by Amber Kay
She places her tea mug atop the table and finishes the remains of her scone with no sense of urgency in her actions.
“I never said he murdered the woman, Cassandra,” she chuckles. “I said that she died in our house.”
“You said that he was responsible for it,” I remind her.
“Adrian has an extensive sexual appetite. Some of those cravings are for eccentric acts.”
I shudder and meet her vacant expression, noting her absence of concern or disconcert despite the morbid subject matter. To her, this discussion is as casual as if she were describing to me the items written on her grocery list. Nothing fazes this woman.
“Do any of those acts involve violence?” I ask.
“If one isn’t careful enough, an accidental death could occur in some cases.”
I push back in my chair and stand. As I saunter toward the windows to gaze out at the garden below, my eyes set on the scenic view of the neighborhood in the distance against the backdrop of a setting sun. It takes a moment to gather my thoughts. I debate with myself about whether or not to continue this grotesque conversation. Curiosity wins out once more, begging me to inquire.
“None of this is helping you convince me to agree to your proposition,” I say.
Once more, Vivian doesn’t react. She doesn’t even appear daunted by my cautionary remark. She continues drinking her tea and nibbling her scone as if we are just two long lost friends catching each other up about old times. She removes another cigarette from its carton and tucks the thing between her lips.
“I don’t want you to feel like a hostage,” she says. “I’ve been known to get a little too aggressive when I want something. You’ve confessed that I made you uncomfortable with my earlier assertiveness. I won’t push you into the direction I want you to go. You’re free to make your own decisions. We’re both adults. If you’d like to leave now, I won’t stop you, but I really hope you don’t.”
I look into her eyes. I can’t tell how much of that she’s most sincere about, but she has a point. Thus far, she hasn’t kept me captive. I arrived here at my own free will. All of her house servants saw me walk into this house without coercion. Everything that happens from this point forward is under my control.
I stop myself to question my own commonsense. It is a brief moment of consideration that forces me to consult my senses. After much deliberation, I saunter to the table and sit back into my chair, across from Vivian.
“Okay,” I say. “What did Adrian have to do with this woman’s death?”
After another sip of tea, she entwines her fingers atop the table and sets her focus on me.
“Adrian dabbled in asphyxiophilia,” she says.
I blink several times as I struggle to uncover the context of her words. “What?”
Vivian sighs. She’s either losing patience with me or becoming exhausted with the conversation altogether.
“There was a time when he couldn’t get off unless choking was involved.”
I briefly turn away to assemble the nerve to ask my next question.
“He likes to choke women?” I ask.
“Not with his own hands,” she says. “Usually with a belt or a scarf and he always made the woman do it to herself.”
“What happened?”
“The poor girl overdid it,” she says with a casual shrugging gesture. “Adrian must have demanded too much from her. She and he went into the bathroom with a studded belt. She wrapped it around her neck, but I guess the belt wrung too tight. Crushed her fragile little windpipe.”
I cover my mouth to muffle a gasp, unable to say anything more than, “Oh my god.”
“The police tried Adrian for murder,” she says. “There was a torrid media circus that year. It was the biggest scandal in Orange Country at the time. With a last name like ‘Lynch’ amidst a provocative murder case like this, I'm sure you can imagine the kinds of tongue-in-cheek jokes the tabloids wrote about us. Adrian nearly went bankrupt trying to fend off the lawsuits and pay off the lawyers.”
“Has he been to prison?”
“He had the best lawyers and they certainly earned their payroll,” she says. “Adrian never spent a day in jail. Time served at the most. He got off on a couple misdemeanors when his defense team convinced a jury that the death was an ‘accidental suicide.’ He got a five year probation and he was set free.”
I lean back against my chair, digging my nails into the armrests. I scan the room, staring at the swirly designs etched into the ceiling and the silk white curtains that sway away from the breeze blowing in through the cracked window. A bee taps against the pane. For now, it’s all I can focus on as Vivian lights another cigarette.
