A Hidden Affair

by Pam Jenoff

  I press send and put the phone away. Smoothing my hair, I walk from the restroom and across the lobby. When I reach the bar, Aaron is gone. The scotch glasses have also disappeared and two steaming cups of coffee sit in their places.

  I pull one of the cups toward me, then look around, wondering where Aaron has gone. Perhaps he decided I am too unstable, that he would be better off pursuing Nicole on his own. But a minute later he returns to the restaurant, closing his phone. “Sorry, I just had to make a call.”

  “No problem.” As he tucks his phone into his pocket, his jacket pulls back and I notice the gun tucked low at his waistband. Uneasiness rises in me. How had he managed to bring that with him on the plane? Traveling armed on an international flight would require special permits, not something that a simple private investigator would be able to get. And why does he need a gun if his search for Nicole is related to some business interests? I wonder once again what he isn’t telling me, how much of his story is true.

  “My gun was in the hotel vault,” he says, following my gaze. “I stayed here last week and they held it for me as a courtesy.”

  I study his impassive expression, unable to discern if he is lying. Several seconds of silence pass between us. “Our rooms are ready.” He signs the bill that the bartender left on the counter. “Why don’t we go get settled?” He holds out his arm to help me from the stool, but I ignore it, draining the rest of my coffee and stepping down myself.

  In the lobby, he proceeds directly to the elevator, a tiny, old-fashioned lift with a grated door. Inside, it is barely big enough for the two of us and I face forward, breathing shallowly and trying not to notice his warmth pressed up against the side of my arm.

  We exit at the third floor and walk down a dimly lit corridor. Through the closed doors come the sounds of television laughter, a couple arguing heatedly. Aaron stops before a door second from the end of the hall and unlocks it.

  I turn to stare at him as he follows me inside. “You said rooms, plural,” I remind him pointedly.

  “I couldn’t ask for a second room without attracting attention. You’re Jordan Bruck, by the way, in case anyone asks. We married four months ago in Milan after a brief courtship.”

  “I don’t . . . ” I begin, then stop again. The notion of pretending to be married to this man I just met seems bizarre. Did Jared and Nicole travel as a couple, I wonder, before actually becoming one?

  “I don’t like it any better than you do,” Aaron says, more sharply than I have heard him speak, and I can tell that he is thinking of his wife. He brushes past me and puts his bag down on the floor by the window. The room is narrow, most of the space taken up by a single, queen-sized bed. A damp odor permeates the air.

  I open my mouth to protest further about the shared accommodations, then decide against it. Hopefully we won’t be here long.

  Ari turns on a lamp that sits on the night table beside a telephone, filling the room with yellow light. Taking in the worn furniture, I cannot help but think longingly of the elegant hotel rooms in Monaco. “So what now?” I ask, sinking down on the edge of the bed.

  “Now we wait.” He opens his bag and rummages inside.

  I tilt my head. “Wait for what, Ari? I thought you knew where Nicole is.”

  He looks up. “I do. She’s staying at a flat north of here in the Brigittenau district.”

  I try to place the location in my mind but cannot. “I don’t understand. If you know where she is, then why are we waiting? Why aren’t we going after her immediately, before she gets away?”

  I feel him yet again calculating how much to say. “Well, for one thing, I’m still awaiting confirmation of the actual address. More important, she has a meeting scheduled for tonight with one of her key associates. It will be better if I can catch her then.”

  “Better for who?”

  “For me.” He straightens. “For my client.”

  I stand up. “Why?”

  “I really can’t say.”

  “Dammit, Ari!” I explode. “How can you expect me to just sit here?”

  “Because this isn’t all about you, Jordan.” Walking toward me, his voice remains even but his cheeks redden and a vein bulges slightly at his neck. “I brought you along, shared the information I had with you, against better judgment, some might say. But there are things at stake here besides you finding your ex-boyfriend.”

  “I told you, he wasn’t just—” I begin.

  He raises his hand. “Bigger things.”

  We are standing toe-to-toe now, neither willing to back down. “Like what?”

