Fidelity Files

by Jessica Brody

  He fidgeted slightly with his feet and looked down at the ground. "I'm just saying that you should probably give me your number. Just in case I don't see you next time."

  His approach wasn't exactly smooth, but it was somewhat endearing. I don't normally give out my phone number. Especially to a guy I had just met on a treadmill. But the man standing in front of me wasn't like most of the guys who normally ask me out. He stood apart.

  And that was why I said, "Okay, sure. Why not?" And then recited my prestigious Westside 310 number as he eagerly removed his phone from his backpack pocket and punched in the corresponding digits.

  He looked up at me and grinned. "I'm Clayton, by the way. So you'll know who it is when I call."

  "Nice to meet you."

  After a thorough rinse in the locker-room shower, I toweled myself off and checked my phone. I had three new e-mails. I quickly browsed the in-box. One was from my mother, something about an online test to determine your overall botany knowledge. Another from Sophie thanking me for putting up with her drama earlier in the day (a very common e-mail to come to my phone). And the third was the itinerary for my Vegas trip, as promised, from my travel agent.

  I quickly threw on a casual change of clothing, slung my gym bag over my shoulder, and made a beeline for the front door.

  Enough of these flirtatious trips down elementary-school memory lane. It was time to get serious again. There was work to be done.

  I started my car and entered my next destination into the navigation system. Per the GPS lady's suggestion, I turned left out of the parking lot, and in 0.7 miles, merged onto Century Boulevard.

  Tonight a man named Andrew Thompson was scheduled to meet his dream girl.

  He just didn't know it yet.

  ACCORDING TO his wife, Andrew has always had a thing for flight attendants. Flight attendants and football.

  "It started out as a joke between us," she had explained to me last week during our initial meeting. "He'd see one on TV or in the terminal and whisper something to me like, 'Honey, we need to get you one of those outfits.' It used to be cute." She somberly shook her head. "A lot of things used to be cute... including me."

  So tonight I had invented what I believed to be Andrew Thompson's ideal woman. A football-obsessed flight attendant. Prim and proper in the air but down and dirty when she's drinking beer and watching her favorite team play on ESPN. The truth is, most men who are going to cheat are probably going to cheat regardless of what you're wearing or what kind of sports statistics you manage to casually toss into the conversation. But that's not always the case. Some guys will cheat with anyone, while others are more specific. More particular. I have to be prepared for both. That's why fulfilling a fantasy is always the safest bet.

  But in the end it was really all the same to me. Cheating is cheating. It doesn't matter how selective you are when you do it.

  A big part of my job is research. Preparation. I like to gather as much information as I can before going out on an assignment, because the more I know going in, the faster I can count on getting out. Creating someone's fantasy girl, however, isn't just about knowing in advance that they have a thing for flight attendants or poker players. Just as being a successful door-to-door vacuum salesman isn't only about being able to recite the sucking power ratio of the latest Hoover model. In the time it takes for that house door to swing open, you have to be able to come up with an instant analysis about the person standing behind it. You have to immediately "know" exactly what he/she wants to hear about vacuum cleaners. Otherwise you'll just end up with a door slammed in your face.

  I guess if I were some kind of female superhero, this would be considered my identifying "superpower." Although I'd have to say that it's really just more of a knack. It's taken me a few years to perfect, but now it comes fairly naturally.

  You know those mathematical geniuses who can break any high-profile, top-secret code in a matter of seconds?

  Well, I can't do that.

  But, what I can do is much more difficult. I can decipher any man you put in front of me...in less than thirty seconds.

  That's right. Like an open book.

  I don't know where it came from. I suppose I was just born with it. My friends call it a "gift from God." I wouldn't exactly go that far. If only they knew what it was really used for.

  But, I must admit, being able to decipher men as fast as a cryptologist breaks top-secret codes can definitely come in handy when you're expected to encounter a different man every night as his supposed dream girl.

