Her Perfect Life

by Rebecca Taylor

  “So, again,” he said, turning to face her while the machine hissed and gurgled behind him, “I’m really sorry about last night.” He looked at the floor before raising his eyes to hers and waiting for her response.

  Eileen bit her lip, wishing he would say more, wishing she could remember more. God, she didn’t even know how horrible she should be feeling. “I’m sorry too,” she said.

  Simon blew a fast stream of air out through his lips. “You?” He shook his head. “You’re a saint. Seriously, Eileen, I don’t know what I would have done. Thank you, for everything.”

  She raised her eyebrows, envisioning all the ways this thank you could be so completely inappropriate. Had she slept with him? Done other equally unfathomable sexual things with him? She couldn’t bear to think she was capable of such a betrayal, to her sister, to Eric—but she also couldn’t be sure that she wouldn’t do it given the amount of alcohol she had been applying to her utterly dysfunctional life lately. She was going to have to say it, the question, out loud right now. She pressed the pads of her fingers to her closed eyes.

  “Simon…what exactly happened last night? I woke up in bed next to you…half dressed. And I can’t remember anything except that…” God, this was awful. “Except that, we kissed. I do remember that.” With her hands still covering her eyes, she forced herself to go on. “But I don’t remember much else, and if we…if we…” She dropped her hands from her face and hung her head. “Please tell me we didn’t.”

  “Wait…you think, we…?”

  “I don’t know what to think, Simon. All I know is that I remember kissing you in Clare’s office, and then, I’m waking up next to you in bed.” Eileen’s phone vibrated in her back pocket. She pulled it out to look at who was calling, and her already racing heart leapt into overdrive. “Shit, it’s Eric,” she said to herself.

  “That asshole. You want me to talk to him?” Simon said.

  Eileen looked at him like he was insane. “What? Why would I…and I thought…you and Eric liked each other.” She declined the call and saw that it was one of seven calls she had missed since last night.

  “Wow, you really don’t remember anything from last night?” He pulled one full cup of coffee from the machine and replaced it with an empty one. “First off, no, and I kinda can’t believe I have to say this, we did not sleep together. Not like that.” He handed her a cup of coffee and pointed to the fridge. “Would you grab the cream?”

  Nothing had happened. The relief of it swept away her embarrassment in an instant. She pulled open the fridge door and searched the shelves until she found the small carton of half-and-half on the inside of the door.

  “To give you the short version, you showed me those last night.” He pointed to the pictures of Eric and Lauren, laid facedown on the island. “You told me about what was happening with Eric, how you found out about it, and what you planned to do about it. You cried, which made me cry, and also tell you about…my own affair.” Simon paused and reached for the cream, hesitating. “Which led to the whole discussion that sent me into a mental health nosedive and, along with also being incredibly drunk but apparently not quite as drunk as you, led me to telling you that I had been thinking about—”

  “You asked me if I thought Clare had killed herself because of what you did,” she suddenly remembered. “Because you had cheated on her.”

  Simon nodded.

  “And you wanted to die too,” she whispered. “That’s what you said. I remember that now. You said you wanted to take Clare’s gun and shoot yourself.” Eileen’s forehead furrowed as she watched Simon take a drink from his coffee cup, then give her the barest of nods. “Simon…”

  He swallowed and placed his cup on the island between them. “Which is why I apologized, and thanked you. You made me stay with you last night. Not because anything happened between us, but so you could make sure I didn’t do anything to myself. You wanted to keep me safe—even after I told you what I had done.”

  He had been serious last night, emphatic about not wanting to live without Clare or with his own guilt. He did seem better this morning, but would that last? What about tonight, when he was alone again in their shared bedroom? Or after the funeral? What about when Eileen got on her flight and headed back to Colorado, leaving him completely alone in this architectural mammoth her sister had built, where every scrap of furniture, every linen, every piece of art, the very location was all Clare’s doing?

  “Where is Clare’s gun now?”

  Simon placed his cup on the island between them. “I wouldn’t do it,” he whispered. “Last night, everything…the realization that she was gone…forever. It hit me. And that feeling, of being…somehow responsible.” He shook his head. “But I don’t really want to die.”

  Eileen nodded. “Where’s the gun?”

  “The police still have it.”

  “And will they return it?” she pressed.

  “I don’t remember everything they said. That whole morning they were here; it’s just a blur in my head.”

  “Okay, so if and when they do return it…what are you going to do with it?”

  He was hesitating, staring at his cup. She watched him take a deep breath like he was trying to think of the right thing to say. Eventually he let out a fast sigh instead.

  “I don’t know,” he whispered.

  His answer made Eileen all the more positive she would need to make sure Clare’s gun never came back to this house. Not that she didn’t believe him; Simon really didn’t want to die right now, and he was obviously relieved that Eileen had been here to keep him from making an impulsive and irrevocable decision last night. But he was reluctant to let the entire possibility, the potential exit strategy, go altogether. Because what if he changed his mind later?

