The Scandal

by Nicola Marsh

  I want to live here. I love books. Adore them. I always stroke the cover and sniff a new one before turning the pages slowly, taking great care not to crease the spine. I haven’t been able to afford new books in a while so I frequent the library often.

  Library books have a whole other smell: a little grimy, a lot shabby, like me, really. I haven’t had an easy life but I’ve done what it takes to survive, which explains the worn out feeling at twenty-five. I know it’ll be tough bringing a baby into my world. A single mother in New York City working as some rich asshole’s personal assistant and living in a studio isn’t exactly mother of the year material. But I don’t do drugs. I don’t sleep around. I work hard for every cent I have. I guess my baby could do worse. And if we have enough money to make life comfortable…

  This has to work.

  I choose one of the empty computer desks and enter the free Wi-Fi password displayed next to it. The connection is swift and I open a search engine. I type in his name.

  “Can I help you?”

  I jump at the light touch on my shoulder and half spin in my chair to see an elderly librarian peering at me with obvious curiosity. I can’t come up with a lie fast enough. Besides, all she has to do is glance at the computer screen to see who I’m researching. The name is stuck in the search engine as I haven’t had a chance to hit the enter key yet.

  So I settle for a half-truth. “I’m new in town and doing some research for a project.”

  Her gaze darts to the screen and she nods. “He lives on Sunnyside Drive. Impressive house. You can’t miss it. Lots of glass and sandstone.”

  I school my face into impassivity while dancing an excited jig on the inside. This helpful lady has saved me further snooping around town.

  “Sounds lovely.”

  I must sound too hyper because she stares at me again, this time with a slight furrow between her brows.

  “If you need any help finding what you’re looking for, don’t hesitate to ask.” She points at her nametag. “Ask for Agnes.”

  “Thanks, I will.” I beam at her, trying to put her at ease. She moves across to the next desk to offer assistance but she’s hovering and I can’t hit the enter key like I want to.

  I need to see if the guy named in that article is my baby’s father but with Agnes practically peering over my shoulder, I decide on another course of action.

  I now know this guy lives on Sunnyside Drive.

  It’s a good place to start.

  Nine

  Marisa

  I can’t help myself. Whenever I see someone I care about hurting I try to fix it. My co-workers praise me for it but I’m more altruistic than that. I feel good when I see others happy. Avery calls it my Pollyanna complex, always seeing the bright side in everything and everyone. I don’t like seeing my friends in pain and Claire is seriously hurting so I throw one of my famous supper parties to distract her and hopefully lighten her mood.

  Since our monthly gardening club meeting ten days ago, she’s avoided me. Screened my calls, texted back with lame excuses, citing she’s busy at work. But she hasn’t been at work. I called the station once. They said she’d extended her leave so, short of marching up the road and knocking on her door, I’m helpless.

  I don’t want to interfere. I don’t want to leave her alone. I don’t know what the hell to do. So I do what I do best. Throw a party. Invite friends. Supply quality alcohol and delicious food. Claire needs me. Besides, helping her will make me forget the reason my insomnia is escalating.

  When I see a forty-something woman walk down the street in her designer cruise wear, clutching a handbag worth a small deposit on a house, I want to rush up to her and ask, ‘Is this all there is?’ I want to ask does she ever feel so lonely, even when surrounded by people, that she could curl up in a corner and howl for a week? I want to ask does she ever feel invisible, even when standing right in front of her husband?

  These questions and more reverberate around my head on a nightly basis when I lie on my eight-hundred-thread count Egyptian cotton sheets and stare at the ceiling, so exhausted I could cry but unable to sleep.

  It’s probably the onset of menopause: the mood swings, the fatigue, the dissatisfaction with everything. But deep down I know it’s more than that: pretending to be the perfect woman with the perfect life comes at a cost.

