“Oh poor Stella, she keeps making poor choices that I have to clean up so she can keep being reckless and immature.”
“Excuse me,” Stella scoots as far away from him on the bed as possible, “then maybe you shouldn’t have married someone like me.”
“You think I asked for this?” Grant looks at her with venom. “This was not the trajectory I expected for our lives together.”
“If you must know, it was a surprise for you. I hired Camille to come and redecorate your office. You've been bitching that the style doesn't match yours and you're trying to incorporate something fresh into your space.”
Grant looks crestfallen.
“I took cash out to give her a deposit.”
“Why cash?”
“Because when she goes to the warehouse, she has to pay in cash since it’s one-of-a-kind pieces. She was going to shop for you at the sample market on La Brea.”
He says nothing, his face flushed. She can tell he’s embarrassed for his outburst, and for once, he's the one acting irrational. Stella wants to sit and gloat in the feeling, but she’s too upset.
“I’m sorry that our lives together have caused you such unhappiness.”
“It’s not...”
“Clearly it is.”
Grant clears his throat. “It’s just hard sometimes, Stel. I worry about you constantly, if you’re safe, if you’re happy, if you’re feeling stressed.”
“That’s what one does for their spouse,” Stella retorts, “they worry. You’re always on my mind.”
“Yeah, but not for the same reasons.” Grant hunches over. “I don’t mean to be insensitive, it’s just hard always wondering when the next shoe is going to drop.”
“I’m trying.” Stella bites her lip. “And I’m sorry that’s not enough.”
“Don’t put words in my mouth.”
“Then don’t be so flippant about my feelings.”
He reaches for her, but she’s not in the mood to be touched by him. Stuffing an oversized feather pillow between them, she hands him the remote and turns over, shutting her eyes.
She has a big day tomorrow, and the last thing she’s want to do is rehash her shortcomings as his wife.
“Are we okay, Stella?”
“No.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I want to go to bed, since the point of us being here is for me to speak tomorrow. I’d appreciate if for once we didn’t make this about your inability to sleep since you feel unsettled.”
“But you never sleep...”
“I took a sleeping pill.” Stella snuggles down into the covers. “Night.”
Grant snorts in protest, but Stella doesn’t respond, her thoughts on what she wants to accomplish tomorrow in her speaker’s series at the forefront of her mind.
It takes her a while to drift off, her thoughts gravitating to the past, the last weekend she communicated with him.
Stella’s walking through the aisles of Ralph’s, trying to keep her cart steady, a wheel clearly off-balance that causes a loud, annoying squeak.
Her phone rings, a random Los Angeles number.
She answers, a sliver of anticipation running down her spine. Is the caller on the other end of the line personal or will it be business-related?
There’s no greeting, just a “Stella, we need to talk.”
“Is everything okay? Is it an emergency?” she asks, “I’m just at the grocery store.”
“No, not urgent.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow night.”
“It’s Friday.” she comments. They never meet up on weekend nights unless it's a short period of time they can sneak away for.
“Yeah?”
“You going to be able to swing it?”
“For this, yes,” he murmurs. “What about you? Is your husband busy?”
Cringing, she replies, “He’s headed to New York for the weekend.” Stella throws a premade garden salad and some ranch dressing in her cart. “Are you going to whisk me away for the weekend?”
“I wish,” he sighs. “You know we can't disappear together for a whole weekend.”
“You want to come to the house Friday?”
“You know I can’t come to the house.”
“I’m just tired of making love in uncomfortable places.” She pouts. “Damn that husband of mine for putting up cameras.”
“I really just want to talk.”
“Sure you do.” Her attention turns to the meat and poultry section.
“Okay, see you then.” He abruptly hangs up, not even a goodbye, and Stella's filled with dread for a moment.
She walks through each aisle, aimlessly wandering, until Lucy calls her to talk about problems at home with Adam and Stella shifts her attention to best friend mode, all the while wondering if there’s something she should be prepared for.
20
Stella
Stella takes the stage, speaking to an audience of at least a few thousand, grateful her knees are hidden behind the podium. They wobble with a ferociousness she didn’t think could leave her standing.
Taking a deep breath, she starts speaking on the beauty industry and on her own experiences breaking into the realm as a self-made entrepreneur. She makes sure to put on a calm and collected front, smiling as she takes pauses to glance around the audience, a dream come true.
She pays homage to Trina Turk, a designer who opened her first retail store in Palm Springs. Wearing one of her signature contemporary dresses, Stella makes sure to end her time with an inspirational story.
“And make sure you always have the right people in your corner. I have a husband who has invested heavily in me and my brand, and has gone to great lengths to build me up when internally, I’m combusting. It’s important to have a support system that you can lean on for the good, but also growing pains of a start-up business.”
“Grant,” she speaks into the microphone, “Grant Masen, can you please come up here?” She shields her eyes with her hands, the bright lights making her glow with a sweaty sheen.
Smiling from ear to ear, he briskly walks up to the stage.
