Scott lifts up his glass tumbler and takes the last sip of amber Scotch.
That’s when I realize the difference between the two men, the tiny detail in the pictures that doesn’t match up.
David’s ring finger was bare.
Scott is wearing a thick platinum wedding band.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
Friday, December 7
She leans forward in her black dress and touches his hand. Her dark hair tumbles forward, nearly obscuring her profile.
A smile spreads across his face.
At what moment does a flirtation become a betrayal?
Is the demarcation line drawn when physical contact occurs? Or is it something more ephemeral, such as when possibilities begin to infuse the air?
Tonight’s setting, the bar at the Sussex Hotel, is where it all began.
But the cast was different.
Thomas stopped by for a drink during that evening, back when our marriage was still pure. He met an old friend from college who was in town for the night and staying at this very hotel. After a few cocktails, the friend explained that he was suffering from jet lag. Thomas insisted he go up to his room while Thomas paid the check. My husband’s generosity has always been one of his many appealing qualities.
The bar was busy, and the service was slow. But Thomas was seated at a comfortable table for two, and he was in no rush. He knew that even though it was barely ten o’clock, the blackout shades would be down in our bedroom and the temperature set to a cool sixty-four degrees.
It was not always this way. In the beginning of our marriage, Thomas’s arrival home was met with a kiss and a glass of wine, followed by engaging conversation on the couch about a recent class lecture, an intriguing client, a weekend getaway we were considering.
But something had shifted during the course of our marriage. It happens in every relationship, when the first heady months yield to a more serene cohabitation. As work exerted more and more demands, the pull of a silk nightgown and crisp, 1,000-thread count Egyptian cotton sheets proved more irresistible than Thomas on some nights. Perhaps this rendered him . . . vulnerable.
The dark-haired woman reached my husband before the server delivered the check. She claimed the empty seat across from him. Their encounter did not end when they left the restaurant; instead, they went to her apartment.
Thomas never said a word about his indiscretion.
Then the errant text landed on my phone: See you tonight, Gorgeous.
Freud postulated that there are no accidents. Indeed, the argument could be made that Thomas wanted to get caught.
I didn’t go looking for this. But she threw herself at me. What guy in my situation could resist? Thomas pleaded during one of our therapy sessions.
It would be so comforting to believe this, that his response wasn’t a referendum on our marriage, but rather a yielding to the hardwired fragility of males.
Tonight the booth in a far corner provides a satisfactory vantage point. The man with the platinum wedding band appears to be falling under your spell, Jessica; his body language has grown more alert since your arrival.
He is not nearly as alluring as Thomas, but he fits the basic profile. In his late thirties, alone, and married.
Was this how Thomas first responded?
The temptation to move closer to the scene now unfolding just two dozen yards away is almost unendurable, but this deviation could invalidate the results.
Although you know that you are being observed, the true subject, the man in the blue shirt, must remain unaware that he is being scrutinized.
Subjects typically modify their behavior when they recognize that they are part of an experiment. This is known as the Hawthorne effect, named after the place where this result was first encountered, the Western Electric’s Hawthorne Works. A basic study to determine how the level of light in their building affected the productivity of laborers revealed that the amount of luminosity made no difference in the employees’ productivity. The workers increased output whenever the light was manipulated, whether from low to high or vice versa. In fact, a change in productivity occurred when any variable was manipulated, which made the researchers postulate that the staff altered their behavior simply because they were aware that they were under observation.
Since subjects have this predisposition, all researchers can do is attempt to factor this effect into the research design.
Your flirtations appear convincing, Jessica. It seems impossible that the target would know he is part of an experiment.
The test must proceed to the next stage.
It is difficult to type the instruction—a wave of nausea briefly delays its transmission—but it is a vitally necessary one.
Touch his arm, Jessica.
The scene with Thomas also followed this progression: a brief caressing of the arm, another round of drinks, an invitation to continue the conversation at the woman’s apartment.
An abrupt movement from the table by the wall and the memory of Thomas’s duplicity glitches. The man in the blue shirt stands up. You rise as well. Then you head toward the lobby with him trailing a few feet behind you.
It took less than forty minutes from the time you entered the bar for you to seduce him.
Thomas’s defense was sound; it appears that men are incapable of steeling themselves against blatant offers of temptation. Even married ones.
The flood of relief that accompanies this realization is so profound it has a weakening effect on the body.
It was all her fault. Not his.
Bits of shredded cocktail napkin, evidence of the contained anxiety, litter the table. They are scooped into a pile. The untouched glass of sparkling water on the table is finally tasted.
Several moments later, the bell of an incoming text peals.
It is reviewed.
And immediately, it is as though the busy, welcoming bar is plunged into ice and silence.
There is nothing save for the three lines from you.
They are read once.
Then again.
Dr. Shields, I flirted but he rejected me. He said he happily married. He went up to his room and I’m in the hotel lobby.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
Friday, December 7
Being told to hook up with a man, and being paid for it, is the same as being a prostitute.
