Afterwards

by Nia Forrester

“I don’t know yet,” Robyn said.

  “Don’t know yet, why?” he prompted.

  “If I’m ready.”

  “For me to see the house I’m . . .” he stopped. “The house you’re going to live in? Iris Greenberg said . . .”

  “I don’t want to talk about Iris Greenberg right now.”

  Now Chris was the one looking at the ceiling. “You brought her up.”

  “Yeah,” Robyn said shaking her head. “But not to talk about real estate.”

  Confused, Chris squinted and leaned in. “What other context would we be talking about Iris Greenberg if not because we’re talking about real estate?”

  “Just forget it, Chris,” Robyn rolled over and sighing deeply, got off the bed.

  “Wait, what’s . . . I’m trying to understand . . .”

  “But you don’t,” Robyn said. “You just don’t understand. And that’s fine.” She walked naked into the bathroom and slammed the door.

  “Holy shit,” he said to himself. “Is this what I have to look forward to for another seven months?”

  “I can hear you, Christopher!”

  28

  “This is the key to the front door. In the sealed envelope inside this one is the code for the front gate and the master security panel where you can both arm and override all the security systems on the property. Mrs. Lawson will show you the location of the panel. Inside the envelope you also have . . .” Chastity counted off on her fingers, “. . . the names and numbers of the security team, Chris’ personal lawyer and his PR folks. But you need to remember that security is not on-site, but if you ever need them, someone should be there within three minutes. Chris’ preference is that you call them rather than the police unless there’s a situation involving bodily injury or, god forbid, death . . .”

  Robyn tried to pay attention but she was beginning to feel the onset of another wave of tiredness and forced herself not to yawn. She was zoning out most of what Chastity was telling her; and all of it sounded important. Since the night of the party for his kids two weeks prior, things had changed. A lot.

  For starters, there was a subtle change in the way everyone treated her. Even Frank asked her for details about Chris’ schedule when he wanted to get a meeting and appealed to her to get him to prioritize or focus on one thing or another, as though recognizing all of a sudden that her word might hold particular sway. With everyone else, it was nothing direct, just a tiny bit more deference, a little less playfulness when they were around her. Practically overnight, she’d been elevated to a completely different level interpersonally. Though her work remained the same, now everyone was just a little bit more careful around her, the way they were around Chris himself.

  What the hell had he done, anyway? Send out an interoffice memo?

  With Chastity though, the change was obvious. Now—of course on instructions from her boss—Chastity was sitting there in Robyn’s office, briefing her on the ins and outs of Chris’ house, how the staff was organized, who reported to whom, and all the security information that would allow her to move about the property at will, drive the cars and enter his 400-bottle wine cellar. She’d done just about everything but give Robyn the blueprints to the building.

  “This envelope has all the information I’ve just gone over,” Chastity said, sliding a manila envelope across Robyn’s desk. “If you have any questions I haven’t answered, Mrs. Lawson should be able to answer them.”

  “Thank you,” Robyn said, pinching the bridge of her nose with two fingers.

  “Are you okay?” Chastity said, pausing before getting out of the chair she’d been occupying for the past half hour.

  “Fine. Just a little tired.”

  “It’s a lot, I know,” Chastity said, her voice kind. “Taking in all these details. Anyway, I just know what a mess I was in my second trimester.”

  Wanting badly to ask what precisely Chris had told her, Robyn forced herself to bite her tongue. The only people she felt safe talking to about her and Chris were her mother, Tracy and Riley. He was too well-known for her to trust anyone with some off-the-cuff remark that might be misconstrued. Strange, but now that Chris seemed to want to publicly acknowledge the pregnancy, Robyn felt more isolated than ever. There was basically no one to call with whom she could share the news. It was milestones like this that always reminded Robyn what she’d lost in the divorce: like friends. She’d had only two active groups of friends—the ones she knew as part of couples she and Curtis socialized with, and those she knew at the firm where she and Curtis worked together.

