“Hi, Cass. Just calling to say hi to the boys.”
“It’s Rick,” I mouthed to all of them. “Hi,” I said, “we’ve got people here. Do you think you could call back in about an hour?”
“That’s going to be difficult for me, Cassie, can I do it now?”
I don’t know why this pissed me off so much. “Can’t you just accommodate us for once, Rick?”
“I try, but I’m busy, Cass.”
I mouthed “asshole” to Jen as I went out to bring the phone down the hall to the boys. I stood while he spoke to them, and then headed back to the kitchen.
“OK”—Josh put his napkin down—“ready.” I handed him the phone, and he said, “Which first?”
“Try the google one,” Randy said. “Wait!”
We all looked at her.
“Block the outgoing number before you dial. If they don’t have a lot of different people answering their calls, Cassie’s going to end up with a restraining order out on her. Dial *67.”
“I don’t want to know how you know that,” Jen said.
Josh star-six-sevened, dialed, and ended up having exactly the same very polite sorry-but-no-Rick-Martin-in-512-or-anywhere-in-the-hotel experience we had. “Next,” he said.
“Star-six-seven,” Randy reminded him.
“God, you’re bossy.” He gave her a laughing look as he dialed. “Hi,” he said, a minute later, “could I have Rick Martin in room 512, please? Thanks.” Then, when he stiffened a second later, I knew Rick had answered, which clearly he had expected as little as I did based on the way he stammered, “Um, hi, um…Rick! It’s, ah, Josh…yeah…hi…how are you? Good, yeah, great. Uh-huh. Well, actually not a coincidence, really, no, I’m, um, calling because…Cassie, um, wants to speak to you.” He couldn’t have handed me the phone quicker if it had been radioactive.
Randy and Jen were collapsing on each other with laughter.
I stuck the phone against my ear. “Oh, um, hi, Rick. I just wanted to say, um, that I’m, uh, really, really sorry I was nasty about you speaking to the boys just now. OK? Bye.” I clicked the phone off and started laughing, too. “How lame did that sound? It was the only thing I could think of.”
“Not as lame as I’m, um, calling because…Cassie, um, wants-to speak to you,” Randy said. Josh snapped a dishtowel at her.
Randy was still cracking up. “Josh, why didn’t you just hang up when he answered?”
Josh wiped tears of mirth away. “I’m sorry,” he said. “We should have had a plan. I never expected him to answer, and I all of a sudden couldn’t remember whether I’d blocked the number or not, with you yelling at me, and I was afraid to hang up in case I hadn’t. My prank calling skills are definitely rusty.”
M.A. drifted in from her friend Alyssa’s house. When she heard the kids were watching The Little Mermaid, she said that that was a “bare cool movie” and went to join them.
“So that means it’s good, right?” Josh frowned after her.
Jen and Randy and Josh made halfhearted noises about gathering up their children and heading home, but I opened another bottle of wine and everyone sat back down at the kitchen table.
I looked around at them all and realized it felt…nice. Even though my marriage and family weren’t turning out the way I would have chosen, I felt more on my feet than I had in a long time. The boys were struggling, but they’d get there, I’d make sure of it. M.A. was on her way. The blog was going well. And I felt surrounded by people whom I loved and who loved me. We’d be OK. And actually, it was nice to have Josh here. It made me realize how carefully I’d surrounded myself with women, no men allowed in. There would be another man, a partner, someday, I told myself.
“Hey, you know what that reminded me of?” Josh asked.
“Junior high?” I took a sip of wine.
“That too, but in the more recent past. Ran, do you remember that episode of CSI:NY we saw? Where those guys commit a murder and try to cover it up by using a service that makes up alibis?”
“Oh yeah!” Randy was looking at him with interest.
“I’m not getting this.” I looked from Randy to Josh. “Rick comes and goes when he wants, unfortunately. Why would he need an alibi?”
“They don’t just do alibis,” Randy said. “They route phone calls through a call center kind of place. Their operators answer with a name, hotel, office, whatever, and then patch the call through to the person’s cell.”
Josh nodded. “So you can make it look like you’re somewhere you’re not.”
“But it wouldn’t work if, say for example, you gave a real hotel name but a fake number and then your wife lost the fake number and looked it up,” I said.
“Exactly.” Randy nodded.
“But that was a TV show, right?” Jen said.
“It was based on a real service that does it,” Josh said.
Randy nodded. “We talked about it at work the day after, whether they’re criminally liable if someone uses them to cover up illegal activity. The clients sign a waiver agreement that they won’t, of course, but it’ll be interesting to see how that plays out in court, which it’s bound to sooner or later.”
Josh started tapping at the computer on the kitchen counter. “Here we go.” We formed a group behind him so we could read over his shoulder as he paged through the site. I could not believe what I was seeing. They did everything from arranging fake conferences and training courses, with certificates of completion and digital photos of you and your “fellow conference attendees,” to offering “discreet” shopping services to sending fake itineraries.
“But why would he bother?” I looked at them, willing one of them to have an answer that made sense. “It’s not like I ask him where he’s going. And where is he that he needs to hide, anyway?”