Giving him a kiss, she motions to the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is my best friend and life partner, Grant Masen.”
Turning towards him, she says, “Thank you, hubby, for being such an intrinsic part of my life story and the SMK line.”
There’s a roar of applause, and they hold hands for a moment, before Stella hands the mic back to the announcer.
“Thank you Stella McKinney, owner and founder of SMK Cosmetics. And before you go Stella, is the rumor true?”
“What’s that?”
“That The Hudson Bay Company, A.K.A. Saks is acquiring a portion of your makeup line?”
“It is merely a rumor that I can neither confirm or deny,” she grins, “but stay tuned.”
Stella and Grant leave the stage holding hands, and Grant pauses at the bottom. He holds her cheeks, beaming with pride as he congratulates her. “Stel, you did amazing, I’ve never seen you so in your element. You exuded confidence and warmth. I’m so proud.”
“Thanks babe.” She gives him a deep kiss on the mouth. “Thanks for coming with me.”
“Always.”
They get back to the hotel room that afternoon, have a steamy and much-needed session of their own, and pack up the van to drive back to LA.
“You ready for work tomorrow?”
“Yeah, another busy day.”
“Meetings?”
“Yes, and I’m still trying to figure out what to do with this recent manuscript that came across my desk.”
“Terrible?”
“No, I just don’t know what space it goes into. It’s not a clear-cut genre.”
“That’s weird.”
“I know. It’s not bad, but different.”
They drive in companionable silence, Stella feeling a high she hasn’t experienced in a long time without alcohol or something to numb her. Speaking to the crowd, ha
ving them listen and want to hear what she had to say, that’s definitely a rush. She gets now why motivational speakers do what they do.
“When’s your next meeting with Saks?”
“Our attorneys are going to meet, hash out some details. Darcy’s going to fill me in on their progress.”
“Okay.” Grant grabs her fingers, giving them each a kiss. “Hey, I was thinking...”
“Oh boy, that’s never good news.”
He takes a deep breath. “I was thinking about our conversation the other night.”
“You mean the fight?”
“Yeah.”
“And?” She gazes out the window, hating every time they fight. It never gets any easier.
“I think we should get separate bank accounts.”
This is not what Stella expected to hear, not even a speck on her radar. She would’ve been less surprised if he had suggested a trial separation. Her bubble bursts, the feeling of happiness evaporating like liquid oozing out in a steady stream. “What do you mean?”
“We both deserve to have money at our disposal, for our own interests.”
“Which we do.”
“Yeah, but it’s in a joint account.”
“What’s wrong with a joint account?” She shrugs. “We have bills.”
“Which I pay.”
“Which I contribute to.”
“Not what I mean, Stel.” Grant puts her hand back in her lap. “You do just fine with bringing in money. I’m not questioning the amount of bills you pay. I’m simply suggesting that you should have your own money to spend and so should I, away from the watchful eyes of the other.”
“So you want to spend money and you don’t want me to know where it goes?”
He shoots her a dirty look. “Take for example the surprise for me. I ruined it. It was thoughtful, and I questioned you on it. We would avoid this in the future if we had our own account.”
“But then you wouldn’t know if I did some dumb shit with my money or something you found exorbitant.”
“But that's the point ... it’s your money, and it’s my money, and if we agree to a set amount in our joint account, I won’t get mad at you for using your money the way you see fit and vice versa.”
“Why now?” She’s starting to feel queasy, like she might be sick.
“Because I overreacted the other night.”
Stella lowers her voice, “Yeah, but you had a history to look at.”
“I just want us to have our own funds.” He gives her an appraising stare. “What do you think?”
“I think after this long of marriage, it’s weird. It’s like you’re preparing for something.”
“Maybe a zombie apocalypse.”
“Is there something else you want to talk about?”
His forehead wrinkles in confusion. “No, this was it."
“It’s just that all these weird coincidences keep coming up at the same time. The items I’ve found, and now a separate checking account.”
“It’s for my peace of mind.”
Testy, she lobs, “Then maybe we should discuss a post-nup.”
Grant narrows his eyes at her. “Now you want a post-nuptial agreement?”
“For my peace of mind, baby.” Stella clicks her tongue. “You know, since we’re talking about what’ll make us feel harmonious.”
“Though,” she snickers, “it seems like yours is because you're having an affair.”
Grant stammers, “Stella, not everything is tied to a sordid affair or being sneaky and conniving.”
“It just seems suspect.”
“You need to stop speculating.” He reaches out a hand to pat her knee. “This rabbit hole you go down isn't good for anybody.”
“I know,” she swallows hard, “believe me, I know.”
Turning the radio up, she tries hard to drown out her insecurities and her worries. She knows that from an outside perspective, anyone looking in would consider her a hypocrite and spineless.
After all, she's no innocent party.
Tapping her fingers to the beat, she tries to bury all the bad feelings she has at the moment.
21
Stella
The next afternoon, Stella gives Grant a call to ask if he needs anything from the store.
