The Scandal

by Nicola Marsh

  “You might need this for the blinder you’ll have in a few hours.”

  “Thanks,” I mutter, popping the pills and draining the glass.

  “Did you girls have a fight or something?” He pulls up a chair, close enough our knees touch. Usually I welcome any contact from my husband. Today, I’m glum and out of sorts and want to be left alone.

  “No.” I sound snappish and immediately feel guilty because he doesn’t deserve this crappy treatment. He’s been so supportive and I’ve been wallowing, short-tempered and morose, blaming myself as much as him.

  I slump in my chair and struggle to focus. It would be so easy to slip into oblivion, to sleep for the rest of the day and forget why the newly residing perpetual ache in my chest makes breathing difficult. But I can’t forget. Nothing can help. Dane’s tests may have come back negative, but I’ve done this to myself, waiting too long to start a family. Putting my career ahead of all else including my considerate husband. Reaching forty and knowing it’s too late to let things take a natural course.

  If we’d started trying a few years ago, we may have more options now. Dane is incredible: he uprooted his life and followed me to Gledhill without question, he does anything I ask, he loves me unconditionally, and he has no clue how close I came to destroying our marriage years earlier.

  I often think he deserves better than me, a woman living a lie every single day and doing her utmost to make up for the mistakes of the past.

  “I’ve never seen you drunk after time with the girls so something must’ve happened—”

  “I told them, okay?” I say quickly, taking some kind of warped pleasure from his shock. “They know all about our ‘problems’,” I make cutesy inverted commas with my fingers, feeling like the biggest bitch in the world but unable to stop my vitriol from spilling out, “and they feel just as helpless as I do.”

  I hope he’ll lose his temper. That for once he won’t be so stoical. But he runs a hand across his stubble as if he’s deep in thought before answering.

  “You’re lucky you’ve got best friends to talk to.” He reaches across and snags my hand. “We’re going through a rough patch, honey. We’ll get through this. You know we will.”

  I know jack shit. The only things I know for sure: I know that I don’t deserve my sweet Dane, I know that he’d leave me if he knew the truth, and I know that I’ve spent the last year going quietly insane because I thought our childlessness was my fault because of one stupid mistake I made before we married.

  Guilt is a terrible thing. It eats away at all the good in life until you’re left with nothing but resentment and anger. And I’m angry. Furious, and I deflect it onto Dane: I might be irritated with him for being the official cause of our situation, but I know I’ve had something to do with it too, and I’m incensed at the injustice of a good guy like him not being able to father kids.

  I’m not the marrying kind. I’d been intent on proving myself on the job before settling down, if ever. Then I’d met Dane at twenty-nine, married him three years later when he finally wore me down, but put off having a family to establish myself at the NYPD. I’d had a plan. A plan now screwed every which way courtesy of the only guy I’d ever loved enough to have a relationship with.

  My family will be gutted. I think of my eleven nephews and nieces. Mom never lets up about it being my turn next. I can’t tell them. Not now, when it’s raw. I’ll wait; a decade or two.

  “How are you so calm about all this?” I try to extract my hand from his and he tightens his grip.

  “Because this is you and me, there’s nothing we can’t get through.” The lopsided grin I adore chases the shadows from his eyes. “Honey, it took me years to get you up the aisle. Do you think something like this will split us up?”

  I hate that my first instinctive response is ‘yes’. Something – or someone – almost broke us up once before and he doesn’t know. And while I haven’t done anything bad this time around, technically I’m guilty of over-sharing. Not with the girls, but with Griffin when we chat over sushi at lunch or meet for a beer after work.

  Initially I’d justified my leaning on him because he’s a colleague who’s a psychologist, and who better to offer sage advice? I’m floundering and he’s the only person who seems to get me. I talk and he listens. He doesn’t offer advice unless I ask for it. It’s so easy between us.

