by J. J. Bella
The ceremony was a blur. She marched down the aisle, clinging to no one’s arm, and sensing three dozen simmering eyes upon her, all staring from rich, moisturized faces, atop bodies that were clad in gorgeous, multi-thousand dollar suits and gowns. As she walked, Brittany caught sight of the woman she’d seen at the apartment the night before—the ex-wife, along with his daughter, Lea, who was poised at the front, near her daddy, wearing a soft, light pink gown. A man who seemed to be Paul’s twin, but about 40 years older, hovered near the side, with a younger woman latched to his arm—potentially Paul’s parents. They blinked at her ominously, judgmentally, without any aura of warmth.
Before she knew it, she was saying the words.
“Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
She did. She had to.
Before everyone, God and family and rich, resting-bitch-faced New Yorkers, Brittany and Paul shared their first kiss. A bit tipsy from pre-ceremony champagne, to gloss away the jitters, Brittany felt herself teetering in his arms, falling into him. Yet, the moment his lips touched hers, there was an emotion, a feeling between them—a wave, thrust through their chests, that made them draw back from one another and blink, as if they were looking into the light.
“Woah,” Brittany breathed.
But the crowd couldn’t hear her. They’d begun to clap, leading both Paul and Brittany back down the tiny aisle, toward the bar, where they were poured two shimmering glasses of champagne. Paul lifted his glass, with pomp and circumstance, and toasted the crowd, giving a slight wink to a magazine photographer who sucked up toward them, giving them a flash.
“Thank you all for being here today to celebrate this most grand affair, especially on such short notice,” Paul boomed. Glancing toward Brittany, with something like love in his eyes, he added: “It’s true what they say about love. When you know, you know.”
After guzzling first one glass, then three, Brittany found herself wrapped up in conversation with Paul’s mother and father, who continued to peer at her as if she were an urchin off the street. Their accents were French, labored, as if they didn’t spend much time in New York. The mother spoke first, introducing herself as Claudia.
“My dear,” she began. “It is so nice to meet you. And to welcome you into our family—“
“So soon after we’ve learned of you,” Max, the father stammered. “It was really quite a surprise to us. And now—“
“When was it you met our boy Pau?” Claudia asked, bringing her eyebrows into a tight knit over her eyes.
“Erm—around six months ago,” Brittany whispered.
“Oh. So you’ve spent at least a bit of time with Lea, oui?” Claudia asked. Leaning toward her, whispering conspiratorially. “You know, I think Elena will try to keep full custody. But you must fight, my girl. I know Paul’s told you everything.”
“Erm,” Brittany whispered once more, glancing across the crowd. The little girl, Lea, was spinning in circles, allowing her pink gown to fly out in all directions. Her curls sparked in the orange sunset.
“Not the time for it, my dear,” Max boomed then, drawing his arm to Brittany’s shoulder, giving her an almost grandfatherly gaze. “We’ll discuss it soon. In depth. Without champagne.”
Brittany’s heart hammered in her chest. Glancing around the party, she finally caught sight of a familiar face, her Sarah, tucked in the corner and speaking emphatically to a tall, handsome man, with blonde hair and gray eyes, who seemed smarmy, tight-lipped. Earlier, Brittany had seen his hand around Lea’s and felt curious—but not ready to ask questions.
The moment Brittany approached, Sarah flung her thin arms around her neck, giving her a brief kiss and whispering: “What the hell is going on?”
“Ah. The famous bride,” the grey-eyed man said, stuffing his hand forward and shaking Brittany’s. “I must say, it’s a pleasure.”
“And you are?” Brittany asked, feeling aghast. In the corner, she sensed Elena’s eyes on her once more—a kind of burning penetration that made her feel small, lost.
“I’m Jack. I’m sure Paul has told you all about me? And all good things, I know?” he boomed.
Brittany nodded earnestly, her eyes searching his with confusion. She felt she would fall down in a mental break, feel engulfed in the horror of this wedding nightmare. But just as she did it, Sarah tugged her away, bringing her to the bathroom and demanding answers.
