Infernal Affairs

by Jane Heller

  “So Mitchell split, huh?” he said, reaching down to pet Pete, who was busily digging a hole in my driveway and showering my beige pumps with gravel.

  “Ben told you?” I asked, feeling somewhat humiliated that this man I disliked intensely knew the details of my personal life.

  “Yeah, he told me, but now that I’ve seen you, I would have figured it out for myself.” He paused, looked me up and down, and erupted into obnoxious belly laughs.

  “What, may I ask, is so funny?” I said, feeling my face flame.

  “You,” he said between laughs. “You women are too much. Instead of takin’ some time to think about why your marriage fell apart, you run out and have one of those makeovers, so you can hook another sucker.”

  “What are you talking about?” I demanded.

  “Ah, come on, BS. I’m talking about the blond hair, the tit job, the whole bit.”

  God. How was I going to explain the change in my appearance? To a chauvinistic half-wit like Jeremy Cook? I didn’t know what was happening to me. All I knew was that I went to sleep looking like Barbara Chessner and woke up looking like Heather Locklear.

  “I needed a change,” I said casually, trying to make light of the situation. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting a new look, is there?”

  “There was nothin’ wrong with your old look,” he said.

  I took a step back and blinked. “Jeremy, are you aware that you just paid me a compliment?”

  He smiled and said, “Yeah, now that you mention it. But not to worry. It’ll never happen again.”

  “Good. I wouldn’t want us to start being nice to each other after all these years.”

  Now it was his turn to step back. He looked me over again and shook his head.

  “There’s somethin’ else about you that’s different,” he said, scratching his beard. “Besides the hair and the boobs, I mean. It’s your personality. You’re more…What?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me.”

  “I can’t put my finger on it exactly. All I know is that you used to be all buttoned up whenever I’d come around. Now you’re giving me shit. I kinda like it.”

  “Really?” I said. “I would have thought you liked women to be meek, compliant, passive.”

  “Darlin’, you don’t know the first thing about what I like in a woman,” he said. “And, judgin’ by the way Mitchell ran off with that weathergirl, I guess you didn’t know what he liked in a woman either.”

  “My marriage is none of your business.”

  “What marriage? Yours was a joke.”

  “Oh really? And what makes you an expert on the subject? You’ve never been married.”

  “How could I have been married? You were already taken,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

  “Look, Jeremy. Could we just stick to the reason you came over? To pick up the dog and take him to Ben’s?”

  “Sure, why not? When did you get a dog anyway? You don’t seem like the type to have a dog.”

  “And what ‘type’ is that?”

  “The type that gets all sloppy and sentimental over a pet. You’re way too uptight.”

  “Not too uptight to tell you to go fuck yourself.”

  Jeremy grinned. “You really are different from the last time I saw you,” he said, regarding me, his eyebrows raised. “Real different, and yet the same. Sort of.”

  “Are you so articulate,” I said. “Now could you take Pete? Please?”

  At the sound of his name, Pete lifted his head, gave me one of those soulful looks, and proceeded to howl.

  Jeremy tried to calm him down by stroking him under his chin, but Pete wriggled out of his grasp and began to nuzzle my leg.

  “He’s a great-lookin’ dog,” Jeremy remarked. “And he seems to like you, lord knows why.”

  “He is rather sweet,” I conceded, patting Pete’s head and then pushing him away from me. “Now take him. Please. Ben is probably waiting for you. You wouldn’t want to miss a minute of that séance, would you?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m a big fan of meat loaf and Janice says her grandma’s recipe was the best.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Here we go, boy,” said Jeremy as he tried to steer Pete toward the pickup—unsuccessfully. The dog preferred to curl himself around my leg like a pretzel.

  “Let’s go, boy,” Jeremy said again, this time grabbing Pete by the collar and practically dragging him over to the truck.

  “This dog doesn’t want to go anywhere,” Jeremy called out as he pushed a whining Pete onto the front seat of the pickup and closed the door behind him.

