My Husband's Sweethearts
Page 1
Table of Contents
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One Don't Try to Define Love Unless You Need a Lesson in Futility
Chapter Two Happy Strangers Can Bring Out the Worst in Anyone
Chapter Three There Is Barely a Blurry Line Between Love and Hate
Chapter Four Your Mother Is a Woman You Don't Have to Become
Chapter Five Is a Bad Decision—Which Changes Your Life for the Better—a Good Decision in the End? (Or: What's the Difference Between a Good Decision and a Bad Decision? About Three Drinks)
Chapter Six Forgiveness Doesn't Wear a Rolex Knockoff
Chapter Seven Hope Sometimes Knocks on the Door, Walks into the House, and Puts Down Her Duffel Bag—as if Here to Stay Awhile
Chapter Eight Everyone Is Selling Something, So Be Your Own Pimp
Chapter Nine Sometimes the Stranger Says the Thing You Need to Hear
Chapter Ten Love Is as Love Does—but Sometimes It's Abstract, Blue, and Obscene
Chapter Eleven Sometimes It's Hard to Figure Out What Happens When Your Eyes Are Wide Open
Chapter Twelve You Can't Always Eat Your Way Out of a Problem—but If You Want to Try, Begin with Chocolate
Chapter Thirteen Don't Let Your Husband Have His Own Accountant
Chapter Fourteen Don't Breathe Water
Chapter Fifteen Sometimes After Abandoning Ourselves to Emotion, We Want to Tidy Up
Chapter Sixteen When at a Loss, It's Sometimes Advisable to Resort to Polite Bribery
Chapter Seventeen The Past Is Best Relived in Half-Hour Time Slots
Chapter Eighteen Occasionally, in Life, Myths Become Real— Be Thankful for It
Chapter Nineteen Where Should a Tour Begin? In the Heart
Chapter Twenty Don't Mistake Your Lover for a Savior
Chapter Twenty-one Eavesdropping Is an Undervalued Life Skill
Chapter Twenty-two Should We Feel Oh-So-Sorry for the Generation of Confused Men?
Chapter Twenty-three If There Is a Generation of Confused Men, Is There a Generation of Confused Women? Are You Part of It?
Chapter Twenty-four Are All Men Bastards?
Chapter Twenty-five The Ability to Pretend Is a Life Skill
Chapter Twenty-six At Some Point Each of Us Is Someone Else's Bad Guy
Chapter Twenty-seven One Can Only Plan So Much. Eventually, One Must Do
Chapter Twenty-eight Bribery Can Run in the Family
Chapter Twenty-nine The Hives of Suburbia Are a Dangerous Place—Beware the Killer WASPs
Chapter Thirty We Are the Stories We Tell and the Stories We Don't Tell
Chapter Thirty-one The Difference Between Breaking Down and Breaking Open Is Sometimes So Slight It's Imperceptible
Chapter Thirty-two Waking Dreams Can Seem Less Real Than Dreams Themselves
Chapter Thirty-three And Sometimes You Can Be Brought Back to Yourself, Whole
Chapter Thirty-four A Family Can Be Tied Together by an Unlikely Series of Knots
Extract: The Pretend Wife
Versace Sisters
Escape
BRIDGET ASHER lives on the Florida panhandle with her husband, who is lovable, sweet, and true of heart—and who has given her no reason to inquire about his former sweethearts.
My
Husband's
Sweethearts
BRIDGET
ASHER
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including printing, photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
My Husband's Sweethearts
ePub ISBN 9781864715590
Kindle ISBN 9781864717501
A Bantam book
Published by Random House Australia Pty Ltd
Level 3, 100 Pacific Highway, North Sydney NSW 2060
www.randomhouse.com.au
First published in the United States by Delacorte Press in 2008
First published in Australia by Bantam in 2009
Copyright © Bridget Asher 2008
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Addresses for companies within the Random House Group can be found at www.randomhouse.com.au/offices.
Cataloguing-in-Publication Entry available through the National Library of Australia.
ISBN 978 1 74166 873 5
Cover images by iStockphoto
Cover design by Christabella Designs
Author photograph by David G. W. Scott
For Davi, my sweetheart
Acknowledgements
Oh, I want to thank so many people who helped me through the muddy waters. Justin Manask, thank you for coming in with the defibrillator paddles, bringing it all back to life. Frank Giampietro—a thank-you that's long overdue. I love your deep understanding of the female psyche. I owe you (and owe and owe). Nat Sobel—you are such a genius! Thanks for the boosting and the sound advice, as always. Swanna, thanks for your steadfast championing of this book. Thank you, Caitlin Alexander, for your brilliant eye and gentle care of these characters. Thank you, Florida State University. Go 'Noles! As always, I thank me mum and me pops, and the broodlings— my sweet and clever crew. And, Dave, my Starsky. I thank you for all I've got with all I've got.