  Andrew Thompson lived in San Francisco with his wife, but tonight he was in Los Angeles for business, staying at the Westin by the airport. I asked the valet at the hotel to escort me quietly to the back entrance of the building, discreetly slipping him a large bill to encourage compliance. He gladly accepted it and walked me around the side to a small, unadorned glass door that he respectfully held open for me. Pulling my black suitcase behind me, I located an empty public restroom on the ground floor and made my way into the handicap stall at the end of the row. I quickly shed my clothes and pulled out my flight attendant's uniform from the suitcase.

  It actually belonged to a friend of mine who really was a flight attendant for Continental Airlines. I had explained to her that I was going to a fantasy-themed party where you were supposed to come dressed as a popular sexual fantasy. I told her that I wanted to dress up as an active member of the "mile-high club" and hoped that the flight attendant garb would properly communicate that.

  She giggled at the idea and readily agreed to let me borrow it.

  I zipped up the navy-colored skirt around my waist and pulled the matching jacket over my shoulders, adjusting the gold wings that were pinned to the lapel. I then slipped my Birkin into the suitcase and replaced it with a simpler black shoulder bag. Much more representative of a flight attendant's salary.

  I fixed my hair and touched up my makeup in the bathroom mirror and then took a deep breath before opening the door.

  Andrew Thompson was believed to be at the hotel bar, watching the college football game. Because, according to his wife, "he never misses it."

  USC versus Michigan. Andrew's alma mater, and, coincidentally, tonight... Ashlyn's as well.

  I didn't have the luxury of being able to scope out the bar and locate the subject before entering. I had to make a grand entrance. It was all part of tonight's charade. And therefore I had to trust that Emily Thompson's knowledge of her husband's evening, after-work activities would be accurate. Otherwise, my charade would be wasted on a bunch of semidrunk, overweight college-football fans.

  As I approached the lobby I could see the entrance of the hotel bar about one hundred feet in front of me. I picked up the pace, jogging frantically through the relatively busy lobby, pulling my suitcase behind me and attempting to dodge other hotel patrons as I desperately made my way toward the faint sounds of cheering.

  I burst into the bar breathlessly, slowing my pace and wiping my brow with the back side of my hand. "What'd I miss? What's the score?" I took a deep, much-needed breath.

  There were five guys sitting around the bar, staring up at the TV screen. All five of them turned to look at me. The grand entrance was a success.

  I spotted Andrew Thompson at the far end with, thankfully, an empty bar stool next to him. I immediately made my way over, careful to keep my eyes attentively glued to the screen. I casually slid in next to Andrew, resting my suitcase off to the side and my purse on top of the bar.

  I stared obliviously straight ahead as Andrew subtly gave me a once-over. I turned briefly to him and smiled. "Hi," I said aloofly, and then returned my attention to the game.

  It took him a minute to come out of his trance, and then he finally replied, "Thirteen-nothing, USC."

  "Damn it!" I cursed, shaking my head in disapproval. "Smith's been underestimating his injury. I knew they should have played Wilde."

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Andrew momentarily ignore the game completely and lo
ok at me in utter astonishment, trying to digest the words coming out of my mouth. Because he knew as well I did that they made perfect sense.

  God bless the Internet.

  He slowly turned his attention back to the TV screen, the look of bewilderment never leaving his face. It was as if he couldn't even believe women like this actually exist, let alone sit next to him in a bar. Only in his wildest fantasies.

  I continued to concentrate solely on the game, managing to successfully order a beer from the bartender without ever altering the direction of my eye line.

  The timer on my cell phone went off at 7:15 P.M. Exactly when I had scheduled it. And to anyone else, namely Andrew Thompson, the tone I had programmed as the alarm would sound exactly like a phone ring. Without turning my head away from the TV, I fumbled in my purse, pulled it out, and brought it to my ear. "Yeah, I saw it," I said informally, as if I didn't even have to look at the caller ID to know exactly who was calling me at this moment in time.

  This is what happens when there's a Michigan football game on. I watch it, and whoever this person is calls to commentate.