I’m trembling again as I stand in the lobby, waiting for Dr. Shields to respond to my text. But this time it’s with anger.
Did she really expect me to go up to Scott’s room? She probably assumed I would because of my confessions about my one-night stands on her stupid questionnaire.
My pumps pinch my feet and I alternate easing up my left heel, then my right one.
She still hasn’t responded, even though I sent the message several minutes ago. Now the front desk clerk is staring at me, and I feel even more out of place than I did when I walked in.
I can’t believe Dr. Shields put me in this position. It wasn’t about being in danger. It was about the humiliation. I saw the way David and his friends eyed me when I walked out with Scott. And I saw the way Scott looked at me right before he stood up from the table.
“Is there something I can help you with?”
The front-desk clerk has come from behind her post to stand next to me. She’s smiling, but I see in her eyes what I already know: I don’t belong in a place like this, with my sixty-dollar dress from a sample sale and my fake diamond earrings.
“I’m just—I’m waiting for someone,” I say.
Her eyebrows lift.
I fold my arms across my chest. “Is that a problem?” I ask.
“Of course not,” she says. “Would you like to take a seat?” She gestures to the couch over by the fireplace.
We both know what her hospitality is thinly disguising. She probably thinks I’m a hooker, too.
I hear the rapid clicking of heels against the wood floor. I turn to see Dr. Shields striding toward
us, and even though I’m upset by what she has just done to me, I can’t help but marvel at her beauty: Her hair is pulled into a sleek chignon and her legs are slim and impossibly long beneath the hemline of her black silk dress. She is everything I tried to be tonight.
“Hello, there,” Dr. Shields calls. When she reaches us, she puts her hand on my arm, like she is claiming me. I see her glance at the woman’s name tag. “Is everything all right here, Sandra?”
The clerk’s manner transforms. “Oh, I was just offering your friend a seat by the fireplace, where it’s more comfortable.”
“How thoughtful,” Dr. Shields says. But her tone is a subtle rebuke, and the clerk retreats.
“Shall we?” Dr. Shields asks, and for a moment I think she wants to leave. But then she leads the way to the couch.
Instead of taking a seat, though, I remain standing. I keep my voice low, but it’s thick with emotion: “What was that all about?”
If Dr. Shields is surprised, she doesn’t show it. She pats the cushion next to her. “Jessica, please sit down.”
I tell myself it’s because I want to hear Dr. Shields’s explanation. But the truth is, I feel a gravitational pull toward her.
As soon as I am beside her, I smell her clean, spicy perfume.
Dr. Shields crosses her legs and folds her hands in her lap. “You seem very agitated. Can you tell me what that experience was like for you?”
“It was awful!” My voice cracks unexpectedly and I swallow hard. “That guy Scott, who was he?”
Dr. Shields lifts her shoulders once. “I have no idea.”
“He wasn’t part of this?”
“He could have been anyone,” Dr. Shields says. Her voice is airy and distant. It’s almost as if she is reciting from a script. “I needed a man with a wedding ring to test as part of my study on morality and ethics. I selected him at random.”
“You were using me as bait? To trick some guy?” My words come out too loudly for this hushed, serene lobby.
“It was an academic exercise. I did let you know there would be real-life scenarios involved with this phase of my research.”
I can’t believe I’d ever thought we might be eating dinner together. Who was I kidding? I am her employee.
The tightness in my throat eases, but I can’t let go of my anger. Nor do I want to, because it’s what is finally giving me the courage to ask questions.
“Did you really expect me to go up to his room, though?” I blurt.
Dr. Shields’s eyes widen; I don’t think anyone could fake that kind of surprise.
“Of course not, Jessica. I merely told you to flirt with him. Why would you ever consider that?”
The minute she says it, I feel foolish. I look down at my feet. I can’t meet her gaze; it was such an extreme assumption.
But Dr. Shields’s voice contains no judgment; it holds nothing but kindness. “I promised that you would always be in complete control. I would never put you in danger.”
I feel her hand briefly touch mine. Despite the warmth of the fire, it is so delicate and cold.
I take in a few deep breaths, but my eyes remain fixed on the herringbone pattern on the wood floor.
“Something else is troubling you,” she says.
I hesitate and look into her cool blue eyes. I hadn’t planned on telling her this part. Finally, I blurt out: “Right before he left the table . . . he called me ‘Sugar.’”
Dr. Shields doesn’t reply, but I know she is listening to me in the way no one else ever has before.
My eyes fill with tears. I blink them back before continuing.
“There was this guy . . .” I hesitate, inhale deeply, and then continue. “I met him a few years ago and at first I thought he was amazing. You may have heard of him, he’s a well-known theater director now. Gene French.”
She nods almost imperceptibly.
“I was hired to do makeup for one of his shows. It was a huge deal for me. He was always really nice, even though I was a nobody. When we got the Playbill printed, he showed me my name in the credits and said I should celebrate it, that life had so many hardships and we should honor the triumphs.”
Dr. Shields is utterly still.
“He did . . . something to me,” I say.