“I only have one more question,” I say. I can’t believe it’s even crossed my mind to ask it aloud. I lean forward, placing my elbows atop the table with what I hope is fierce determination in my eyes. “If I were to marry Adrian—and I'm not saying I will—would he try choking me like he did that woman? Does he still…suffer from those types of ‘cravings’ like he used to?”
“I haven’t let him touch me since I was diagnosed,” she says. “I haven’t exactly been a very desirable mood. I don’t know if he still has those tendencies. We haven’t discussed much about sex since the trial. Cancer has a way of putting a damper on your sex life.”
“So there is no way you can guarantee my safety in marrying him?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I can’t guarantee anything. The only thing I can promise from this arrangement is financial stability. All I can do is ask you to reconsider my proposition. To think it over before you decline.”
“Vivian, you haven’t told me a single thing that would convince any woman to marry Adrian,” I say. “From what you’ve told me, he’s a sexual deviant, a cheating asshole and a horrible husband, not to mention a convicted murderer. I haven’t heard any redeeming qualities. Other than the money, why the hell should I marry him?”
She doesn’t answer right away. It occurs to me now that even she doesn’t know the answer to this question herself. Twenty years of on-again/off-again marriage and Adrian is just as much of a mystery to her as he is to me. Nevertheless, she smiles at me and doesn’t stutter when she answers as if she’s certain of this much.
“Despite what I have told you, I’ve neglected to mention one last thing that might be enough to convince you.”
I remain in disbelief, but I’d like to hear her reasoning behind this. What does she think could possibly redeem Adrian? I imagine a fork-tongued demon personified in human form, carrying a scythe and wearing a hooded robe.
It’s silly, I know, to invent such an exaggerated image of a man I haven’t met. Vivian’s depiction of him leaves so much to the imagination that I have no choice in the matter. When I think of Adrian, I don’t see what Vivian sees. She sees the love of her life. I only see nouns. Pervert. Murderer. Adulterer. Asshole.
“Give it your best shot,” I say. “Convince me.”
“Adrian is everything you accused him of being, but one thing he’s never been is boring,” she says. “I’ve got less than a year to coach you. We have so much to do. You’ll succeed where I failed. You’ll carry on my legacy. Let me teach you how to be the wife
Adrian really deserves.”
Vivian extinguishes her cigarette into the porcelain ashtray atop the table. Her initial expression morphs into wary stare. I sense her tension by how warm the room suddenly feels as I get the overwhelming sensation to look over my shoulder. Vivian rises from her chair and glances behind me.
“I heard you were home, but I didn’t know you had a guest,” says a voice that makes my ears prickle.
“Yes, darling, I’ve only been home a short while,” Vivian answers. I can't generate the courage to face the person behind the unfamiliar voice. I wring my hands to stop the trembles. Footfall closes in behind me, approaching as Vivian walks toward it.
“So, who is this special guest you neglected to inform me about?” the voice asks.
Vivian smiles
in response.
“This is Cassandra,” she replies. I feel his shadow on my back like brick wall wedging me between him and Vivian.
“She isn’t shy, is she?” the voice asks. Vivian scowls at me, scolding me for my insolence. That reprimanding glare on her face forces me to gather the nerve I need to confront this situation head-on.
With a deep breath, I turn to face them. All I see staring straight ahead is the pinstripe pattern lining his tie. It’s clear from this that this man is much taller than I am. My eyes are at chest level with him.
“Hello,” he replies. I clear my throat as I often do to tame my nerves in hopes of getting my voice to louden above a whisper when I finally speak.
“Hello,” I say. Since I can’t bring myself to look at him, his hand grips my chin and lifts my head, forcing me eye-to-eye with him. I gasp. With anyone else, this kind of assertiveness would earn them a swift slap across the face from me.
With him, I can’t even summon the courage to scold him. All I can do is stare at him. His face isn’t quite what I expected after hearing Vivian’s stories. Physically, nothing about him is quite what I expected.