  Pete immediately stuck his head out the open window, desperate to take one last look. He stared at me with such intensity, such a plaintive sense of longing, that I suddenly didn’t know if I was doing the right thing by sending him away.

  “What?” I said as I stood in the driveway, watching him watching me. “What do you want from me, dog?”

  Pete opened his mouth, as if to speak, but only a few pitiful whines came out. I felt a stab of guilt, but shrugged it off. It wasn’t as if I had any responsibility for him, right? We were strangers. He had only shown up at my doorstep that morning. It wasn’t as if we’d been together for years. What’s more, I didn’t know the first thing about dogs, except that millions of people treated them better than they did their own relatives.

  “Hey, BS?” Jeremy shouted from the driver’s seat of his truck.

  “What is it?” I said.

  “How about a ‘thanks’?” he said. “I’m doin’ you a favor, remember?”

  “Sorry. Thanks,” I said. “Really.”

  “No problem,” he said and turned the key in the ignition.

  I took one last look at Pete and started back toward the house.

  “Hey, BS?” Jeremy shouted again.

  I turned around. “What is it now?”

  “You’re lookin’ real hot, but you gotta do something about your breath, ya know?”

  Before I could respond, he and Pete drove away.

  At about nine o’clock, Frances Lutz called to say that Mr. Nowak had accepted David’s offer on the house. I was stunned. For an entire year, I couldn’t put a deal together to save my life. Now, all of a sudden I had the magic touch. Sure, I wondered what was going on. But when what’s going on is making you feel better, why complain?

  “Oh, Frances!” I said with great enthusiasm. “Do you know what this means?”

  “A commission,” she giggled. “On the biggest dump in town. And the office only got the listing a couple of days ago.”

  “Yes, but it also means that I’m finally over my slump,” I said with relief.

  “I’m happy for you,” she said. “For me, too. This is my third sale this week.”

  Frances was incredible. She’d been on a hot streak for the past year, about as long as I’d been down on my luck. Yet she was hardly the most aggressive agent in town.

  Maybe we should all stay home and watch “The Price Is Right,” I’d thought in recent months. Maybe Frances knows something about these game shows that the rest of us don’t.

  “Listen, Frances. I’d love to chat but I’m dying to call Mr. Bettinger and tell him the good news,” I said.

  “I don’t blame you for wanting to talk to him, Barbara. He’s a very nice-looking man.”

  A nice-looking man. Now there was an understatement. But then Frances wasn’t very effusive when it came to men. She had never been married, never even had a boyfriend as far as I knew. We all wondered about her sexual preference, if she even had one.

  As soon as she and I said good-bye, I found David’s phone number and called him.

  “David Bettinger,” he answered in his deep baritone. At the sound of his voice, I felt myself forget to breathe.

  “Mr. Bettinger. David,” I began. “It’s Barbara Chessner. From Home Sweet Home.”

  “Bah-bar-ah,” he purred, sounding glad to hear from me. “You’ve spoken to Ms. Lutz?”

 
I was impressed that he had remembered Frances’s name, as they had only met briefly. “I sure have,” I said. “It looks like congratulations are in order. You’ve just bought yourself a home in Banyan Beach!”

  “Oh, that’s great news,” he said. “I’m delighted. So Mr. Nowak accepted my offer.”

  “That’s right. I’ll just need a deposit from you and then we can get the contract signed and move ahead to the closing.”

  “Why don’t we do the paperwork tomorrow night? Over dinner? How’s seven o’clock? I could pick you up at your place and then we could go on to a restaurant. How does that sound?”

  “It sounds perfect. I live at 666 Seacrest Way. Do you know where that is?”

  “I do and I’ll be there at seven. Then the next time we get together, I’ll cook you dinner at my place.”

  So he was rich, gorgeous, and knew his way around a kitchen. The man was too good to be true.

  I realized that I knew very little about David Bettinger. Only that he was single, that he used to live in Palm Beach, and that he was in the import/export business, whatever that meant. “But I wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble. Not on my account.”

