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“It’s my husband,” I said. “I think he’s cheating on me.”
He smiled and leaned back in the chair. It groaned. “I see. What makes you think your husband is cheating on you?”
I told him about the late nights at work, Brant’s stonewalling, the mystery phone calls and Ed’s refusal to talk about it.
Mr. Greeley nodded. “Anything else?”
“Well ... no.”
“That’s not much to go on, is it, Mrs. Hastings?” He cocked his head to one side. “Surely, there’s more to it than that.”
Aside from Roz’s insight, I had nothing specific to go on. It was more of a feeling.
For some time things had been cooling off between Ed and me. Not that Ed had ever been terribly warm. We rarely spoke, and our sex life had waned. I managed to coax Ed out of complacency every two or three weeks. My self-esteem had eroded to a nub.
I’ve always been self-conscious about my looks. Not that I’m ugly—quite the opposite. People don’t take me seriously because of my appearance, and that hurts. But I’ve always had what it takes to please a man in bed.
In the bedroom, Ed deigned to perform with a kind of military efficiency, like he was doing push-ups. I’ve learned over time how many pumps it will take, plus or minus ten. There was no way I would discuss this with a stranger.
“I just know,” I said after a while. “A wife ... knows.”
“Yeah,” he said. “So I’ve heard.” He looked me over. “How long you been married?”
“Twelve years.”
“Happy?”
I shrugged. “Not unhappy.”
“And your husband is a man of means?”
I looked at him. “You mean rich? He makes a good living, but I wouldn’t call us rich.”
“What’s he do?”
“He’s an actuary with Fidelity Insurance.”
“Good paying gig.” Mr. Greeley tortured the chair some more with his fidgeting. “That’s a handsome suit. Very tasteful. Your husband must do well to buy you such nice clothes.”
I regretted having worn it. He would probably charge me more than his usual fee.
“I wear this for interviews. I’ve been looking for a job for several months.”
“A job?” He seemed surprised.
“Yes, I’m out of work. My last employer laid me off.”
“What did you do?”
“I was an administrative assistant at Sartwell Sausages.”
“Sausages, eh?” He smiled again. “Funny thing about sausages. You can hide all sorts of funny stuff in them. Dirty stuff.”
“Not if you follow FDA guidelines.”
He let go an artificial laugh. “The schoolgirl act is wearing thin, Mrs. Hastings.”
“I don’t understand.”
