The Affair (3 page)

“I
was thinking,” Kathy said suddenly.

“Always dangerous . . .” Robert quipped.

Kathy could see him through the bathroom door, standing in those ridiculous L.L. Bean pajama bottoms designed with pictures of little duck boots that she absolutely hated. She was sitting up in bed, supported by a trio of pillows, holding a
People
magazine in front of her face. Although her head was tilted down, as if she were reading, she was watching him over the top of the page.

“You’ve been working so hard lately. . . .”

The electric toothbrush began to buzz and whine. Robert was paranoid about his teeth. Two years ago, when they’d least been able to afford it, he’d spent nearly three thousand dollars having them straightened and bleached. Now he went to the dentist every three months to get them whitened. They were shockingly bright against his tanned face, and she thought they looked artificial and false. Lately, he’d been talking about having LASIK on his eyes, even though he only needed glasses for reading and close work on the computer screen. “I can still hear you,” he said.

But Kathy waited until the whine of the toothbrush faded away, then she tried again. “I’ve been thinking, you’ve been working so hard lately, I’ve barely seen you. We should try to have a date night.”

“Good idea. Great idea,” he said around a mouthful of toothpaste.

Kathy heard the faucet turn on and she raised her voice. “What about tomorrow?” And how will you answer, she wondered. Will you say yes to me, and make me feel ridiculous because I’ve doubted you or will you . . .

“I can’t.” He shut off the water and came out of the bathroom, patting white toothpaste off his chin with a towel. “Not tomorrow night. I’m entertaining a client. Christmas drinks and some dinner.” He stared directly into her eyes, with those huge brown innocent eyes of his, as he smiled at her.

“You never said.”

“I’m sure I did.” He pulled on the pajama top.

“I’d have remembered.”

He shrugged and turned to toss the towel back into the bathroom. It missed the rail and slid to the floor, where she would pick it up in the morning. She caught him looking at himself in the mirrored closet doors, just a quick glance. She saw him straighten, suck in his belly, then nod.

Still keeping her head down, turning the magazine pages slowly, pretending to read, she raised her eyes and looked at her husband. Really looked at him, trying to see him anew. She’d once read in a magazine that you really only looked at someone when you first met them, and after that you never really looked at them again. The picture the brain establishes in that first glance is the one that remains. How long ago was it since she’d looked at her husband, seen him as a person, an individual, she wondered.

Was it her imagination, or was he was looking a lot more tanned and toned? He’d always been careful about his weight and was positively obsessive about his hair. Squinting slightly, she stared at his hair and noticed that some of the gray was gone. A few years ago he’d started to develop gray wings—distinguished and handsome, she’d thought—just above his ears. Now she saw that they had faded and almost vanished. Indeed, his hair was lustrous and shining, making her wonder if he had started to color it. It looked like he’d lost a little weight too; his stomach seemed flatter, and there was the hint—just a hint—of muscle. Even though it was the depths of winter, and they hadn’t been on a tropical vacation, his skin was an even tan. She couldn’t see a tan mark on his wrist where he habitually wore his watch, but the tan looked too perfect to have come from a bottle—there were no streaks, no darker patches. Good God—was he going to a tanning salon?

Kathy turned the page of the magazine. The words were dipping and crawling across the page and she was unable to make sense of them, but she concentrated on moving her head as if she were reading. Who was he tanning for? Not for her, certainly. Suddenly that single thought—not for her—deeply saddened her. When had he stopped trying to impress her? When had she stopped being impressed by him?

“Who are you meeting tomorrow?” she asked casually.

“Jimmy Moran,” Robert said without missing a beat. “We’re having dinner and drinks at Top of the Hub.” He threw back the covers and slipped into the bed, sending a wave of chill air radiating through the sheets. “You didn’t turn on the blanket,” he said, almost accusingly.

“I didn’t think it was that cold.” Ever since she’d started to put together the pieces, she’d been running hot and cold. She felt almost schizophrenic. She was forty-three; maybe menopause was coming early? Both her mother and older sister had gone through the change in their early forties. Perhaps her paranoia was simply a matter of out-of-control hormones. She tossed the magazine onto the floor and slid down in the bed, pulling the covers up to her chin.