There isn’t anything breathtaking or astounding about Adrian. That isn’t to say that he isn’t attractive. There is something almost princely about his features, in the sense that even without the Brooks Brothers tie and the watch from Cartier, his presence demands attention and respect. Although he smiles, I can’t help feeling intimidated. I suppose I expected someone feeble, old and wrinkled.
When I think of an older man, I don’t see the stereotypical “silver fox” version of the ones portrayed in movies and television. I see a hairless Shar Pei with dull eyes, coffee stained teeth and breath that reeks of tobacco. Never in my imagination has Adrian Lynch emerged looking like the complete opposite.
Unlike Vivian, his dark hair hasn’t yet begun to grey. Wrinkles, such as laugh lines and crow’s feet are expected for a man his age. Though they are there, they’re barely visible, more like soft creases on a crumpled sheet of paper.
He’s tall, much taller than my 5’3 frame. I stand on my tiptoes to maintain my balance with his hand wrapped around my chin, tilting my head upward to look him in the eyes, which are some hue of hazel.
“You must be Adrian,” I say, surprised that I'm able to speak above a whisper despite the initial nerves.
Adrian gives me a smile. With his lips curved upwards, I notice his dimples for the first time. It’s eerie, but I can’t deny, despite my surprise, he’s actually quite handsome. For a man old enough to be my father, that much is something I can agree with.
“I suspect you two were gossiping about me,” he says to Vivian.
“Well, you are always the talk of the town,” she replies and as she steps closer to kiss him, neither of them seem to care that I'm still standing between them or than his hand is still wrapped around my chin.
I stand between two opposing forces. There’s no way for me to wiggle out of the crawlspace between them. When their kiss lasts a little too long, I clear my throat aloud to remind them of my presence.
Adrian pulls away first and glances down at me, smiling as if he’d accidentally bumped into me in a crowd. When his eyes linger much longer than I'm comfortable being stared at, I push away from him, swatting his hand from my chin. He doesn’t look away from me, even as he and Vivian embrace.
“How much did you divulge to our young guest?” he asks Vivian. I step back, further away from them, hoping that he’ll stop staring at me.
“No worries darling. Cassandra doesn’t know anything that the rest of the world doesn’t already know about you,” says Vivian. The two of them laugh. I remain the silent fly on the wall.
“And what brings you here Cassandra?” he asks, but Vivian replies, “I invited her. She’s a student from that University we’re sponsoring. Do you remember that scholarship program that I’ve been working on? Well, it’s been set into motion and I’ve decided to make Cassandra my student protégé.”
I gasp upon hearing her words, stricken by a flash of sudden shock.
“What?” I say.
Vivian drapes her arm around my shoulders, pulling me closer.
“Yes, remember Cassandra? We have been discussing this all afternoon,” she says and judging by the tone of her voice, she wants me to act as a willing accomplice to her lie. Just as I suspected, Adrian has no idea that she offered me the proposition to marry him nor is he even aware that the proposition exists.
“You’re my wife’s new intern?” he asks. “I might reconsider getting more involved with her charity events. Her past interns were homely looking creatures with dull personalities and skirts that were never short enough.”
I fail to laugh at his joke. Vivian does enough phony laughing for both of us. I bite my tongue, resisting the urge to curse her for roping me into this. She looks at me and I don’t have the confidence to object. The woman is dying. This could be her dying wish. I can’t help feeling some weird obligation to be polite about all of this.
So I nod and force a smile. “Yeah, I guess I am.”
“What luck for me,” says Adrian with a smirk on his face. “You’ll be coming around here often?”
I try to answer. Vivian interjects again, “We haven’t agreed on a schedule. Cassandra and I will be in talks to discuss this further, won't we?” She turns to me, expecting some affirmation.
“Of course,” I say. Adrian takes my hand, shaking it and grasps a bit too tight until I pull to retrieve it from his grip.
“It was lovely meeting you,” he says after kissing the back of my hand. Until he lets go, I don’t breathe.