  But Dane doesn’t like him. They’ve met twice at work functions and Dane’s indifferent and suspicious because he thinks Griffin likes me. Crazy, because Griffin is nothing but friendly, yet feeling guilty because he’s my main sounding board at the moment is exacerbating my stress.

  “Claire?” He touches my hand. “Talk to me, sweetheart.”

  So I put on a brave face, something I’ve done for the last week since the fertility specialist called us into her pristine office in the city and delivered the news.

  “I have no idea how or why you put up with me.” I lean into him and he slides his arms around me.

  He’s wearing an old cotton T that smells of manly deodorant, a musky, woody blend that’s inherently him. I bury my face in his chest. He smells of something else too. Safety. Security. Dane.

  I have to get past this.

  I have to deal with everything before I ruin my life.

  Three

  Elly

  I light the final candle and stand back to admire my handiwork. Fifty tea lights cast flickering shadows against the smooth marble of the bathroom wall. Rose petals float in the hot water filling the tub. Chocolate-dipped strawberries are arranged in neat rows on a silver platter next to a two-hundred-dollar bottle of champagne chilling in a matching silver bucket. My lover likes the finer things. He also appreciates my efforts to shake things up, so we’ll start in here tonight.

  I don’t look at myself in the mirror. I despise the new teddy – sheer white lace, high cut, with a pop button where he’ll need access fastest – because he’ll love it. I slip on a silky robe, crimson, in stark contrast against the virginal white, and pad into the living room. I open a window, savor the view of the wild Atlantic Ocean as far as I can see, waves crashing on a windswept beach. Serenity.

  He chose this cottage for its isolation and I appreciate it. No one knows about our affair and I intend on keeping it that way until it’s time to inflict the most damage: on him, never the wife. I do this to help those poor, misguided, trusting souls who are duped, just like me.

  I hate myself for doing this. Self-loathing fills me, expanding like a balloon until my organs compress and I can’t breathe.

  I remember the day my downward spiral started, initially as a way to make me feel something again after the numbness of the harsh truth. With my divorce finalized, severing ties with a monster, I left the courthouse in Chicago and stumbled into the first bar I came across.

  A guy had approached me shortly after, though what he saw in a wild-eyed, tear-stained wreck I’ll never know. He bought me a drink, another, several, and I poured my sordid story out. He’d been a good listener and had invited me back to his hotel room where we had rote, meaningless sex. Then his wife called – so much for him being single – while he was in the bathroom and I answered.

  A red mist had swept over me, rage like I’d never known. I’d escaped one creep only to be duped by another. But my fury had morphed into something else when I told his poor wife the truth; that her husband had picked me up in a bar, lied about his marital status and fucked me.

  In helping her to see him for the liar and cheater he was I felt… free. Lighter. Empowered in a way I hadn’t been since I discovered the awful truth about my husband. I had wrested back some semblance of control.

  After that day I become some kind of cheating crusader. Stupid, I know, but I’ve exposed another four men since and my lover is the fifth. Not that I’ve slept with the others. I couldn’t bring myself to go that far but I’d honeytrap them into taking me to a hotel, getting naked, then I’d do a big reveal to their wives.

  My lover is diffe
rent. He’s the first man I’ve had any meaningful contact with since the disturbing night fourteen months ago and I’ve become more vulnerable.

  That horrific night exposed every weakness I thought I’d conquered since the divorce. My partial breakdown in Chicago after I discovered my husband’s duplicity had been dealt with via countless therapy sessions. I’d become confident in my invincibility and had tested it by exposing those other men.

  But having no recollection of the rape early last year left me defenseless all over again, second-guessing my decisions, doubting everything I did. It also left me susceptible to kindness and that’s why I allowed my lover to pierce my protective outer shell and I slept with him. He’d been nice to me before the sex, caring and sweet in a way I’d craved since my life in Chicago imploded, so when he put the moves on me when I was weak and needy, I succumbed. It had felt incredible to be held afterward, an intimacy I hadn’t known I’d been yearning for. Having his arms around me had comforted the vulnerable, broken woman inside. But I’m not a fool. I know this can’t go on. We can never have a real relationship. I may savor my brief moments of solace but he can only ever be an adjunct to revenge.

