Fidelity Files

by Jessica Brody

  "It's okay," I offered sympathetically. "We can come back to that part if you'd like."

  "No, no," she insisted. "I'm fine." She clasped her hands together tightly and held them in her lap. "My husband's name is Jamie... Jamie Richards."

  27

  Battle Scars

  I ABSENTMINDEDLY started to write down the name Karen Howard had just given me until I got to the letter R of his last name. I stopped cold. "Jamie Richards?" I clarified, certain I had heard it wrong.

  "Yes," she repeated.

  My heart started to pound. I struggled to keep my breathing steady. Surely there were several Jamie Richards in the city of Los Angeles. Surely.

  I mean, there had to be.

  I attempted a smile. It came out more like a possessed lip spasm. "What does Mr. Richards do?" I asked professionally. "Construction? Medicine? Law?" The speculations were spewing uncontrollably from my mouth like water coming out of a hose that someone had dropped on the ground and suddenly appeared to have taken on a life of its own.

  "Oh, God no," Karen said, with a meek smile. "Jamie hates lawyers."

  I nodded slowly, practically engaging in a staring contest with her mouth, as I desperately anticipated the next words to leave it.

  "Jamie's a marketing consultant," she said, leaning back in her chair, her eyes wandering toward the ceiling. "For Calloway Consulting."

  And that's when I threw up.

  Not then and there, on Jamie Richards's plush, Burberry married carpeting. Although I really would have liked to have left that little present for him.

  Rather, I excused myself quickly, asking – no, more like demanding – to know where the bathroom was, and ran from the room.

  I vomited twice in the toilet, flushed, and then rinsed my mouth out with water. I stared into the mirror. All the color had completely vanished from my face. Even my eyes, normally a sharp shade of green, seemed to have turned gray and lifeless. My lips, despite the double application of gloss I had applied before leaving the house earlier, were dull and pale.

  I swallowed hard.

  This was not happening.

  This was not real.

  It was all in my head.

  I would march out there, double-check all the details, and then reassuringly hear Karen's lighthearted laugh resonate through the room as she said, "You thought I said Jamie Richards? Hahahaha. No, no, no. I said Maley Pichards!"

  Yes, that's exactly what would happen.

  I wiped a bead of sweat from my brow and another one from my upper lip, flipped off the light switch, and with my head held high in the air made my way back to the living room to put an end to this silly little confusion.

  But as I quietly took my seat again, it was evident that carefree laughter was nowhere to be seen – or heard. Instead she looked at me curiously, wondering if this whole running from the room at the mention of her husband's name was all a normal part of the process. After all, this fidelity inspection business was completely new to her.

  "Is everything all right?" she asked warily.

  I attempted a smile. "Yes, I believe so. Sorry about that."

  Karen let out a sigh. "Good, good. Well, anyway. Jamie works a lot." Her emphasis on the word left no doubt that his work schedule must have been a problem area in their marriage.

  In their marriage! So it really was happening! I couldn't believe this. Jamie Richards... the perfect, adorable, charming, "Come to Paris with me" Jamie Richards was married! As in "I do," as in "Till death do us part" – or more like, "Till I meet some chick on an airplane who's stupid enough to believe that I would be single!"

  Every conversation we had had, every single movement that he had made was swirling around in my head. I tried desperately to slow the images down and look for clues. A wedding ring tan, a mention of a "we," nervousness around the topic of marriage. Something I might have missed. But there was nothing. Absolutely nothing!

  Except...

  I suddenly thought back to that moment outside my front door after our second date: "I really like you, Jen. I just think we should take this slow...I don't want to rush into anything."

  That was the reason he didn't want to have sex with me? Because he was married? And this whole time I thought he was just being sweet. Considerate. Genuine. But in reality, it was just code for "I'm actually married and I don't want to do the whole full-blown sex cheating thing? I'm perfectly happy with just the half-ass, making-out, cheating thing."

  For God's sake, he invited me to Paris!