The images I can’t ever seem to erase seep into my mind again: Me slowly lifting up my shirt, up over my bra, while Gene stands a few feet away, staring. Me saying, I really should go now. Gene positioning himself between me and the door to his office, which is closed. His hand moving toward his belt buckle. His answer: Not yet, Sugar.
“He didn’t touch me, but . . .” I swallow hard and continue. “He told me a prop was missing from the show, an expensive necklace. He said I had to lift up my shirt to prove I wasn’t wearing it.” A shudder runs through my body as I recall standing there in that claustrophobic, darkened room, trying to look anywhere but at him and what he was doing to himself, until he finished and dismissed me.
“I should have told him no, but he was my boss. And he said it so matter-of-factly, like it was no big deal.” I look into Dr. Shields’s light blue eyes and I manage to shake off the image. “That guy Scott reminded me of him for a minute. Just the way he said ‘Sugar.’”
Dr. Shields doesn’t respond immediately. Then she says softly, “I’m so sorry this happened to you.”
I feel her hand graze mine again, light as a butterfly.
“Is this why you aren’t interested in a serious boyfriend?” she asks. “It isn’t uncommon, when a woman endures an assault like you did, for her to withdraw, or to change her relationship patterns.”
Assault. I’d never thought of it like that. But she’s right.
I suddenly feel depleted, like I did after our first session. I reach up and massage my temples with my fingertips.
“You must be exhausted,” Dr. Shields says, like she can see inside me. “I have a car waiting. Why don’t you take it home? I’d prefer to walk anyway. Text or call if you want to talk over the weekend.”
She stands up and I do the same. I feel oddly disappointed. A few minutes ago, I was furious with her; now I don’t want her to leave me.
We head together toward the exit, and I see the black Town Car idling by the curb. The driver comes around to open the back door and Dr. Shields tells him to take me anywhere I want to go.
I sink onto the seat and tilt my head back against the soft leather as the driver walks back around to the front of the car. Then I hear a gentle tap on my window, so I roll it down.
Dr. Shields smiles at me. Her silhouette is backlit by the bright city lights. Her hair is a halo of fire, but her eyes are in the shadows. I can’t see their expression.
“I nearly forgot, Jessica,” she says, pressing a folded slip of paper into my hand. “Thank you.”
I look down at the check, feeling oddly reluctant to open it.
Maybe this is all just a business transaction to Dr. Shields. But what exactly am I being paid for now? My time, the flirtation, my confidences? Or something else I don’t know about?
All I know is that it feels unclean.
When the driver pulls away, I slowly unfold the check.
I stare at it for a long moment as the car’s wheels spin almost soundlessly against the asphalt.
It’s for $750.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
Saturday, December 8
Saturday evening. Most couples call it date night.
Traditionally, it has been for us, too: dinners at Michelin-star restaurants, nights at the Philharmonic, a leisurely stroll through the Whitney Museum. However, after Thomas’s missent text, he moved out and these encounters were terminated. Gradually, after the counseling, apologies, and promises, they were reinstated, but with a new focus: An emphasis was placed on connection and rebuilding.
At first the atmosphere was infused with strain. If you were watching us from the outside, Jessica, you might assume a new relationship was unfolding, which, in a sense, it was. Physical
contact was kept to a minimum. Thomas was solicitous, verging on overly so: He arrived with flowers, rushed to open doors, and filled his unwavering gaze with admiration.
His pursuit was more ardent than even during our initial courtship. At times it had a desperate, almost fear-laced quality. As if he were terrified of losing our relationship.
Over time, a softening reshaped the interactions. Conversations grew less stilted. Hands found each other across the table once the plates had been cleared.
Tonight, a mere twenty-four hours after the experiment at the hotel, progress has been reversed. It is clear that not all men are susceptible to the attention of a beautiful young woman. The man in the blue shirt resisted you, Jessica, yet Thomas was not immune when the opportunity was offered.
As a result, an invisible agenda has been superimposed over this Saturday evening’s encounter with Thomas.
An intimate location, the town house we once shared, is selected to eliminate outside distractions, such as an overbearing waiter or a boisterous party of six at the next table. The menu is carefully curated: A bottle of Dom Perignon, the same vintage served at our engagement party; Malpeques oysters; a rack of lamb; creamed spinach; oven-roasted baby potatoes with rosemary. For dessert, a variation of Thomas’s preferred sweet: chocolate torte.
Traditionally, the torte is purchased at a patisserie on West Tenth Street. For tonight’s meal, however, ingredients have been procured from two separate gourmet markets.
My appearance tonight is also a departure. Jessica, you were the one who illustrated how seductive a smokey shadow and sable liner can be, when applied correctly.
The makeup rests atop the dressing room vanity. Beside it is my phone. The device sparks a reminder: a solicitous text or call is the appropriate course of action following an incident in which an acquaintance or friend is unnerved.
Jessica, I wanted to check in and make sure you are feeling better after last night’s assignment. I’ll be in touch soon.
One more line is needed.
A moment of thought. Then it is typed and sent.
CHAPTER
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