  It’s not good, because I know how badly it will hurt my friend when I reveal the truth. I want to stop. This isn’t my fight anymore. I’m empty inside because despite helping those clueless women learn the truth, I feel bad for them. I remember the outrage, the hollowness, the sorrow I’d been through once, being in their shoes, and I hate myself for putting them through something similar.

  But my friend is important to me so after this I’m done.

  I have a good life in Gledhill, the small Hamptons’ town I’d moved to a few years ago after careful research. I loved the understated elegance of the place. The ecru and pale blue shop fronts on Main Street, the eclectic mix of high-end fashion boutiques with quaint cafés, the trendy bars frequented by locals and tourists alike.

  Gledhill ages gracefully, unlike some of its counterparts, the larger towns further along the highway that turn glitzy to attract attention. Here, I can proceed with my plan to get justice against the lying, cheating scum who break their wives’ hearts, like how my ex-husband had broken mine.

  It’s warped, twisted psychology, my ongoing quest for vengeance. I know it. What I do is wrong on so many levels that I feel morally bereft most days. But this is about more than betrayal. It’s about that devastating night when I’d first moved here, the night that shattered what was left of my meager trust completely.

  * * *

  I’m numb and confused and horrified. I have been through a lot in my life but not this. Never this.

  There’s a pounding at my door and I hear Ris, then Claire, yelling, “Elly, it’s us. Open up.”

  I stand and limp toward the door. I’m sore. Inside. Further proof of the unthinkable. Shock renders my fingers useless and I fiddle with the lock three times before the door opens.

  Ris and Claire stare at me for what seems like an eternity before Ris steps forward with open arms to hug me.

  “Don’t.” Claire stops her, her expression inscrutable. “You can’t contaminate evidence.”

  That’s when the reality of what has happened to me sinks in. I can’t do this. I can’t go through questioning and statements. Not just because I can’t remember what happened to me but because my past will become public knowledge and I can’t have that.

  My new life in Gledhill depends on secrecy.

  “Hug me,” I whisper, meeting Claire’s eyes, and she knows. She knows I won’t be prosecuting, even if I remember the horrors of last night.

  After the slightest hesitation Claire steps forward and does exactly that. I see Ris, stricken, over her shoulder, tears in her eyes.

  I can’t cry. Not yet. I’m hollow, like the bastard who did this to me has scooped out my insides and left nothing behind.

  Claire leads me to the sofa, Ris closes the door, then they sit either side of me, brackets of comfort. They wait, silent, supportive.

  I try to speak and the first word comes out a croak so I clear my throat and start again. “I had two drinks last night. A martini and a margarita. One of them may have been spiked.”

  Claire’s eyes widen. “GHB is a colorless liquid that has a salty taste, easily disguised in a margarita.”

  My insides heave. “The date rape drug?”

  She nods. “You can’t remember anything?”

  I shake my head and it hurts. “It’s hazy after the margarita, then nothing. I woke up here on top of the covers, dress up around my waist, no panties…” I try to subdue a sob and fail. “There are bruises all over my thighs and hips.”

  Claire’s mouth hardens. “You sure you don’t want to go to the hospital—”

  “No!” I yell and they recoil a tad. “I— I can’t go through it. I won’t.”

  “Okay, honey, whatever you want.” Ris slides an arm around my waist and hugs tight. “Whatever you need, we’re here for you.”

  “I need a shower,” I say, a hiccup punctuating my increasing sobs. “I feel so dirty.”

  “This isn’t your fault.” Claire grips my shoulders and turns me to face her. “I won’t lie to you. If you can’t remember what happened, there’s a fair chance whoever did this gave you a good dose and losing consciousness followed by amnesia is common. And even if you do eventually remember, prosecuting men who do this ends up being a horror show for the victim, who’s scrutinized extensively.” She blows out a breath. “But I want you to think hard and make sure this is what you want to do. Because once you take that shower there’s no turning back and the bastard who did this to you walks free.” She bites her bottom lip and glances away. “Free to do it again.”