  He presses his lips together. “She isn’t going to leave before her meeting,” he replies, avoiding my question. “She doesn’t know we’re here.”

  “Unlike in Monaco,” I say, finishing his unspoken thought. “She might not have fled there, either, if I hadn’t spooked her, right?”

  I wait for him to deny the accusation, but he does not. “Ari . . . ” I stop, caught off guard by my use of his nickname. It is not, I realize, the first time I have called him that. How long have I been doing it? I swallow, feeling my face grow warm. “What if you’re wrong?” I press. He looks confused, as though the idea is not one he has previously considered. “What if Nicole does get away?”

  “She won’t,” he replies confidently. “And if she does, we’ll figure out where she’s going and follow her.”

  “But . . . ”

  He cuts me off. “Trust me. I got you this far, didn’t I? If it wasn’t for me, you would still be sitting in Monaco.”

  He has a point. So far, he hasn’t steered me wrong. But stubbornness rises up inside me. We need to go after Nicole now, to not lose her again. My unwillingness to bend to someone else’s judgment is just one of the reasons I’ve never worked with a partner when given the choice.

  It’s futile, I decide, to argue further. I fling myself across the bed. “We have time,” he says. “Do you want to go out somewhere for more coffee or some food?”

  I look out the window at the rain-soaked street, then shake my head. “Tell me more about the wine fraud,” I say.

  Ari unfolds himself across the other side of the bed, keeping a comfortable distance between us. “The wine industry has become huge in recent years in the States and Europe. And developing countries have gotten into the wine business, too: Bulgaria, Georgia—”

  “Georgia?” I echo, incredulous.

  “Yes. In fact, one of the things that makes wine more complex is stressing the grapes, and some think that vintages from war-torn regions are particularly good. Even Israel has gotten into the wine game, and I mean the real thing, not just Manischewitz.”

  I laugh, imagining the sickly sweet wine we used to have at our Passover seders. He continues, “At the same time, the consumer market for wine has grown exponentially, especially in places like China, Russia, India, where there’s a new middle class, with more young professionals than ever eager to pick up the tastes and lifestyles of the West.”

  He clasps his hands behind his head, and as he stretches out on his back, I try not to notice the way his T-shirt stretches across his chest. “There are secondary markets, too,” he adds. “Wine tourism has become a lucrative business, vacations centered around trips to the vineyards. And then there are the investment funds.”

  “Investment funds?”

  “They’re just like mutual funds, only their holdings are wines.” He yawns. “People buy in, for anywhere from twenty-thousand dollars to many millions. The funds purchase wines that they think are likely to hold their value, Bordeaux, maybe, or Burgundy, and then store them while they appreciate. There’s even an exchange in London that values the funds. Oenophiles consider it a sexy investment, even though they may never see, let alone taste, any of the wine. Also, some people feel that it’s not as volatile as the rest of the market these days because, as I explained, the demand for wine is likely to continue to rise.”

  “And the counterfeiting problem . . . ?” I prompt, trying to br
ing him back to Nicole.

  “People want expensive wines, but everyone wants them at a bargain. So, like we discussed on the plane, if you can fake a really good vintage and introduce it into the market at a slightly lower price point, you can sell a ton and clear a healthy profit. Winemakers hate it but it’s kept quiet, because if consumers lose confidence in the value and quality of the product they’re buying, the whole industry will suffer. That’s why counterfeiters have been able to operate beneath the radar for years—the winemakers were willing to let some amount go unchecked in order to keep the issue from becoming too public.”

  “What about Nicole?” I ask. “How does she fit into all of this?”

  “Someone sold a counterfeit of a very valuable bottling. Nicole brokered the transaction. If I can see who she is doing business with, it will help to find some of the players higher up the chain.”

  Without speaking further, Ari closes his eyes and a few minutes later begins to breathe evenly. His arms, I note, are flung back over his head in a gesture that seems to replicate surrender. Not bothering to stop myself now, I study the contour of his muscles beneath his shirt, the place behind his ear where his hairline meets his neck. His sensuality is not groomed and self-conscious like some men, who seem to use their good looks to their advantage; it is raw and natural in a way that makes him even more dangerous.