  Avery is clueless to my brittle emotional state. It makes me more depressed. My mother had been like that, living in the same house as me but never really seeing me. She worked hard, I’ll give her that. But she never cooked or cleaned or acknowledged I existed, coming home from a long shift at the clothing factory where she worked and flopping in front of the TV. I’d serve her a microwaved dinner, bought by me from the grocery money she left in a cookie jar on the shelf over the fridge. I’d make an effort every night, sitting beside her on our threadbare chintz sofa, making small talk about my day at school. She’d grunt in all the right places, manage the occasional nod and smile. It was never enough.

  That’s why I married Avery. Because he’d been the first person in my life to really look at me, to see me. That has waned but I stay in my marriage because as long as I’m with one of the most powerful men in the Hamptons, others see me. People respect me. People look up to me. People thank me for doing so much.

  I will do anything to protect my carefully constructed life.

  I skirt the sixteen-seat table on the back patio, making last minute adjustments: straightening serviettes, smoothing the tablecloth, aligning cutlery. Everything is gorgeous, from the platters of cheese and cold meat to the baby quiches and salmon croquettes, the dainty finger sandwiches to the barbecued shrimp. I could’ve used the usual caterers but I needed to keep busy the last few days so did everything myself. Menu-planned. Grocery-shopped. Cooked. It has been cathartic.

  Avery wanders out onto the patio, the epitome of casual chic in khaki chinos, white polo and boat shoes. The polo sets off his year-round tan and makes his peculiar gray eyes even more startling.

  “Wow, great spread.” He comes around the table to wrap his arms around me. “You sure know how to entertain, sweetheart.”

  I snuggle into his arms but something feels off as usual because my heart’s not in it. I need to be careful. I can’t alert Avery to the fact I’m struggling. He doesn’t do well with weakness in any form. It’s something Ryan knows and often takes advantage of.

  Avery hates mess so whenever Ryan approaches him with a problem, Avery must solve it. We’re similar that way. From the outlandish stories they tell, he’s been Ryan’s Mr. Fix-It from a young age. Lying to their parents when Ryan broke a window with a baseball, blaming it on a group of roving kids. Saying he dented the family car when Ryan had backed into a pole. Covering for him when Ryan double-booked dates on the same night.

  I used to find these tales amusing but Ryan’s dependence on his big brother all these years later wears thin. I want to tell him to grow a pair and take responsibility for his own actions but I won’t. For the simple fact Ryan is one of the good guys and I’ve grown to love him almost as much as Avery does.

  As for me, I have to be the strong, capable wife Avery admires. Anything less and he’ll become suspicious. I may be imploding on the inside but I’ll be damned if anyone else guesses how bad things really are for me.

  “You smell nice,” I say, nuzzling the skin under his jaw, inhaling the familiar sandalwood scent of his signature body wash and aftershave. It calms me, the feeling of belonging this man provides. He helped me forget the past and forge a future. He gave me the girls and for that alone I owe him.

  I know it’s unhealthy, having much of my identity wrapped up in my children, but they give my life purpose. Without them… well, I wouldn’t have stuck out my marriage this long. I deserve a medal. Heck, I deserve a whole cabinet of trophies for tolerating Avery’s foibles for so long.

  What would Gledhill’s elite think of that? That I stay in my marriage out of obligation and gratitude rather than real love?

&nbs
p; I’ve come close to blurting the truth twice, in the most unlikely of scenarios. The first time I’d been at the retirement home in nearby Westhampton, where I volunteer on a monthly basis. I play board games with the elderly, watch soap operas with them and simply sit and chat most of the time. One of my favorites, Doris, an octogenarian with advanced Alzheimer’s, had been waxing lyrical about her perfect husband who’d died a decade earlier. Her glowing praise had brought tears to my eyes and a startling urge to unburden myself about my less than perfect husband.

  The second time I’d been stocking care packages for women in need, with everyday essentials from tampons to tissues. Once I’d finished I’d personally delivered a few packages and one of the women, Callie, had almost brought me undone. She’d revealed the hardships of her life, saying I was lucky. In that moment, with her eyeing me with open envy, I’d come close to telling her that creating a façade was easy and if something looked too good to be true, it usually was.