  “I’m going to need you to give me the number for the lead investigator,” she said, sounding more like her cop mother than she realized she was capable of. “I know there are a hundred other ways you could kill yourself, but the most statistically successful way will not be coming back through this front door.” The raw certainty of what needed to happen, and her own sense of authority to make it happen—it surprised her. She was drawing a line for Simon, a man she barely knew, and she felt a swell of righteousness that she was prepared to argue with him about. He needed to be kept safe.

  Simon nodded. His sudden surrender, because she had insisted on something, put her foot down—Eileen wasn’t sure how to handle it. She wasn’t used to being so…demanding. Instead of saying anything else, she nodded once and took a sip of her coffee.

  Her phone buzzed in her pocket and broke the heavy silence. She pulled it out. “It’s Eric again,” she said more to herself than Simon. “He’s called eight times since last night.”

  “You should probably take it then,” Simon said.

  Eileen met his eyes over the rim of his cup. “You said I told you last night how I planned to handle this situation with him.” She placed her palm flat on top of the upside-down pictures next to her. “What did I say?”

  “You said you’d probably forgive him. Or maybe just act like you’d never even seen those. You talked a lot about the kids, how it would affect them. You said you were worried about all that change, if you left him, and how it would ruin everything.”

  “Yes,” Eileen said. “That sounds just like me.” She held up her phone. “I’m going to take this.”

  “I’ll be in my office if you need me.”

  “Thank you.”

  As Simon picked up his cup and left the kitchen, Eileen swiped her phone and held it to her ear. “Hello?”

  “Eileen.” Eric sounded surprised she answered. “Jesus, I’ve been trying to call you since yesterday. Is everything…okay? I mean, of course it’s not. I know that, Clare, obviously. But, well I guess I thought you’d still be reachable. Are you all right? Is there… Are you all right?”

 
His tone was higher-pitched than usual, and he was fumbling around for words. It was so unlike him. Eric, always so steadfast and self-assured; normally he possessed a self-confidence that she sometimes felt came off as a little arrogant.

  “I’m fine,” she said, not at all sure where this conversation could possibly lead. Now alone in the kitchen, she turned the photos on the counter faceup and fanned them out. It all depended on whether she decided to say anything. “There’s been a lot to process,” she said as she shifted through the photos of Eric and Lauren until the one of them spooning, Eric’s face nuzzled at Lauren’s neck, was clearly visible.

  “I can imagine,” Eric said. “It’s such a shock. I’m sorry you’re having to deal with all this.”

  “Deal with all what?” she snapped.

  He didn’t say anything, and an uncomfortable silence stretched out on the line between them. Eileen closed her eyes. She hadn’t meant to lose her temper—she didn’t want to, not now, not when she wasn’t yet sure how she wanted to handle this situation. If she started an argument with him now, there would be no turning back. She wasn’t ready for that.

  “I’m sorry,” she forced herself to say. “I’m tired, and there has been a lot to deal with.”

  “Of course, and you don’t have to apologize. The kids and I, we were just worried…about you.”

  “Are they okay?”

  “Yes and no, I guess. I mean, in truth, they hardly knew Clare. But then again, she was so famous, and their aunt. I think it’s a little weird for them to process too. Grieving for someone the whole world knows of, if not well. They’ve been getting calls from their friends, saying how sorry they are about their aunt dying. I think it’s just hard for them to know how to feel, never mind how to respond. Mostly I think they just want you to come home.”

  “Me too,” Eileen whispered into the phone.

  “When is your flight back again? Everything happened so fast, and you left in such a rush I don’t even know when your flight home is.”

  “The funeral is tomorrow; I’m flying out the day after.”

  “We’ll pick you up. What time?”

  “I have your car at the airport,” Eileen reminded him.

  “Oh, that’s right…” For several seconds, silence stretched out again between them. Eileen knew her husband well enough to know something else was going on with him. “Hey,” he finally said, his voice again pitchy and uncertain. “Completely off topic, but did you happen to save that paperwork from Carl about the insurance? You said he left it on my car?”

  That was it, she suddenly realized. Under normal circumstances, there was absolutely no reason Eric would bring up insurance paperwork neither of them wanted or needed right now. Something had happened, and Eric was scared. Eileen touched the photos on the counter, shifting them again across the white marble.

  “Yes, I have them,” she said.

  “Good. That’s good. We should look into that,” he said, but Eileen could hear that his mind was somewhere else. “I don’t suppose you’ve had a chance to look at them?”

  “Not really.” She pushed the photos together into a pile. “I’ve been busy.”

  “God, of course. Such a stupid question.”

  “Yes,” she answered like a blunt instrument. “It was stupid.” She could hardly believe she said that. They had never spoken to each other like that.

  The silence settled between them again, like they were both trying to figure out some new reality. “Eileen, when you get home, we should talk.”

  “About what?” she dared him.

  He knew she knew. Or at least, he suspected that she might know about him and Lauren. Something had happened since she last spoke with him. Either Lauren’s husband, Dave, not receiving an answer to his first threat, had approached Eric again, or Eric had spoken with Carl and learned there was no insurance paperwork. For Eric to sound this scared and uncharacteristically unsure, Eileen was guessing it was Dave again.

