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“Winnie? It’s me, Chris. Open up! I know you’re there. It’s your day off and you have no life.” She lets out an awkward laugh.
My heart sinks. It’s all the evidence I need of the fact that I’m royally and seriously messed up. Why did I think it’d be Arsène? Why did Iwantit to be him? He belongs to someone else. His heart, dusty and crooked as it may be, will always beat to the rhythm of Grace’s drum. I bury my face back in the pillow, ignoring the persistent knocks and the doorbell, not feeling even half-guilty for it.
Endometriosis.
Oh, Paul, aren’t you glad you aren’t here? You’d have had to pretend not to be disappointed. You’d have had to do your part, say all the right things, be a gentleman about it, but it wouldn’t have changed how you felt. Played—by the sweet, naive woman you thought you could tuck away in the suburbs and make babies with.If Paul were here, if he knew, he would stick around for a year, maybe two. Before his affair—or several of them—would intentionally come to light. Before he’d start to manufacture fights.
He’d make me leave him. Tweak the narrative to fit his good-guy universe.
It just didn’t work out. We tried. Sometimes people just grow apart.
It reminds me of the whole Brangelina debacle back in the day. People lashed out at Jennifer Aniston—why hadn’t she given him babies? Was she too obsessed with her figure? Was she too selfish? Too self-centered? Too infertile? Either way, inexcusable! And then, of course, came Angelina. Who made him a father. Suddenly, they were abrood. We all know how that turned out. Children are not glue. They cannot fix a marriage. Just like infertility isn’t a hammer. It cannot—shouldn’t—break one.
The doorbell continues to chime, but I ignore it.
Chrissy can wait. For now, it’s just my new best friend and me.
Agony.
I arrive at Arsène’s fifteen minutes late. I don’t want him to know I’ve waited for our meeting all day. How I was ready three hours in advance, tucked inside my most flattering pair of jeans, cute black sweater, and the only pair of nice shoes I own.
Not wanting to look eager, or worse—interested—I kept my makeup to a minimum. A little bit of foundation, mascara, and a pink lip gloss, which I also tapped lightly on my cheekbones to create a shiny blush.
He opens the door in his work clothes, the top of his dress shirt unbuttoned to reveal a mat of dark hair. He is barefoot and talking on his phone, motioning with his hand for me to come inside.
This throws me off. After all, at the drive-in, he was acutely attuned to me. Generous, playful, almost romantic; now he is the same cold statue I met in Italy.
Arsène turns his back on me and advances toward his kitchen. I follow, straightening my spine and ignoring the obvious signs of obnoxious wealth dripping from every stainless steel appliance and piece of furniture in his domain. If Grace’s apartment hints at wealth, his downright screams it. His view alone is mouthwatering.
“Right out the gate, I’d move away from crypto. Too vulnerable to government crackdowns. If there’s one thing we can always count on, it’s the government’s ability to fuck up a perfectly good investment channel,” he says to the person on the other line.
I glance around myself uncertainly. I was not expecting this kind of welcome.
“Hmm,” Arsène answers to his client. “Not sure about this one. Let me run the numbers and double-check.” He points at a seat at his dining table, and I assume position, taking it. “Hold on a sec, Ken. What can I get you, Winnifred? Coffee? Water? Tea?”
I was hoping we were going to have something stronger. Clearly, he and I aren’t on the same page tonight. Anger begins simmering in my veins, diluted by humiliation.You stupid, stupid woman.
“Water’s fine, thank you,” I say formally.
He gets me a bottle of FIJI Water and disappears into his hallway, then returns with a thick manila envelope, which he dumps in front of me on the table.
“No surprises there.” He laughs, deep in conversation withKen. “Stock-oriented hedge funds have low net exposure. I hardly ever deal with those time wasters.”
It’s all gibberish to me, so I open the manila folder without waiting and pull out the heavy stack of papers. It’s mostly pictures, which I wasn’t expecting. Largely printed and in good quality. I’m not even sure what I’m looking at. How could the private investigator capture pictures of Paul and Graceafterthey’ve passed away?
And yet that’s exactly what I’m holding in my hands.
The first picture is of Grace perched in Paul’s lap, grinning at the camera. The picture is taken by someone else, and the backdrop seems to be a party. A company party, to be exact. Why would they be so openly intimate in public?
Maybe their affair was Silver Arrow Capital’s worst-kept secret.
This explains why none of Paul’s colleagues wanted to answer my questions about him. Chose to send me flowers rather than pick up the phone.
The second picture is of both of them in Paris.Paris.Where they shared an apartment. A second, domestic life full of bliss. The window behind them is open, overlooking the Eiffel Tower. They’re not touching each other, which is somehow almost worse. Grace seems to be serving food to a small group of people while Paul cracks open a bottle of wine. This goes beyond betrayal. This wasn’t an affair, I realize—it was a love story.
The third picture is peculiar. I’m not sure what to make of it. It’s of Grace only. Puffy eyed and tired. She is slung over a bed, her mouth in a surly pout. There’s an Instagram caption under her face that reads,miss my baby
Said baby, I’m going to take a wild guess, is my late husband.