  But why even bother with the half-ass thing? If you're going to cheat, why not just cheat and get it over with! Why drag it out?

  "Are you sure you're all right?" Karen's voice snapped me back into the moment, and it was then I realized that my mouth was half open and my head was cocked to one side.

  I quickly jerked my body upright and shut my mouth. "Yeah, sorry. What were you saying?"

  She shot me a strange look but then appeared to brush it off. "I was just saying that my husband works a lot. He's always traveling for business. I just have no idea what he does when he's away. I'm worried he might...you know..." Her voice trailed off.

  Oh, I knew! Did I ever! I wanted to pipe in right then and there and inform her of just how much I actually did know about her husband's little business trips. But instead I just nodded.

  "He's going to Paris next week," she continued. "And I don't know how far you normally travel for this sort of thing, but I thought maybe that would be a good time to..." She swallowed. "Test him...or whatever it is you do."

  "Yes!" I exclaimed loudly. Karen jumped at my unexpected enthusiasm. I cleared my throat and played it off. "I mean, yes... that would be a very good opportunity to test your husband."

  Well, if this wasn't the mother of all last assignments. In fact, this wasn't even just an assignment anymore. This was personal. In one swift, unexpected motion, this had suddenly turned from just another day's work into just um... my life!

  "Of course, I'll pay for all of your travel expenses," she offered. "I just really want to know ...I need to know."

  That makes two of us, I thought.

  "I understand," I said calmly. I could feel the heat rising in my stomach. I knew that after a few more seconds in that chair the anger would probably boil over and come spilling out of my mouth in the form of many profanities and inappropriate gestures. I had to get out of there.

  So I listened impatiently as Karen ran over all the details of the trip. I pretended to write down every one of them, although, in reality, I'd had them memorized since the day Jamie e-mailed me our itinerary. The lovesick idiot that I was.

  As Karen walked me to the front door, she finished listing all of Jamie's hobbies and interests, his background, and his likes and dislikes. And upon hearing all the familiar things I had only just started to learn about the man I had been so very wrong about, the anger slowly started to dissolve into a flood of tears. I fought to keep them back. I just had to get out of that house.

  As the door closed behind me, the first tear fell.

  And as soon as I sat down in my car, the floodgates opened. I lowered my head onto the steering wheel and sobbed uncontrollably. I couldn't even remember the last time I had cried that hard.

  I hated myself right then. I hated myself for believing. For trusting. For feeling. I never wanted to feel anything again. Nothing had to be better than this. It's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all? Fuck Shakespeare! That's a load of crap.

  I wiped away some of my tears, started the engine, and drove away.

  Normally I would have driven to Sophie's apartment...or even to Zoë's. But for some reason I didn't think that a normal "session" was quite going to cut it this time.

  I didn't want to see anybody. I didn't want to talk to anybody. I just wanted to drive home, fall onto my bed, and cry.

  So I did.

  I DIDN'T answer my phone for a full twenty-four hours. I watched it ring. In the span of a day I had three "concerned" ca
lls from Sophie, two from Zoë, in which she proceeded to call either me or the person who dared share the road with her both a "whore" and a "dumb ass," one from John, two from blocked numbers, and two from Jamie.

  Sophie eventually came knocking at my door. And when I didn't answer, she used her key.

  She found me lying on my bed in the same clothes I had been wearing the day before when I met with Karen Richards, wife of the cheating bastard, also known as Jamie Richards.

  "What happened?" she asked, running to the bed and sitting down on the edge. She tenderly stroked my hair.

  I looked at her with tired, sleepless eyes. I hadn't eaten in over a day and my energy level was at an all-time low. "Jamie's married," I said lifelessly.

  "What?" Her hand stopped cold in the middle of my forehead.

  My voice was monotone and drained. "My last assignment. Karen Howard. Actually, Karen Richards."

  Sophie stared at me in utter shock. "Maybe it wasn't the same Jamie."

