The Banker’s Wife

by Cristina Alger

  “I can, this time. He’s got more than seventy million at Swiss United.”

  Marina wrote down Swiss United and underlined it. “Swiss United. So not at Caribbean International,” she said, trying not to sound skeptical.

  “No, that’s the thing. It was there. I was right about that. And he moved it. Just before I gave that interview.”

  “And you have proof. Account records or something?”

  “My source does. Marina, this is the story of our careers.”

  Marina jumped when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Behind her stood Grant, looking sheepish.

  “Hi,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “I’ve got to go,” Marina said to Duncan. “We’ll talk later.”

  “Is Grant there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. I’ll call you tomorrow when I have the details about the drop.”

  “Fine. Good night, Duncan.”

  “Sorry,” Grant said, kissing Marina on the head as she put down the phone. “I heard your voice and hoped you were ordering room service. I’m starving.”

  Marina laughed. “I wasn’t, but I can. What do you want?”

  “Let’s look.” Grant reached over her and picked up the menu.

  “Who were you talking to?”

  “Duncan.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He’s working on a story. Wanted me to help.”

  Grant glanced up from the menu. “I hope you said no.”

  “Of course I did.”

  “Isn’t he supposed to be in rehab?”

  “Sabbatical.”

  “Whatever. It’s totally inappropriate for him to call you in the middle of the night during your vacation.”

  “I think he was just excited about the story.”

  Grant shook his head. “He has no boundaries, Marina.”

  Marina sighed. “I know. He frustrates me, too. But you have to understand: Duncan is the reason I’m a journalist. When I started at Press, I honestly just wanted to work at a fashion magazine because I thought it sounded cool. I thought I’d go to great parties and try on couture clothes and meet interesting people. But Duncan saw something more in me. And he expected more from me. When we worked on the story about the Darlings, he treated me like his colleague instead of his twenty-two-year-old assistant. He really let me run with it. And when it was over, he listed me as his cowriter. So yes, he drives me insane sometimes. A lot of the time. But I also owe him my career.”

  Grant reached for Marina’s hand. They interlaced their fingers and smiled at each other. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m just protective of you.”

  “And I think you’re very sweet.”

  Grant cocked one eyebrow. “And sexy?”

  “Very sexy.”

  “Is it sexy if I order myself a double bacon cheeseburger with fries now?”

  “Incredibly.”

  “It won’t be here for at least thirty minutes. Join me in the bedroom while I wait for my midnight snack?”

  “Order me fries, too, all right? I’m an only child. I don’t share well.”

  “I don’t, either. So promise me something.”

  “Anything.” Marina wrapped her arms around Grant’s neck and smiled up at him.

  “Promise I won’t have to share you on this trip. It’s just a few days. I want us to unplug and enjoy each other.”

  Marina nodded. “Mm-hmm,” she said. She reached up for a kiss. She felt Grant’s hands on her backside and suddenly she was in the air, her legs wrapped around his waist. “I promise,” she murmured, as he carried her to bed.

  Annabel

  Matthew Werner was late. His wife, Annabel, sat alone on the veranda of their Geneva flat, wearing a black cocktail dress and the long sable coat that Matthew bought for her when they first moved to Switzerland. A hairdresser on the Cours de Rive had coaxed her auburn hair into a twist. Her shoes, five-inch pumps that a salesgirl in a boutique on rue du Rhône convinced her to buy against her better judgment, pinched at the balls of her feet. In the dressing room mirror, the shoes had made Annabel’s legs look impossibly long and slim. Two black satin ribbons extended from each heel and laced up around her ankles and lower calves, giving the impression of a ballerina en pointe. Back in New York, she might have lingered by a window display of shoes like these. But she wouldn’t have gone into the store. She wouldn’t have bought them. Too impractical, too expensive. In New York, Annabel wore mostly flats or wedge heels, with rounded toes suited to days spent on her feet. In New York, Annabel had worked. She had taken the subway, not a car with a driver. She didn’t spend her money on shoes that cost a week’s salary. Here in Geneva, she’d sign the receipt before bothering to glance at the price tag.