  “You smell great too.” He buries his nose in my hair and presses his pelvis against me. He’s hard. It never takes long. He’s always up for it, any time, day or night. I pretend to like it. I don’t.

  Thankfully, the doorbell rings and I slip out of his arms with a bashful smile, like I hate the interruption. He shrugs and winks, adjusting his chinos while I walk to the door.

  The next ten minutes pass in a blur of guests arriving, drinks being dispensed and introductions made. I’ve invited two new people into our circle tonight: a psychologist from work I hope Elly will like, and the owner of the new gallery in town, a distinguished fifty-something. Knowing my bombshell friend, she’ll probably have both men wrapped around her little finger by the end of the evening.

  I’d like to see Elly settle down in a happy relationship. She deserves it after what she went through last year. It’s why despite her external polish and pizazz she always appears brittle, like she’s maintaining a fragile façade liable to crack. She pretends to love her single life. Flaunts it like she’s healed and put the trauma behind her.

  So I play along. It’s what she asked of Claire and me. But I’ll never forget the bone-deep dread that one of my girls had been injured or worse when I picked up the phone at some ungodly hour of the morning fourteen months ago, only to have that dread morph into panic when I heard Elly’s wobbly voice say “I’m at home, I think I’ve been raped.”

  Elly’s devastation, her scary stillness as Claire and I bracketed her on the sofa trying to offer comfort that seemed inadequate at best, is something that makes me want to hug my friend every time I see her. Instead, we acquiesce to her wish to pretend like it never happened. We do it because we care.

  Elly sidles up to me. “Who’s the tall guy in denim?”

  “Griffin Rally. Nice guy, lives up the road. He’s a psychologist. Shall I introduce you?”

  I know she’s interested like I hoped but she hesitates, casts a quick glance over my shoulder, before flashing a fake smile, the one I know hides her pain. “Sure. I’m all for meeting new people.”

  As we approach Griffin, I murmur, “He’s new in town, mainly consults in the city but has worked here regularly over the last six months, for the police and the center. He only moved into our street recently though.”

  She rubs her hands together with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Fresh meat, just the way I like it.”

  I elbow her. “You’re incorrigible.”

  “And you love me for it.” She bumps me with her hip and I realize it’s times like this I really value our friendship.

  Elly can be brash and abrasive and self-opinionated, but she’s also warm and quick-witted with a wicked sense of humor. We’re not as close as Claire and I but that’s understandable given our very different social lives.

  When Claire and I swap the occasional recipe at our gardening club meetings, Elly covers her ears and yells ‘la-la-la’ off-key. Elly survives on gourmet healthy take-out that’s home-delivered, which explains her figure. When we discuss our gardens and the chances of rain to spruce up our flowerbeds, Elly rolls her eyes. The closest she comes to having a garden in her immaculate, trendy apartment is the pot of basil I gave her as a house-warming gift.

  We’re so different, Elly and I, but that hint of vulnerability she tries so hard to hide beneath make-up and designer clothes makes me want to break through to the woman beneath. I know little about her past, despite trying to probe a few times. She’s fed me the occasional tidbit, like she originally hails from Chicago and had some high-powered job as an executive vice president at a medical conglomerate. But I know nothing about her family or if she’s come close to marriage before.

  I often wonder if her brazenness with guys is a direct result of the assault. Considering it happened only a few months after she moved to Gledhill and I know little about her past, I can’t say for sure, but it makes sense. It’s a coping mechanism. Go on the attack to avoid being attacked. I’d seen it in abused women at the center. Some retreated and avoided men while others became sexually aggressive, projecting a tough image to avoid becoming a victim again.

  I tried to subtly suggest counseling once; but she’d frozen me out. I know the casual dating can’t be healthy for her self-esteem but if it helps her get through the trauma, who am I to judge?

  I’ve told Griffin about a potential meeting with a gorgeous friend of mine and his eyes almost pop when he spies Elly strutting alongside me.