“Drink this water,” Sarah said. “You don’t want to pass out on your wedding day.”
“Ha,” Brittany whispered, guzzling it. The liquid dribbled along her scratchy tongue and entered her empty stomach, which was stretched even thinner inside a wedding dress corset. “Jesus. What have I gotten myself into?”
“I don’t suppose you can back out now?” Sarah asked.
“Have you seen what I’ve already been through?” Brittany asked. “Talking to his parents. Being ogled by some of the richest assholes in New York. I’m going to have to move in here, I guess? I have my own room—“
“What about his expectations?” Sarah asked then, her eyebrows high. “As his wife, I mean. In the bedroom.”
Brittany hesitated. Her brain had been spinning with these thoughts as well, simmering with fear about the night ahead. Would he expect her to make love to him? To “seal” their marriage, so to speak? She’d imagined it, sure: deep in the dark caverns of her mind, she’d imagined him above her, holding onto her tight, crying out with pleasure as they romped on his king-sized mattress all night—a bed she’d only seen in passing from one room to the next.
But when all the guests disappeared for the night: when Sarah gave her a kiss goodbye, when Max and Claudia shook her slim hand and after Elena gave her a snide glance before grabbing Lea’s hand and guiding her out the door—it was just Brittany and Paul left over.
Paul collapsed atop the sofa, kicking his shoes toward the fireplace and sipping at a whiskey, no ice. His eyes searched her face, as if she were trying to remember who she was. She pressed her hands together tightly, preparing to grill him for answers—to demand a rulebook on how this was supposed to go.
But he just turned to gaze into the empty fireplace, looking lackluster, his face void of color. “You can head to bed, if you want. Make yourself at home. I had a few maids pick out some clothes for you. Bed things. They should be in the dresser drawer.”
Brittany nodded. Her lips parted during a horrible silence, one she wasn’t entirely certain Paul noticed. “How is this—how will this work, Paul?” she whispered then.
Paul’s eyes flickered toward her, showing how lost in thought he was. “We’re roommates, babe,” he said, knocking the rest of his whiskey down his throat. “You can help yourself to the credit card. The cash. Whatever you want, you can have. Just sleep in your room, and I’ll sleep in mine. That sound clear to you?”
“Crystal,” Brittany murmured.
Whipping around toward her bedroom, she found herself at the edge of the king-sized spread, her head in her hands, with dark makeup swirling down her cheeks like rivers. In return for school and money, she’d given up on any future chance at love. This was her path—the one she had chosen. And already, she wished she could turn back.
Chapter Ten
Over the next few days, Brittany felt stretched thin, exhausted from the tumultuous changes in her life. When she awoke, she found that, often, Paul had already left for work, giving her free reign of the apartment—along with the credit card, splayed out on the dining room table, with a note: “Have at it.” Brittany’s years of being destitute, constantly broke, fell away, as she called a private car and rushed around town, buying new clothes, choosing expensive, six-dollar lattes and feeling generally on top of the world—for a moment, at least. But the feeling didn’t last. Nothing ever did.
On the third day of married life, after calling to ensure the money had gone through to her account, she was told that her classes would resume in a few weeks’ time—giving her a “summer break” of sorts. As it was
late May, she found herself stretched out on the terrace, soaking up the sun, with a book on her lap. Disgustingly, her ring glinted on her finger, a constant reminder of how far she’d conned herself from the truth.
Without warning, the door burst open to the apartment, leaving Brittany to leap up, wearing only a bikini, and glare at Elena, who’d marched through the door like she owned the place. Chewing at a piece of bright pink gum, she clacked to Brittany, saying “Oh. Good. I assumed you’d be here. Not like you have to live in the real world any longer, right?”
Bursting toward her, the woman dragged Lea by her thin arm, joining Brittany on the terrace. Lea wore a pair of jean overalls, with a pink ribbon in her hair, making her look prim and perfect, like a doll.
“The lawyer suggested I bring her over here, you know. To make it seem like I’m ‘trying’ to work with Paul, the bastard. You know, he cheated on me? He’ll cheat on you, too. Just wait.”