  At home, she found she could hardly walk in them. In the harsh lighting of her closet, the lacing at the ankle looked theatrical. She wasn’t sure if she looked like a banker’s wife or a courtesan. All the other wives shopped at the boutique where she’d bought the shoes. They all looked the same, dressed the same, played tennis together. Sometimes Annabel felt as though she missed a memo when she had arrived in Geneva: How to Be a Banker’s Wife. Most of the others were polite but distant. After an initial spate of lunch invitations, Annabel stopped hearing from them. They were polite enough at firm events, of course, but they seemed to understand, as she did, that she was different from them. Annabel had decided this was fine with her. Most of the other wives just wanted to talk about the Paris fashion shows and their country houses and their latest weekend jaunt to Sardinia. And they dressed up for everything, even a casual brunch on the weekends. Of course, it would be nice to be included some of the time. But most days, Annabel was content to wander a museum by herself, sit in a café with a book, and go to bed early. Charity balls and black-tie dinners held no appeal for her. And she had always hated tennis.

  The shoes had been so expensive that she couldn’t bear not to wear them. Once, at least. Annabel hoped they looked as expensive as they were. Matthew loved to see her in expensive things. It was the reason he worked as hard as he did, he said. He liked to show her off.

  For now, though, Annabel unlaced the shoes and released her feet from their bondage. She tucked them up against her slender thighs to keep them warm. She was tempted to light a cigarette to take the edge off but stopped herself. Matthew would be angry. For all Matthew knew, Annabel hadn’t touched a cigarette since New York. She kept a pack hidden behind her art books in the living room. Matthew never looked at them, so Annabel was in no risk of being found out. Art had never interested Matthew, unless it was a client’s investment, and then it was just that: an investment. Annabel allowed herself one cigarette—occasionally two—at a time, but only when Matthew was away for the night. Lately, that was often.

  From the veranda, Annabel could hear the gentle roll of the trams below and the clop-clop-clop of tourist carriages on the cobblestones. Usually, she found these sounds soothing. Not today. She was too nervous. She glanced up at the steel-gray sky and wondered when it would start to snow. They’d been predicting a storm for days now. She wanted Matthew home. Without him, their flat felt like a hotel instead of a home. A luxury hotel, but a hotel nonetheless. It was still furnished with the same charcoal-colored sofas, ikat-patterned silk pillows, and glass-topped tables that had come with it. Chic but corporate. It was, after all, corporate housing, belonging to Swiss United and rented to them at well below the market price. One of the many perks of Matthew’s job. Annabel had added a few personal touches over the past two years—a painting of hers hung in the living room, an impressionistic cityscape of Florence she’d given to Matthew to remind him of their honeymoon. Her books filled the shelves. Though Matthew told her it was unnecessary, she’d brought their linens from New York: crisp white sheets with dove-gray borders, a W embroidered on each of the pillows, towels to match. They m
ade her feel more at home. At first, she had put out photographs everywhere: on side tables, tucked in the bookshelves, on the mantel. Annabel and Matthew kissing in the back of the old checkered cab they’d hired to whisk them away from their wedding in Tribeca. The two of them cooking lobsters in the rickety Montauk beach house they had rented the summer before they left. Annabel at her first gallery opening, surrounded by friends. She’d put most of them away now. She’d thought, at the beginning, that photographs would make her feel less homesick. The opposite had been true. When she looked at them, she felt horribly lonely. So one night while Matthew was at the office, she’d drunk a bottle of wine and wrapped all the photographs up in bubble wrap and stashed them on a high shelf in her closet.