“Aren’t you going to read?”

“No.” She reached up and turned off the light over her side of the bed.

“Well, I’ll read for a bit, if you don’t mind.”

She knew even if she did mind, he’d still keep the light on. He reached down to the side of the bed and lifted up the book he was reading,
The Road Less Traveled.

She waited in silence for a moment, then she heard a page turn. He was an infuriatingly slow reader. She could read two books a week; he’d been reading his current book for at least a month, maybe longer. Not looking at him, she asked, “When do you think we’ll have a chance to get a night out?”

There was a pause. She heard another page turn. “I think we should wait until after Christmas. It’s a nightmare trying to find a place to eat, and parking is impossible.” He attempted a laugh. “All the restaurants in the city are full of people like me, treating clients like Jimmy to too much wine.” She heard the book hit the floor, and then his light clicked off. “After Christmas, we’ll find a little time. Maybe even head out to the Cape for the weekend. Or Martha’s Vineyard. What do you think?”

“That would be nice,” Kathy said. He had said the same thing last year. They hadn’t gone away; there wasn’t time.

There was never enough time.

Friday, 20th December

 

 

“S
o how sure are you?” Rose King rested her elbows on the kitchen table and reached out to take her friend’s hands.

Kathy Walker shook her head. “I’m not sure.”

“But you’re suspicious.”

“I’m suspicious.”

“And you’ve been suspicious before?”

Kathy nodded. “I have.”

“Hell, I’ll bet there’s not a woman in the Greater Boston Metropolitan Area who hasn’t been suspicious about her husband at least once.”

“Have you? Been suspicious, I mean?”

Rose’s smile tightened, lips thinning, lines appearing at the corners of her mouth. “I have. More than once.”

“Of Tommy?” Kathy was unable to keep the squeak of surprise out of her voice.

“Yes. Tommy.”

“But he’s . . .” Kathy wasn’t sure how one could discuss Tommy’s weight in a politically correct manner.

“Big boned? Fat? Chunky? Or shall we go straight to clinically obese? It’s okay; you can say it. And I know what you’re thinking: Tommy shouldn’t have a chance with women.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You were thinking it. I could hear you thinking it. My Tommy. My blubbery and bald Tommy swaying that enormous manhood of his. I’m not sure who I feel sorry for more: me, or the unfortunate woman who had to take a gander at that without being warmed up. I had years of the Thin Tommy before the fatty deposits took over.”

“He’s very polite,” Kathy murmured.

“Oh, don’t tell me you want him too?” Rose laughed. Rose King was fifteen years older than Kathy and looked five years older than that, with what looked like a frizzy burgundy perm that had gone out of fashion in the seventies, but which was her own hair. No matter what she did to it—whether she had it cut, colored, or straightened—within a matter of weeks it returned to its unruly mop. A short, stout woman, she had raised four boys and two girls, the youngest of whom had just left home. She’d recently told Kathy that this would be the first Christmas in more than twenty years that she and Tommy would be alone. She was dreading it, she added, without a trace of humor in her voice.

Rose and Kathy had formed the unlikeliest of friendships, starting twelve years ago when Brendan had been starting school. Kathy had walked past Rose’s slightly disheveled front lawn twice a day. A brief hello had turned into a few words as the weeks went by, which had gradually developed into longer chats. Soon Kathy was stopping for a cup of coffee, then Rose was dropping in. On the surface they had nothing in common, besides being neighbors, but they had no secrets from one another. Even when Kathy had moved from gritty South Boston to posh Brookline, the two women had kept in touch and remained friends.

“But how could you suspect your Tommy of having an affair . . . ?” The words trailed away. Even the thought of Tommy—fat, pompous, and, when he wasn’t wearing a ridiculous wig, as bald as an egg—having an affair, brought a smile to her lips.

Rose shrugged. Then she grinned and rasped, “My Tommy. My beer-bellied Tommy. But he wasn’t always fat and follically-challenged.” She shook her head in wonderment. “I know for certain that he’s had one relationship that lasted two years.”

Kathy stared at her blankly.

“Oh, and there’s definitely been two other briefer affairs. Six months each,” Rose added.

