AllFreeNovel
Share Us
The corners of Patrick’s mouth turn down. “I don’t think our appetizers agreed with me.” He lightly touches his cummerbund for effect.
I frown. “Ifeel fine.” I turn back to Rupert. “Patrick and I went to Or, The Whale before we came here. Split the seafood tower.”
“Ah.” Rupert nods. “Great food at that place, but terrible service.”
Patrick was distracted at dinner, too. He kept looking at his phone, but when I peeked at the screen, all I could see was his screensaver—a picture of our two kids, Connor and Amelia, on the beach at Hilton Head. I’d wondered if he was communicating with the babysitter about something—Patrick often worries when we go out, regularly checking in with the sitter with reminders and tips—but he shook his head and said the kids were fine.
“I think I’m going to head out,” Patrick says apologetically. “Youmind if I take the car, babe? You can take an Uber—I don’t want you driving.”
“Why? I’m not drinking.” I put my hands on my hips. I’m suddenly aware of how my Spanx are digging into my waistline. “C’mon, darling. It’s a great party. Stay a little longer.”
Patrick glances toward the door, his face pale. “I think you’d be better off without me.”
Above us, a T. rex looms, its fossilized jaws open in mid-munch. I estimate the hours it took me to get ready for tonight: the hair and makeup appointments, the waxing, the skin brushing, the CBD oil I numbed my feet with so I could stand up in these shoes. The body shaper I contorted to get into, the jewelry I’d polished, the vintage Chanel clutch I’d searched for before remembering I’d put it in the safe-deposit box in the closet. I heard my mother’s voice in my head the whole time I prepared, telling me I wasn’t pretty enough, that I had to domoreto hide all my imperfections, though when I looked at the end result in the mirror, I wanted to snap a selfie and send it to her—in her grave.Here, Mom, you’d finally approve.
And all that was on top of the hours I spent memorizing important details about donors—a wife’s favorite opera, that a husband’s family is from Hungary, that a couple has six poodles, that their favorite type of vacation is to go to Old West camps and pretend to be ranchers. I made fuckingflash cardsto remember all of it.And here I am tonight, looking gorgeous, killing it professionally—this is an important night for me. Patrick needs to stay. He needs to hold my arm and laugh at the donors’ stupid jokes and choke down another glass of wine. He should know this by now. And usually he’s good at following the gentle requests I make of him.
I’m not as controlling as I might sound—it’s just that Patrickneedsit. A mutual friend introduced us. I was in college at UVA; Patrick had graduated from Duke a few years prior. Patrick was handsome, athletic, and ambitious, launching his first business at just twenty-three, but he was lost without his mother and in over hishead as a businessman, so he was looking for a personal assistant who would not only help him transform himself into a proper CEO but also run his life domestically. Patrick needed someone to organize his calendar, schedule his meetings, take his calls, but also shop for him, tell him what to eat at dinners, and even tell him how to socialize at events and not sound like a fratty buffoon.
I’ve always been good at running things and behaving properly—nonstop etiquette classes and hypercritical parents will do that to you. In high school, one of my closest friends wanted to become a movie star, and before she moved to Hollywood and established a very respectable career as a character actress, I was her manager. It didn’t even feel hard. I bullied my way into getting her auditions and interviews—even setting her up with some producers in LA. All I had to do was act like I’d been in the business for years, and people believed it. I had a good little business going for a while, though I stopped it after I started college because it was taking up too much of my time.
Anyway, after months of a strictly professional relationship, things deepened between Patrick and me, we got married, blah, blah, blah, happily ever after. And now I see myself as Patrick’s PA, life coach, and sexpot all rolled into one. Because of this, I am the envy of other mothers and wives—they are stunned by howagreeablemy husband is. They’re like, “He’s compliantandhandsomeandwealthyandhe’s a stellar father?” (That part I never had to school him on: Patrick is over the moon for those kids, sometimes to a fault.) His buddies might call himwhipped,but I like to think that we whip one another. Not literally—horrors—but there are certain things I do to hold up my end of the bargain, too. I haven’t eaten bread in years, for example. I close the exercise ring on my Apple Watch every day. I go to bed with a full face of makeup and wipe it all off only after he’s fallen asleep—again, another tip from my late mother, who always said my naked face was too flat and plain.