  The ‘couple-friends’ he got custody of. After a few initial calls from the wives commiserating, she hadn’t heard from most of them again. People tended to worry that divorce was contagious. One disgruntled wife tended to breed another. One philandering husband who had cut his wife loose might spawn several more. So that was that. And besides, Curtis had been still part of a couple, whereas she was not. And as for her friends at the firm, Robyn couldn’t get over her humiliation, and worse than that, the suspicion that at least one or two of the other female associates she hung out with had known all along about Curtis and Natalie.

  And what of the possibility that Natalie hadn’t been the first? No, that was out of the question, remaining friends with those women.

  She had a few college friends of course, but they weren’t everyday friends, and lived all over the country and truth be told, Robyn had done a lousy job keeping up with them. Tracy and Riley were her godsends. Having known Chris for so long, and Riley having herself faced a relationship with a high-profile person, they had both become her go-to girls. Women she could trust to know what she was going through and to be discreet with everything she shared.

  “How far along are you, if you don’t mind my asking?” Chastity asked.

  Robyn smiled. “I don’t mind. Just coming up on twenty-three weeks.”

  Chastity nodded. “Well, you look great, Robyn.”

  “Thank you. And . . . could I ask you something?” Robyn said.

  “Sure.”

  “How many people know about, you know . . . that it’s Chris and . . ?” She let her eyes drop momentarily to her abdomen.

  “Everyone,” Chastity said airily.

  “How?” Robyn said, leaning forward.

  “From him, would be my guess,” his assistant said. “Just like he told me, I think he probably told a few well-placed people. And even before that, let’s face it, the gossip mill had been running its course.”

  ___________________

  Before long, Robyn had escaped the fate of so many other women who as their pregnancy progressed were feeling increasingly sluggish and ungainly. Instead she began once again to feel vibrant, and energetic. This was the stage where all the cutest maternity clothes fit. So she shopped and browsed expectant mother sites on the internet and tested names with Chris to see whether he liked them. He listened to her incessant babbling without comment, calling her up to his office at least once per day just to see how she was, and reassure himself that she was still mobile. Her getting off the elevator and heading to his office without having to be announced first always caused a little bit of a stir which she somewhat enjoyed, if she was being honest with herself; it felt something like dating the Prom King.

  One morning Chris shocked everyone in the Legal Department by showing up to visit her. He seldom left the twentieth floor during the work day. If he needed someone, they went to him. But on this occasion, he’d come to her. One of the associates had walked in when he was kissing her, his hand on her belly, and Chris hadn’t even bothered to move away.

  She was in love with him. Robyn knew that now, and most days didn’t even bother trying to pretend otherwise. Not to herself and though she never came out and said the words, she didn’t even pretend to him.

  On Friday nights, more often than not, they went out now. There was scarcely a thing he went to that Chris didn’t want her along, so there were more Philip Mark appointments, more trips to Neiman Marcus, more
gifts way more expensive than she had ever gotten before.

  She stayed with him every weekend, waking up in the dark suite with the balcony doors ajar, a cool breeze brushing her cheek, the sound of Chris up and about at four-thirty a.m., running on his treadmill, taking a shower, answering calls and finally heading down to work in his office. He remained there until she fetched him for breakfast and then he returned to work for a few more hours afterward. Only the promise of lovemaking, or the interruption of her relentless chatter drew him away for the balance of the afternoon, and if she was lucky, most of the evening as well.

  On Mondays they went to work, no longer bothering to pretend that they hadn’t been together the previous evening. They were a couple. A real, bonafide, involved-in-a-relationship couple. And yet, Robyn knew it would be premature for her to relax. At some point she was going to have to tell him her plans.

  ___________________

  Later, she would remember that she didn’t even want to go. The Smokin’ Beats Hip-Hop Festival was one of the events that Robyn had been on the fence about attending from the moment Chris mentioned it. When she was working for Doug Scanlon’s firm, associates were encouraged to go because it was where the industry’s rising stars were likely to be, many of them young and just green enough to think that a lawyer agreeing to represent them was more of a boon to them than it was to the lawyer.