Kathy was shocked, but she wasn’t sure whether it was at the thought of Tommy’s having an affair or by the calm, almost conversational way that Rose announced the news. More to disguise her incredulity, she got up and grabbed the poinsettia plant that her kids had given to her a week earlier. Turning to the sink, she busied herself watering it. “I never knew. . . . You never said.”

“It’s not the sort of thing you drop into conversation, is it?” Rose’s mouth twisted in an ugly smile. “Love your new blouse. By the way, did you happen to know that Tommy’s dating the twenty-two-year-old bartender at the Purple Shamrock? And I don’t really mean dating either.”

Pain and anger soured the older woman’s voice, and Kathy turned to look at her. They had been friends for over a decade, and Kathy had never suspected the hurt Rose was hiding.

“Don’t look at me like that, Kathy. The fact is, it’s easier just to ignore. Make my solid contribution to the annual WASP handbook of don’t ask, don’t tell.”

“A two-year relationship . . . two six-month relationships. That’s three years of your life with him while he was with other women? Three years.”

“Honey, they were the best three years of my life!”

“Rose!”

“What? I got a lot done.” Rose drank her coffee and stared at Kathy.

“How long ago . . . I mean, when did you first suspect?” Kathy whirled around. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. It’s none of my business.”

“Ten years ago was the first time,” Rose continued as if she hadn’t heard Kathy. “I don’t know her name; I never bothered to find out.” Rose hesitated for a second. “Okay, that’s a lie. Gladys Schwartz. I read the e-mails,” she admitted. “What? Just because I didn’t confront him about the affair, didn’t mean I didn’t want to know everything. I needed to know, and it sort of made it easier to manage.”

“Did you ever see her?”

“No. Yes, of course I did.” Her face tightened, then creased into a smile. “Gladys Schwartz was as big as a house. Made Tommy look practically anorexic.”

Kathy forced a smile. Rose had looked through Tommy’s e-mails. That was a complete violation of privacy. She would never consider going through Robert’s e-mails. That would be a violation of trust.... But she’d already scrolled through his phone. Still, that was different. And if he was having an affair . . . well, hadn’t he already violated that trust?

Rose interrupted Kathy’s thoughts as she nattered on. “Gladys was an old flame, I think, one of his many previous girlfriends. They’d kept in touch on and off; then they started seeing one another for a drink. The drinks turned to meals; the meals turned to . . . well, I don’t know what they turned to, but I suspect that they ended up in bed together.” Rose delivered the statement in a flat monotone. “Must have been a big bed,” she added.

Kathy shook her head. Through the kitchen window, she could see out into the grim-looking winter garden, the trees stripped of leaves, the ornamental pond, which she hated, covered in a scummy layer of brown. Reflected in the glass, she could see Rose’s face, staring at her.

She turned back from the sink and sat at the kitchen table again, not sure what to do or how to respond. She had waited until Robert had gone to work and the children had raced to catch the bus before inviting her friend over. She had thought she would tell Rose her story and get some advice; she certainly hadn’t expected to hear something like this.

Rose laughed shakily. “I know. It’s absurd. My Tommy. But, you know, he can be so charming, so kind. So deliciously self-deprecating. That’s what first attracted me to him. Trust me, he was no Brad Pitt, but by God, he made me laugh. I read somewhere that that’s what women go for. Forget the good looks; most women just want to laugh. That’s why liars get all the girls.”

Kathy got up to pour herself more coffee. “I read that too.”

“A couple of years after that,” Rose continued, “I suspected he was carrying on with the blonde from number fifteen.”

Kathy snorted, the sound unexpected. “The one with the big . . . ?”

Reflected in the kitchen glass, Rose nodded. “The very same. Tommy started doing the accounts for her husband’s store just before his business folded. Remember, her husband ran the little appliances store just off Broadway. He had the big closing-down sale, everything must go, all items dirt cheap. Well, he made a fortune that day, then took off with the takings, the contents of their bank account, and the scrawny redhead who worked the register.”

“I bought a vacuum cleaner there.”

“I got a deep-fat fryer. Well, my Tommy started popping over once a week. Then it was twice. Then . . . well, I don’t know. It finished when she moved out.”

Kathy brought the coffee pot back to the table. “You said there were three occasions . . .” she gently prompted Rose.

