Fidelity Files

by Jessica Brody

  "And this is what you do? You set people up? To fail?"

  I shook my head, the tears stinging my eyes. "Not with you! It didn't start out that way. I wanted to tell you about it. I had decided to tell you about it, and then—"

  "That man in the sushi restaurant. He was trying to warn me about you. And I, like a fucking fool, stood up for you!" He dropped both items from his hands. The phone fell with a loud thud while the card danced and twirled gracefully to the ground, landing, most appropriately, A-side up. "You lied to me!"

  "Me?" I shouted, feeling the passion rise up inside me. "You're the liar here! Do I have to remind you that you have a fucking wife? I guess I do, because you seemed to have forgotten. It seemed to have slipped your mind. Because you 'conveniently' forgot to mention her this whole time!"

  "Yeah, a wife who hired you! To act like you were falling for me just as hard as I was falling for you!"

  "Jamie, I did fall for you," I practically begged.

  But he refused to listen. He believed what he wanted to believe. I guess the same way I did.

  "So do you get to go to Paris with all these guys?" he prodded sadistically. "Or was I the only one foolish enough to invite you along? You've probably gone on a lot of nice trips in your line of work! That's quite an employee benefits package, Jen. And I'll bet every single one of them has made you an airplane bag, too."

  The tears streamed down my face, but I didn't care. I didn't even bother to wipe them away. I simply charged toward him, as if I might try to take him down with one of my self-defense maneuvers. But instead I reached around behind him and grabbed my bag up off the nightstand and shoved my arm through the strap. Then I bent down to his feet and picked up the black card.

  I stood up and held it out to him. "I think this belongs to you."

  Jamie threw his hands in the air. "I'm not touching that thing."

  "Fine!" I yelled as I slammed it down on the nightstand. "I'll just leave it where I always leave it." I stormed in the direction of the door. "Because you're exactly like all the rest of the cheating scum I meet!"

  I opened the door and stepped into the hallway. I knew I should have just kept walking and never looked back. But something made me turn around, just to see what was written on his face.

  Jamie's head was down, staring at the ground. The battle was over. Now all that was left was the aftermath. And he could feel it. It enveloped him. He backed up slowly until the back of his knees softly collided with one of the antique Louis XV armchairs, and he allowed himself to collapse into the seat.

  "I'm not the one who cheated," he said softly, just in case anyone was listening.

  But I wasn't.

  I was too busy slamming the door.

  It wasn't until I stepped off the elevator into the hotel lobby that I realized I was still in my underwear. Yes, I happened to have my very fashionable Dior purse around my shoulder, but in my underwear nonetheless. There were a few stares from some of the patrons and a few hotel employees trying not to stare. I looked down at my ensemble, and instead of trying to cover myself up like they always do in the movies when a woman finds herself minus a few necessary items of clothing, I decided my virtual nakedness was the least of my problems right now. So I held my head up high and marched purposefully toward the front desk. I guess I could at least be thankful that I was wearing a matching set.

  "I need another room," I announced decisively to the front-desk clerk.

  The man didn't even blink. I suppose that as an employee of the Hotel Ritz in Paris he had probably seen it all. And most likely much worse than a woman in her underwear with dried tears on her cheeks, demanding a second room.

  "I'm so sorry, mademoiselle. But we are fresh out of rooms this evening."

  I groaned loudly. That was something I certainly hadn't planned for. And that was also the reason I always booked in advance. But with Jamie I hadn't. I guess it was faith, blind, idiotic faith that he just might pass the test and I would never find myself in the situation of having to book another room in the middle of the night. Obviously I didn't exactly count on this particular scenario.

  "No, you have to have a room. A suite, a closet, anything! I will take whatever you have. I'm leaving in the morning anyway, so it's just for one night."

  The clerk looked at his watch and then shot me a sympathetic glance. "Well, we are holding a room for a guest that has yet to arrive."

  "I'll take it!" I said anxiously.