Brittany remained standing, incredulous.
Elena spoke once more, as if she didn’t notice that Brittany hadn’t uttered a word. “But anyway, I don’t have much of a choice right now. Have to run. Have to leave her with you. The evil step-mother.” She cackled, tossing her head back. “Good luck, chump. Now you’ll know how hard this gig really is.”
As Elena clattered out on long, six-inch heels, Brittany peered down at the tiny girl, hating how lost and bright-eyed she looked—as if she couldn’t comprehend the monsters, swirling around her. Drawing a towel around her half-naked form, Brittany leaned down, looking at her, hunting for something to say.
“Do you—do you like television?” she stammered, hating how foolish she sounded.
“I hate it. Mom always makes me watch it when she’s doing her nails. Blech,” Lea responded, tossing her hand in front of her face.
“Well, what would you like to do?” Brittany asked.
“I don’t know. Daddy’s not here?”
“Not here, no,” Brittany murmured, pressing her lips together. She’d never pictured herself as the mothering type, had always avoided babysitting gigs and her friends with kids, hardly able to toss a ball with one without feeling she was making a misstep.
Walking into her bedroom, she felt Lea following her, running her fingers along the wall. Brittany began to change, drawing her eyes away from Lea, and donning a white sundress. As she turned back, she watched as Lea’s eyes were drawn toward a sketchbook and paints she’d purchased the previous day, on her credit card binge. Reaching forth, she lifted the paintbrush with a flourish, pretending to paint a portrait across the white walls.
“Are you an artist?” she asked.
“Kind of. I’m in training to be,” Brittany answered, easing onto the bed and watching Lea with curiosity. “Do you ever paint or draw when you’re at home?”
“Mom’s not into it,” Lea responded, continuing to paint an invisible painting.
An idea began to cultivate in Brittany’s mind, then. Tilting her head and gazing out at the sunny city below, she said: “Well, why don’t we go outside now and do a bit of drawing?”
“You’d give me something to draw on?” Lea asked, incredulous. Her pretty mouth dropped open, revealing bright, pearl teeth.
“Of course.”
Brittany prepped a bag for them, filling it with a sketchbook, several pencils, and books for hard surfaces. Guiding them toward Prospect Park, she held onto Lea’s hand and listened to her tell her stories of school, of her friends, as Brittany glared at any passersby, suspicious they would harm Lea in some way. In charge of a child for the first time ever, she rose to the task like a lion.
They spent the afternoon in the park, drawing people and trees and flowers, and giggling together, drawing their heads close to discuss lines and shadings—things Brittany could show Lea, which Lea was fascinated by. When their lines drew tired, their faces grew freckled and sunburnt, Brittany guided Lea back to the penthouse, stopping briefly for an ice cream cone and then guiding her toward the elevator. The pages they’d drawn together were tucked safely in her bag.
When they entered the penthouse, Paul stood gruffly from a dining room chair, gazing at them both as if he were seeing them for the first time. Lea rushed forth, wrapping her arms around his waist and squealing out: “Daddy!” He lifted her, spinning her exactly once, and then delivering a robust kiss on her cheek. Glancing toward Brittany, he looked curious.
“And where were you?”
“We were at the park, Daddy. Brittany’s an artist. She knows how to draw!” Lea said, tossing back to the tile below and reaching into the bag to show him both her and Brittany’s drawings.
Slowly, as Paul interacted with his daughter, a smile stretched across his face. Brittany hung about awkwardly, sensing his pleasure, and loving watching the two of them together: how he toyed with the curls on her head and gave her little, silly compliments, which made her giggle. When she raced toward Brittany’s bedroom to grab another passel of pencils, Paul reached toward Brittany, tapping her on the shoulder. “You’re good with her,” he murmured.
It was as if he didn’t want to get too close. As if he wasn’t sure what he would do. The tension between them had grown once more, after a depleted few days, after the exhaustion of the wedding party. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and then spoke: “She dropped her off when she knew I wouldn’t be around, didn’t she?”