  I’m not callous. I do care about people despite the hard exterior I deliberately portray. But I can’t do this. I can’t feel guilty for letting this prick walk. My new life means too much to me.

  “I’m sorry…” I shake my head and Claire nods. I glimpse understanding through the sheen of her tears.

  I push into standing and my legs wobble. Ris and Claire are instantly beside me again, holding me up.

  “Whatever you need,” Ris says, enveloping me in a fierce hug while Claire does the same from the other side.

  I don’t know how long we stand there but I can’t let go. I need their warmth to infuse me, to melt the ice that clogs my veins. I’m so, so cold…

  These days, Ris, Claire and I never talk about the incident; a misnomer for the catastrophic night fourteen months ago that still haunts me in my weaker moments.

  I blink rapidly, dispelling the memories, willing them away. Thankfully, Ris and Claire respect my need to move on and pretend like it never happened. But it did happen, yet another shitty thing in a long line of shitty things that have plagued my life. I don’t dwell. I get even. Even if the guys who are the objects of my payback have no idea why.

  The girls are my rock. I value their friendship, though Ris’s infernal nurturing of everyone around her is smothering and Claire’s badass routine wears thin. I’m friends with Maggie too, though technically she’s my boss. She owns the medical center where I work and she pops in weekly so we can catch up over coffee.

  I like her. There’s an inherent quietness about her that calms me. I can’t fathom why Ris, her sister-in-law, doesn’t spend much time with her despite the fact they’re related and neighbors. Ris tolerates everyone but she’s antsy around Maggie. I don’t get it. But it’s not my problem and I value my friendship with both of them so I never get in the middle.

  Claire maintains impartiality around Ris and Maggie too, though considering how edgy she’d been earlier I’m almost glad Maggie didn’t drop in with Ryan. I feel sorry for Claire. I’d seen real pain in her eyes when she revealed she can’t have kids, the kind of pain I struggle to hide every damn day.

  I am a master at hiding the truth.

  From everyone.

  I have reinvented myself here in Gledhill, a new life for a new person. I refuse to be vul
nerable. I do everything in my power to mask the hurt. I have deliberately eradicated the agonizing aftermath of what happened to me in Chicago and last year, here in Gledhill.

  Whoever said good girls finish last is a freaking genius. Being docile and acquiescent is for fools. Being strong and impenetrable is so much better.

  I will never, ever, let a man take advantage of me again.

  I hear a key in the door and a ripple of unease washes over me. It’s always like this. I hate what I do in the name of vindication so I mentally recite my crazy mantra.

  I am powerful.

  I am in charge.

  I am never going to be duped again.

  The opposite of the woman I once was. I have to be. Look how that had turned out. This is better. Being in control. Never letting anyone get too close. Avoiding the inevitable pain when the people you love the most let you down, shatter you into a million itty-bitty pieces you think you’ll never recover from.

  I slip the robe from my shoulders and let it fall to the floor. My almost naked body will be the first thing he sees as he enters the cottage. I glance at the floor, momentarily startled to see the robe looks like a blood slick against the ash floorboards. But then he opens the door and all I see is him: an egotistical asshole who doesn’t care about anybody but himself.

  “Wow.” His tone is low, his libido high, going by the sizeable bulge tenting his trousers. “I’ve been thinking about you all day but my fantasies don’t come close to the reality.”

  “Thanks.” I swivel on silver-heeled mules and head for the bathroom so he won’t see my expression. I’m disgusted. At myself as much as at him.

  He drops his briefcase, closes the door and locks it. Not that anyone ever comes here. He’s made sure of it. Finding the cottage online. Approaching the landlord directly to avoid a paper trail with the realtor. Paying cash for a year, with only two copies of the contract, under a fake name.