Chapter One
Don't Try to Define Love Unless
You Need a Lesson in Futility
Careening past airline counters toward the security check-in, I'm explaining love and its various forms of failure to Lindsay, my assistant. Amid the hive of travelers—retirees in Bermuda shorts, cats in carry-on boxes perforated with air holes, hassled corporate stiffs—I find myself in the middle of a grand oration on love with a liberal dose of rationalizations. I've fallen in love with lovable cheats. I've adored the wrong men for the wrong reasons. I'm culpable. I've suffered an unruly heart and more than my share of prolonged bouts of poor judgment. I have lacked some basics in the area of control. For example: I had no control over the fact that I fell in love with Artie Shoreman—a man eighteen years my senior. I had no control over the fact that I am still in love with him even after I found out, in one fell swoop, that he had three affairs during our four-year marriage. Two were lovers he'd had before we got married, but had kept in touch with—held on to, really, like parting gifts from his bachelorhood, living memorabilia. Artie didn't want to call these affairs because they were spur-of-the-moment. They weren't premeditated. He trotted out terminology like fling and dalliance. The third affair he called accidental.
And I have no control over the fact that I am angry that Artie's
gotten so sick—so deathbedish—in the midst of this and that I blame him for his dramatic flair. I have no control over the compulsion I feel to go back home to him right now, bailing out of a speech on convoluted SEC regulations—because my mother has told me in a middle-of-the-night, bad-news phone call that his health is grave. I have no control over the fact that I'm still furious at Artie for being a cheat just when one might, possibly, expect me to soften, at least a little.
I'm telling Lindsay how I left Artie shortly after I found out about the affairs and how that was the right thing to do six months ago. I tell her how all three affairs were revealed at once—like some awful game show.
Lindsay is petite. Her jacket sleeves are always a bit too long for her, as if she's wearing an older sister's hand-me-downs that she hasn't quite grown into. She has silky blond hair that swings around like she's trapped in a shampoo commercial, and she wears small glasses that slip down the bridge of a nose so perfect and narrow I'm not sure how she breathes through it. It's as if her nose were designed as an accent piece without regard to function. She knows this whole story, of course. She's nodding along in full agreement. I forge on.
I tell her that this hasn't been so bad, opting for business trip after business trip, a few months hunkered down with one client and then another, every convention opportunity— a life of short-term corporate rentals and hotel rooms. It was supposed to allow me some time and space to get my heart together. The plan was that when I saw Artie again, I'd be ready, but I'm not.
"Love can't be ordered around or even run by a nice-enough democracy," I tell Lindsay. My definition of a democracy consists of polling the only two people I've chosen to confide in—my anxiety-prone office assistant, Lindsay, who at this very moment is clipping along next to me through JFK airport's terminal, and my overwrought mother, who's got me on speed dial.
"Love refuses to barter," I say. "It won't haggle with you like that Turkish man with the fake Gucci bags." My mother insists I get her a fake Gucci bag each time I'm in New York on business; my carry-on is bulging with fake Gucci at this very moment.
"Love isn't logical," I insist. "It's immune to logic." In my case: my husband is a cheater and a liar, therefore I should move on or decide to forgive him, which is an option that I've heard some women actually choose in situations like this.
Lindsay says, "Of course, Lucy. No doubt about it!"
There's something about Lindsay's confident tone that rattles me. She's often overly positive, and sometimes her high-salaried agreement makes me double-think. I try to carry on with the speech. I say, "I have to stick by my mistakes, though, including the ones that I came by naturally through my mother." My mother—the Queen of Poor Judgment in Men. I flash on an image of her in a velour sweat suit, smiling at me with a mix of hopeful pride and pity. "I have to stick by my mistakes because they've made me who I am. And I'm someone that I've come to like— except when I get flustered ordering elaborate side dishes in sushi restaurants, in which case I'm completely overbearing, I know."
"No kidding," Lindsay agrees, a little too quickly.
And now I stop in the middle of the airport—my laptop swinging forward, my little carry-on suitcase wheels coming to a quick halt (I've only packed necessities— Lindsay will ship the rest of my things later). "I'm not ready to see him," I say.
"Artie needs you," my mother had told me during last night's phone call. "He is your husband still, after all. And it's very bad form to leave a dying husband, Lucy."
This was the first time that anyone had said that Artie was going to die—aloud, matter-of-factly. Until that moment it had been serious, surely, but he's still young—only fifty. He comes from a long line of men who died young, but that shouldn't mean anything—not with today's advances in medicine. "He's just being dramatic," I told my mother, trying to return to the old script, the one where we joke about Artie's dire attempts to get me back.
"But what if he isn't just being dramatic?" she said. "You need to be here. Your being away now, well, it's bad karma. You'll come back in your next life as a beetle."
"Since when do you talk about karma?" I asked.
"I'm dating a Buddhist now," my mother said. "Didn't I tell you that?"
Lindsay has grabbed my elbow. "Are you okay?"
"My mother is dating a Buddhist," I tell her, as if explaining how terribly wrong everything is. My eyes have filled with tears. The airport signs overhead go blurry. "Here." I hand her my pocketbook. "I won't be able to find my ID."