  I looked her directly in the eye. "She's sending me to Paris, because he's going there for business next week."

  "Oh."

  I rolled onto my side so I was facing away from her and tucked my hands under my cheek.

  Sophie was silent. I knew she didn't have a clue what to say. And I was almost more grateful for her silence. At least it was honest.

  We sat there for a long time. A few minutes even. Then finally she asked, "So are you going to go?"

  Without even turning back to face her I replied, "Yes. I want this cheating bastard caught and brought to justice."

  Sophie cracked a smile. "You sound like a district attorney."

  "Well, now I know what it feels like to be one."

  "But why even go? Why put yourself through it? You know he's a cheater. Cancel on him and tell his wife that he failed."

  "Because I have to know," I insisted.

  "Know what?" Sophie asked, puzzled.

  "If he'd really do it. Really cheat."

  Sophie reflected momentarily. "You mean sex?"

  I twisted my neck and turned my head toward her, struggling to give her an obvious nod. "Um, yeah! We still haven't had sex! He said he wanted to wait...no reason to rush into anything, let's take it slow . . . blah, blah, blah... asshole."

  "And you think he did that because he's married?" Sophie asked.

  "Can you think of any other reason?"

  She took a deep breath. "But sex or no sex...he still cheated."

  "Did he?"

  She looked at me and our eyes locked. She knew what I was getting at. It was the question that all of us women ask ourselves. It was the age-old question of relationships. The question as old as the institution of marriage itself.

  What constitutes cheating?

  Is it the removal of the wedding ring? Is it the failure to mention a wife? Is it kissing? Flirting? Touching? Talking?

  Where's the line? And when do they cross it?

  When do you consider your husband to have cheating tendencies? When is it confirmed that he has an "intention" to be unfaithful? And is an intention even enough?

  But these were questions I left up to my clients. Questions I never had to answer myself.

  Until now.

  Because now it was me who needed to know.

  It was me who had to define the act of cheating.

  And it was suddenly a whole different ball game.

  "So you're going to have sex with him?"

  I closed my eyes tightly. "I can't now!" I practically yelled. "I wanted to. I mean, what's more perfect than making love for the first time with someone in Paris? It's like a movie."

  Sophie nodded. "Yeah."

  "But now, if I have sex with him to prove a point...to myself, or to anyone... then I'm just as bad as he is! I'm having sex with a married man. A man I know is married. That's just plain wrong."

  "So what then?" Sophie asked. "What are you going to do?"

  I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling. "I guess the same thing I always do."

  "Intention?"

  The tears began to form again. "The very highest level of it."

  "But you guys are sharing a hotel room, right? Isn't that pretty much proof of an intention right there? I mean, he didn't book you separate rooms, did he?"

  I shook my head. "No. But a hotel room is not enough. I have to be absolutely sure. I have to know if he'd really go through with it. If not for his" – I paused and fought back a break in my voice – "wife... then for me."

  Sophie looked at me and gently reached over to wipe away a stray tear that had rolled down the side of my face. "But Jen," she began. "What if he doesn't? What if he doesn't go through with it?"

  I let out a frustrated laugh. "I've thought of that," I admitted. "And I think that's the scariest outcome of them all."

  What if he didn't go through with it? Would that make him honest? Faithful? What? Would I be able to actually add him to the sacred list in my secret, wooden box and say "Yea!" for all the faithful couples in the universe? I hope they're all very happy. Maybe they can form a club and celebrate together. All ten of them. Or nine, or whatever the real number was. I didn't have a clue anymore.

  Hell, I didn't even know if my best friend's future husband was the cheating type. I didn't know anything these days. And the things I thought I knew, the things I thought I could be sure of, turns out they're a bunch of crap, too.

