by Cerys du Lys
I thought she meant to say something, perhaps introduce herself, but she didn't. A man came out of nowhere, rushed to the chair in front of her, and pulled it out. She flashed him a fake smile, lowered herself into the chair, and allowed him to push it in behind her.
"You," she said once seated, "are, I assume, Jessika. I have heard about you from Asher."
"Yes," I said. "Everything you heard was good, I hope."
I laughed. She didn't.
"I am Beatrice," she said, giving me a strange look, presumably for laughing. "Asher's wife. I've heard what I need to know about you, though I don't care much about hearing more. You understand our situation, and that is enough. Asher desires children, to which I can't begrudge him that. Unfortunately I can't provide him with any, as you should be well aware. I am reluctant to acquiesce to any formal agreement between you, him, and I without first discussing the matter in more detail, though."
As she sat there, talking, I noticed something odd. Nothing about her in particular, besides her favored formality for this particular situation, nor about her clothes, that seemed far more proper than necessary for a casual dinner, but there was a smell. Not a bad smell, not at all. Actually a very nice one. Feminine and sweet, thick like chilled caramel, with a faint hint of oranges and cinnamon, vanilla and... something else. I thought I recognized it, but I wasn't sure from where.
"You aren't dull, are you? I mean that in a nice way, so please don't take offense. You do have intelligence, correct?"
A perfume shop, I guessed. Or something like that. I must have smelled it when I walked through some store that was showing off a new type of perfume. Likely one that was too expensive for me, especially if Beatrice was the one wearing it, so I probably hadn't given it any further thought until just now. That made sense.
My thinking didn't help me to sway Beatrice against thinking I was an idiot.
"Well?" she asked.
"Oh, I'm sorry. I was distracted, I..."
"This isn't a point in your favor," she said. "Does ADD run in your family?"
"Um, no."
"Do you have a history of debilitating diseases?" she asked.
"I graduated with a BA in English Language and Literature," I said, trying to ignore her. "I received good grades."
"Not a very valuable degree," she said, speaking more to herself than me. "I'm not a fan of creative sorts. Asher loves novels, but I don't see the point. You don't gain much from them."
"I disagree," I said. "You can..."
"What?" she interrupted.
"I mean no offense, but I politely disagree that you don't gain much from them."
"It wasn't," she said, "a point of contention. There is no disagreement, but merely absolute facts. Fortunately Asher has good enough sense to manage his business life admirably, so he can afford to waste some time with frivolous entertainment like reading fiction, but..."
"Beatrice," Asher said from behind me. He walked into the dining hall wearing a pair of khaki slacks and a casual, button-down shirt. "Jessika is our guest. Let's try to at least give her a little time to get comfortable before bombarding her with questions."
"Asher!" Beatrice said. She lit up, smiling, except I felt like it wasn't real. Some ruse, a falsity, fake smile, fake happiness. "Come, give me a kiss. I've missed you."
He walked over to her side of the table, smiling. He didn't look happy, either, but not necessarily faking it. Just distracted? Confused? I wasn't sure.
He kissed her on the cheek and she pulled him in closer. Their lips touched and I watched it. Nothing more, no passion, but lingering, still kissing, right in front of me. I realized I was grinding my teeth and furrowing my brow. Before they stopped, before they could see me, I forced myself to loosen my jaw and relax my eyebrows.
"I'm glad you could come, Jessika," Asher said after he stepped away from Beatrice. He sat at the head of the table, between me and her and to my right. "I'm sure Beatrice and I both have a lot of questions for you, but let's enjoy ourselves first. I think that's best." To Beatrice, he added, "I've been getting to know Jessika over the past few days, and I really think you'll like her."
"Is she another of your pet projects?" Beatrice asked, acting like I wasn't even in the room. "I understand you want to help people, Asher. I really do. But you aren't actually helping them. By doing this and giving them things, you're making them reliant on you. If you give a man a fish, he eats for a day, and if you..."
He interrupted her rather firmly. "Thankfully we're not having fish for dinner."
"Asher," Beatrice said, frowning at him.
