The Wicked City: A stunning love story set in the roaring twenties

by Beatriz Williams

  I sit down on the armchair before the desk and stare at that sliver of sunlight. The ghost shapes of the buildings on the other side of the glass.

  25

  FOR SOME reason, I’m not surprised to find a familiar yellow Hudson roadster parked on the street outside the Sterling Bates building on the corner of Wall and Broad when I return for work a half hour later.

  “Billy-boy,” I say as soon as I can extract myself from between the lapels of his overcoat. His face is sweet and bright, his smile wide, his brown eyes open for business. “What the devil are you doing here?”

  He takes me by the shoulders, kisses me; takes me by the hands and kisses those too, one by one. When he lifts his head again, his cheeks are as pink as two fresh hams.

  “Why, isn’t it obvious, darling? We’re eloping.”

  New York City, 1998

  ALL THE articles, all the books, the whole humming database of girlfriend wisdom: everyone said the same thing. You should know if your husband’s cheating on you. Why? Because most men aren’t James Bond. Not skilled at the meticulous art of covert operations. The secrecy, the evasion, the unexplained dinners and business trips. The call history on his cell phone. The mystery charges on his credit card. Any alert wife knows when she has something to fear. All she needs is proof.

  But until that evening four weeks ago, Ella never suspected a thing. Everything seemed perfectly normal, perfectly married and domestic. They’d just made love the night before; there was nothing weird about the way he touched her or kissed her. Same Patrick as ever. Except they’d been officially trying for a baby for a year now, and she wasn’t getting pregnant, and after he pulled out she rolled over and turned her back to him so he wouldn’t engage her in the usual desperate, awkward postcoital banter about this one definitely doing the trick. So maybe it was her fault, turning her back like that, after a round of perfectly good sex. Maybe he felt lonely and hurt and disconnected from her, from the whole mechanical business of baby making, from the failure of any of Ella’s eggs to accept the amazing gift of Patrick, and that was why, the next evening, he slapped Ella’s knee and insisted on being the one to collect the delivery pizza from downstairs.

  Except he always insisted. That wasn’t new. He was such a gentleman.

  But this time, fatefully, Ella had risen from the sofa to fetch a glass of water from the kitchen, and in doing so she’d passed the hooks in the entryway and realized she’d left her laptop bag in the residents’ gym.

  So she’d taken the stairs down to the gym (she always took the stairs) and when she turned the corner of the stairwell in between the third floor and the second floor, where the gym lay, she heard some noise coming from below: the damp, breathless efforts of two people screwing. She got flustered and turned to bolt, but then the perv in her spoke up and demanded to catch a glimpse of this interesting, furtive act and see who it was—who among her neighbors was maybe cheating on a girlfriend or boyfriend or wife or husband; she could tell Patrick all about it when he returned with the pizza—and even then, my God, even then it never occurred to her, when she peeked around the edge of the concrete slab, that it might be Patrick’s pale, muscular buttocks, Patrick’s ragged breath, Patrick’s hands around the wrists of some pneumatic Lycra-clad woman with long, fine, fried blond hair—Ella could still remember the exact color and texture of that hair—bracing her against the cinder-block wall while he humped her furiously from behind. Shorts around his ankles. Oh baby, oh baby, the woman said, and Patrick shouted, Fuck! Fuck! Here it comes! and shoved one more time, sticking himself deep inside the woman for several seconds, releasing one of her wrists to grab a tanned, enormous breast. Groaning like he might die. A couple of final twitches. Shoulders go slack. Then withdrawal in a rush. Panting hard. Semen dribbling from the end of his bare penis. Parting slap to a bottom like a navel orange. And that was when Ella turned back around and climbed the stairs in silent, fairy steps. Sat down on the sofa and stared at the flickering television. Not even ninety seconds later, Patrick bounded through the door and said, “Hey, babe! Pizza’s here,” just exactly as if he had not been fiercely fucking another woman two minutes earlier, had not just ejaculated inside another woman’s vagina. He opened the box on the kitchen counter, pulled out a couple of plates, put a slice on each one, and asked her if she wanted salad. She said no. He brought the plates to the coffee table and set hers down before her. Picked up his slice and started eating, pitched forward, elbows resting on his thighs. Fixed entirely on the flat, colorful images on the screen before them. She stared at the hair on his nearby knee—he always changed into shorts when he got home—and she rose from the sofa and said she had to go to the bathroom.

