The Ruined Wife: Psychological Thriller

by Marin Montgomery

  After that, Steven and I were inseparable.

  I recall the story to Brynn, laughing as I recall our first date.

  “He was a breath of fresh air, you know?” I roll my eyes upward. “He was calm and centered and knew what he wanted. I didn’t understand half of what he said about science or kinetic energy, but he was sweet.” I tuck a strand of hair back. “He was just what I needed.”

  Brynn asks a question I hadn’t thought about in a long time, “When did you know you were in love?”

  I grab my chin looking at a painting on my office wall, a watercolor from his grandmother’s estate. She had painted it herself, the colors are vibrant, a variation between red and pink, orangish hues in between. Fire in the Hole, she called this one. I loved how she could make clean, simple lines into something symbiotic.

  “I had to have radiation on my thyroid, and it meant I had to be in a cocoon, basically a bubble. I couldn’t be around anyone for almost a week. He brought me food, put in on the doorstep and rang the bell.” I grin, remembering. “As if that wasn’t sweet enough, he wrote me these long letters, love letters I guess you would call them, to keep me company.” I break into a wide smile. “He would write about all sorts of topics, some poignant, some just general thoughts about the world or what he was doing that day. They kept me company, this was before email or cell phones, and I felt isolated, you know? Even my roommate had to leave, and I was left with Sylvia Plath and Stephen King for company but no ties to my day-to-day.” I sigh, bringing my head to my hands. “He made me feel special. It was something to look forward to, and he did this every day for a week. It made me feel not quite so lonely.”

  Brynn interrupts my flashback to college. “Did you respond?”

  “Respond?” I pull myself out of my reverie.

  “To his letters?”

  “Oh yeah, every day. It kept me going. I’d write him usually ten or twelve pages in between keeping up with homework assignments.” I touch the spot where my wedding ring used to be, forgetting the band of metal is no longer wrapped around my finger. Brynn looks where I’m touching the naked spot on my left finger but says nothing, her eyes darting back to my story.

  “You know, I learned so much about him over that week. A lot more than I would’ve ever known just by talking, you know? He told me about his family and his childhood, recounting stories. In one letter he even put a couple of pics of him as a kid, his Halloween costume, a hotdog, ways to make me laugh.” I brood.

  “It sounds like you formed a bond during that time.”

  “Where did you meet your husband?” I ask. Brynn looks at her phone as it buzzes.

  Her face lights up. “It’s Andrea. She said to call her. She’s down to sing.” We smile at each other. “Mind if I put her on speaker?” She’s dialing the number before I can answer, her eyes betraying her eagerness.

  “Hi, Andrea, I’ve got you on speaker with Alastair Adams, the owner of the PR agency I temp for and a party planner in need of a singer.”

  I can tell through the phone that Andrea’s ecstatic, her voice bubbling with excitement that she gets to sing with a live band and for an audience of over a hundred people. I give her Joe’s contact info. He wants to schedule a practice before tomorrow night, so they can get acquainted and discuss the set list.

  “Thank you so much for the opportunity,” she says before Brynn disconnects.

  “Brynn, you saved the night.” I glance at my watch. “If not, charades or a game of Pictionary would have been the highlight.”

  “It’s not a problem.” Brynn crosses her legs, her face flushed, a sense of accomplishment in her eyes. We go over some of the clients, and I send her home early telling her to rest up for her first Fall Fiesta.

  10

  The next night, Steven and I are getting ready for the party. I’ve had my hair blown out and am sliding into a Diane Von Furstenberg dress, an emerald green silk, as he whistles appreciatively. I give him a backward glance. “You like?” I grin.

  “You are one hot woman and one hot wife.” He nuzzles my cheek. “Can I zip you up?”

  “Most certainly,” I say.

  He whispers in my ear, “Only if I can unzip you later.”

  I smile, running a hand over his smooth, freshly-shaven jaw, the smell of his cologne filling my nostrils.

