I sit there and read the message from Aidan several times.
Essie,
Thank you for your due diligence. I’d be very pleased if you could bring the documents by for me to sign. Three years is a long time to have paperwork incomplete.
I will be free tomorrow afternoon, should this suit you.
Regards,
A. Callahan.
I’m a little surprised that he agreed to meet so readily. But then again, why wouldn’t he? It’s a totally plausible reason for me to request a meeting. And even if he had his suspicions and wanted to check up on me, all he’d need to do is call Goldstein and he’d tell him yes, I do work here. It’s not too far of a stretch of the imagination that I would have found some erroneous files and needed them checking off. My boss would potentially be irritated that I hadn’t handed them straight over to him, but it wouldn’t raise any red flags.
Still, I don’t tell anyone I’m meeting Callahan. The girls that work at Mendel, Goldstein & Hofstadter would freak out if they knew. Everyone with a heartbeat and a vaguely functional uterus is totally in love with the guy. And I get it—he’s a billionaire, he’s the boss, and he’s gorgeous. Many of the girls gush about how generous he is, how he doesn’t just see through people but acts like he actually gives a shit. None of that matters to me. He could be Mahatma Gandhi and I wouldn’t care. Wouldn’t deviate. Wouldn’t change my mind about him. To me, he’s still the devil incarnate.
I hit reply and write a message back.
Noon is good. I’ll see you then.
I hit send then sit there for a few minutes, thinking. It’s happening. The ball is rolling. This is for you, Vaughn, I think.
******
I leave at lunchtime and go meet Julia at a little café near the yoga studio she teaches at. I think Julia and I are friends because we’re opposites in every way imaginable. She’s tall and blonde. She’s about the kindest person you could ever meet, and she believes in the ultimate power of forgiveness. Somehow, our relationship works, though. It has for the past four years.
Julia’s already inside with a mug of herbal tea. She’s wearing her yoga pants and a long-sleeved cotton t-shirt—the poster child of good health and well-being. Next to her, I have no doubt that I look pinched and uptight.
“What’s going on with you?” she says after I sit down with my cup of coffee. “You look very excited about something.”
I take a sip of my coffee, which I drink black. I don’t particularly like the taste of it, but it keeps me on edge. I need that. “Nope. No excitement here. I’m exhausted,” I lie.
“You really should work less. Come to one of my classes this weekend. The gentle stretching class, even. You’d be amazed how much better you’ll feel.” She leans forward and scrutinizes my face. “But you’re lying to me. You are excited about something, Ess. You meet someone?” Her eyes light up. She’s been number one cheerleader when it comes to the idea of me in a stable, long-term relationship, and not participating in one night stands or friend-with-benefits situations.
“No. I haven’t met anyone.”
“Well…what then? I have a hunch. Don’t feed me another line, or I’ll mess up your chakras even more.” Thing is, Julia’s hunches are never wrong. We both know it. I don’t want to tell her about Aidan, though. Not yet, anyway. Probably not ever—I know how much she’ll disapprove. She’ll beg me to come to her yoga classes or get a Reiki treatment. Have me signing up for one of those remote weeklong retreats, where you’re meant to concentrate on healing every single hurt you’ve ever had.
One of the girls behind the counter calls Julia’s name, and she leaves to collect her salad. They call my name a few minutes later and I go collect the BLT club I ordered. I’ve just picked up the plate and I’m turning away from the counter when a woman steps directly in front of me, barely an inch of space between us.
“Whoa, excuse me.” I make a move to step around her but she steps with me. I look more closely at her face; she’s no one I recognize. “Is there a problem?”
We’re about the same height, so when she steps right up to me, closing the gap between us, her steely eyes are at the same level as mine. “There is a problem,” she says. “I know who you are.”
Over her shoulder, I see Julia looking at us, worried. A few people at nearby tables have also stopped their conversations and are watching.
“Um. Awesome? I’m sorry, but I—.”
“My name is Ellen Campbell.”
I stare at her. “That’s not ringing any bells.”
She sneers. “Let’s try it this way then: I’m Mrs. Matthew Campbell.”
It takes a few seconds, but then it clicks. Ah. Matt Campbell. We’ve slept together a few times. He’s an investment guy at the bank across the street from the law offices. It was strictly sex—he said his wife just wasn’t interested in doing it anymore. He also told me that he and his wife were separated because of that fact.
“Sometimes, I just want to get laid,” he told me. “A good old-fashioned fucking. But for my wife to get in the mood, it was a week-long preparation. Take her out for dinner. Buy her something nice. Go see a movie or a play or go hear someone do a reading. It couldn’t just be sex. It’s like it was my reward for enduring all that other shit. But sometimes I just didn’t want to deal with all that. Sometimes, I just wanted to fuck. She didn’t understand that. She just didn’t get it, so I left. Was it wrong of me to just want to be spontaneous every once in a while?”
“Of course not,” I’d said. “Spontaneous sex is the the only kind I have.”
We’d had a few marathon sessions at his place. He’d even managed to make me come a couple of times, which was saying something. It was fun, but nothing more. Or at least for me, it wasn’t. “My wife never made me feel even half as good as you do,” he’d said the last time. “When can I see you again?”
There was something different in his tone then, and I knew a line had been crossed. I get it—when someone makes you feel good, it’s difficult not to associate those feelings with that person, and to think they’re now responsible for making you feel that way. I could’ve been anyone, though. Or rather, anyone could have made him feel that way. His wife could have. She just had certain criteria that needed to be met first, criteria that he was unwilling to meet, and therefore they’d gone their separate ways.
I stopped returning his texts, his calls, ignored the emails, didn’t go into the bank. That was a couple of months ago, and I haven’t heard from him in at least three weeks. I figured he’d got the message. But now, with his wife staring me down, I’m not so sure. It’s clear he’s lied to me. No ex-wife would be this mad about her ex getting laid. No, this is current wife territory. I don’t know what to say. I may be a crazy person who wants to ruin a man, but I’m not a monster. I’ve always drawn the line at screwing married men.
“He told me you’d left him,” I say, keeping my voice level. “He told me you weren’t together anymore.”
Matt’s wife blinks at me, her face a mask of hardened emotion. She doesn’t believe me. Doesn’t want to believe me. Women are always ready to castrate their husbands when they discover they’ve been cheating on them, but if they find out who the woman is? That’s even better. That’s another person to scream and yell at. Occasionally, a woman will choose to believe their husbands were seduced by some slutty temptress, and that the whole thing is the other woman’s fault. That way they can flip out, slash all of his shirts with a pair of dressmaker’s scissors, go key the woman’s car, and then let their man move back into the house after he solemnly promises never to do it again.