  “Come on, Barbara. You sold me my dream house,” he pointed out. “Making you dinner is the least I can do to repay you.”

  “You’re already repaying me. I’m earning a commission on the sale—my first in nearly a year. I should be making you dinner.”

  David laughed. “Ah, Barbara. Barbara. I keep forgetting how refreshingly direct you are.”

  Direct, my ass. I had no control over my mouth. Not anymore.

  “Now. As far as tomorrow night’s dinner is concerned, I’ll make a reservation somewhere. Do you have a favorite restaurant?” he asked.

  “Not really. Wherever you like is fine with me.”

  “Good. I’ll see you at seven. I’m looking forward to it, Barbara. Very much.”

  “So am I, although I was just wondering why a hunk like you is alone on a Saturday night.”

  Damn. Why did every thought have to leap out of my mouth?

  He laughed and then answered slowly and with feeling, “I won’t be alone. I’ll be spending the evening with a beautiful, witty, intelligent woman.”

  “Oh? Is someone else joining us?” I asked.

  He laughed again. “You’re really something,” he said.

  “Oh, I’m ‘something’ all right,” I said, wondering what, exactly, I was.

  Chapter 7

  I was just leaving the house on Saturday morning when Mitchell called.

  “We have to talk,” he began.

  “About what?” I said. I had almost forgotten about him, but now here he was, sounding breathless, as if he had a matter of great urgency on his mind. With Mitchell, everything was urgent, right now, this minute. I could picture him pacing as he spoke to me, winding the telephone cord around his long, wormlike fingers, working his jaw muscles, blinking, twitching.

  “About our living arrangement,” he said. “Once we’re divorced.”

  “What’s to talk about? I’ll live here, you’ll live with the human weather vane.”

  “No, Barbara. Chrissy’s condo won’t work for the two of us. It’s much too small. We’ve discussed the situation and we’ve decided we want the house.”

  “What house?”

  “Seacrest Way. Chrissy’s always dreamed of being on the water.”

  “Then get her a rubber raft and tell her to go float in her pool.” So the bitch wanted to live in my house. Fat chance.

  “On the ocean, Barbara. She wants to live on the ocean.”

  “So buy her another house. My office has plenty of oceanfront listings.”

  He heaved a big sigh and was clearly exasperated with me. I was delighted. I had finally talked back to him. I had finally gotten over my fear of making him angry. My newfound bluntness may have been a source of embarrassment when it came to people I cared about, but it was a real plus when it came to Mitchell.

  “We want Seacrest Way, Barbara,” he said. “Chrissy’s seen the house and thinks it would be—”

  “When did she see the house?” I interrupted.

  “When?”

  “Yeah, when?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Try.”

  Silence. Then another big sigh. “You don’t sound like yourself this morning, Barbara. Have you been drinking?”

  “No, Mitchell.”

  “Then what’s with you? Your attitude has changed. You sound…I don’t know…different.”

  You should only know how different, I thought as I glanced over at the mirror on the bedroom wall. Each time I caught a glimpse of myself, I was even more stunned by the changes in my appearance. Oh, I was still me. Same nose, mouth, eyes, ears. Same crooked right front tooth. Same birthmark on my left buttock. And yet, ever since the morning after Mitchell left, I looked as if an army of makeover artists had descended on me—makeover artists whose idea of perfection was Ivana Trump. Had the new shampoo I’d been using really turned my hair blond? Of course not. Had all the worrying I’d been doing really caused me to lose weight? No way. And even if it had, how could I explain my newly perky breasts? There was no rational, logical explanation for any of it. None. Was it time to consider irrational, illogical explanations? Was witchcraft, magic, or an ancient spell behind the change in me? Or was demonic possession the reason for the fact that I now looked like a Barbie doll?

  “Let’s get back to my question,” I said. “When did Chrissy see the house?”

  “I brought her over once.”

  “Be specific. When?”

  “You really are a glutton for punishment. I brought her over when you were away at that realtors’ convention.”

  I let his words sink in, and, as they did, my heart began to pound. I was so angry I could hardly breathe.

