities. A man who likes routine. I find myself as powerless to look away as I was the night before. I see him unzipping the back of her short red dress. I see it fall to the floor. Shockingly, she is naked beneath it, and I gasp as his hands reach around to clasp her buttocks.

His head snaps up, as if he heard me, and he smiles, as if he knows I’m watching. Does he? Is it possible?

I’m being ridiculous. There’s no way he knows I’m here, no way he can see me sitting here in the darkness of my bedroom. But the smirk pulling on his lips taunts me.
I know you’re there,
his eyes shout at mine.
I know you’re watching.
I drop the binoculars to my lap. There’s no way he can see me.

Enough of this nonsense. Enough hiding in the dark, spying on neighbors, no matter how recklessly they choose to display themselves. I’m too exhausted to think clearly, too hungry to function properly. It’s time to grab something to eat and get into bed.

But of course I do no such thing.

I see that Narcissus is naked now as well, and I watch a rerun of the same show I saw last night: the woman’s bare breasts and stomach pressed against the wide windowpane as the rain picks up its pace, the man’s groping hands, their hungry mouths. I watch her eyes close even as his remain open, staring toward me provocatively as he pounds into her from behind. And just like last night, I am as transfixed as I am revolted.

Soon, he is leading her toward the bed.
Has he even changed the sheets?
I wonder as he throws her down and climbs on top of her, lifting her legs toward the ceiling as he thrusts into her again, each thrust a dagger in my groin.

It is almost two o’clock when the lights in his bedroom finally go out. I push myself slowly out of my chair, bathed in sweat. I take another shower, do a final search of my apartment, and climb into bed, beyond tired, desperate for a sleep that never comes.

—

The same scene is repeated again the next night at eight o’clock. And the night after that. I watch Narcissus get ready to go out. He performs virtually the same pre-game ritual each time, choosing between two ties, holding one and then the other up against his shirt, then tossing the unwanted one toward the bed. Some nights his toss is good, and the tie reaches its destination. Other nights, the silk column unfurls in midair and falls to the floor, where it remains, to be trampled on later.

I observe him as he combs his hair and prances half-naked around the room, stopping only to periodically admire his reflection in the mirror before administering whatever final touches are required prior to turning out the lights and leaving his apartment. I watch him return at midnight with a different woman, although they all share similar characteristics. All are reasonably tall and slim, with dark hair that cascades down their backs like a waterfall.

All look vaguely like me.

Or maybe I’m just imagining a resemblance. In fact, maybe I’m
imagining the whole thing. It’s possible. It’s been raining for days. Lots of thunder and lightning. I haven’t slept. Or maybe the reverse is true. Maybe sleep is all I’ve been doing. Maybe none of this is real. Maybe it’s all a dream.

The phone rings, and I jump, glancing at the clock. It is seven o’clock on a Saturday night. Who would be calling me? Claire is working the late shift at the hospital; Jade is spending the weekend at a classmate’s beach house on Fisher Island; Sean is off cruising the Caribbean; Heath has dropped off the face of the earth; the police haven’t called in days.

Caller ID identifies the person on the other end as my friend Sally. She’s called several times, and I haven’t picked up or returned her calls. I know she means well, but I simply haven’t had the energy for her benign chatter. Work is what brought us together, and I don’t know that our friendship will survive my prolonged absence. Still, maybe she’s phoning to inform me that she had her baby early or that, God forbid, something went wrong. Maybe she’s calling to tell me there’s been a tragedy at sea, that the cruise ship Sean is on was struck by lightning and has capsized and sunk. Maybe someone else at the office has been beaten and raped.…

“Hi,” I say, picking up the phone before I’m overwhelmed by maybes.

“Finally,” she says, with obvious relief. “You’re a hard girl to get a hold of. When are you going to get a new cell phone? Then we can at least text.”

“Soon,” I say. “Things have been a little hectic.”