She leads me to a set of phones near an elevator and starts digging through my purse. I can't root through it right now. I can't because I know what's stuffed inside— all the little cards that I've pulled from little envelopes stuck in small plastic green forks accompanying the daily deliveries of flowers that Artie's ordered long distance. He's found me no matter what hotel room I'm in or apartment I'm put up in anywhere I happen to be in the continental U.S. (How does he know where I am? Who gives him my itinerary—my mother? I've always suspected her, but have never told her to stop. Secretly, I like Artie to know where I am. Secretly, I need the flowers, even though part of me hates them—and him.)
"I'm glad you kept all of these," Lindsay says. She's been in my hotel rooms. She's seen the flowers that collect until they're all in various stages of wilt. She hands me my license.
"I wish I hadn't kept them. I'm pretty sure it's a sign of weakness," I tell her.
She pulls one out. "I've always wondered," she says, "you know, what he has to say in all of those cards."
Suddenly I don't want to find my way into the line at security with a herd of strangers. The line is long, but still I have plenty of time—too much. In fact, I know I'll be restless on the other side, feel a little caged myself—like one of those cats in the carry-ons. I don't want to be alone. "Go ahead."
"Are you sure?" She raises her thin eyebrows.
I think about it a moment longer. I don't really want to hear Artie's love notes. Part of me is desperate to grab the pocketbook out of her hands, tell her sorry, changed my mind, and get in line with everyone else. But another part of me wants her to read these cards, to see if they are as manipulative as I think they are. In fact, I think I need that right now. A little sisterly validation. "Yes," I tell her.
She plucks the note and reads aloud, "Number forty-seven: the way you think every dining room should have a sofa in it for people who want to lie down to digest, but still be part of the witty conversation." She glances at me.
"I like to lie down after I eat—like the Egyptians or something. The dining room sofa just makes good sense."
"Do you have one?"
"Artie bought me one for our first anniversary." I don't want to think of it now, but it's there in my mind—a long antique sofa reupholstered with a fabric of red poppies on a white background and dark wood trim that matches the dining room furniture. We made love on it that first night in the house, the boxy pillows sliding out from under us onto the floor, the aged springs creaking.
She pulls out another one and reads, "Number fifty-two: how the freckles on your chest can be connected to make an approximate constellation of Elvis."
A crew of flight attendants glides by in what seems to be the V formation of migrating geese. A few of Artie's old girlfriends were flight attendants. He made his money opening an Italian restaurant during his late twenties (despite a lack of any real Italian blood in him) and then launching a national chain. He traveled a lot. Flight attendants were plentiful. I watch them swish by in their nylons, the wheels on their suitcases rumbling. My stomach cinches up for a moment. "He actually did that once, connected the freckles, and documented it. We have the photos." I'm waiting for Lindsay's righteous anger to become apparent, but this doesn't seem to be the case. In fact, I notice that she's smiling a little.
She pulls out a third. "Number fifty-five: the way you're afraid that if you forgive your father—once and for all—he might really disappear in some way, even though he's been dead for years."
Lindsay raises her eyebrows at me again.
"Artie's a great listener. He remembers everything. What can I say? It doesn't mean that I should forgive his betrayal and go home to him." Here's one of the reasons I hate Artie. He is so fully and completely himself, his own person, but when I asked him why he cheated on me, he came up with a tired, worn-out response. He constantly falls in love. He thought he could stop when we got married, but he couldn't. He confessed that he fell in love with women all the time, all day, every day, that he adores everything about women—the way they sway when they walk, their fine necks—he even loves their imperfections. And he would get caught up. They confided in him, women did. Suddenly it seemed that a woman was telling him everything and then the next minute she was unbuttoning her blouse. He told me that he hated himself—of course—and that he didn't want to hurt me. At the same time, he loved the women he'd had affairs with—all in different ways for different reasons. But he didn't want to spend his life with them. He wanted to spend his life with me. I hate Artie for betraying me, yes, but I might hate him more for getting me caught up in such an embarrassing cliché.
I was too heartbroken to respond, too angry to do anything but leave.
"Do you think he'll be okay?" Lindsay asks, meaning his health.
"I know," I tell her. "I know. A good person would go home and forgive him because he's so sick. A good person probably would have stayed put and tried to sort it all out, in person, one way or the other and not just run around the country like I did. I know." I'm getting emotional. I take a moment to press the tears from my eyes. I wipe away some mascara. Why did I put on makeup at all? I realize that I'm dressed all wrong. I'm wearing a professional outfit—tan slacks, expensive shoes, a blazer. What was I thinking? I remember getting dressed while packing quickly. I was on autopilot—bumping around my hotel room amid the dying flowers. I'm an auditor—a partner in a firm, in fact—and I look like one—even now when I shouldn't. Trust me, I'm aware of the irony that it's my job to know when someone is cheating and that I was blind to Artie's infidelity for so long. "I'm supposed to know fraud, intimately. It's what I do for a living, Lindsay. How could I have not seen it?"