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“—after cheating on you, for the vast majority of your short marriage.” He ignores my outrage, soldiering through. “While I’m right here, very much alive, and dare I say—more attractive than that oatmeal with legs and a crew cut. And you can’t tell me you don’t find me attractive, either, because I might’ve been drunk during that kiss, but my ears were working fine. And I remember, Winnifred, your heartbeat slamming against my chest. How you moaned and trembled—”
“Stop!” I push at him desperately, jerking him away, my face hot with shame and something else. Something dark and depraved. Need? “Just stop! I don’t care that he cheated. I don’t care that he was a scumbag. He was still my husband.”
Arsène stares at me nonchalantly, waiting for the storm to be over.
“Now please leave me alone. I can walk home by myself.”
“No,” he says flatly. “I’ll see that you get there safely.”
I start moving in my apartment’s direction again. “Aww. You sound like a good southern boy.”
“No need to hurl insults my way.” He resumes his walk. “Going back to our original conversation—you’re welcome to see the private investigator’s file whenever you please, provided you’ll give me access to Paul’s office afterward. Furthermore, whenever we see each other, I promise not to kiss you.”
“Thank you,” I say primly.
He grins. “You’ll be the one to kiss me all on your own.”
“Dream on!” I cry out childishly.
We’re almost at my apartment, and the sun is beginning to peek from the rooftops. Where’d the night go? I’ve spent ten hours with this man without even realizing it.
I stop next to my front door and lift my chin up. “I’ll reach out when I’m ready to see the file.”
“One last question.” Arsène leans an arm close to my ear against my building. He is so nonchalant, so beautiful, it is maddening to think he is—was—one woman’s man.
“What’s that?”
“I overheard your mother saying you should go to the doctor. Are you okay?”
Yes. No. I don’t know. I’m too scared to check.
Laughing carelessly, I say, “Goodbye, Arsène.”
I fling the entrance door open and slam it in his face.
After all, for him, this would be another exotic tidbit to laugh about on his way home.
For me, it is my life. My destiny. My heartbreak.
I wake up to the sound of my phone, alarm clock, and doorbell all chiming simultaneously. Groaning into Paul’s pillow—I still like to sniff it at night, pretending his scent lingers on—I unplaster myself from the warm sheets.
I bang the alarm clock on its head. By the time I reach for my phone, the call dies. I squint at it, the screen too bright for my sleepy eyes. A chain of text messages rolls in quick succession.
Lucas: TELL ME YOU READ THE TIMES. TELL ME YOU DID. OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD. YOU ARE FAMOUS, BABY.
Rahim: We need to ask for a $$$ raise after this, LOL.
Rahim: BTW, did u get home OK?
Ma: Hey, Sugar Plum. Made it back home safe. Flight was blissfully uneventful. Everyone says hi. We love you and are so proud of you!
Chrissy: Sure you don’t want to think about Hollywood? This is shaping up to be Winnie Ashcroft’s year. You’re hot right now, boo.
The doorbell chimes again, and I jump out of bed, bumping my toe against the bed frame on my way to get it. “Mothertrucker . . . ,” I mutter as I fling the door open. I expect to see Chrissy on the other end, but instead, it’s a delivery guy in a purple-and-yellow uniform. He thrusts an iPad with a touch screen pen into my hands. “Winnifred Ashcroft? Sign here, please.”
I do. After I’m done, he passes me a thick stack of newspapers and magazines.
“Wait, who sent me this?”
The guy shrugs. “I’m just here to deliver stuff, ma’am.”
He turns around and walks away.
I splay all the magazines on my dining table and open the theater section in each of them. There are four new reviews for The Seagull.
“In an ensemble full of relatively seasoned actors, Ashcroft shines as the tragic heroine of the play, with her silken, dreamy look and coquettish fragility.”
“Broadway has a lot to answer for. It is unheard of, almost criminal, that Winnifred Ashcroft has yet to grace any of its stages.”
Even the less eager reviews are still somewhat favorable.
“While Calypso Hall cannot be accused of producing high-quality, thought-provoking work in recent years (or at all), Lucas Morton’s take on one of Chekhov’s more famous plays may not be a reinvention of the wheel, but provides a solid, riveting escape from reality.”
I put the newspapers down and dig my palms into my eye sockets. Of course I looked tragic up there onstage. That’s because I am tragic.
The first sprouts of true resentment spring inside me whenever I see the last name Ashcroft next to my name. It seems all wrong. I’m not an Ashcroft. Paul’s parents barely take my calls anymore, whenever I try to reach out and check on them. I’m a Towles. Always have been.