Randy shook her head. “That, unfortunately, I couldn’t begin to guess.”
After that everyone started to get themselves gathered up to leave for real.
“Oh, hey, Cassie.” Jen stuck her head back in the door. “You know what I wanted to tell you and forgot? The weirdest thing. That house in Connecticut? I heard this morning that three offers in a row have fallen through on it.”
“Oh,” I said, my brain only half on that, “that’s interesting.”
She shrugged. “I’m not sure why, but I thought you might really want to know that. I think the owners are getting very motivated.”
“OK.” I looked right at her. “I’m not sure why either, but I did really want to know. Thanks.”
38
I Made it Through the Rain
“Definitely an alibi service,” Humphrey said into my ear at 6 a.m. the next morning.
“Humphrey,” I said groggily, “do I have some kind of sign on me that makes people believe it’s all right to call me routinely before the sun comes up?”
He was quiet for a second. “Sort of, yeah.”
“OK. Just wondering. Why would he be using an alibi service?”
“That’s the next phase of the investigation. And by the way, he knows Jordan Hallock really well. And if she’s redecorating your house? She’s not dressed very adequately to protect herself from sharp corners and such.”
Swirling shock once again. Sort of. It’s not like it was a surprise at this point, but in my house? I almost cared more about her potentially making fun of my taste in IKEA furniture than fucking my husband. Almost. “He’s not in Dallas?”
“He’s not in Dallas.”
I sighed. “I can hardly wait for the next phase.”
“Hey,” he said in his gravelly voice, “at least you’ll know where things stand.”
This conversation made me want to sit down with a box of Mallomars, but as I was having lunch with James Spence, I shelved this idea and hauled my butt out for a run in the freezing cold. I was about halfway over the bridge when my phone started shrilling in my pocket. I veered onto the observation platform, since the bicycle/running lane was about as safe as standing in the middle of Broadway.
“Cassie!” It was Charlotte sounding very hyper. “Why are you out of breath? Am I interrupting something?”
“I was running over the Brooklyn Bridge,” I shouted over the traffic noise.
“Very unexciting explanation for your panting,” she said. “I’m disappointed. Listen, have you heard of Anne Marshberg?”
“Um.” It sounded like a name I should have heard of, but I couldn’t place it. “I don’t think so.”
“What about Ralph MacKinlop?”
“No, why?”
“They’re agents. Ralph is pretty big, Anne’s a powerhouse.”
“And?” I was losing my cardio advantage here. I didn’t want to look like an idiot by jogging in place while talking on the cell phone, but didn’t possess either the coordination or the stamina to run and talk.
“They both called me yesterday.” Pause. “About you.”
“You’re kidding me!” For once it was a good heart plummet. I was practically squeaking.
“They love the blog. And they both commented specifically on how much they like the interaction with the readers. As far as agents are concerned, it means you come with a built-in audience. The kind that might be inclined to buy a book.”
If I’d been walking, I would have stopped dead. “You’re kidding.”
“Do I do that?”
“No, not really,” I admitted. “I just can’t get my mind around the fact that you might not be.”
“Try.”
I did. I’d had enough standing still, so I started walking. “Are you trying?”
“Yes.”
“How does it feel?”
I smiled so broadly that a guy running in the other direction gave me a weird look. “Good,” I told her.
I was wondering whether I was going to feel like a seriously different person walking in the door than I had walking out.
I still wanted to eat about thirty Mallomars.
I sat down and, with shaking hands, voice, and heart, called the agents. In both cases, as soon as I explained to the assistants who I was, I got put through. Both were interested, flattering, charming, and convinced they could sell a book by me. I set up lunch dates with both of them and then sat, trying to see if the seriously different person thing had kicked in.
I still felt like a foolish, unloved, dumped wife.
I still felt like I couldn’t possibly be enough parent on my own for the boys.
I was still going to lose sleep over M.A.
I called Randy and Jen and told them. Then, with their enthusiasm and congratulations and We knew you had it in yous still resounding in my ears, I sat, trying again for the seriously different person thing.
When Sue Moriarty called to find out whether I’d made arrangements with Ken to go visit other school cafeterias, I felt guilty because I hadn’t.
When my mother called, updating me on the latest (she and my father were going to attend a 12-step program for sex addicts and their codependents), I didn’t tell her my news. I think I was equally scared that she’d be proud of, or disappointed in, me.
And when I looked around my apartment, I still felt like someone who shouldn’t be living with so many grown-up things, who didn’t belong here. So what did that mean?
I shook it off and went to get myself ready for lunch.
39
Ready to Take a Chance Again and as
Sure as I’m Standing Here
It couldn’t have been clearer that my marriage was just waiting to have the life support turned off. So why did I feel guilty about being here?
As I followed the maitre d’ to the table, I tilted my head a notch higher—it made me feel righteous and, I told myself, probably made me look regal.
James (“Call me Jamie.” “That’s a girl’s name here.” “I know, but somehow I manage to live with that.”) Spence stood up at my arrival. “Hi.” His smile turned to a frown. “Are you all right? Do you have a stiff neck?”
