The Girl I Used to Be: A gripping and emotional page-turner

by Heidi Hostetter

  “You’ll find out.” Nadia hesitated. “And when you do, know that I’m sorry. But right now, I can’t have Cush know I’m talking to you. So promise you won’t call me again.”

  “What— Okay. I promise.”

  “You’ve refused his check, and they didn’t expect that. From now on, things are going to happen fast.” Nadia’s words were a rush. “You signed a prenup. Find it.”

  In the background, Jill could hear Cush’s voice call out for Nadia. Nadia muffled the phone and called back to him, “Be right there.

  “I have to go. They’re back.” Nadia’s voice dropped to a whisper. “The house in Dewberry Beach is not what you think. Start with the mortgage… I’m sorry, Jilly—about everything.”

  Before Jill could respond, Nadia ended the call.

  Jill stood in the kitchen, staring at her phone, unable to understand what was happening.

  Two weeks ago, she’d stood beside her husband at his birthday party. She’d greeted his guests and laughed at his jokes, being exactly who Marc wanted her to be. Though parts of it were challenging, Jill had thought her marriage was rock solid and she was happy.

  But all of it had turned out to be a lie.

  Marc had betrayed her. He’d slept with another woman and returned to the party as if nothing had happened. He’d stood beside Jill, draped his arm around her, as if he hadn’t just betrayed her. And now it turned out that Marc had been planning to divorce her for months.

  Jill made her way to the sofa and collapsed, resting her head on the upholstery, and closed her eyes. The life she’d thought was perfect had imploded, utterly and completely, and she was afraid the destruction would break her. Dazed, she lifted her head and glanced at the doorway to the kitchen, almost expecting someone to jump out and shout “surprise.” Even that would make more sense.

  It was all just too much.

  Jill woke sometime later, sprawled across the couch, her head foggy from an anxious sleep. Outside, the bright morning sunlight she remembered had shifted and dimmed into dusk. An entire day had passed, and she’d slept through it. Pushing the tangle of blankets from her legs, she rose from the couch, badly in need of fresh air to clear her head.

  Outside, the evening air was sharp and crisp. The last of the summer crickets chirped as the streets quieted. From the hill of her driveway, Jill could see the entire neighborhood, the warm glow of lights in the homes below. She listened to parents calling their children inside from their play. And she imagined families gathered around the dinner table. After dinner, there would be baths, bedtime, stories. And in the morning, the cycle would start all over again. Kids would be sent off to school with a packed lunch and a kiss on the cheek, knowing they were loved.

  That rhythm. The rhythm of everyday was what she wanted to build a life on.

  It was all Jill had ever wanted: a home, a family, children. How did she end up here, so far from that?

  She turned to look at the house that she’d shared with Marc, the one she’d moved into on the afternoon of her wedding. The biggest in the neighborhood, it stood perched on this hill like a king on his throne. Suddenly, the opulence didn’t impress her as much as it used to. The house was apart from the things that mattered to her. Neighbors never dropped by for coffee or to chat, as they had at Aunt Sarah’s house. When she and Marc did entertain, it was an organized occasion, with printed invitations, party clothes, and company manners.

  Curated.

  All the choices, big and small, that Jill had made over the years added up to a life she didn’t recognize and one she no longer wanted.

  With a sigh, she returned to the house to find her prenup. Whether or not she wanted it, a fight was coming, and she’d best be ready.

  As she made her way up the stairs to the master bedroom, it occurred to her how different she and Marc were when it came to storing important papers. It was funny, in a twisted sort of way. Marc was fastidious, obsessive even. Current projects were organized into neat files, older projects archived and tucked away from view. By contrast, Jill stuffed everything worth saving in a shoebox, newest on top, oldest on the bottom, and stored it in the back of her closet.

  She crossed the master bedroom quickly, without looking at the bed.