  I listened to the silent earpiece. "I fucking told you Grady was incapable of making plays like that." I paused to listen again, keeping my eyes straight ahead. "No, no, no," I argued with the phantom caller. "He's a fucking freshman. What did you expect? Four hundred sixty-six yards in one season is nothing to brag about."

  I heard a small chuckle come from Andrew's direction. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye and flashed a knowing smile, as if we were sharing a mutual annoyance with anyone who has faith in a player like Grady (whoever the hell he was).

  He smiled back, and I knew that my research was paying off.

  "Look, I'll call you tomorrow, okay?" I waited for a response and then quickly added, "Yeah, whatever, bye." And hung up the phone.

  I let out a frustrated sigh and tossed the phone onto the bar. "Fucking loser," I mumbled under my breath.

  A commercial break came on, and I suddenly noticed the beer sitting in front of me. I picked it up gratefully and took a long, refreshing gulp. "God, what a day."

  "So you had to have gone to Michigan," Andrew said, watching me intently.

  I turned and grinned. "Hell, yeah!"

  "Class of '85," he said proudly.

  "'Ninety-nine," I shot back competitively.

  "Ouch! Do I feel old?"

  I looked him up and down in a mock assessment and then shrugged. "You don't look it," I said matter-of-factly.

  "Thanks. So you're a flight attendant?"

  I eyed him skeptically. "No, I just like to wear this outfit to pick up guys in bars."

  He laughed.

  Tonight I was a hard-ass and according to Andrew, quite an intriguing one at that. So far my "analysis" was right on course.

  I chugged down the rest of my beer, and he rushed to order me another one. "A girl who likes football and knows how to drink beer. I can certainly appreciate that."

  "If every woman had to be sweet and cheerful to the assholes I deal with on a daily basis, they'd chug beer, too."

  He laughed again. "That bad, huh?"

  "It's like fucking sugar and spice up there. Makes my teeth hurt."

  The bartender brought my beer and we clinked glasses, offering a hopeful toast to the doomed fate of our beloved Michigan Wolverines, just in time to turn our attention back to the screen as the commercial break ended.

  TWO HOURS and seven beers later, Andrew and I were wasted. Well, actually, Andrew and Ashlyn were wasted. I was fine. I never allow myself to get drunk on an assignment. I've spent the last two years building up my level of tolerance to alcohol for specifically that reason. Alcohol makes you lose focus, makes you do stupid things. Case in point: seventy-five percent of the men who have failed my inspection were under the influence of at least some amount of alcohol, if not a very large amount. Some people might try to argue the legitimacy of the inspection because of this factor. My public, professional opinion: The legitimacy decision is entirely up to the client. But my own private, personal, would-never-dare-share-with-anyone opinion: They can shove their legitimacy issues up their asses. Alcohol is an everyday part of life. If you can't drink it and still manage to stay faithful to your wife at home, then you either shouldn't be drinking it or you shouldn't have a wife at home.

  But that's just one of my own humble opinions. I keep those to myself.

  Andrew and I had moved from the bar to a table in the corner, where we commiserated together and washed away the pain of a bitter loss to USC.

  "I guess it's better that we lose to an undefeated than a nobody," I said, holding my head in what could only be interpreted as drunkenness mixed with wallowing in despair.

  Andrew finished off his beer in one definitive gulp, slammed the empty glass down on the table, and then leaned across and looked me straight in the eye. "Has anyone ever told you how hot you are?" His eyes were starting to glaze over.

  "Okay, no more beer for this one!" I called out to the now-empty bar, raising my hand up in the air and pointing at the top of his head.

  He reached up and pulled my hand down, holding it in his own. "I'm serious. You have no idea, do you?"

  I stayed in character, waving away his comment as if it was ludicrous. "Stop. You sound like a fucking lame ass right now."

  He pulled my hand closer to him, and I immediately felt the wedding ring on his fourth finger. He hadn't even bothered to take it off. Or rather, he hadn't remembered. It made me believe that he was probably a first-timer. Not a professional like Raymond Jacobs, whose wedding ring slides on and off like a pair of flip-flops.