  “You look beautiful, Alastair.” He slides his hand down my back and connects his fingers with the zipper. “I love you.”

  I’m not there yet.

  I turn and give him a coquettish stare, my lips finding his. This will have to be good enough for now. I’m back to sleeping in the same bed, speaking to him in complete sentences instead of stilted pauses. That has to count for something. I can’t utter those words when he selfishly ignored our love when he made his foolish mistake.

  “Alastair.” He breathes. “Will you wear your rings tonight?” He opens the small metal box that holds my more expensive jewelry, its place in my top dresser drawer, my engagement and wedding rings twisted around his finger. I don’t want to fight with him. Not tonight. Not when we have a party, not when I have lingering doubts, not when I’m trying to hold myself together, and it feels like one wrong turn will crash us into oblivion.

  But I can’t wear my rings.

  They’re oppressive. A reminder that he disobeyed his vows.

  “I don’t want anyone to question why you aren’t married.” His voice firm, his request makes sense to him, he doesn’t like drama, doesn’t like gossip or innuendos. My naked finger will draw attention to me, to us, in a way that unequivocally signals a bad omen, an impending divorce.

  “I’ll think about it,” I murmur, taking them from him. He wraps his arms around my waist. We stare at each other in the floor-length mirror, my small statue wrapped in his taller one, his arms enfolding my body melding us into one. He tries to slide the rings on my finger, but I pull my hand away like he intended to cut off each appendage. Hurt and confusion sully his face. “Back to this?” He’s annoyed, his hands drop from my waist.

  I ignore him, internally screaming, how dare you demand anything of me right now?

  Pushing away from him, the mirror catches our change in posture, our demeanors now icy—the portrait of a strained marriage.

  I turn to Steven, “Don’t start with me.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Don’t’ start with your expectations on when I should be back to normal.” I grab a pair of teardrop earrings, a birthday gift from his sister. “Don’t you dare try and guilt me when you fucked someone else.” I’m calm, emphasizing the ‘f’ word but keeping my tone neutral, conversational.

  He grimaces. I catch his eye as he reaches for a tie to wear. I pull another one from his rack, one that compliments my dress. “Try this one.”

  “So we can match?” He’s sarcastic. “What a pair.”

  “Don’t be so obtuse,” I growl, twisting my lipstick open and filling in my lips with the wine color ignoring his pouty stance, hands on his hips, and his childish demeanor.

  “I hope she was younger,” I whisper. “You act like such a little bitch sometimes.”

  He grabs my arm roughly, pulling me toward him, his hands going up my thigh, wrapping his fingers around the teensy fabric of my barely-there thong.

  “I’ll show you a little bitch,” he breathes in my mouth, his hands shoving me against the closet door. He slides my panties to the side, unzipping his pants, thrusting into me as I moan, slamming me on repeat into the rough wood as I wrap my legs around his waist. He’s like a thief in the night, taking from me all my essence, filling me up, reminding me that I’m his, that we have more between us than a one-stand night and years of memories behind us.

  He’s groaning, saying my name before he pulls out and shoves me against the mirror, my fingers now grabbing the sides of the glass as he pushes into me from behind, his hands grabbing my waist, his head buried in my neck, kissing my skin, my dress up around my waist. He’s no amateur, he knows not to r
uin it with body fluids, his breathing comes out heavy and quick, his pace intensifies.

  I look in the mirror, back at him, his brown hair, his flushed skin, the want in his eyes.

  That’s when I see her watching us.

  11

  The bedroom door is open a few feet. I thought we had shut it when we were getting dressed.

  Her face is unreadable, the skin smooth and freckled, her blue eyes glassy.

  Brynn’s rooted to the spot, staring at us, watching every movement, biting her lip.

  The mirror gives me a visual. I can see behind me, past the open door to the hallway, her stance unchanging, a deer in the headlights.

  A caterer stops to ask her a question as she turns to them in response, our antics forgotten.