  There were two master closets in the bedroom, each a mirror image of the other and combined were larger than Jill’s first apartment. Inside were enough clothes, shoes, and accessories to supply a small boutique, many of them still unworn. Marc had insisted she have the best of everything, and to a girl who used to make Barbie clothes from paper towels and cotton balls, that seemed like something out of a fairy tale. So she’d accepted and spent lavishly. Sometimes she came to her closet just to sit there, because the sight of what she owned—the abundance of it all—would remind her of how lucky she was.

  This time, Jill ignored everything except the lumpy shoebox in the far corner.

  Inside, it smelled musty, of old paper and memories of the life she’d had before Marc. On the bottom was a copy of the lease for the apartment she’d rented. There was a faded picture of Jill and her roommates taken at a pub crawl one weekend. And a twist of tin foil that had once decorated a spindly Christmas tree. A letter from Rutgers congratulating her for making the dean’s list, for the third time in two years. And the coupon book she’d used to repay her student loans, with the date and check number carefully marked on each stub. After their marriage, Marc had paid the entire balance as if it were nothing. Now, Jill wished that she’d insisted on making the payments herself, because scribbling “paid” on each stub had been so satisfying. And finally, an overexposed Polaroid of her and Marc on the courthouse steps, newly married. Cush and his now ex-wife Angela had borne witness. There had been no other guests, which was strange, given how fond Marc was of entertaining. Her friends were not invited. His children didn’t come. There had been no reception afterward, no toasts, no dancing. At the time, Jill had been too timid to ask for more. She was twenty-three years old and thought that Marc, at forty-eight, knew better.

  Jill tossed the picture back into the box, then unearthed what had brought her to the closet in the first place—her prenup. She hadn’t understood the document Marc had asked her to sign, so she’d been hesitant to do so. But then he’d explained that his marriage to Dianne had been abusive, that she was difficult and unpredictable, and that her outbursts scared the girls. He’d told Jill that when he’d decided that he couldn’t live as he had been, he’d asked Dianne for a divorce and she’d flown into a rage, threatening to take the only thing that mattered to him: the company his father had founded. She’d threatened to break it up, to sell it. And without a prenup in place, he was vulnerable.

  All he wanted, he’d said, was to protect his girls. The prenuptial agreement he wanted Jill to sign was no more than a promise to his daughters. Proof that Marc had meant to pass along the company that his father had given him. Marc had said that after everything Dianne had put them through, he owed them a secure future.

  And Jill had believed him.

  She’d led with her heart, barely skimming the document before putting her signature at the bottom of it. Afterward, she’d dropped her copy into the shoebox and stepped into her new life, confident of the future Marc would provide. It was wonderful to be taken care of; Marc provided a lifestyle she could never have afforded on her own. She hadn’t even known what a personal shopper was until Marc had arranged that first appointment. And what an experience. Jill could barely wrap her head around the fact that a gum-snapping chubby girl from South Jersey would find herself sipping chilled Prosecco as she decided between outfits that cost more than her car.

  But how things had changed.

  She settled onto the floor of her closet, folding her legs underneath her, and read the agreement for the first time.

  An hour later, she’d read it through twice and still couldn’t understand it. The phrasing was awkward, the meaning obscure. The first part seemed to say that if she and Marc divorced within the first five ye
ars of marriage, Marc would retain ownership of all his business assets. That part was fine. Harder to understand was the definition of a business asset. Further down was a section that seemed to say that if either of them wanted a divorce, it would happen quickly. Their case would be sent to mediation and heard by the first available judge. The goal, the paper said, was mediation within ten days and a final divorce within thirty.

  Jill returned everything to the shoebox and pushed herself up from the floor. With the box firmly under her arm, she snapped off the light on her way out of the closet. She wasn’t naive enough to think she could fight this on her own. She knew Marc’s measure of success came from not only winning but from utterly annihilating his opponent. And right now, she was the opponent.

  It was time to hire an attorney.

  Nine

  After an extensive search, Jill and Ellie found a divorce attorney who seemed as though she wouldn’t shy away from a brawl, which was exactly what they needed. Her name was Phyllis Jessup and her website said she specialized in contentious divorce, which was what Jill suspected was heading her way. The website also promised a free consultation, which she needed because money was tight. The best part was that Phyllis happened to have a cancellation for that very afternoon, so Jill snapped it up.