  She tried to replace them with more current pictures from their life here in Geneva, but she didn’t have many. Matthew traveled so much during the week that by Friday, he’d just as soon stay home, catch up on rest, hit the gym. Occasionally Matthew would visit a client somewhere exciting—Madrid or Berlin or the South of France—and Annabel would tag along. Those were work trips, though, and Annabel never saw much of Matthew during them. They’d gone to Venice for Annabel’s thirtieth birthday, but Matthew had spent most of that trip on the phone with a hysterical client in the middle of a nasty divorce. Annabel had wandered the city alone, and the only pictures she’d taken were of a gelateria her friend Julian told her to visit and a flock of pigeons in Piazza San Marco. They’d gone skiing several times, usually in Zermatt, where Swiss United kept a chalet for the senior bankers to use, but Matthew’s colleagues were always there. Most were expert skiers, who, like Matthew, were eager to hit the black diamonds or try off-piste or heli-skiing. Not wanting to be a stick in the mud, Annabel always waved Matthew off, booking herself a lesson on the bunny slope or just curling up with a book in front of the fire. No point in taking a photograph of that.

  When they’d first come to Geneva, they’d planned on two years. Two years to amass some money, and then they’d return to New York, buy an apartment, think about trying again to start a family. Annabel was only twenty-eight when they’d arrived; Matthew, thirty-three. They had time. It would be an adventure, he said. An extended vacation. Venice, Prague, Paris, Bruges: so many romantic places, just a short flight or train ride away. The best art in the world would be at their doorstep. Annabel could brush up on her language skills. Her French was good but rusty. Her German—a useful language in the art business—was middling and in need of improvement. Matthew would teach her how to ski. They could take cooking lessons or a wine class. They’d eat fondue. Because it was for only two years, Annabel hadn’t gotten a job. Getting a work permit could take months. It was a complicated process for someone who didn’t work for a global corporation. Anyway, Matthew would be working hard enough for the both of them. He preferred her not to work. He wanted her to be free when he was free. It wasn’t like he was asking her to quit her job forever. Only temporarily. All of it was temporary.

  It hadn’t been all bad, of course. Some of it was lovely. The grand apartment. The beauty of the Swiss countryside. Sometimes, Matthew would come home happy, and Annabel would remember why she’d fallen in love with him so quickly in the first place. He would whisk her away for dinner somewhere special. He’d be attentive and caring. He’d make her laugh. They’d watch the sunset over Lake Geneva and talk about an art show she wanted to see, a book she was reading. They’d reminisce about their friends back in New York. They’d light candles on their terrace and drink wine and play Scrabble. On nights like that, when Matthew was not just present but really there, Annabel thought she could learn to love Geneva. Her homesickness would drift away, replaced by a sense of calm and deep appreciation for the beauty and history of the place.

  And there was the money. Annabel hadn’t wanted for anything in New York; Matthew made more there than Annabel ever dreamed she’d have, growing up as she did in a small, blue-collar town in upstate New York. But here, their bank accounts swelled remarkably fast. Every month there was more. The money made Matthew proud, and, in turn, Annabel was proud of him. And she found that she liked having money. Suddenly, things that Annabel never considered buying were available to her. The shoes, for example. A decadent lunch, alone, on a Wednesday. Getting her hair done whenever she wanted. There was an ease to having money that Annabel had never experienced. She no longer studied price tags or cringed over credit card bills. There was more than enough.

  With more money came more gifts. Matthew had always been wonderful at gift-giving; it was one of the things that Annabel loved about him. It wasn’t about the extravagance. Matthew was thoughtful. He remembered things. Most mornings, he wrote her notes and tucked them in places she was sure to find them. It had become a little game between them. She’d find them in her purse, next to the coffeemaker, inside her compact mirror, taped to the creamer in the fridge. Once, she’d found a pair of tickets for the Metropolitan Opera tucked inside her wallet. They were for the next night’s performance; Matthew would be out of town. Take Marcus, read the attached Post-it note, referring to Annabel’s favorite coworker at the gallery, who loved opera more than anything. “He’s a keeper,” Marcus had said, when Annabel showed him.