  “I was gone for an entire weekend,” I managed. “Did she sleep here the whole time?”

  “Yes.”

  “In my bed?”

  “Yes.”

  “You two made love in the house? My house?” Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. I was trying not to hyperventilate.

  “Barbara, you seem to have forgotten that Seacrest Way is in my name. I bought the house, remember? It’s mine. Now, as far as your moving out after the divorce, I’m perfectly willing to play fair when it comes to a nice settlement for you. You’ll want to buy a new place. Something small, less grand. When we get to that point, I’ll—”

  “Mitchell,” I cut him off. “There’s something I’ve always wanted to tell you but never had the nerve.”

  “What is it?”

  “Remember when you made that speech in front of five hundred members of the Banyan Beach Business Association?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Your fly was open.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Good-bye.”

  My friend, Suzanne, was in the office when I got there at about ten-thirty.

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t have liposuction and breast augmentation,” she said, and wagged her finger at me.

  “I already told you, Suzanne. I didn’t have any kind of plastic surgery. Honest.”

  “Deny deny deny. I don’t know why you’re in such denial. Why not just admit that you’ve had a little work done? There’s no shame in it. And as far as getting rid of the gray hair, a lot of women approaching menopause feel the need to—”

  “Suzanne, I know this is going to sound crazy, but the change in my appearance happened overnight. I went to sleep looking like my old ratty self and woke up looking like this.”

  “Oh, I get it. You’re the first person ever to lose twenty pounds because you got a decent night’s sleep. Think what this will do for mattress sales.”

  “Look. I don’t expect you to believe it. I don’t believe it.”

  “Really, Barbara. I thought we were friends.”

  “We are friends, Suzanne.”

  “Then take my advice: find a good shrin
k. I’m no expert, but it sounds to me like part of you wants to be blond and sexy and glamorous and the other part feels guilty about it.”

  “No. Part of me wants to be blond and sexy and glamorous and the other part wants to change the subject. Have you heard the good news?”

  “You mean about the Nowak house?”

  I smiled. “I sold it, Suzanne. I actually sold that sucker.”

  “I’m happy for you,” she said, warming up a little. “It’s weird though. The way you and I were just talking about the house and then a few hours later you ended up selling it.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” I said. “Everything that’s happened to me in the last couple of days has been weird. And here’s something else: David Bettinger, the guy who’s buying the house, is single, adorable and rich—and he seems to like me. He’s taking me to dinner tonight.”

  “It should only happen to me,” Suzanne sighed.

  “Hey, maybe he’s got a brother,” I suggested.

  “They always have a brother and the brother is always bald.”

  I laughed. “I’ll ask him when I see him,” I said as I started to move toward my desk.

  “Barbara, wait,” said Suzanne.

  “Yes?”

  “I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but if I were you I’d buy some breath mints before I went out tonight.”

  I winced. “Is it really that bad?” I asked, remembering Jeremy Cook’s wisecrack about it.

  “Not if you’re a fan of Brussels sprouts,” she said. “Unfortunately, not many people are.”

  I nodded. “I’ll take care of it. Thanks.”

  It was amazing. I’d only been in the office for twenty minutes when a customer I’d sold a house to four years before called to say he wanted to sell that house and buy another one—a larger, more expensive one. Before the day was over, I had not only listed his house (for $499,999) but showed him three others, one of which he fell madly in love with and offered to buy (for $750,000). I was hot, red-hot, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t happy about it. I was feeling so good about myself that I went straight to Bloomingdale’s after work and bought a new dress—a very short dress in a size eight that showed off my snappy new figure. As I modeled it in the mirror in one of Bloomie’s dressing rooms and saw how sensational I looked, I started to fantasize about my date with David. And then a thought struck me: how would I know if David liked me for me, now that I was such a knockout? I mean, would he have asked the old, dumpy me out to dinner? Probably not. Would he have found the old, dumpy me so amusing? Definitely not. Would he have let the old, dumpy me sell him the ugliest house in town? Not a chance.