  He smiled politely at me, as if to say, And if you'll just let me finish...

  "Sorry," I apologized.

  "But hotel policy says we cannot rent that room out until eleven P.M."

  I anxiously looked around me for a time-telling device of some sort. "Well, what time is it now?"

  "Ten, mademoiselle."

  I gave him a look of incredulity. "You expect me to wait in the lobby like this for the next hour?"

  It was at that moment that the clerk first acknowledged my obvious disregard for the hotel's dress code. He cracked a small smile and then quickly covered it up with a loud clearing of his throat. "Of course not, mademoiselle..."

  I let out a sigh of relief and began to dig through my purse in search of my wallet so I could offer him my credit card.

  "...you are welcome to wait in the bar," he offered in all seriousness.

  I froze and looked up at him. The expression on his face revealed nothing but complete sincerity.

  "You're kidding?"

  "I cannot give out the room until eleven. I am terribly sorry. If you would like to kindly wait in the lounge, I can come look for you when the room becomes available."

  I grunted as I shoved my wallet back into my purse. "Very well, then," I responded as graciously as possible through gritted teeth. "I'll be in the bar." I turned defiantly on the bare skin of my heels and stomped through the lobby.

  NO ONE in the Hemingway Bar (the Ritz's celebrated hotel lounge) seemed to take notice of me when I walked in. I quietly took a seat in a back booth, thankful that I had chosen to wear the underwear set with the bikini bottom as opposed to the alternative thong variety.

  I ordered a vodka on the rocks from the cocktail waitress, and just as she was leaving, I stopped her and said, "Actually, can you just bring me two? It'll save us both time."

  "Two?" a man's voice said in an American accent. I looked up anxiously in hopes that it might be Jamie.

  I saw a tall stranger standing in front of me, holding a half-empty glass of ice and brown liquid. He smiled at me and suavely started swirling the drink around in his glass.

  I quickly looked away and rolled my eyes.

  "May I sit down?" he asked, hardly waiting for my response and sliding into the booth next to me.

  "Now's really not the time," I warned him.

  "A fellow American," he ventured, ignoring my comment and placing his glass on the table in front of us.

  "Yeah, that's right," I said coldly.

  "Bad night?" he asked with such obvious feigned concern that it made me want to break out in a loud, sadistic laugh.

  "Look, I am in no mood for company, so if you could just—"

  "I can make it better," he offered quickly.

  I stared at him skeptically. "And how on earth could you possibly do that?"

  His eyes swept the room cautiously and then leaned in closer to me. I could smell the alcohol on his breath. It smelled like whiskey. "I can make up for your lost time, I mean."

  I pulled my head away to avoid catching another whiff of his breath and threw my hands up in the air, exasperated. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

  The man flashed a patient smile. "I mean, I can pay you double. Triple, even."

  I looked down again at my outfit and immediately knew what he was getting at. I rolled my eyes. It certainly wasn't the first time someone had confused me for a prostitute. "I am not a hooker!" I shouted loudly with frustration, causing the entire bar to turn and stare.

  But I didn't care. Not in the slightest. Nothin
g really seemed to matter anymore. Not even sitting in one of the classiest, most elegant hotel bars in Paris in my black lace underwear, announcing to anyone and everyone that the man next to me thought I was a hooker (and probably with good reason). I just wanted eleven o'clock to arrive so I could climb into the fluffy white hotel sheets and cry myself to sleep.

  Was that so much to ask for?

  The man turned to me, horrified and speechless, and then quickly stood up and bolted from the room.

  I sat back against the booth and crossed my arms over my chest. This was turning out to be quite the night.

  "I thought this might make you more comfortable, mademoiselle."

  I looked up to see the front-desk clerk standing over me with a white hotel robe hanging from the tip of his index finger.

  I smiled and thanked him graciously. Both with my words and my eyes. He seemed to understand my appreciation explicitly as he bowed his head. "You are quite welcome."