“Something to that effect, yes,” Brittany affirmed, shifting her weight. “I’m sorry—“
“Don’t be,” Paul said, his voice soft. “I’ll call Elena later on. Ask her what her plan is. But it seems you don’t have much of a problem being with her…?”
“It’s been a surprise, actually. A welcome one,” Brittany said, tossing her blonde hair behind her ears anxiously. Why was he looking at her with such dark, earnest eyes? “I’ll take her for as long as she’ll have me.”
Without waiting for him to say thank you, Brittany tossed forward and joined Lea in the bedroom, drawing alongside her and wondering if there wasn’t something between her and Paul, after all.
Chapter Eleven
“It can’t be real.”
This came from Elena, who hissed it across the dining room table at Jack. Jack sipped his orange juice slowly before flashing a bright, square-toothed smile toward her. “And how on earth are we going to prove that, darling?”
“It just makes me so sick. The fact that his parents have clearly bought into it, even though we haven’t heard the name ‘Brittany’ before now. The fact that he’s just placed in the CEO position, because he found some bimbo on the street. He’s going to get all that inheritance, Jack, when you’ve been slaving at the company for years and years—without proper payment.”
Elena slipped from her chair and eased toward him, placing herself at the edge of his lap. She stared into his eyes with cold, calculating irises, then positioned her hand atop his shoulder, easing her nails into his skin.
“If you wanted that money so much, you should have stayed with him, darling,” Jack said then, his nostrils flaring. “Because as you can see, we’re in over our heads here.”
“You know for a fact that he cheated on me,” Elena burst out, enraged.
“Oh, sure. He cheated on you, and you definitely didn’t have an affair with your fitness trainer. We’ve all heard the stories, Elena.”
Jack and Elena had met years before, when Jack had first joined the board of Le Montaigne software. They’d spoken long nights about their mutual hatred toward Paul Le Montaigne, about Jack’s feeling that he would surely be made CEO, rather than Paul, the heir. They’d ultimately fallen into one another’s arms, resentment fueling their sex-fest. And then, they’d marched together—each day ensuring that Paul got to see his daughter as little as possible, and spreading falsehoods about him through the company.
But it hadn’t been enough.
“If that little bitch allows him to get custody of my child—“ Elena boomed.
“You know you’re only in it for the ch
ild support payments, Elena. Don’t be crude. Say what you mean,” Jack said, rising up from his chair and knocking her to the side, causing her to scoff.
“I just never connected to the girl how you’re meant to,” Elena said, swiping a bottle of gin from the far liquor cabinet and pouring herself a morning drink, her elbow quivering as she made the motion. “How they say you’re supposed to, I mean. When you become a—“
“A mother?” Jack said, easing his arms into his suit jacket. “Darling, I wouldn’t call yourself a mother, so much as an egotistical lunatic.”
Elena’s nostrils flared with distaste. Tossing the first of her many gins down her throat, she demanded: “Why on earth do you stay with me, then, Jack?”
Jack took three long strides forward, wrapping his arms around her still-thin waist. He inhaled the gin-ness of her breath. “I know you’re the only one who can help me bring this asshole to his knees, Elena. We’ll fight together, now, to expose him. We’ll use the kid if we have to. There’s nothing that’s coming between us and that money, Elena. As far as I can see, it’s ours for the taking.”
Elena quaked with laughter, then. Bubbles of alcohol pulsed through her brain, causing her to bring her hands to Jack’s face, to bring him forward, to plant a kiss on his pointed, dry lips. They were united for a single purpose. And when they dove into the never-ending puddle of Paul’s inheritance, only then would they be free.
Chapter Twelve
Paul collapsed in the back of the private car, glancing up at Jose, who was scarfing a medium-sized burrito from the local taco truck. Sauce dribbled down his chin.
“Sorry, boss,” Jose said. “It’s just I’m so hungry. I’ve been driving around your new wife and your daughter all day. From the museum to the park to the bridge to…” He trailed off, rolling his eyes. “The girls, it’s like they’ve known each other for ages.”
