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“Do your friendships with women . . . usually end quickly?”
“I don’t know,” I say, exasperated. “Who knows? That’s not the point. Don’t you even want to know . . . who she is?”
“Is that important? Who she is?”
“The point is that I haven’t had a girlfriend in a long time. Okay?” I say, glaring at him.
“And why is that?”
“I don’t know. Because I’m married. You tell me.”
“So this girlfriend . . .”
“Dianna—”
Dr. Q. holds up his hand. “First names only.”
“What is this? Some kind of AA meeting?”
“It’s whatever you think it is, Cecelia. Now let’s see. Dianna,” Dr.Q. says, writing the name in block letters and underlining it.
“You know EXACTLY who she is,” I scream. “Jesus. It’s Dianna Moon. Don’t you read Page Six? They’ve been writing about us for two weeks. How we’re seen everywhere together.”
Dr. Q. sucks the end of his pen. “I don’t read Page Six,” he says thoughtfully.
“Goddammit, Dr. Q. Everyone reads Page Six,” I say, crossing my arms and swinging one foot, clad in a beige silk Manolo Blahnik shoe, four hundred and fifty dollars and completely impractical, which Dianna and I bought two days ago when we went on a “shopping spree.” I picked them out, and Dianna said that we should both buy a pair because we were “sisters,” and this was confirmed when it turned out that we wore the same size shoe: nine.
“I have good taste,” I say suddenly. And Dr. Q., probably relieved that I’m not going to go bat shit on him after all, says mildly, “Yes, you do. That’s one of the things you’re known for, isn’t it? Good taste. It’s probably one of the reasons why Hubert married you.”
He looks at me. I just stare at him, so he continues, floundering, “After all, that is one of the reasons why men like Hubert get married, isn’t it? They want the wife with good taste, who will wear the right things to . . . charity benefits. . . and decorate the house in the Hamptons . . . or no, aren’t the Hamptons over?. . . according to you people. . . .” And I lean back in the chair and close my eyes.
I think about what Dianna would do in this situation.
“You know what, Dr. Q.?” I ask.
“What,” he says.
“Fuck you,” I say, and walk out.
VII
This morning I wake up and say to Hubert, “Do you think Xanaxes are illegal?” while he’s in the bathroom, shaving, and he says, “Why?” and I say, “Because I don’t want to have any scandal. With customs. When I go to France,” just to rub it in. And he gets this sick look on his face, which he’s been pretty much sporting ever since I told him, two weeks ago, that I was going away, and he says, “I don’t think you have to worry about it. You know, if there’s any problem, you can always call my father.”
“Oh la,” I say gaily, for absolutely no reason. “I just love calling the castle.”
He brushes by me, lifting his chin to button his shirt and pull a tie under his collar, and I see that hurt look in his eyes, like the outer corners of his eyes are drooping downward, and for a minute I feel like a corkscrew’s been thrust in my stomach, but then I remember that he SHOULD feel bad.
He’s the one who’s having the affair.
Which, by the way, I don’t plan to mention again.
Actions speak louder than words.
I pick up Mr. Smith, who is still, naturally, sleeping on the bed, and I kiss the top of his head and say, “Do you think that Mr. Smith will miss me?” all sweet and girly.
“I think so,” he says neutrally. But he does not add the natural rejoinder: I’ll miss you too.
Oh GOD. What’s going to happen?