"We can talk about this later," he said.
I sat there, feeling more awkward and uncomfortable than I could remember ever feeling while waiting for dinner to be served. I'd accompanied a friend to her weird uncle's birthday party once and sat at the table while listening to a horrible retelling of the time he'd taken Viagra and hadn't been able to orgasm. Even with porn and baby oil, he'd said, and lots of masturbation after a couple hours of having sex with my friend's aunt. And then, subsequently, he needed to go to the hospital, where he'd embarrassed multiple nurses and baffled the doctors. He sounded so proud of this story, but for me it was one of the most awkward moments of my life.
Or it was, until now, with Asher's wife in their home. Not the same kind of awkwardness, but I really didn't enjoy her formal, cold, and callous way of treating me like a peasant.
"So," Asher said. "How was everyone's day?"
"Exhausting," Beatrice said immediately. "The flight was horrendous. They ran out of hot towels in first class and I had a headache the entire way."
"Mine was alright," I added quietly.
This wasn't going well. Why was I here? I should leave, I thought. What could anyone do if I did? Yes, I would say, I need to go. I apologize, but I don't think I can do this. I would say that, stand up, excuse myself, and then leave.
Except, just as soon as I'd almost convinced myself of actually doing it, Asher looked at me. He smiled, genuine. No unhappiness, no distraction. Not confused in the least. He looked at me while Beatrice talked about her trip and the sights she'd seen and what her friends thought of this and that. He smiled at me with what seemed like unadulterated interest and excitement. With his eyes twinkling at me, I couldn't help but smile back at him.
From beneath the table, his foot tapped at mine. I tapped him back, grinning, and then I lifted my heels off the ground and touched the toe of my shoes against his pants. I lifted, slightly, just a playful nudge. The front of my heels pressed against his sock, then his bare skin, up along his shin.
He grinned at me and shook his head slightly, almost imperceptibly. I grinned back. Beatrice continued talking.
I had wanted to leave, but now I didn't. I would stay and listen and do this. I would answer Beatrice's prying questions and try my best to make her happy. Not because I liked her, because I was fairly sure I didn't, but because it was what I felt like I should do.
I wanted so desperately to make Asher happy and to see him smile.
His Absolute Indulgence
Once dinner ended, the torture began.
Dinner was delicious, I reminded myself. I tried to think of the chicken cordon bleu, with butter braised asparagus and fresh made biscuits. Dessert consisted of homemade vanilla bean ice cream topped with cherries jubilee, which was also wonderful. Asher, his wife, and I drank water and a wildberry melomel. I'd never tried melomel before, but I absolutely adored it. Overall, dinner was exceptional.
After dinner, though, Asher's wife, Beatrice, suggested we retire to the smoking room.
"We don't smoke there, though," she said, as if I'd already lit up a cigarette. "The smell of smoke in a house is nauseating. You'll have to quit if we accept you for this position."
The position, she said, as if they were interviewing me for a job as a maid or a chef or some other servant. She seemed to like to completely disregard the fact that Asher had asked me to become an egg donor and act as her surrogate.
This, apparently, had nothing to do with her, but was more par for the course as a person of importance. Hire cleanstaff, find a cook, and then put an ad in the paper for a woman willing to bare your children; this was how Beatrice acted.
"I don't smoke," I said. "I agree, it is nauseating."
Beatrice looked at me funny, a quick glance over her shoulder, and then she walked away. Asher shrugged at me and followed after her.
Maybe I should leave now, I thought. They wouldn't notice me missing for a few seconds yet. If I slipped away, dashed down a hallway, went somewhere else, what would they do? Nothing, most likely. Or, Beatrice wouldn't, anyways. Asher might come after me, find me, ask me why? Why did I leave? Where was I going?
I almost wanted to do it just to hear him say those things, but I didn't. I followed them to the smoking room.