  When she walked out a few minutes later, she took a path behind the sofa, so he wouldn’t see she was carrying a gym bag. “We’re out of milk?” she said in a perfectly normal voice. “Be back in a sec.”

  So absorbed was Patrick in whatever it was they’d been watching—ER, probably, since it was Thursday night—he didn’t even consider how strange it was that she would leave to buy a quart of milk while her pizza went cold on its plate. He just said, “Sure, babe,” and she walked out the door, just like that, and those were the last words they spoke.

  UNTIL YESTERDAY. UNTIL NOW, SITTING across from each other, a round, blond Starbucks table between them. Ella arrived early so she could buy her own drink. She was going to order her usual latte but decided on a double espresso instead, in a small, ceramic mug. No milk or sugar. Patrick nodded at the cup. “Changed your drink.”

  “I’m changing a lot of things.”

  “Good for you, good for you.” Like he hadn’t actually heard her. He tapped the plastic lid of his own cup. Jiggled his knee. “So where do we start?”

  She spread her hand. “You were the one who wanted to meet.”

  “We had to meet. We’re married, for God’s sake.”

  “Oh, now you think of that.” Before he could open his mouth to reply, she went on, “So I had myself checked for STDs. Full screen. Came back clean, thank God. Dodged that bullet. But I’m supposed to go in again in a few months.”

  “Come on, Ella—”

  “You should probably get yourself checked, too. Riding bareback with prostitutes is pretty risky.”

  “Shit, Ella.” He looked down and mumbled, “I made sure she was clean.”

  “Um. How, exactly? Did you ask her first, before you screwed? Well, surprise, surprise. She tells you she’s good to go! What about the others?”

  “There weren’t any others. It was a one-time thing, I swear.”

  “A one-time thing?”

  “I swear. I was so stressed out. Stuff going on at work. And the whole baby thing. Everyone pregnant but us.”

  “Seriously? You’re seriously telling me you hired a prostitute because you couldn’t get your wife pregnant?”

  His face went sharp and pink at the edges, like he was about to snap something back. Which was what she wanted, really. She wanted him snapping, she wanted him just as mad as she was. But he wouldn’t give it to her. He took in a deep breath instead. Sipped his coffee. Said, quietly, “I know it doesn’t make sense. I just—I wanted this so bad. Want this so bad. Want us to be a family, Ella. Watch my wife growing our baby and kids running around all over the place. And I didn’t want you to see how stressed I was that it wasn’t happening and, like, blame yourself or anything. I felt like I was going to explode. And it was stupid, okay? Stupidest thing I ever did. I have no idea what made me do it. But it won’t happen again.” He was speaking fluently now, in short, rote sentences of contrition. “I started seeing a therapist, right after you left. I’m working through everything. So it’s done. Finished. Over. Happened once, never again.”

  He reached across the table, but Ella moved her hand away.

  “Do you really think,” she said, in slow, careful words, “I’m actually that stupid?”

  Patrick’s uncertain eyes stared back at her. For a man whose wife had just left him,
whose marriage and life had just imploded, he looked remarkably well rested. Skin clear, eyes fresh, hair shining. His lips were a little chapped—they always were—and now hung open. The expression was somehow familiar; she couldn’t place how.