  Steven doesn’t even notice when I make a move to kick the door shut, his eyes closed as he comes.

  A twinge of embarrassment comes over me, but I’m in my bedroom with my husband. A lack of decorum maybe, but her intrusion seems out of place, her arrival early, timing off. I glance at the digital clock on my side table. The party is not slated to start for another hour, guest arriving at 6:00 p.m.

  I didn’t ask her to come before then.

  Unsatisfied, I lock our door.

  Steven’s not seated on our bed, his back is against the wall, catching his breath. He zips his fly and twists his belt into place.

  “Alastair?” I’m lost in thought, unmoving, my focus already on something else. He tugs at my arm and pulls me onto the bed beside him.

  “We already have company,” I whisper.

  “Yeah, the caterers.” He gives me a hard kiss.

  “No, Brynn, my assistant…” I pause, “… weird.”

  His face reddens. “Here now?” He looks at the closed door. “She saw us?”

  “Yeah, she saw us.” His face betrays his unease, our bedroom a private sanctuary, not on display for others. “She came?”

  “She works for me, why wouldn’t she?”

  “I thought she was a temp?”

  I frown. “She is, but I always invite my entire staff. I couldn’t hang posters and say ‘everyone but Brynn, the temp.’”

  He says nothing. His mouth hardens, all the playfulness evaporating. “She told me when she babysat that she had something going on tonight. Just surprised is all.”

  Steven exits our bedroom before I do. I spend a few more minutes tidying up my sex kitten hair and reapplying lipstick. I hear voices, a man and a woman’s. I can’t make out the words, but one is pleading, the other is frustrated, the decibels rising and falling.

  Is there an issue with the caterer or bartenders?

  When I exit our bedroom, the hallway is empty. I do a quick walk-through of the other bedrooms and our office. I walk through the office, a large tapestry rug covers the oak hardwood floors, and a sliding glass door leads out to the patio, the opposite end from where our master leads out.

  I peek into the office, surprised to see Steven sitting there, the sun starting to set, illuminating his hunched profile. He’s staring at his screen, his face drained of color.

  Shutting the door behind me, I ask, “What’s wrong?”

  “Do you have something you want to tell me?” His mouth is in a tight line, eyes never leaving his screen.

  “What’re you talking about?” I’m puzzled. I start to walk toward him around the side of his desk.

  “Don’t even bother.” He puts a hand up as if it can stop me from coming closer. “I guess I’m not the only one around here with secrets.”

  “What’re you talking about?” I bite my lip inching in behind his desk chair.

  There on his screen, is a picture of me. I’m in the embrace of a man, except it’s not Steven. We’re lip-locked, holding onto each other for dear life. The man has dark hair, a five o‘clock shadow, and I’m wearing one of my favorite dresses, a navy Tory Burch frock with red pumps.

  “Care to tell me when this was?” He’s bitter, his fingers clicking angrily on the keys. “Or better yet, who?”

  My jaw drops. I have no idea. I stutter, “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean you don’t know?”

  “That’s not me.”

  His brow furrows, a look of disgust. “Sure it’s not. Temporary memory loss, right?” He shoves back from the desk narrowly missing my foot with his chair. “Watch it,” I yelp.

  “No, you watch it, Alastair.” He points his finger at me. “I know I messed up but what the fuck is this?” He leans in close to me. “You have something to tell me?”

  “What?” I shake my head. “Of course not.”

  “Did you fuck him?”

  I take his place in the chair and bury my head in my hands. “No,” I whisper. That woman in the picture is me, the man unknown. When did I kiss another guy? Was I that drunk over the summer.

  No, no way.

  “Then who the hell is this? Was this when I was in visiting my family?” Steven hisses. “When I took our daughter home so her mom could whore her way around town?”

  Looking him square in the face, I say with the utmost sincerity, “Don’t you ever, ever call me a whore or any word that implies a prostitute.” I lean back. “Or say that for our daughter to hear.”