Rebecca answers the switchboard. “The Masen & Snyder Agency, how many I direct your call?”
“Hi, is Grant available?”
“I believe he’s with a client. Can I ask who’s calling?”
“This is his wife.”
“Oh hi, Stella, how are you?”
“I’m good, just trying to reach Grant before he leaves.”
“Not answering his cell?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Let me check, mind holding for a second?”
“No problem.”
“I’ll walk back to his office. I don’t see anything on his calendar.”
“Thanks.”
“Oh, Stella, I’m sorry, his door’s locked. It looks like he’s left for the day,” she adds, “or maybe he has an appointment and stepped out.”
“Yeah, it’s only four. I figured I’d catch him.”
“He doesn’t have anything on his calendar, but that doesn’t mean anything. He could’ve stepped out for a second.”
“I appreciate you checking.” Stella curls her fists. Why wouldn’t Grant tell her if he had an afternoon meeting? He never leaves his office this early. Trying his cell one more time, his voicemail automatically picks up.
She’s not one to rifle through his desk drawers, but she’s been feeling uneasy lately. The valet ticket, the late nights, the gym.
Not to mention the panties and the mysterious lipstick.
Insecure about what’s going on with him, Stella decides to do some searching. He’s been so supportive and understanding of her business and goals, but there’s a sense of unease building block by block in her mind.
Is she missing something?
Instantaneously, she hates herself for this. Stella loathes women who have to check up on their partners, the constant scrutiny too much to bear. Stella promised herself she would never stick with a man who made her feel like she wasn’t a number one priority.
Sinking into his office chair, she opens his desk drawers, his neat freak skills on display. Files with taxes are lined up, along with some of their medical bills and receipts they’re saving. Shuffling through the folders, she thinks about what she’s seen on sleuthing shows. She pulls each individual hanging green file out, making sure nothing significant is tucked into the bottom. She even runs her hands underneath the solid wood to see if anything’s taped to the underside.
Nada.
Logging into his email, she doesn’t see anything suspect. Mainly spam and a plethora of big box and chain stores that send their never-ending sales, promising to outdo the biggest reductions they’ve ever had. It isn’t until you receive a similar one a few days later you realize you’ve been duped.
Clicking on his trash folder, she’s suspicious. Weird, it’s empty, as if he deleted all the emails himself. She knows that if she checked her own trash folder, she’d have hundreds, maybe thousands of emails located there, until they automatically delete after a certain period of time.
Stella can’t access his work emails, and she sits back frustrated, gripping the arms of the chair.
Making a mental list of all the restaurants and bars that are his usual spots, she decides to do a little detective work. The two of them have their own places, but for business, Grant has his favorites. Storming out to the garage, she drives towards his office to his frequent watering holes. Satisfied she’ll be able to spot his vanity plate, she circles the parking lot. After checking one of the Italian joints, she makes her way to a vegetarian restaurant that has good hummus in addition to one of the best patios.
There’s a shopping district that has a ton of restaurants interspersed with retail, and she drives through down the streets of the outdoor mall, spotting his charcoal G W
agon outside of a newer restaurant that just opened. He might’ve just parked here and walked somewhere else. Applying her lipstick, she runs a hand through her hair and takes a deep breath. With trembling hands, she opens the door to the restaurant, her eyes darting nervously around. It’s half-full of patrons, but none are Grant. She walks through a couple of shops, but nothing.
There’s a watering hole called The Frosty Ale that calls to her, so she decides to take a break from her missing husband search. Settling herself at the bar, she checks her phone. Nothing from Grant. Not a text, not a missed call.
She orders a pale ale and tries to reason with herself. Just as she’s making a note of why she’s out of her mind, she watches Grant and a tall blonde woman stroll by. The blonde’s wearing a tight black dress and heels, a YSL bag slung over her arm.
Worse yet, a big smile’s plastered on Grant’s face as he carries an Agent Provocateur bag over his arm, the signature pink color with black cursive writing.
He looks like he doesn’t have a care in the world … or a wife impatiently waiting for him.
22
Stella
Swallowing the lump in her throat, she drops a twenty on the counter and stands. Off-balance, she has to reach out and grip the corner of the dark mahogany, unsure of what to do.
Should she pretend she doesn’t see him or confront him?
It’s her husband.
And he’s buying lingerie and walking with an extremely gorgeous woman to have dinner and probably more.
Of course she’s going to face down her husband and this woman. Does she even know he’s married? Is he wearing his wedding ring?
Walking quickly out the door, she has to half-run to catch up with them, darting behind other shoppers as she tries to overhear their conversation, but it’s impossible.
Should she wait and watch them for a while?
Grant holds the door for Ms. Blonde at a more upscale restaurant called the Moderne Grill, and she has to resist the urge to start screaming at the top of her lungs. His eyes are fixated on her and he doesn’t even notice Stella until she appears from behind another patron entering the restaurant. His back is turned to her and he’s talking to the hostess so casually, saying they have a reservation at five-thirty.
The Perfect Stranger Page 12