“Yes, it has been an enlightening experience for both of us,” I say then I look at Vivian to add, “Listen, it’s getting late and my roommate is such a drama queen that she is bound to call the cops if I don’t return home before nightfall.”
“I should get you home,” she says. Finally, she manages to pry me away from Adrian who turns to watch as we leave the room. Once outside those doors, I exhale as if I'm catching my breath for the first time in years.
Vivian walks ahead of me. I follow her into the foyer where Asa awaits to open the door for us. Upon stepping outside, my first sight is the setting sun. I’ve been with Vivian longer than I thought. Sasha is bound to swarm me with questions when I return home. She’ll likely wrestle me to the ground for answers if I don’t comply.
The valet eventually drives Vivian’s blue Porsche to the front. She takes the driver’s seat after pressing a button on a little remote to unlock the doors. I quickly slip into the passenger seat as Vivian brings the car to life by twisting the key in the ignition.
At once, we drive away. As we pull off, I can’t help looking over my shoulder back at the house, at an upstairs window with the curtain drawn back. Adrian stands in the opening, staring down at me, his fingers pressed to the glass, even now refusing to break eye contact. I order myself to look away.
“What did you think?” Vivian asks once we’re back on the highway. “Any first impressions of Adrian?”
I cringe just hearing his name. I quickly control that impulse because I don’t want her to notice it.
“He was…interesting,” I say. “I agree with you about that much.”
“Is that all?”
I glance out the side window, watching other cars on the freeway whiz by us as I fight to purge the memory of his hand around my chin and his lips on the back of my palm. What I fight the most is the smile that forces itself onto my face.
“Cassandra?” Vivian calls, breaking my trance. “What’s wrong?”
“Why did you tell him I was your intern?” I ask, only now remembering.
“I had to tell him something.”
“So he doesn’t know about the marriage proposition?”
She faces ahead, watching the road while driving.
“He doesn’t need to know…not yet.”
“Your secrets won’t become my lies,” I say. “I'm not gon
na help you deceive your husband.”
“I ask that you remain discreet,” she says. “I never told you to lie.”
“What is my role in this?” I ask. “What do you expect from me? As your intern, am I also required to be your husband’s fluffer? Will you fetishize my clothes just like you did with that maid? What is the endgame, Vivian?”
“Why are you being so hostile?” she retorts.
“Why did you make me lie to him?”
“I only ask that you give this arrangement a trial run,” she says. “Spend a few weeks as my intern, help me coordinate my charity events, balance my logbooks and keep track of my budget. You can be a legitimate intern with no strings attached.”
“Vivian, I don’t know anything about this stuff,” I say. “You really want me to sign on as a business partner?”
“I didn’t ask you to sign on as a partner,” she says. “I only ask you for menial labor with a generous pay rate.”
“Wait, you want to give me more money?”
“I don’t believe in unpaid labor,” she says. “Internships should be financially rewarding. And you didn’t seem to appreciate the first time I tried to give you money.”
“I'm sorry for being suspicious of strangers who offer me four thousand dollars in an envelope for no reason,” I mutter sarcastically.
“You are a novelty,” she says with a smile. “Anyone else would have taken that money without hesitation.”
“If it’s any consolation, my roommate wanted to spend it,” I say.
“Then let her have her fun. It’s not like I can't afford to give away money.”
“That’s what you keep forgetting, Vivian,” I say. “Some people can't be bought. Paying me to hang out with your husband sounds too much like prostitution to me. If you’re only offering me this ‘internship’ as a smokescreen to bribe me into fucking and/or marrying your husband, I am not taking the bait.”
Vivian chuckles. I don’t laugh with her. I scowl at her until the laughter subsides.
“I mean it, Vivian. No amount of money you offer will make me agree to be your husband’s hired whore.”
She doesn’t laugh this time. She sighs aloud and turns to me while slowing the car and pulling over aside the freeway guardrail. All I see in the overcast of evening are the headlights of cars that look blurred when the cars zoom by.