He reached across the table and flipped my hand over. “Nice manicure.”
“Thanks. I didn’t want anyone calling me up and telling me I was surprisingly fat for an anorexic.”
He laughed. “How many apologies will that take?” He was still looking at the back of my hand. “You’re going to have a tiny scar from that dog bite.”
It had been a long time since I’d been touched by a male who was either not Rick or too tall to wipe his nose on my leg. It felt…odd. Not bad, just odd.
He let go of my hand and leaned back in his chair. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
“It’s not that”—I smiled at the waiter as he handed me a menu—“I’m flushed with the anticipation of the lawsuit. Does this count as admission of malpractice?”
He opened his menu. “If you tell me that up ’til now you’ve been supporting your family by working as a hand model, I’ll be completely gutted by my own incompetence.”
“Yes,” I started laughing. “That’s exactly it. Don’t tell me you recognized my hands.”
“I did, of course, but I was playing it cool. Did you notice how the waiter was staring at them?”
“That happens a lot.”
The waiter came back and asked if we’d like to hear the specials, recited a movie script, and left us to think about it.
“Notice how disciplined he was in not staring at your hands?” Jamie put his menu down. “I’d never thought of blueberries and calamari together before.”
“That’s because you haven’t tried them with a reduction of aged balsamic vinegar di Modena and a splash of Absolut Citron.”
He picked up the menu again. “I think I might have the burger.”
“Probably a wise choice.” I picked my menu up too.
We looked at each other in that awkward way of people who are essentially strangers sitting alone together across a small table. I decided to be forthright for about the first time in my life. “So what’s this about?”
“I don’t care how unsophisticated it sounds, I don’t like fruit and seafood together.”
I laughed. “Lunch, together, us.”
He put his menu down, again. “Does it have to be complicated?”
“I find life usually is. I am.”
“Why does that not surprise me, considering that the first time I met you, your mother-in-law’s vampire bat was hanging off your hand and since then you’ve sworn at me on the phone, invited me to a sex club, and turned up trailing an adolescent in distress?”
I laughed again. “You’re an intuitive guy?”
The waiter appeared, which felt like an unnecessary interruption. Jamie, true to his word, ordered the burger. I almost said to bring me whatever so we could get back to talking, but I was deeply afraid of the squid. I ordered black cod.
“If this is going to be complicated, shall I order some wine?” He leaned back a little.
“The last time I drank at lunch was with Letitia at Esta and look how that turned out.”
“I don’t know.” The corner of his mouth moved a little, which I was starting to know meant he was going to smile in a second. The light was already going on in the window—dimly, but enough for meaning to begin illuminating his face for me. “It could have been the only thing that saved you from dire infection.”
“Red,” I said.
“You’re having fish,” he reminded me, “unless you’ve changed your mind.”
“I’m learning to live on the edge. So thanks to the blog, you already know an unfortunate amount about me.” And then about twenty minutes later—why do people have to make a production about wine?—I took a sip and felt the wine trace a zigzag of warmth under my ribs. “But I know next to nothing about you.”
“All right.” He turned the stem of his glass in his fingers. “I’m thirty-six—”
“Thirty-six!” I was horrified. “You’re younger than I am!”
He laughed. “I grew up about an hour outside London. I’ve two older brothers, one younger sister, my mother’s a barr
ister, my father’s a horse vet. I went to university at Cambridge, came here for medical school. I met my ex-wife here—we got married our second year of med school. She’s a surgeon. We’ve been divorced two years.”
“And?”
“You want more than that? Let’s see. I ran the last New York marathon, but I doubt I’ll do it again since it required a bit too much discipline. I like sailing and reading. I almost never like well-reviewed independent films. I play rugby, but I’m a winger since I dislike getting hurt. I think American sports are insipid. Oh—and I’m not, despite years of forced piano lessons, particularly musical, which, given your current situation, I should think you might find comforting.”
“Believe me, neither is Rick,” I muttered just as my phone rang. Damn it! Why couldn’t it ever ring when I was bored completely to death, like waiting for Cad to choose a tree for the fortieth time in a twelve-hour span? The caller ID taunted me with unavailable, which, of course, meant it could be anyone about anything.
Jamie took a sip of his wine. “Go ahead.”
“Hello?” I mentally recited my new prayer, Please, God, make this not be Sue Moriarty. Amen.
“Hey, Cass. Where are you?”
So, since it was Rick, did that mean my prayer had been answered? I mean, yes, God had followed my request to the letter, but honestly, did He really think this was better? “Having lunch,” I said casually.
“Out or at home?”
“Out.”
“Great! Could you do me a favor and pick up some Advil? I’m on my way home and I’ve got a killer headache.” I resisted the urge to ask if Jordan carried them.
“Sure.” The answer was a combination of habit—I’d been saying sure to him for fifteen years—and wanting to get off the phone.
“I like the gel coated caplets,” he reminded me. “They’re easier to swallow.”
“I know. Bye.” I hung up and smiled at Jamie.
“Are there no drugstores at all in his vicinity?”
“I don’t know, he just doesn’t—things like this, I do them,” I admitted.
Carpool Confidential Page 33