“Yeah?” she asks hopefully. “Is there anything new …?”

“No,” I say. “Nothing.”

“Oh.” The disappointment in her voice is palpable. “But you’re feeling better,” she states more than asks. “You sound better.”

“I feel better,” I say, and if she knows I’m lying, she doesn’t let on. “How are
you
?” I ask. If I can’t be honest, at least I can be polite. “The baby …?”

“Still cooking. And kicking.”

“Good.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to drop by this week. It’s been a madhouse at work.” Without any prompting, she launches into a story about the high-profile divorce case that the firm just landed.

My attention is diverted by the lights snapping on in the bedroom across the way. I watch as Narcissus strolls into the room, chest bare, pants unbuttoned at the waist. I grab my binoculars and creep toward the window as Sally’s voice continues in my ear.

“Anyway, this is all very hush-hush, of course,” she is saying, “but guess who hubby’s been sleeping with? Bailey? Bailey, come on. Take a guess.”

What is she talking about? “What?”

“Didn’t you hear me?”

“The firm got this big divorce case.…”

“Not just big. Huge. Aurora and Poppy Gomez! We’re repping Aurora, thank God. Turns out Poppy’s been screwing around on her for years. Can you imagine? The sexiest woman on the planet, not to mention she’s sold … what? Three
billion
records? And he’s this ugly little gnome and he still plays around. I don’t get it. What’s wrong with these guys? So, are you going to take a guess?”

“At what?”

“At who he’s been sleeping with in his South Beach mansion while she’s busy touring the universe in order to keep him living in the style to which he’s become accustomed?”

“I haven’t got a clue.”

“Oh, this is just too good. Are you ready?”

“I’m ready,” I say, obligingly.

“Little Miss Pop Tart, ‘I’m-Saving-It-For-Marriage’—Diana Bishop, herself.”

“You’re kidding.” I utter this as if I’m truly shocked, but the fact is I have no idea who Diana Bishop is and what exactly she’s saving for marriage. The name is vaguely familiar, someone I probably knew from my previous life, I think as I watch Narcissus walk toward his window and stare out at the storm, his hand disappearing down the front of his pants.

“Can you imagine? The shit is going to majorly hit the fan in
the next couple of days. We’ve been trying to keep it quiet, but we’re already fielding calls from
Entertainment Tonight
and
Inside Edition.
Plus
National Enquirer
is all but camped out in our reception area.
Sources say this; sources say that.
You know how it goes. You can’t believe anybody. And we have to dig up as much dirt on Poppy as we can as fast as we can. Dirt we can actually use in court, that is. Which is, of course, where you come in. Turns out Aurora’s pre-nup—which our firm didn’t draw up; when will they ever learn?—isn’t quite as iron-clad as she thought it was. So, any idea when you’re coming back to work?”

“What?”

“We could really use your help on this one.”

“I can’t.”

“This request is coming straight from Phil Cunningham himself.”

“I’m not ready, Sally.”

“You don’t think it might be good for you? Getting back in the saddle and all that.”

“I can’t,” I say again. “Not yet. I’m sorry.”

“Well, do us both a favor and think about it some more. Okay? It might help get your mind off, you know, stuff.”

Stuff. Such a strange word to describe what I’ve been through.

“Anyway, that’s not the only reason I’m calling.”

I hold my breath, afraid of what fresh horrors await me. I note that Narcissus is now openly masturbating, his hand working furiously inside his pants, his head lolling from side to side, his jaw slack, his mouth open.

“You’re coming to the shower, aren’t you?”

“What?”

“I knew it. You forgot all about it, didn’t you?”

What is Sally talking about now?

“The baby shower Alissa’s throwing for me. Tomorrow night at seven. Her place. You RSVP’d weeks ago. Before …,” she says, then breaks off. There’s no need to continue. We both know what comes after “before.”

“I can’t.”

“There you go again. Of course you can. It’ll be good for you to get out.”