“Just take a Tums,” I murmur to him now.
Desperation flashes across Patrick’s face. “Nice to see you again,” he says to Rupert, as he backs away.
Rupert loops a fleshy arm around me. “If you leave, I might just take this one home!” He squeezes me tighter.His skin smells like Scotch and, underneath it, Bengay. I laugh along, but inside, I’m rolling my eyes. If I suggested that Rupert and I get naked, he’d probably piss his pants.
“But seriously,” Rupert adds to Patrick, “you’ve got a real gem with this one. She can tell a joke, speaks four languages, and she was telling me earlier that she’s skilled in French cuisine! Watch out, Julia Child!”
Patrick laughs halfheartedly. “Yep, Lynn can pretty much do it all.”
He squeezes my arm, gives me one more kiss, and heads to the door. I glance around to see if anyone’s seen. It doesn’t seem so, but I wish Patrick weren’t walking out of the museum so damn quickly. I mean, he’s practically jogging away from me.
I wish Patrick’s e-mails were on that hack server. I want to believe that he’s faithful—he’dbetterbe—but after trolling so many accounts on that hack database, I don’t have much trust in humanity. Kit’s husband’s dalliance was far from the only transgression I found—totally unassuming people are having affairs, people I would have never guessed. Like my sweet, slightly naïve neighbor Charlie in Aldrich University medical research? He’s banging his research assistant. And Tomiko Clarke, who has an executive role in Aldrich Alumni Relations, is cheating on her wife with aman.I even found a dozen long, deep, emotional letters to a person named Sadie in my boss George’s drafts folder. I don’t know who Sadie is—and considering that George’s wife is with him tonight, either they’ve worked it out or she hasn’t trolled his e-mails yet.
But Patrick would be a fool to play with fire. It’s not even worth dwelling on—I have a job to do. I have donations to bring in and money to make. I also still have the Kit Show to watch. And so I turn to her, watching as she staggers about, arms flailing, body listing. I have a good feeling that after tonight, everything is really going to change.
7
KIT
THURSDAY, APRIL 27, 2017
The first thing I smell when I come to is bleach. Which is unfortunate, because Ihatebleach: It always reminds me of being in the morgue all those years ago. A dry heave wells up inside me, and I press onto my arms. My eyes feel reptile-dry as I open them. There is the taste of death in my mouth. Where the hellamI?
The world spins. I see the overhead light blaring, the tile work, a dust ball, a strand of my highlighted hair. And then I see the photograph. It’s an Ansel Adams print of Siesta Lake in Yosemite Park. The real deal Ansel Adams, not some lame print you buy in a mall art shop—Greg bought it for me as a wedding present. I even remember the card:A cool, tranquil respite formycool, tranquil respite.Greg was such a Lord Byron back when things were fresh and new.
Okay, then. I’m in my downstairs powder room. In my craftsman-style home tucked on Hazel Lane in Blue Hill, one-point-six miles from the museum, where the gala was held. How didthathappen? Did Iwalkhere?
I struggle to my feet. The world lurches, and I catch the side of the sink. I’m definitely still drunk from the gala.Whatdid I drink? All I can remember is one martini. I notice my reflection in the mirror: Mygray gown is as wrinkled as elephant skin. My makeup is ghoulishly smudged around my eyes. My lipstick has long been eaten away.
It feels like the tundra in the front hallway, and I’m quick to discover why: My huge, arch-shaped craftsman-style door stands wide open. A crisp breeze gusts in the smell of earth and mulch.Jesus.Did I really leave that open? And then I spot my car crookedly parked in the driveway. I close my eyes, desperately wanting to blot out what my brain now knows. Idrove home.I can’t quite believe it: Ineverdrive drunk.
I twist around, peering back into the bathroom. My clutch lies facedown on the tile, a lipstick and my keys fallen out. I scoop everything up, pull out my phone, and look at the time. It’s past 1:00A.M. Cold, clammy panic overtakes me. The last I remember checking, it had been only a little after ten. I’ve lostthree hours.
I retrace my steps: I’d gone inside the gala. Talked to Dad. Drifted over to Lynn Godfrey. And then...Patrick.I shut my eyes. I’ve temporarily forgotten.