  “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

  Liar. “Yes, we’ll talk. But I have to go now; tell the kids I love them and I’ll call them later this afternoon.”

  “Okay. Hang in there. I love you, Eileen.”

  “Goodbye,” she said, and hung up.

  Chapter 24

  Clare

  Sixteen years before her death

  “I’m sweating,” Donna said, fanning her face with her limp page. “I think I am, no shit, going to pass out. Clare, I’m serious. I can’t do this.”

  Clare pulled Donna’s paper from her hand and grasped her shoulders. “Donna, look at me.” Only when Donna’s eyes stopped spiraling around the packed room beyond the stage and zeroed in on her own did Clare continue. “You can do this, and you will do it. Do you hear me? You’re going to be fine, better than fine; you’re going to be great. He obviously is interested in you, your work…otherwise he wouldn’t have agreed to come.”

  Donna stared at Clare and nodded, but her terror was still apparent. “I wish I hadn’t ever mentioned the open mic. What was I thinking? I just wanted to keep the conversation going, and I didn’t know what to say. I was just babbling. Why did I have to babble about this place?”

  Last week in Donna’s writing class, her professor had invited a literary agent to come and speak with them all about all things publishing. Afterward, the guy had hung around to chat with the students and even invited a few of them to submit work to him. It was then that Donna, for whatever reason, had mentioned that she regularly read at an open mic on Wednesday nights in Brooklyn.

  “Really!” the agent had said. “I live in Brooklyn. Where is it?”

  And so, Donna had told him, and he’d said, “I really enjoyed what you shared in class today. Maybe I’ll stop by. What was it? The Blue Spruce? Next Wednesday?”

  So now, today, the Blue Spruce was packed beyond capacity because Donna told Clare that this lit agent might be coming, and Clare might have mentioned it to Liz, who told Dave, who told everyone, and now Brian, the owner, was pissing himself over the extra money he was pulling in off his standard door cover alone.

  “Do you think I should have raised the price?” he’d asked Clare earlier in the evening when he saw the line of hopeful writers forming outside his door. “Damn, I should raise the cover.”

  So now, the bar was packed, Donna was freaking out, and Clare seriously wondered if this agent guy had any idea how much chaos and panic and outright racketeering his “stopping by” was the genesis of.

  “Wait.” Clare turned to Donna, who looked like she might now be holding her breath. “Is this guy even here? Do you see him in the crowd?”

  Donna shook her head. “I’m too afraid to look.”

  “Jesus, all this circus and the guy probably didn’t even show.”

  “No,” Donna said. “He’ll be here. He’s a really great guy.”

  Clare sighed. “Okay, well, keep breathing, for God’s sake. Otherwise you really will pass out. I have to check the numbers, but I’ll be back in like three minutes to announce you. I think you should scan the crowd and see if you can at least see the guy. What if he’s late?”

  Donna grabbed Clare’s hand and pulled her back. “Thank you, Clare, seriously, for everything. Our friendship, the support…you always believe in me. I sometimes think, if you hadn’t come out here when you did and we hadn’t moved in together, I for sure would have given up and gone home years ago.”

  “No you wouldn’t. You forget all your fancy MFA friends.”

  “Those judgmental piranhas? Sure, I have them. But not a single one of them, despite all their many charms, has yet to publish in a major way. You did that! And sure, I was jealous, but when I eventually got over that, I realized that I have totally been selling myself short—something you’ve always said, for years now. And seeing your story in print, I finally knew it was true because if one of your stori
es can find a place at a major publication, mine can for sure. Once I realized that…honestly, I think it was why I had the courage to even speak to Simon Reamer last week.”

  Clare blinked as her mind worked to unpack exactly what her friend had just implied.

  “Anyway, I don’t want to keep you. But I wanted you to know how much your success has totally lit a fire under my own ass. Now, if I can manage to get through this reading without completely losing my shit…” Donna smiled. “I think this could actually be it for me, the night when my career really comes together.”

  Clare swallowed, then turned and continued down the rickety plywood stairs. What the hell? Was she hearing her right? Donna basically thought that if someone like Clare could manage to fall ass-backward into a publishing deal, certainly she, Donna Mehan, could. Donna Mehan, who was more talented, more deserving, the much more obvious success story.

  Because Clare wasn’t.

  Was she reading too much into this? She didn’t think so. In fact, she was pretty sure Donna had just backhanded her while smiling to her face. And part of Clare felt like Donna knew exactly what she was doing.

  Like she wanted to tear Clare down a little.

  The bar was packed, and Clare had to squeeze through bodies and dodge filled glasses of low-quality wine and bottles of beer to make her way back to the door, where Brian was practically giddy with greed.

  “I’m going to get started with the first read,” she shouted near his ear. “I have no idea how we’re going to get to everyone on the list who’s waiting to read. I just checked and it’s over fifty people. At six minutes, were looking at five hours!”

  Brian paused for half a second before his brain calculated a solution. “Three minutes tonight. Three minutes, then pull the plug.”

  “Seriously? You gouge them at the door, overcharge them for drinks, then barely give them half a second on the stage.”

  Brian grinned and turned his attention back to calculating the current door totals. “I told you, not a charity.”