  An image flashes through my mind, sudden and unbidden, of reaching over and kissing him until he wakes, his arms coming to life, strong around me. I struggle to push the vision away. What’s gotten into me? It’s just my wounded pride, I tell myself, the need to revalidate my womanhood since learning that Jared chose someone else. Even if my attraction to Ari was legitimate, I cannot afford to complicate things. No matter where the years have taken Jared, my first priority is still finding him and learning the truth.

  Jared is married. Despite what Ari said, it could be just a front, a union for the sake of his hiding, her work. But as I think this, I know that it isn’t true. Jared would not wed for the sake of appearances. Then again, I never imagined he would fake his death, either, so perhaps I didn’t know him as well as I thought.

  A chill runs through me and I reach down, pulling the blanket that is folded at the foot of the bed up over both of us. My eyes grow heavy and the room begins to slip from beneath me.

  Then I am in Cambridge, standing on Midsummer Common, gazing north toward the River Cam. Behind me, the towering spires of St. John’s, Trinity, and Kings rise against the late day sun.

  It is from this direction that the ringing comes, a sweet, gentle bell. Slowly the bicycle comes into view and, as the rider’s distinctive shape registers, my heart fills. “Jared!” I shout, but he does not see me as he nears. Green eyes fixed, he pedals rapidly on a straight trajectory forward, his open black gown flapping in the breeze. He does not slow or swerve, and for a moment I fear I will be struck. Flinching, I close my eyes. Bike and rider pass through me, as though I am not there. I spin around quickly, but his retreating image fades like dust and, before I can blink, he is gone.

  “Jared!” I call again, this time aloud as I awake from the dream. The hotel room is nearly dark now, the lamp extinguished, gray sky weak through the half-drawn curtains.

  I close my eyes once more, willing myself back to the place where I left the dream, hoping that if I fall asleep quickly enough I can return to Jared. But now I find myself in an unfamiliar room. A doctor’s office, I recognize, inhaling the antiseptic smell, squinting against the bright overhead light. The metal table is icy cold beneath my thin gown. There is a sudden sharp pain in my lower abdomen and I cry out, jarring myself awake.

  I clutch the blanket tightly, trying in vain to stop the uncontrollable shaking. It was just a dream. But there’s more to it than that. I have been there before, in that doctor’s office. It is a place I have not allowed myself to recall in ages, a memory buried so long that it had ceased to be real.

  I open my eyes, blinking to adjust to the dimness. As I look around the hotel room, the day’s earlier events come rushing back: the flight from Monaco, the revelation that Jared and Nicole are married, the scotch. My head throbs. Totally unprofessional of me. Ari must think I am a total hack.

  Ari. Had he noticed me shaking or heard me cry out in my sleep? I roll over, but the space beside me is empty, a slight wrinkle in the sheets the only indication that he had been there at all.

  I sit up, looking toward the bathroom. “Hello?” I call, but there is no response.

  I switch on the night-table lamp. Beside the telephone is a note scribbled on a pad of white hotel stationery: Went to check something. Back shortly. Food on table. A.B. His handwriting is slanted and craggy, the initials a scrawl that seems to fly off the page, as though he had finished writing the note while actually running from the room.

  Swallowing against the stale taste of liquor in my mouth, I climb from the bed and walk to the table, where two cappuccinos sit beside a paper bag. Inside are a bottle of aspirin and a few still warm rolls, filled with salami and hard cheese. I bite into one of the rolls. The hearty, satisfying taste immediately reminds me of backpacking through Europe as a student, arriving on the overnight train in a new city. I would spend a few precious coins on a sandwich like this and devour it as we plotted the sites we would see, which hostel or campsite would serve as our base for the night.