The smoking room looked like something directly transported from an old-fashioned English house. Granted, I'd never been in an old-fashioned English house, let alone another smoking room, but I imagined they looked like this. Cushioned benches like exceptionally long couches lined most of the walls save for an empty nook by a bay window overlooking the gardens and the short wall with its blazing hearth. A fire crackled lightly in the fireplace, shining shimmery light throughout the room. One lamp on a side table provided the remainder of the light and a few rolling tables lay in the middle of the room, currently unused and alone.
Asher slid one of the tables towards a corner spot and sat on the wall bench. Beatrice sat far away from him on another bench entirely. I looked between them at the corner spot, but I didn't want to sit there. I definitely didn't want to sit next to Beatrice, but was it presumptuous to sit next to Asher? Would it bother his wife, too? I really didn't know.
Asher patted the seat beside him. "Come now, it's just a bench."
To him, yes. And to me... somewhat yes. But sometimes a bench wasn't just a bench. Situations and people and the atmosphere, one small thing could transform the innocuous into so much more. I sat next to Asher—not too close—and smiled.
"Well," Beatrice said. "Now that the formality of meeting is over, and we've traded idle chit chat, I feel like it is in all of our best interests to get down to the matter at hand."
Asher sighed. "Yes, of course."
I folded my hands in my lap and nodded. "I hope I can provide answers to your questions."
"You hope?" she asked, staring down her nose at me. "Hope is the bastion of the weak, Jessika. We must never hope for anything. We must do and be. We must know."
What a fun time this was already, I thought. "I am positive I can provide answers to all your questions," I said.
"Good. Better, at least. Now, I want to know about your family history, going back at least three generations. That's your great grandfather and great grandmother, if you need help figuring that out. What were they like? I don't need touching tales or fabricated stories, please. Did they have any major illnesses? Were they immigrants? Military service? Number of siblings and children on either side? Successful marriages or did they end in divorce?"
I answered everything she asked me as best I could, but I didn't know why she asked half of what she did. I could understand her apprehension towards illness and disease, since something like that was often hereditary, but what did military service matter? And the number of siblings my great grandfather had?
When it came to discussing marriage, I wanted to add in a snarky line. I so desperately wanted to say something, to make her see that her marriage wasn't the happiest. Except, no, I couldn't. Who was I to judge her? I was biased, I knew it, and I needed to stop. My infatuation with Asher was simply that, a silly bout of interest that would pass. I told myself this, but I didn't really believe it.
Also, I was scared that if I mentioned anything to her, said something about her and Asher not being the closest couple, even insinuated it, I'd start a chain reaction. Like Scrooge in A Christmas Carol, if Beatrice fully realized how she acted and what her marriage was like to an outsider, she might completely change. She'd become the perfect wife, transform into a loving spouse and darling woman.
Probably not, but I decided not to risk it. Some selfish part of me wondered about it, theorized what might happen if Asher and Beatrice separated. Could I console him? Would he need someone? The whole idea was silly and absurd and I felt idiotic for wishing for their divorce, but I couldn't help it.
And, anyways, that's how people are, right? We all think of things that we never actually want to happen. Thoughts are fine when kept hidden and locked away, never shared with anyone. Right? Maybe, but maybe not.
The night droned on and Beatrice asked question after question. She started to delve deeper, seeking answers to the most obscure questions I'd ever heard. Did my grandparents graduate college, and if so what were their exact grade point averages? I reluctantly admitted that I didn't know.
"Ah ha!" Beatrice said, as if she'd caught me in a lie. "That's very unfortunate."
"Beatrice," Asher said. "Really? I understand you want to be thorough, but I think this is going a bit far."
"It's not, really, Asher. You need to understand where I'm coming from. Do you want a high school drop out for a child? Do you want a son or daughter who will only ever strive for mediocrity? A liberal arts major? Someone with their head in the clouds, never willing to put forth the effort to succeed?"
I interrupted, I had to. "There are plenty of people who had their head in the clouds and succeeded," I said. "If you look at best selling novelists, you'll see a trend towards great dreams. Also, technology as a whole wouldn't be anything without dreams and aspirations. Scientists, engineers, architects..."
Beatrice scoffed. "Writers prey on people like you, Jessika. They write their silly dreams on paper and make you think you can change the world. The entire entertainment industry is like that, actually. And along with that comes technology, and those scientists and engineers and architects you're so fond of."