“About two years ago, I suspected something was going on. It’s when online dating became so popular. One day he left his computer on, and I saw instant message texts on his screen from a bunch of women. He’d joined Match.com. Set up his profile as GlassHalfFull33. Ha. More like GlassCompletelyEmpty63. Still, these women actually wrote to him . . . and he wrote back. Sexy messages. The fat bastard’s profile actually said he was divorced,” Rose added with a wry grin. “That’s when he started getting really conscious about the hair, and got the wig.”

“I remember.” The wig was absolutely ridiculous. It was a confection of hair that seemed to balance precariously atop Tommy’s head, and it never moved, not even in a hurricane.

“You know, he thinks no one has noticed the wig,” Rose said, “because no one ever asked about it. That’s another slightly difficult subject to slip into conversation. ‘Nice rug, Tommy.’ ‘Where’d you get the wig, Tommy?’ ‘You better check out your head, Tommy, a porcupine is humping your scalp.’ Seriously, Kathy, I know if I were to ever mention it, I’d burst out laughing in his face.”

Rose started to laugh. She had a deep, masculine chuckle, and suddenly Kathy was laughing with her, the two women giggling and chuckling together, and for an instant it was just like one of hundreds of other shared mornings, when all was right with the world. Then Kathy abruptly sobered. Things had not been perfect those other mornings; Rose had been living with the belief that her husband was having an affair.

“Did you ever ask him?”

“About the wig?”

“About the affairs. About the lies. About the fake Internet dating profile.”

Rose concentrated on pouring coffee, then adding a tiny touch of low-fat milk. “I thought about it,” she said eventually. “I thought about it long and hard, and then I asked myself what I’d do if he copped to it.”

Kathy nodded. She’d been thinking about the same thing all through the night.

Rose sipped her coffee. “What was I going to do if he admitted to the affairs? I could ask him to leave, but we still had eight years to pay on the mortgage. What happened if he left? Who would pay that?” She shrugged awkwardly. “I know it sounds like an incredibly practical, maybe even cynical thing to think about, but that’s what crossed my mind. And then I wondered, what would happen if I asked him to leave and he said no? I couldn’t stay with him, could I? So I’d have to go, to leave my home and go . . . go where? I didn’t have any job skills other than running my home, and my nearest relative—an aunt—was in Providence, and she wasn’t going to take me in. Nor was I going to ask her. And then, of course, the big question: What would happen to the children? Christine was applying to colleges at the time, and little Beatrice was still in grade school. The boys were scattered in between, set in their schools, in their sports, in their lives. I had to think about them: How would this trauma affect them?”

Kathy took a deep breath. The same thoughts had been milling around in her head all night. She wondered if every woman, faced with the same situation, would have the same concerns. She reckoned they would.

“So what did you do in the end?”

Rose looked Kathy directly in the eye. “I feigned ignorance. I did nothing.”

“Nothing.” The word hung flat and uncompromising between them.

“Nothing. I decided he was having some sort of midlife crisis, and I let it go. I said nothing, did nothing. I stopped looking at his ridiculous profile riddled with exaggerations and untruths. I guess . . . I was just hoping he’d realize he had much more to lose if he left me. I was gambling that he would come to his senses. And he did. Eventually.”

“You did nothing.”

“Sometimes doing nothing is a decision too,” Rose said gently.

“Are you saying I should do nothing?”

“No, I’m not saying that. I’m telling you that’s what I did.”

“I don’t think I could do that.”

“Before you make any decision, you’ve got to be sure of your facts. At this moment, right now, you don’t know for sure.”

Kathy nodded. “But I’m almost sure.”

“Almost sure is not sure enough. And you were almost sure before.”

“But I was right then.”

“Were you?”

Kathy hesitated a bit too long before answering. “Yes. I know I was. I just . . . had no proof.”

“Then you need proof before you confront him,” Rose said simply. “And even then, even when you are one hundred percent sure, you’ve got to be prepared for the consequences.”

Kathy shook her head from side to side, and suddenly there were tears in her eyes, but, for the first time since the ugly suspicion had been planted in her mind, they were tears of anger. “If I knew he was having an affair, and I didn’t confront him, I couldn’t live with myself.”