  Robyn hated Smokin’ Beats, because it was the 2 Live Crew of hip-hop festivals, rather than the K Smooth of festivals. In other words, it was loud, crass and lacked class. But that didn’t mean Chris didn’t have to go. Unfortunately, a few of Scaife’s artists fell into the “loud, crass and classless” category and they were as entitled as anyone else to rub elbows with their label’s head honcho.

  At almost five-thirty on the first day of the festival, Robyn was still trying to decide. If she opted to go, she would leave the office with Chris and if not, she would head back to her mother’s. On the rare occasions that she didn’t go with Chris to a Friday evening event, he’d come knocking on the door of the townhouse almost at the crack of dawn on Saturday morning to get her, which her mother thought was cute and Robyn considered obnoxious since he knew how much she loved her sleep.

  Picking up her phone, she’d tapped out the three-digit number to Chris’ private line.

  From his tone when he answered, Robyn could tell he was busy, and would want her to get to the point right away.

  Smokin’ Beats, she said by way of preamble.

  And Chris had just launched right in, probably because he wanted to get off the phone and finish up whatever he was working on.

  We’ll leave the house around ten. I don’t think I need to stay more than two hours. Do some rounds, holla at some folks and roll out, he said.

  And she didn’t want to tell him she didn’t feel like going at all. Nor did she say that if he was staying only a couple of hours it was pointless for her to go along. She said neither of these things because where he went, he wanted her to go too; it was still so new, and such a welcome novelty to her.

  So Robyn just said okay, and told him to give her a buzz when he was heading down to the lobby.

  At the house while they got ready, she moved slowly, feeling a dull ache in her lower back and a tight, crampy feeling in her abdomen. Chris got in the shower, and then she did; and when she came out he was on the phone, holding it in the crook of his neck while he went over some numbers on the laptop with whomever he was speaking to. So Robyn dressed, ignoring the cramp, and hoping it would just go away on its own.

  By the time she slid the peach chiffon cocktail dress over her head and applied her make-up, she was feeling better. The cramps had all but disappeared and all that remained was slight back pain. But back pain was par for the course with pregnancy, so she put on her heels, standing in front of Chris’ dressing room mirror, surveying herself in profile. The dress hadn’t been made specifically for maternity wear but it had many folds and pleats and layers, and gathered in the front, making her distended stomach look as though she had intentionally put it on display.

  Smiling, Robyn smoothed a hand over it. She didn’t care if people thought she’d put a spotlight on her belly. She loved being pregnant, and savored every single moment of it, even the mysterious twinges and the changing shape of her body. She loved it all. Chris had come up behind her and kissed the back of her neck. Sure, there were details, complications, concerns to work out, but with him kissing her the way he did, she was content. Looking at their reflection in the mirror, Robyn thought how right they looked together.

  By the end of the evening, she would be wondering how she could have been so wrong.

  ___________________

  Loud music pounding in her chest and head, and the crush of bodies from all sides confirmed for Robyn that she’d made a mistake in coming. Tonight though, thankfully they had a bodyguard with them, a big guy Chris called Tiny whom Robyn had never met before. Apparently Chris only used him when he was in large venues like this one and might need to keep overzealous or aggressive people at bay. Seeing the crowd and the lack of any clear lines of demarcation that would separate VIPs from everyone else, Chris pulled Robyn close to his side, squaring his shoulders, clearly irritated. Tiny walked ahead of them, making way so they could head backstage where one of the organizers or promoters was likely to be working to make sure all went as planned, and the performers made it to the stage.

  “I hate disorganized shit,” Chris said, between his teeth as Tiny plowed his way forward.

  Robyn grasped his hand tightly and Chris pulled her even closer, draping an arm about her shoulders.

  “You can’t stay here,” he said against her ear. “If this is how it is, I’ll have Tiny take you back to the house.”