  Recently, the gifts had become lavish. A handbag she’d stopped to stare at in a store window. A pair of earrings she’d noticed on a colleague’s wife. Last week, a painting that Annabel had admired at Art Basel. It was a smallish piece by Marshall Cleve, a little-known artist from Maine. Annabel had spent a good ten minutes staring at it in meditative silence. It was a series of looping blue lines that conjured up Brice Marden, one of Annabel’s favorite painters. Brice Marden at the sea. It was the kind of thing she’d tried to paint herself at her small studio in Montauk, with only moderate success.

  “You remembered,” she said, when Matthew gave it to her. Her breath caught in her chest.

  “You should own this,” Matthew said. “You love it. I could see it in your eyes when you first looked at it.”

  “I can’t explain why. I don’t know much about the artist. I was just drawn to it.”

  “That’s love, then, isn’t it? A connection. Electricity. You feel it in your gut. I felt it when I first saw you. I still feel it when I see you.”

  Annabel pulled Matthew to her. “Yes. That’s love.”

  “Do you remember how I used to walk by your gallery every morning, just to look at you through the glass?”

  Annabel laughed. “Marcus used to think you were looking at him.”

  “It took me weeks to get up the confidence to go in and talk to you. And I studied first. About the artists you represented. I was smooth, right?”

  “You knocked over the catalogs at the front desk and spilled coffee on the receptionist. But yes, you were smooth.”

  “I keep hoping you’ll forget that part.”

  “It’s the part I like best. It’s sweet to see a handsome man get so nervous.”

  “You were awfully intimidating back then. With that short hair and the all-black wardrobe and the tattoo on your wrist, right under those bangles you used to wear. God, you were hot.”

  “And I’m not now? Watch it, mister.”

  “Hotter now. Hotter every day.”

  “Do you miss the short hair?”

  Matthew cocked his head, appraising her. “Sometimes,” he said with a small smile. “But I like it this way, too. It’s elegant long. It suits you now.”

  He kissed her then but pulled away more quickly than she would have liked. “I want you to have this painting,” he said, his voice serious. “I know how much you’ve given up to be with me here. I know you miss being surrounded by beautiful art. Part of the reason I took this job was so that I could buy you art. So you could own the pieces you loved. Your own private gallery.”

  Annabel paused. Something about this pronouncement struck her wrong. She loved being a gallerist. Owning art was nice, of course, but it wasn’t a sub
stitute for work.

  “That’s very thoughtful, but I don’t need it in our home. Really. I hope this wasn’t terribly expensive.”

  “It wasn’t,” he said, though Annabel suspected he was lying. “Honestly, the frame is the most valuable thing about this. I want you to remember that. If ever anything happens to me—”

  “Don’t say things like that.”

  “I just want you to know. The frame. There’s value in the frame. Okay?”

  “It’s stunning,” Annabel said, because it was. She appreciated a good frame. She ran her finger along its edge. It was a thick wood, gilted in silver leaf. Simultaneously modern and rustic, it drew out the bluish-grays of the painting. “Let’s hang it over the bed,” she said, her face softening. “That way, we can go to bed each night and dream about love.”

  The painting marked the beginning of their second year in Geneva. Annabel let the anniversary slide without comment. In the past few weeks, she’d wondered more than once if the painting was a bribe, a payment of some kind. Because they were staying. Matthew had started saying that he needed more time. For what, she wasn’t sure. There was so much money. Not enough to retire on, or to buy that beach house in Montauk they always talked about, the one with the wraparound porches and the barn out back that had been turned into an art studio. But there was more than either of them ever dreamed possible. So more time for what, then? How much would be enough?

  Annabel told herself that a little more time in Geneva didn’t matter; home was wherever Matthew was. But the truth was, it was beginning to matter. It had always mattered. Geneva would never be home. Annabel was bored, listless. She missed work. She wanted children. She wanted her life back. She couldn’t exist in this state of suspended reality forever. At least, not without going mad.