  I slid on the robe and immediately felt more comfortable. I allowed my head to drop back onto the top of the booth and I spread my arms out to my sides.

  The waitress soon came with both of my drinks and I reached into my bag and handed her a fifty-euro bill. She took it and disappeared. I downed the first drink like a shot and then sat back and held the second one in my hands, staring at it. Waiting for it to turn into the salvation I needed.

  By the time eleven o'clock rolled around and the clerk reentered the lounge, I was still holding my untouched drink, steady as a rock. There wasn't even the slightest ripple in the surface of the clear liquid.

  "Mademoiselle?" the clerk's voice woke me from a trance, causing my hand to jerk up suddenly, spilling a small amount of alcohol on my fingers and some on the hotel robe.

  I popped my fingertip in my mouth and sucked off the vodka. "Yes?" I asked anxiously.

  "As you requested, your room is ready."

  "Thank God!" I exclaimed, jumping up and quickly downing the drink in my hand. I grabbed my bag and headed out of the bar, purposely ignoring the clerk's somewhat appalled reaction toward my blatant disrespect for France's finest vodka.

  AS SOON as I was alone in my room, I ransacked the minibar. I had sent the bellhop to Jamie's room to gather my belongings, and by the time the long-awaited knock came at the door, I was already surrounded by three empty mini-bottles of Grey Goose. The best French-made export, as far as I was concerned at the moment.

  I opened the door for him and watched as he carried in my luggage and placed it near the closet.

  "Was there a message?" I asked hopefully.

  He clearly did not understand what I was requesting. "A message, Madame?" he repeated in a thick accent.

  "From the man in the room. Did he tell you to tell me anything?"

  He shook his head, confused. "No, madame, za room waz empty."

  "Empty?" I asked in disbelief, and stepped closer to him. "You mean no one was in there?"

  I could tell the desperate, half-intoxicated look on my face was making him uncomfortable. Not to mention my proximity to his body.

  "Nobody. And no... zing," he said cautiously, shaking his head.

  "What do you mean?" My voice cracked with fear.

  "Uh, empty?" he repeated again, apparently concerned that maybe he wasn't translating his thought into the correct English word. "Vide," he reaffirmed in French.

  There it was. I knew what both words meant. In both languages. Because they meant the same thing: Jamie had left. He had taken everything but my things. And God knows where he had gone.

  I felt more tears welling up in my eyes as I backed away from the frightened bellhop and he began to close the door. "Merci beau-coup," I said softly.

  "Je vous en prie," the man replied, noticeably relieved that I was letting him go. He bowed slightly as he backed out through the closing door.

  I pushed the empty bottles off the bed and collapsed into it, letting my tears fall freely down the sides of my face. I reached up and pulled down the comforter. The brilliantly white satin sheets were inviting me in. Come to us, Jen, they were saying. We will give you the same safety we always have.

  I climbed under the covers, grabbed the spare pillow, and held it tightly to my body. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to meditate. I thought of happy places. Far-off places. Green meadows and blue skies.

  But as I let myself be engulfed in a world of warm, heavenly white, I felt nothing but the cold, merciless darkness.

  31

  Home is Where the

  Broken Heart is

  I CAN think of several famous people who, at one time or another, were trying to get to Paris. Charles Lindbergh, Lance Armstrong, Audrey Hepburn, Ernest Hemingway, even Hitler. But I, however, staying true to my Marie Antoinette–reincarnated self, was trying to escape.

  "I don't think you understand what I'm telling you!" I practically screamed into the phone as I paced the floor of my hotel room. "I already have a ticket back to L.A., but it doesn't leave until Friday."

  I had been on the phone with the Air France customer "service" department for the past hour, trying to get on an earlier flight home. And because it was still one o'clock in the morning in L.A., I knew I would never be able to reach my travel agent.

  Unlike the last time I was in Paris, when I chose to sightsee for three weeks following my assignment, this time I wasn't really in the mood to stay any longer than I had to.

  I had seen enough sights.