Asher frowned. "We make our money from the entertainment industry, Beatrice, or have you forgotten? Vacation resorts, high class hotels, and Landseer Enterprises other projects?"
"Of course, Asher." Beatrice rolled her eyes, treating this like a trifling matter. "There is a large difference, though. Most people have dreams, but they fail to follow through with them. You and I are the lions who prey on those people's dreams. We give them hope, an inkling of it, and feed off of their laziness. They pay for luxury when most of them can't afford it, and in turn we give them more and more. We..."
"I think that's enough for the night. Thank you for this, Jessika. Beatrice and I really appreciate it."
"Dinner was wonderful," I said, feeling awkward. "I hope I responded to your questions alright..."
"Yes," Asher said. He smiled at me even while Beatrice looked as if she couldn't wait for me to leave. "It's late and you've been drinking. Do you want to stay in the guest house for tonight?"
"Asher!" Beatrice said, suddenly alert. "Do you think that's..."
"It's no problem," he said, interrupting her. "There should be everything you need there, but if you want I can have Jeremy drive you home."
I nodded. "I am getting tired, so if you don't mind, I'll stay. Thank you very much."
Beatrice glowered at me as I left. Asher said nothing except to bid me goodnight, but once I walked through the door I heard them arguing in the smoking room. Jeremy was waiting for me in the hallway, looking hopeful.
"How'd it go?" he asked. "Anything exciting?"
We walked down the hallway towards the dining room and the front door. "Is she always like that? I don't think I could stand it," I said.
Jeremy laughed. "Yes, mostly. Beatrice is... Beatrice. I don't think she's a bad person so much as she's different. She doesn't like me, either, but her and Asher seem to get along."
I paused mid step. They... yes, they must get along. They were married, afterall. And even if they didn't see each other often, they talked. He called her, I knew. They'd talked on th
e phone soon after I first met Asher, and they must have called each other between then and now, too. He'd mentioned multiple times how he'd talked to Beatrice about this or that, and it just struck me as a typical thing. They'd talked, yes, but I never really imagined they enjoyed it.
I don't know why I never thought about that, but I didn't. Now, though, I realized maybe I was wrong about everything. Maybe they did like each other? Maybe, while their marriage wasn't one that I would enjoy, they enjoyed it? Maybe...
"Hey there, lady?" Jeremy said, snickering. He tugged on my arm, urging me onwards.
"Sorry," I said. I went along with him, through the dining room now. "I just... I can't imagine what it's like for them. I don't know if I'd want to do it."
"Sometimes you don't have a choice, you know?" Jeremy said. "It's not so easy to stop when you've started, especially for people like Asher and Beatrice. You and me, if we were married, it'd be different. No one cares, there's no problems. I mean, there's problems, but they aren't as big. With Asher and Beatrice, everything is a hundred times bigger. There's more reason to stay together and less reason to leave, you know?"
"But do they want to stay together?" I asked.
Jeremy sighed, then smiled at me. "I'm not Asher or Beatrice, so I couldn't say. But, honestly? It's probably better not to even think about it. I don't know exactly what's going on with you or them or anything, but more than one person's been hurt when their expectations don't match reality. You seem like a nice woman and I don't want to see that happen to you."
"I know," I said. "It was just a question. I was curious."
It wasn't entirely just a question, but I knew that it couldn't be anything more, either.
...
Jeremy left me at the guest house. It was still early, somewhat. Not entirely as late as Asher had made it out to be, and I actually wasn't tired in the least. In a few more hours, maybe, but not yet.
I plopped onto the couch, contemplating watching something on the projector and movie screen. Unfortunately, though, I realized I had no idea how to use the remote. I picked it up off the coffee table, staring at it. The buttons all looked the same, though some said one thing or another. My TV at home had a generic cable company remote with a standard cable box, but this was nothing like that. I frowned and tossed it back onto the table, defeated. I didn't want to mess around with it and potentially screw something up. I felt like I was always screwing something up these days.