  She leaned forward a few inches. “Just because I didn’t see this coming doesn’t mean I can’t see the whole picture, now that the shades are off, okay? That wasn’t the first time. Are you kidding me? What are the odds, the one time you cheated I miraculously happened to catch you? Come on. You were fucking her like an expert. You knew exactly what you were doing. Slapped her ass afterward for good luck. Then you pulled up your shorts and waltzed into that apartment and lied to me like you’d been practicing that all your life, too. And I’ll bet you have.”

  Now she could identify the expression on his face. That of a dog, caught on the kitchen table, eating a sandwich left behind while the owner went upstairs to put the laundry in the dryer.

  “Haven’t you, Patrick? Come clean. She wasn’t the first. How long have you been hiring hookers to help you with your stress issues? And it’s probably not just hookers, either. That’s the quick and easy solution, right? When you have your choice and a little more time on your hands, you go to some bar after work and find a cute girl to pick up and have hot sex in the bathroom, or else go back to her place and hump on the futon while her roommate watches TV. Am I right? And why stop there? So many young analyst bunnies at the bank, so little time. An office affair is a great way to keep some nookie on standby, whenever you need a little help with your stress.”

  Now he was turning pale. She could actually see the blood draining from his face, while the adrenaline pummeling through her own veins at this unparalleled act of confrontation made her almost dizzy. Stoned out of her mind. Her legs and fingers twitched, like she could run a marathon at a full sprint.

  “Poor Patrick. You’re stressed. I get that. I was stressed, too. But I didn’t go out and pick up some guy from a bar and screw him in the alley, did I? I mean, that never even occurred to me. Because I’m married to you. I’m supposed to have sex with only one man for the rest of my life, and that’s you, and I knew that was the deal when we got married and I accepted it joyfully. I plighted you my fucking troth. So are you saying it’s now okay for us to have sex with other people?”

  “No, of course not. I mean—I mean, what I did was wrong, I admit it—”

  “Because there’s this really hot guy in my new building. I bet he’d be amazing in the sack. Young and super fit. He could go all night. I should really try him out after work. Take care of my stress and all.”

  Patrick leaned his head into his hands, like he was about to throw up.

  “Anyway. You go on sitting there, trying to figure out some new lie to spin to me. Starts out with a confession—Right, fine, you got me, there were others, I just didn’t want to hurt your feelings—and then the revised version of events. I’ve only been doing it for a month or so, it was a cry for help, I actually wanted you to find out so we could resolve all our unspoken issues. But you don’t need to bother, Patrick. It’s okay. The when and where and how many doesn’t matter. You’ve probably been screwing other women all along, since we first started going out. It’s who you are. It’s in your DNA or whatever. You’re a cheater. You just are. There’s nothing you or I or some fucking psychiatrist can do about it. We could talk about it all day, you could tell me every detail, we could spend a million dollars on therapy, we could probably have you castrated and you would still find a way to spread a little bit of Patrick around. Let’s be honest about that, at least.”

  Patrick just stared at the table. Fingers speared through his hair. Around them, the ordinary business of Starbucks went on, line ebbing and flowing, grind of coffee beans overpowering the air, wet whir of steaming milk. Dull chatter. Some kind of Sinatra music laying itself on the walls. The smell of strong, burned coffee. Ella finished her espresso, which had grown sweet with age.

  “So that’s where we stand, Patrick. That’s our current status. And the only question is, do I try to understand what it’s like to be inside your skin, to sympathize with this biological destiny of yours, and the guilt and pain it’s probably causing you, you know, loving your wife while still needing to screw around with hookers and whatever. I mean, unless you’re a complete psychopath—”

  “Of course I feel guilty! Jesus, Ella! I’ve been tearing myself apart. Everything we built together—”

  “Everything we built? News flash. You destroyed it, Patrick. You did. It’s gone. I’m sorry, but this wasn’t the deal. Forsaking all others, that was the deal. So I just have to decide whether it’s worth trying to negotiate a new deal, or whether we shake hands and walk away.”