  When I’ve finished the sandwich, I down two of the aspirin with a mouthful of coffee, then go into the bathroom and turn on the tap in the narrow stall shower. As I wait for the water to warm, my thoughts turn to Jared once more. I feel foolish for having chased him, for thinking he might still be waiting and have feelings for me. Ari asked yesterday whether I still planned to continue my search for Jared. I consider the question anew: Should I stop now? I could give up the quest, try to piece back some semblance of a life for myself. But I still need answers about why Jared left and never came back. And the thought of knowing that he is out there somewhere in the world, of never seeing him again, is unfathomable.

  Twenty minutes later I step from the bathroom, drying my hair. “Ari?” I call, but the room is still empty. I am annoyed. He could have said where he was going, when he will be back. He can’t just expect me to keep following his lead without telling me what he is doing and why.

  Across the room, a flashing red light catches my eye. It is the message button on the telephone. The light was not on earlier; the phone must have rung while I was in the shower. I walk to the night table, then hesitate. Clearly the message isn’t for me, and Ari said no one knows he is staying here. Someone probably dialed the wrong number. Curious, I pick up the receiver, press the message button. “One new message,” a prerecorded woman’s voice says. There is a pause before a man’s voice comes over the line: “Denisgasse achtzehn.” Then there is a click and the line goes dead.

  Puzzled, I stare at the phone for several seconds. Then I hit the repeat button and listen to the message again, scribbling the words on the pad of paper beneath Ari’s note. Denisgasse achtzehn. What does it mean? Achtzehn translates as the number eighteen. Is it an address?

  I reach for my bag. Easy, I think, as I pull out my phone. The message probably isn’t even intended for us. I click on the internet function, then go to MapQuest, punching in the information. A map appears, showing Denisgasse street. I zoom out to a broader view, and my breath catches. The address is in the Brigittenau district, where Ari said Nicole is staying.

  Adrenaline surges through me. Why would someone leave a message like that on a hotel voice mail? Because Ari was supposed to be here alone.

  I study the map, considering. I should call Ari, or at least wait to give him the information. But then I remember his insistence that we not approach Nicole until tonight. My every instinct tells me that waiting is a mistake—by then it may be too late and she will be gone. I cannot afford to take that chance.

  I stand up, then hesitate. It is risky to betray Ari’s confidence, to go there without him and jeopardize his i
nvestigation as well as my own search. Ari will be back soon and perhaps I can talk him into going to find her earlier than planned. But I know that it is futile. He is just as stubborn as me and no amount of cajoling will change his mind. And if I wait for him, I could miss Nicole and lose my only chance to find Jared again.

  No, I have to go see Nicole now. Perhaps if I hurry I can get there and back before Ari returns and notices I am gone. My mind made up, I pull my hair back and grab my bag hurriedly. Then, taking one last apologetic look around the hotel room, I slip out the door, the paper clutched tightly in my hand.

  chapter EIGHT

  OUTSIDE, THE EARLIER downpour has dwindled to a faint drizzle, but the sky remains an ominous gray, heralding more storms to come. I peer down the street in both directions to make sure I don’t see Ari before walking toward the corner. Then I hurry to the taxi stand at the intersection, climb in the lone awaiting cab. “Denisgasse achtzehn, bitte,” I say in my best high school German.

  As we veer from the curb, I gaze out at the unfamiliar street toward the deserted tables of an outdoor café. I think of Ari, my guilt rising. He brought me along; if he hadn’t, I’d still be stuck in Monaco without a lead. But his elusiveness in response to my questions, his insistence upon doing things his way, has left me with no other choice than to see if I can find Nicole on my own.

  If, I repeat inwardly, doubt flooding my brain. All I have is an address. I don’t actually know whether Nicole will be there. And even if she is, she’s no more likely to speak with me here than in Monaco.

  The cab slows and pulls over abruptly. Surprised, I turn toward the driver. Ari said that Nicole was in another district, but we’ve barely gone a block.

  I lean forward. “Entschuldigen sie, bitte?” I manage, but the driver does not respond. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. Something isn’t right.

  Suddenly, the rear door behind the driver opens and, before I can react, a sandy-haired man starts to get into the car. I search my memory for the words in German to tell him the cab is taken.