  "Yes, but what I have been trying to tell you, Miss Hunter, is that all of our flights are already full." The customer service rep spoke with only the slightest trace of an accent.

  "Well, what about standby? Or don't you have that here?"

  Her patience was waning almost as fast as mine. "We do have standby, Miss Hunter, and you're welcome to put your name on the list, but I cannot guarantee that we will be able to honor your first-class status."

  I sighed. "I don't care if I have to sit in the cargo section with the suitcases and the dogs. I have to get out of here!"

  "Very good, Miss Hunter. Please just let me put you on hold and I'll—"

  "No, no... please don't put me on hold again!"

  But she was already gone. And I was once again stuck listening to the supposedly soothing sounds of classic French songs converted to elevator music.

  I sighed and looked around in search of the television remote. I flipped through the channels until I finally found one in English. It was CNN. I tossed the remote down on the bed and attempted to drown myself in other people's problems while I waited for Air France to resolve mine. I was selfishly hoping that the war in Iraq, suicide bombers in Israel, and the complete disregard for international child labor laws in Mexico would make my life look like a dream world.

  Unfortunately, CNN was airing some type of special report on American political scandals, which did nothing at all to alleviate my current pain.

  "Hello?" A male voice came on the line.

  "Yes?"

  "How can I help you today?"

  "Was I transferred again?"

  "I'm afraid so," the man replied. "How can I help you?"

  I groaned loudly into the phone and began my story for the tenth time. "I'm trying to get on a flight to Los Angeles today. I am already booked on a flight on Friday, but I need to change my reservation."

  I heard typing through the phone. "I'm sorry, but all of our flights into Los Angeles are booked solid today. I can get you on a flight on Wednesday morning."

  But I barely heard what he was saying. My eyes were suddenly glued to the screen. "Oh my God!"

  "I'm terribly sorry for the inconvenience, Miss Hunter."

  I grappled for the remote and turned up the volume full blast.

  "This Republican senator from the California State Senate had just recently announced his candidacy for the U.S. House of Representatives," the reporter was saying.

  "Hello? Miss Hunter? Are you still there?"

  "Um . . ." I stammered, trying to make sense of t
he images on my screen while at the same time trying to guarantee myself a way out of this city. "I'll just go standby," I said hastily into the phone and then absently placed it back on the cradle.

  I gawked at the TV screen and listened intently as the voice-over commentator continued speaking.

  "But shock and astonishment reached the Austin family when it was revealed by his political adversaries that Daniel Austin was, in fact, hiding his homosexuality."

  "I don't believe this," I said aloud as the segment then cut to a news conference where none other than Daniel Miller, the lonely man John and I had "bumped into" at the docks only a few weeks back, stood in front of a large podium with an unfamiliar woman in a blue-skirted suit by his side. At least I thought his name was Daniel Miller. That was certainly the name I had been given. But according to this commentator, apparently his name is not Daniel Miller, but rather Daniel Austin, a California State Senator running for a seat in the U.S. House of Representatives.

  "I am neither ashamed nor embarrassed by the news that was brought forth by my political opponents. And although I don't believe it should have any effect on my ability to do my job as a representative of the California State Senate, I have decided to withdraw my name from this election's ballot for U.S. representative and focus first and foremost on my family."

  "I knew he looked familiar!" I shouted to the empty hotel room.

  The man at the podium looked over at the woman standing next to him and smiled adoringly before continuing. "My wife, Sarah, has been very supportive during this somewhat turbulent period of our marriage...."

  Wait a minute, I thought, studying the woman in the blue suit. That's not Sarah Miller. Or Austin, or whatever her name is supposed to be.

  At least it wasn't the Sarah I had met. And I think I would remember. That strange robotlike woman invited me into her stark, desolate mansion in Topanga Canyon three times! I'm pretty sure I remembered what she looked like. And she didn't look like...

  But then I stopped. Suddenly everything was becoming very clear to me. The clouds were parting and the sun was beating down on my head.