  Patrick’s fingers still pressed against his skull, but he was now looking up. Peering at her from under his brows. “So that’s it? A month ago, you loved me. Now you don’t? You’re that cold? Switch it all off like that?” He pulled away his right hand and snapped his fingers.

  “Well, that’s the question, isn’t it? Did I really love you? Because I’m looking at you now, and I don’t feel anything except disgust. And pity. Maybe I’m still in shock, I don’t know. But the thing is, the moment I saw you in that stairwell, having sex with that woman, you changed to me. You became a different Patrick. The husband I thought I knew just died. Or maybe he never even existed. So, no. I don’t think I do love you. I just love the person you were. The person I thought you were, the one who existed in my imagination. I miss him a lot, actually. My imaginary husband.” She checked her watch. “I really have to go.”

  “Wait.” He caught her arm. “What if I am that man, Ella? What if I can be that man again?”

  Ella patted his hand. “But you can’t, Patrick. You never could. That man, he isn’t in you.”

  She rose from the table and carried her cup back to the counter. As she walked out through the door into a chill, sunny March afternoon, she thought that Patrick wasn’t the only person she didn’t recognize anymore. She didn’t recognize herself.

  And she kind of liked the new Ella better than the old.

  WHAT WITH THE DOUBLE ESPRESSO and the catharsis, Ella settled into a manic groove, back inside the Sterling Bates conference room that had been turned over to the Parkinson forensics team. Yesterday, the two junior accountants had finished entering all the raw data from the stacks of printouts and invoices and receipts in the Sterling Bates files, allowing Ella to do what she liked best: construct a spreadsheet of such breadth and detail and complexity, she could model just about any possible scenario, she could detect the smallest anomaly between these accounts and the official books provided by the municipal bond department.

  Another thing that had dug a narrow yet unbridgeable gap between Ella and her girlfriends, such as they were: math. Beautiful, elegant numbers. Ella never could understand why the other girls at school—even the clever ones, even the ones who soldiered along with her in algebra and trig and calculus—couldn’t grasp the beauty of math, its breathtaking logic. Like a crystal, each complicated molecule connecting delicately to the next, so that if you were able to abandon all other thought, if you just walked out of your world and sank yourself into the math world, you could see the whole universe around you, humming in all its infinite perfection.

  Ella loved that world. She occupied its soaring hallways right now, while the two juniors, sensing her absorption, brought her coffee after coffee, like they were feeding quarters into an arcade game and sitting back to watch her play. Until there wasn’t any more coffee, and Ella looked up and saw it was eight o’clock and the room was empty except for her and the blue computer glow. Someone had even turned off the fluorescent lights, and she hadn’t noticed. She put her hand to her back, just in case someone had taped a note there—DO NOT RESUSCITATE, like some joker had done when she was a lowly second-year—but it was empty.

  Ella rose and yawned and glanced into the hallway, through the door that was cracked open. Still lit, of course. At eight
o’clock at night, the young cubs in the Sterling Bates analyst program were only getting started in the febrile competition to see who could stay awake the longest, who could pull in the most hours, who was future managing director material and who would get tossed into the moldy reaches of the back office—banished across the river to Jersey City, even—or worst of all, passed up for that precious offer to continue to business school and then return as an investment banking associate, making two hundred thousand a year with nowhere to go but up. Like Patrick had done.

  On the table, next to Ella’s laptop, rested a yellow legal pad, on which she’d scribbled notes to herself as she went. Not about her spreadsheet, which she perceived as a whole, three-dimensional object, needing no mnemonics, but about data. Missing data, information she meant to hunt down when she came up for air. She lifted that pad now and squinted at the letters and numbers—her handwriting got really sloppy when she was in the zone like that—and then looked again at the clock.

  She could call it a night. No particular urgency here; just curiosity. Something nagging her, the old buzz in her gut that told her she was getting close to the hole in the middle of that three-dimensional object in her head. She didn’t want to stop, not yet. Because of something. Something nearby that wanted to be found.