  Ellie drove them to a squatty brick building that required a key-code for entry. After the receptionist buzzed them in, they climbed a set of grungy stairs to a dank outer office. The receptionist escorted them to Phyllis’s office, and announced that their consultation time had started before shutting the door firmly behind her.

  Phyllis Jessup was not the kind of attorney Jill had expected. Instead of a dark suit, silk blouse, pearls, and heels, Phyllis wore a rumpled pantsuit and kept an unlit cigarette in the ashtray on the desk. Jill would learn later that Phyllis had quit years before and kept the cigarette as a reminder. She had a sturdy build, a sharp expression, and looked as if she could hold her own in a bar fight. Best of all, Phyllis was competent and direct, exactly the sort of person you’d want in your lifeboat. Jill liked her immediately.

  “Does Prince Charming have a police record?” Phyllis asked in a gravelly voice.

  “Why? Is that important?” Jill asked.

  “Not really, not unless he’s violated parole. Then he can be arrested, and sometimes a few days in a holding cell brings them to their senses.” Phyllis shrugged. “I have a friend connected with the state police—locking him up could be a good thing for you. You want me to check?”

  Jill shook her head and Phyllis reluctantly returned her attention to the document.

  “Mediation, huh?” she muttered to herself as she flipped the page. “Unusual choice.” She pursed her lips as she glared at the last page. “You signed this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Willingly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you of age?”

  “I was.”

  Phyllis heaved a disappointed sigh, then leaned back and folded her arms across her chest. “Remind me again how long you’ve been married to Mr. Wonderful?”

  “Three ye—” Jill’s voice cracked unexpectedly so she tried again. “We were married three years ago.”

  Phyllis’s eyes narrowed as she took Jill’s measure. Her chair creaked loudly as she leaned across her desk to lock eyes with Jill. “You always this mousy?”

  “No.” Jill’s spine snapped in place and she returned the attorney’s gaze with one of her own. “No, I am not.”

  “Good.”

  “She’s been through a lot in the past week or so,” Ellie offered.

  “She’s about to go through a lot more.” The pages of the document fluttered as Phyllis tossed the packet across her desk. “Whoever drafted this contract wrote it with divorce in mind. Did you read it before you signed it?”

  Jill shook her head.

  “How old were you when you signed this contract?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  “That’s out then. Thought I could work the minor angle, but you’re right, you were of age. Signature’s legal.” Phyllis puffed her cheeks with air then let it out in a steady stream. She swiveled her chair away slightly and stared out the window.

  “Should I hire you to help me through this? Marc has an attorney, and I don’t. I’m worried.” Jill glanced at the clock. The free consultation was almost over, and Jill didn't want to lose Phyllis’s help. She had no idea where the money would come from to pay her, only that she’d find it. “It looks like this hearing might be difficult.”

  “Yeah, I think so too, but I couldn’t represent you even if I wanted to. This prenup says defendants must represent themselves. It’s almost as if Prince Charming expected this outcome,” Phyllis answered, almost to herself. “There’s a clause that says you both agree to the first available judge in the pool—which is always a crapshoot—and agree to be bound by his ruling, whatever it is. Usually judges give each party a chance to respond and to amend their complaint. This one specifically forbids it, which is concerning.” Suddenly, Phyllis swiveled back. “Where you from?”

  “South Jersey. Asbury Park.”

  “Thought so. I can see a tiny bit of that in you.” Phyllis nodded, the beginning of a smile spreading across her face. “Despite your fancy clothes, you look like you might know from scrappy. Like you won’t back down from a fight. Is that accurate?”

  “I think so.”

  “You need to know so. This prenup is an issue.” Phyllis jabbed her finger at the contract. “I’m willing to bet that the guy who wrote this is used to dealing dirty and that you can expect more of the same when you meet with the judge.” She pursed her lips as she thought. “The judge’ll do his best to stop anything blatantly unfair, but he can’t reverse time. If he could, I’d tell you not to sign that thing in the first place.”