  It just wasn't fair. The first time – the only time – I let my guard down, I get stuck with a complete jerk-off who parades around as a decent guy, asking me to go to Paris and take things slow. And after I'd been so careful for two years not to fall for anyone because, as I'd just proven, they call it "falling" for a reason. If I remember correctly from age five: You fall, you hurt yourself. You scrape your knee or your elbow and you have to wear an obnoxious, brightly colored, Sesame Street bandage to show off your wound to everyone. Look at me! I got hurt. I was running around the pool even though I was told not to and look how well that turned out.

  After Sophie left, promising she would be back in a few hours to check on me, Jamie called for the third time, and after the fourth ring I decided I had to answer it. For work purposes. If I were going to pull off a flawless act of "nothing's wrong and I still have no idea you're married" while we were in Paris, I would eventually have to answer his calls. Otherwise he'd start to suspect. And I couldn't allow anything to interfere with my very important, top-secret, under-the-covers assignment.

  So I tried not to let any of the bitterness seep into my voice when I answered, but it certainly wasn't an easy feat.

  And I must admit I wasn't doing the greatest job.

  "Are you all right?" Jamie asked less than a minute into our conversation.

  "Yeah, fine," I replied shortly. "Just a rough day at work."

  "Ah," he replied, "the bank running you around?"

  I rolled my eyes. "Yep, definitely getting the runaround."

  "I'm sorry, baby," he said with such genuine compassion that I almost wanted to throw up .... again.

  This guy was quite the actor. D in drama? Yeah, right! I was surprised he wasn't acting for a living. Who needs marketing consulting when you can pull off Academy Award–winning performances like that?

  "Yeah, well...I guess that's the nature of the job," I responded.

  "But they're still letting you off for Paris, right?" he asked with concern.

  "Yeah," I said. "I'll probably just end up having to bring a little work with me to make up for lost time."

  "Okay, good."

  I wanted to reach through the phone and strangle him. But the hardest part about it – even though my perspective had completely changed – was Jamie was exactly the same. He was the same sweet guy he always was. Caring, considerate, real. It baffled me. As much as I hated him right now, there really wasn't anything hateable about him...at all. (Well, minus the stashed-away wife part.) He was just the opposite. Nothing but lovable. And that made me hate him even more!

 
"So, do you want to have dinner this week? One last time before we leave the country."

  "Well, it's not like we're not coming back," I said matter-of-factly. And then almost added, "Although you might be coming back in a body bag."

  Jamie laughed. "I know. I just thought it might be fun."

  Yeah, super fun! I thought. Me staring at your wedding-ring finger all night as a phantom gold band fades in and out of my imagination, and then picturing you in bed with Karen Richards as soon as you drop me off at my door with your usual "let's take it slow" good-night kiss. That sounds like a total blast. Even better than getting my cervix poked at the gynecologist's office, if you can believe it.

  I took a deep breath and calmed my voice. "I don't think I'll be able to go...baby." I choked back a small amount of vomit rising up in my throat. "I have so much work to do to make up for the time I'll be gone."

  "Ah, right. That makes sense," he conceded, and then an awkward silence followed. It was honestly the most awkward I'd ever felt with him. We always clicked. It had always been so easy between us.

  "Are you sure everything is all right?" He finally broke the silence.

  For a small moment I almost felt sorry for him. He had no idea why things were suddenly different. He had no idea why I was suddenly different. Because as hard as I tried to hide my anger, some things you can just feel. You didn't have to be a psychic to sense the obvious shift in energy between us. But that small moment passed quickly, when I reminded myself of why I was suddenly different.

  "Yes, everything's fine," I replied, lying back on my bed. "I'm sorry. Work's just been crazy. What time are you picking me up for the airport on Saturday?"

  Jamie cleared his throat. "Well, the flight is at one-thirty, and because it's international and all, we should be there two hours ahead of time, so I'll come by your house with the car around ten o'clock. How does that sound?"

  "Sounds good to me," I said hastily.

  "Great."

  "Yeah. Well, I better run. Lots of stuff to do. I guess I'll see you then."

  "Yeah, okay. See ya," he replied with uncertainty.