  But it doesn't really matter. First-timers, old-timers, seasoned pros – they all blend together in my mind once it's over.

  And anyway, it's not my place to judge. If a wife or girlfriend or fiancée chooses to forgive him on the grounds that it was his "first time" and he more than likely learned his lesson, then that's their choice. I only deliver the information that was requested of me. I don't tell them how to use it. And I don't make recommendations.

  "Would it be weird if I asked to kiss you?" he asked, his expression suddenly turning serious.

  I considered this for a moment, placing my fingertip thoughtfully on my chin, in an effort to continue my act of silly intoxication. "Um, no... but it might be weird if you asked to smell me."

  He laughed. "Oh, I already smelled you at the bar. And you smell good."

  "Hmm. Like airplane food?" I asked, struggling to maintain a serious expression, and then eventually bursting into uncontrollable drunken laughter.

  Andrew laughed with me. "Do you want to get out of here?"

  "Good idea."

  "My room?"

  I nodded vigorously, as if it was the best idea I'd heard in years, and how come it had taken him so long to suggest it.

  His body shot up from his seat like a rocket, and with his hand still tightly grasped around mine, he pulled me behind him.

  IN THE end Andrew Thompson never actually asked to kiss me. Once we were behind closed doors, he just went for it. He kissed me like a drunk boy at a frat party. Sloppy and horny. It was almost as if the football game had brought him back to his youth, and now he was reliving his carefree party days as a student at the University of Michigan. And to top it all off... with a flight attendant.

  As he continued to kiss me, slowly peeling off the layers of his fantasy ensemble, he silently marveled to himself that it was just as amazing as he'd always imagined it would be.

  Andrew never did take off his ring. It was almost as if he simply forgot it was there. Like it had become a part of him and his everyday life, but somewhere along the way its symbolic meaning had evaporated into the air of a monotonous marriage.

  I didn't forget about it, though. I felt it every time his hand brushed over my skin. The cold, hard metal interrupting every inch of his touch like a constant reminder of exactly what I was doing. And, more important, exactly what he was doing.

&nb
sp; But I didn't object. I let his lips explore and his hands wander, wedding ring and all.

  Because it's my job to not object.

  Always the willing participant.

  No matter how much it disgusted me. No matter how much it repulsed me.

  That's why I always removed myself from the situation. I was never Jennifer Hunter at that moment. Kissing a stranger. Letting his hands explore my body. I was always Ashlyn.

  Because Ashlyn never came home with me.

  Ashlyn never changed into my white cotton pajamas that smelled like fabric softener from Marta's diligent laundering. Ashlyn never snuggled in-between my white satin sheets, with the stuffed elephant I'd slept with for years. And Ashlyn never woke up and saw her reflection in my bathroom mirror the next morning.

  That was Jennifer. And so therefore it was important to keep them as separate as possible. Because as soon as those lines are blurred, that's when everything starts to fall apart. That's when it becomes personal.

  And in this business, nothing can be personal. It's like drenching your emotions in lighter fluid and then standing dangerously close to an open flame. And as much as I wished my arms and legs and heart were made of steel, I was still human. I was no robot.

  Ashlyn, however, was my shield.

  "I've always wanted to sleep with a flight attendant." His voice was muffled as his lips buried into my neck.

  "I guess it's your lucky day, then."

  "It most certainly is," he cooed.

  And that's when I brought Andrew Thompson's lifelong fantasy to a crashing halt.

  Maybe he would never fully understand the words that came out of my mouth when I told him who I really was. And maybe he would never fully appreciate the light I shed on the current state of his marriage. But there was one thing I knew for sure: He would never look at a flight attendant the same way again.

  5

  The Origin of the Species (Part 1)

  WHEN I stepped back inside my condo at the end of the night, the contrast with the dark hotel room I had just left was overwhelming. It felt like I had exited a whole different world and entered this one. The other world was dark, full of distrust and lies. This world was beautiful, spacious, sparkling, and white. Like a commercial for all-purpose cleaner.