  Robyn nodded, relieved. Because the ache in her lower back was intensifying again, and on top of that her feet were beginning to hurt as well. That, and the smells of dozens of different perfumes and colognes, soaps and fruity-alcoholic drinks assailing her, threatened to make the evening one of the most uncomfortable she’d had in quite some time.

  As they made their way toward the stage, they were unable to walk three steps without being accosted by someone trying to get to Chris, but Tiny, practiced in the art of fan evasion gently shoved by them with a polite ‘excuse me’ while Chris pretended not to know that he was the intended target.

  Finally, they were at the edge of the stage and moments later, behind it.

  Robyn took a deep breath. Fresh air, finally. Wide open space and fewer people. About a quarter of the ballroom had been cordoned off as the backstage area, the innards of the production taking place on the other side of the curtain. Dancers ran back and forth, producers and crew members with headphones, radios and clipboards rushed around, and interspersed among them were people like Chris and her, festival-goers who were “important” enough to be granted this access.

  Looking around, Chris spotted someone he knew and left Robyn for a moment with Tiny while he went to talk to him.

  “You alright, Miss Crandall?” Tiny asked. “You need to sit down or anything?”

  No, she needed to lie down. She needed to be in her PJs and watching television. She needed someone to bring her hot tea with lemon and massage her aching feet. No, not tea, ice cream. She needed ice cream. Preferably chocolate, and maybe even with brownie chunks, too.

  “I’m fine,” Robyn said, offering him a brief smile.

  Chris was a few feet away, in the middle of an animated conversation. Without hearing what they were saying, Robyn got the impression he was lambasting the poor man for the disorganization. Several minutes later, he turned and came toward her again, hand extended.

  “They have a VIP room upstairs,” he explained. “We should’ve gone up there. Although how the hell we would know that is anybody’s guess.”

  “You’re just used to being pampered, that’s all,” Robyn teased, trying to lighten the mood.

  “If I’d known it was going to be like this, I never
would’ve brought you out tonight,” he said. Then he touched her stomach briefly, and suddenly her aching feet and the pressure in her back felt less like the end of the world, and more like minor inconveniences.

  The Smokin’ Beats VIP Lounge had couches; glorious, plush, luxurious couches. Overlooking the other blinged-out appurtenances—private bar, sushi station, and obligatory mirrors—Robyn tugged her hand out of Chris’ and headed toward them as soon as they entered the room.

  “I think I’ll sit for a little,” she explained when he looked at her curiously.

  When he went to get her a drink, she made a beeline for a vacant seat she had her eye on, and once seated, took in her surroundings with more interest. This was one side of Smokin’ Beats she had never had the privilege of being admitted to before. Unlike the more casually-dressed crowd they had just left, she was now definitely among hip-hop’s glitterati. The difference between hip-hop wealth and that of just about any other moneyed class was that ‘ostentatious’ was the order of the day. There was no point in having a Prada clutch unless the logo was prominently displayed; and if you had Louis Vuitton, it couldn’t be the run of the mill brown and beige Louis, it had to be the limited edition Hello Kitty Louis accessories. And it wasn’t just the women either. About the only man in the room who didn’t seem to have put an excessive amount of thought into his attire was Chris, who ironically could afford to have the most expensive of just about any item he chose.

  Robyn watched as he leaned over the bar, and placed his order, pushing the sleeves of his shirt up his forearms as he did so, exposing the tattoos that had become so familiar to her. His casual disregard for all this metrosexual nonsense made him a thousand times sexier than he might have been had he gone the designer suit route so many others had taken. Instead, Chris was wearing a white button-down that hugged his chest, and dark wool-blend slacks with black loafers. The only apparent nod to the occasion he’d given was to have his hair shaped-up so that at his nape, there was that clean, precise hairline that was, oddly, kind of a turn-on as well. His face, set in his usual scowl, made Robyn smile now. Especially when she remembered how she had once found it just a little bit intimidating. Now, there was just about no one less intimidating to her in the entire world than Chris Scaife.