  Jill glanced at the clock. They were seventeen minutes into the twenty-minute consultation and there were still so many questions to ask.

  “Should we arrange a longer appointment? I’m happy to pay.” She’d find the money somehow.

  “Wouldn’t help you.” Phyllis pointed to the registered letter Jill had brought to the meeting. “According to that little beauty, the judge has been selected and mediation is scheduled for the end of this week. Even if I wanted to help you—and I do—I couldn’t pull anything together in time. I have other clients who need my help too.” She leaned forward, a scowl etched on her face. “When a divorce is pushed through quickly, it gets me thinking, and this one seems to be going at light-speed. I’d be willing to bet the farm he’s got something to hide. Something big.”

  “There’s got to be something Jill can do,” Ellie pressed. “It can’t be that hopeless.”

  “That’s why I needed to know if your friend was a fighter.” Phyllis tossed a fresh legal pad across the desk. “Write this down.”

  Jill retrieved a pen from the cup.

  “First thing—most important thing.” Phyllis leveled a gaze at her. “Do not get emotional. Emotion is a distraction, and my guess is that Prince Charming knows what buttons to press to get you flustered. Then he’ll use whatever tactics he needs to make you seem…” She waved her hand in the air as if to gather the right word. “Crazy,” she said finally.

  “But he’s the one who cheated, not me,” Jill blurted, her face flushed with indignation.

  Phyllis jabbed her finger at Jill. “That right there. You can’t do that. Even if Mr. Wonderful brings his side piece to the arbitration meeting and sets her up in the chair right next to him, you act like you don’t care. Emotion is drama, and judges hate drama. Pisses them off.”

  “Okay,” Jill murmured. That Marc might bring Brittney to their divorce arbitration had never occurred to her.

  “I’m not kidding,” Phyllis warned. “I’ve seen husbands bait their wives into the most spectacular meltdowns and all it does is serve their own purpose. Prince Charming already knows what gets to you, and my guess is that he’ll use all the tricks. Don’t let him.”
>
  Jill nodded, underlining what she’d written.

  “And this may seem like a small thing, but it’s not,” Phyllis said. “Twenty-eight years of divorce law has taught me this little gem and now I’ll pass it on to you, free of charge. Pay attention to who the judge looks at first, after he introduces himself. Judges are supposed to be unbiased but they’re not always—they’re human, just like the rest of us. The person he looks at first is the one he thinks has the strongest case. Whoever’s left has to work harder just to be heard.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I wish I were.”

  Then, for the better part of an hour, Phyllis navigated them through the jungle of divorce law in the state of New Jersey and Jill never received a bill. When the meeting was over, Jill’s head was swimming with precedent and process. Written across four pages of legal paper was a list of tasks she needed to accomplish in just a few days’ time.

  But she would do it.

  She would do whatever it took. Marc would not take advantage of her again.

  On a Friday afternoon in mid-October, exactly one week after Jill discovered Marc’s affair, she reported to the county judicial center to dissolve the marriage. As she made her way up the stairs, it occurred to her that her marriage to Marc had begun in this very building, in a gray courtroom on the ground floor. The ceremony had lasted less than ten minutes and was a disappointment, truth be told. It had taken Jill longer to decide what dress to wear than it had to recite her vows, which seemed appropriate, given where she was headed. At the time Marc had been anxious to be married, and now he was equally anxious to be divorced.

  They both were.

  The conference room was empty when Jill arrived, stark and cold with air conditioning flowing from an overhead vent despite the chilly fall weather outside. The walls had been hastily painted a dingy institutional beige and were flecked with chips, the windows streaked with grime. Three places had been set at the conference table, two opposite and one at the head, where Jill assumed the judge would preside. At each place was a fresh yellow legal pad and a cheap ballpoint pen. In the center of the table sat a stack of cracked plastic cups and a pitcher of stale tap water.