  He glares at me.

  I continue, “Considering the first thing that paid attention to you at the bar that night, you slept with.” I know I should stop, I should quit, but I can’t force the words back down my throat. “Considering she had to be drunk to think you were attractive or had anything going for you.” I clear my throat. “After all, you’re just a public servant. You’re lucky I even wanted you.”

  Before I can move out of his line of sight, his hands wrap around my wrists.

  “Say it again.” His voice is eerily calm.

  “Say what?” I spit out.

  “Say what you said in the email.”

  “What email?”

  “Jesus, Alastair, I wish I could play dumb with you all the time.”

  “What fucking email?”

  “The one you sent to me.” He raises his voice, “The one where you ask for a divorce.” Confusion plays across my face. I purse my lips. When I stayed the night at Mara’s, I typed an email asking for a divorce.

  I thought I had saved it as a draft.

  “Ask again.” He lets go of my arms. “And maybe you’ll get your wish.” He turns on his heels and stalks out of the room, shutting the door behind him, a firm resolve to make me disappear.

  Sobs are threatening to wreak havoc on my body, and my blood is pounding in my head. I’m not used to this constant fighting, these bipolar moments between Steven and me—this pushing and pulling, tugging and yanking, no-holds-barred fighting.

  A tear runs down my cheek. I wipe it away angrily. I can’t let them fall now.

  Guests will be arriving in a few minutes.

  Some might be here.

  Shit, Brynn. I have got to check on her. And Liv. And the caterers.

  I take a deep breath, suck it up, Aly. Be the boss lady you are. I stand up, shaking, my legs trembling underneath me.

  12

  I head back down the hallway, checking Liv’s bedroom and bathroom to make sure it’s cleaned up. She’s notorious for leaving a hurricane behind her—clothes, shoes, books, dolls—the lack of order a constant in her ever-moving whirlwind life.

  Gymnastics and figure skating posters cover the walls. I sigh in relief, her twin bed miraculously made, the frilly purple bedspread piled with her stuffed dog and giant cupcake pillows, her bookshelf overflowing with games and books, her American Girl dolls littering her built-in reading nook.

  Her bathroom doubles as the guest bathroom, so I double check to make sure toilet paper is stocked, the mirror is clean, and hand soap is available.

  Walking down the long tile hall, I check our other two bedrooms to make sure the beds are made. They’re guest rooms and stay fairly clean, only used for company or when I’m hiding from my cheating husband. I check the bathroo
m that’s en-suite for one of the rooms as well, making sure it’s also clean. I don’t think guests will be wandering in these rooms, but I still don’t want them to give away our secrets—a crumpled bedspread and mascara-streaked pillows a dead giveaway I’ve been seeking refuge from my own bedroom.

  The envied marriage now in trouble.

  In the kitchen, the caterers are lining up trays, the food to be served outside on the patio, twinkling lights lead the way over the paved stone.

  Our backyard looks like more of a paradise with white linens covering borrowed tables and chairs, a stage set up for the live music, two different bar stations filled with cocktails, beer, and wine. In the center of it all, I spot strawberry blonde hair, Brynn, and Steven. Liv’s in between them, both nodding at something our daughter’s saying, her face shining in the new dress she picked out for this occasion.

  A twinge of envy overcomes me.

  They look like a natural family, nothing in their posture or body language would give away they’re strangers. If I were seated in Brynn’s place, the strain would be noticeable.

  I take tentative steps toward them bracing myself for the cold shoulder from my husband. “I see you arrived early.” I smile as I stand in front of the three of them, all looking at my face—my husband for signs of dishonesty, Liv for signs of tension, Brynn for signs of uneasiness at walking in earlier. My mind drifts back to Brynn catching us in the act, watching us engaged in something so natural, yet foreign for a stranger to see us doing. I flush in remembrance. “Is Andrea still excited to sing?” I wave a hand at the flutter of activity. “It’s going to be sheer chaos tonight.”