It seems Sally has become quite the expert on what is good for me. I bite my tongue to keep from voicing this thought out loud.

“I mean, you just can’t stay cooped up in your apartment all day and night. It’s not healthy. And this is a joyous occasion, a reason to celebrate. I’m having a baby and you said you’d be there.…”

“Before,” I remind her, watching Narcissus’s frantic exertions come to a satisfied halt.

“Everyone from the office is coming, and Alissa’s doing this whole pink theme, on account of the baby being a girl. We’ve decided to call her Avery. Did I tell you that? Anyway, Alissa’s serving pink sandwiches and a pink cake, and you probably don’t remember but she even requested all pink presents. Not that you have to buy me anything. Your presence will be present enough.” She laughs nervously.

I nod, my head spinning. I watch as Narcissus extricates a tissue from his pocket and wipes his hands.

“So you’ll try to make it?”

“I can’t. I’m sorry, Sally. I just can’t.”

Silence. For a minute, I wonder if Sally has hung up, and I’m about to do the same when she speaks. “Okay.” Another second’s silence. “I understand. Really. I do.”

“Thank you.”

“We’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you, too,” I say, the words reminding me of Sean’s last visit.

“And while we’re on the subject of babies, what do you think about Sean Holden?” she asks brightly, as if my thoughts have somehow prompted hers.

I brace myself as Narcissus turns his head in my direction, a bolt of lightning flashing in the distance. “What are you talking about?”

“Nobody told you? Sean’s wife is pregnant!” Sally exclaims as my entire body goes numb. “Nobody’s supposed to know yet, of course. But apparently, she blurted the news to Sean’s assistant. I can never remember that girl’s name.…”

“Jillian,” I say in a voice not my own.

“That’s right. Jillian. Don’t know why I can never remember that name. Anyway, she swore Jillian to silence, but word kind of got out once they left on their Caribbean cruise. The first vacation he’s taken in years. Can you imagine? Nice to know they’re still doing it at their age. Bailey? Bailey, are you there?”

“I have to go.” I disconnect before she can utter one more awful word. I stand in front of the window, my eyes closed against the small, hard circles of my binoculars. So this is what Sean came over to tell me. This was the secret behind his eyes.

Another flash of lightning turns the sky from black to white. I see Narcissus standing at his window, a pair of binoculars at his eyes, trained directly at my apartment. I cry out, my body folding in on itself, collapsing forward from the waist in slow motion, as if I’ve been kicked in the gut. My whole body is on fire.

But when I look back moments later, Narcissus is gone and his apartment is in darkness. I’m left wondering if he was ever there at all.

—

“Of course he was there,” Claire is saying. “You saw him, didn’t you?”

It’s Sunday, around six
P
.
M
. Claire has today and tomorrow off from work. She came over so that we can have Sunday night dinner together. Jade won’t be back from Fisher Island until later.

“I don’t know,” I tell her honestly. “It was raining and I was tired and upset. Maybe I imagined it.”

“You didn’t imagine anything,” Claire says. Then: “What were you upset about?”

I begin pacing back and forth in front of my bedroom window.
The rain has finally stopped. The lights in my room are on, the blinds closed. I’m not sure I’ll ever open them again. “I’d just heard something.…”

“From the police?”

I tell her about Sally’s phone call, about Sean’s wife being pregnant. I wait for her rebuke:
That’s what you get for wasting your time with a married man.
But instead she says, “I’m sorry, Bailey. That must have been so hard for you.”

“I feel like such an idiot.”

“He’s the idiot. You should have called me.”

“I’m not going to bother you every time I get upset, especially when you’re working. I probably just imagined the whole thing.”

“Just because you were upset doesn’t mean you were hallucinating,” Claire says. “You said you were watching Narcissus, that he was masturbating in front of the window.”

I shudder at the memory. “I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again, he was staring right at me.”

“Through binoculars.”