  “Great party, Ris. Thanks for inviting me,” he says, his gaze firmly fixed on Elly.

  “My pleasure.” I nudge Elly forward a tad. “I’d like you to meet Elly Knight, one of my best friends.”

  Griffin’s hand shoots out before I barely finish the introductions. “Pleased to meet you, Elly.”

  “Likewise.” Her voice is a sultry purr and I bite back a grin as Griffin shakes her hand but seems incapable of releasing it.

  “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted,” I say, pleased that my matchmaking might result in these two getting together.

  Neither of them hear me, already engrossed in making small talk. Flirting. I can never understand the single people of today hooking up with random strangers via social media but at times like this, watching the sparks fly between Griffin and Elly, I can see the attraction.

  When’s the last time I experienced that hollow belly feeling? That heady sensation accompanied by the jitters when you first meet someone you know you’ll end up naked with? Too long ago to remember and I immediately feel disloyal to Avery. I love him, in a strange obligatory way, but lately I’m feeling restless. Lost.

  Like I’ve given up too much to be Mrs. Marisa Thurston.

  Annoyed my thoughts are wandering to maudlin again I pop another tray of quiches into the oven, arrange more barbecued shrimp on a platter, then head back outside to the makeshift bar at the bottom of the patio steps for a refill. Nothing a good Chardonnay can’t solve. However, as I take my first sip I spot something that sours the crisp grape tang on my tongue.

  Griffin and Dane in some kind of altercation.

  He must’ve left Elly to get her a drink and bumped into Dane along the way. They’re not arguing as such but even at a distance I can tell things are tense between them.

  Griffin’s back is ramrod straight, like someone stuck a poker up his polo. I’ve seen his wary posture at work several times, when he’s dealing with domestic violence perpetrators. He’s not moving a muscle. Usually I admire his self-control but tonight there’s something almost aggressive about his demeanor. It makes me wonder if I’ve done the wrong thing inviting him into our circle.

  I know he’s acquainted with Claire because he works at the police department too. But Claire has never mentioned him and the way Dane is glaring at him I hazard a guess they’re not best buddies. Dane’s hands clench into fists before he rams them into his pockets. He’s scowling as Griffin walks away and Claire is flushed, already on her third wine in thirty minutes, her posture rigid.

  They exchange heated words. They’re arguing abo
ut something – I hope it’s not Griffin – and I stride across the lawn, determined to smooth things over for my fraught friend. But before I reach them Dane pulls his cell out of his pocket, glances at the screen, says something I assume is about taking a call, and ambles off around the side of the house.

  Claire waits a few moments, glaring at his retreating back, before she strides after him. The kernel of worry I subdue on a daily basis flares to life. My friend’s infertility issues have caused tension in her marriage and I’m clueless as to how to help.

  I down the rest of my Chardonnay in a few gulps. Griffin is at the bar where he picks up two wine glasses before zeroing in on Elly again. He appears relaxed and laughs at something she says. Maybe I misinterpreted the vibe between him and Dane… besides, Claire’s my main focus tonight.

  My friend needs me. Everyone else can fend for themselves.

  Ten

  Claire

  Ris’s soirées tend to make me uncomfortable. A mishmash of her closest friends and work colleagues that she assumes will like each other if plied with enough quality alcohol and fed exquisite food. Dane and I usually don’t stay long. I give the work excuse. I can’t do that tonight, not without lying and I’m already doing enough of that.

  She’s been trying to contact me ever since gardening club and I’ve been ignoring her. I can’t cope with her pity. Not now, when I’m barely holding my life together. But when she’d texted me the invitation for tonight, implying she’d thrown this party for me, I couldn’t say no. What do I hate more than being pitied? Being obligated.

  But I’m here, pretending to enjoy myself. I’m not succeeding. Another wine might help but I’m cutting back on the alcohol tonight. Dane is a patient man but that’s twice I’ve come home drunk and he’s concerned. Our infertility issues are making me crazy but I can’t seem to snap out of the downward spiral I’m in.