“Hungry?” Charles asks.
“Mmmmm.” She realizes she’s ravenous.
“Thai?”
Emma nods.
“Back in twenty minutes.”
And then he’s gone and Emma is alone in the apartment. She stretches. Her body feels heavy and warm and satisfied. She catches her reflection in the mirror over the dresser. Lit by the soft yellow light she looks almost beautiful, like an actress in a sexy French film, glamorous and languid, alone in her lover’s apartment in the evening.
Emma has a sudden urge to explore, and she slips out of bed and into her shirt. She loves walking down the long hallway in nothing but her shirt-she is in a sophisticated French film.
Emma walks into the master bedroom and stops. The vast sleigh bed stands dead center in the room like a surly watchdog. Emma gives it the finger. Poor rich bitch, Charles has never taken her to the places he took Emma today, no way. On the dresser sits a tiny kingdom of beautiful glass bottles. Emma opens one and holds it under her nose-it smells fresh and clean and full of hope. She dips the stopper and runs it along her neck and down into her shirt, between her breasts, around a nipple.
In the bathroom Emma looks at herself in the mirror wall. Her skin is glowing, her face infused with a confidence she’s never seen before. Slowly, defiantly, she begins to unbutton her shirt. It falls off her body and she stands there naked. She’s never looked at herself like this before. She’s a woman now and her body shows it: her bony, boyish angles have softened, her hips and breasts have filled out and, yes, they do have a lovely shape, graceful and smooth. She’s a woman and a writer and she has a lover and a book-a life.
Emma steps into the shower, the huge shower with its brushed-steel bench and shelf filled with expensive soaps and shampoos, everything glistening, and she turns on the faucet and the water sprays out, steaming, soothing, and she lets it beat down on her body, her strong beautiful body.
Wrapped in a thick towel and drying her hair, Emma walks across the bedroom and into rich bitch’s dressing room. It looks like a department store. One dress catches her eye, a plain black dress made of some material that seems to float as she takes it down. Emma turns to the full-length mirror, and holds the dress up in front of her. It has thin shoulder straps, and ends halfway down the thigh. It’s such a simple dress, and yet the cut, the cloth, and the feel are sublime. Emma imagines wearing it out to dinner with Charles in the summer, sitting at an outdoor cafe, elegant and famous and in love, watching the city go by. She hangs up the black dress and takes down a pale green one, full-length, silk, elegant, tight, with a mandarin collar and a row of tiny buttons running diagonally across the chest. She turns to the mirror-how wonderful! Like something you’d wear to the White House or to an opening night, on Charles’s arm, secure, serene, and beautiful.
“Green’s not your color.”
Emma gasps and whirls around. Anne Turner is standing in the doorway.
“I’m… I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was doing.”
Emma, her hands shaking, hangs the dress up and makes a move to leave. Anne blocks her way.
The point is, Emma, I do know what you’re doing.”
Rich bitch has her face all haughty and righteous. As if she were so perfect.
“You said you were going to give me some of your clothes, didn’t you? Remember-a few weeks ago, in the kitchen? Right after that phone call?”
Anne is stunned. Emma thinks she looks like a fucking cow, standing there with her mouth gaping open.
“Well, didn’t you?”
Anne takes a step backward. “I didn’t think you’d come and help yourself,” she says crisply.
“I’m just checking them out,” Emma says. She turns and runs a hand along the dresses.
“Anne, you’re home,” Charles says, walking into the room, shooting Emma a glance that says “I’ll handle this.”
“I’m home.”
“I thought your flight got in at midnight.”
Anne purses her lips and spits out, “We had favorable tailwinds.”
“I told Emma she could take a shower.”
“Did you also tell her to slip into something comfortable while she was at it?”
“Emma, the food is up front. I’ll be right there.”
Anne is alone with the bastard and there isn’t a lot of room to maneuver in the small space.
“Does she fuck as well as she types?”
“Don’t be vulgar, Anne.”
“You’re screwing your secretary in our apartment and you accuse me of being vulgar?”
Charles lowers his voice. “Anne, there’s something about Emma I haven’t told you.”
“I think I just figured it out on my own.”
“I’m using her, for the new book. I’m studying her, the way she talks, the way she thinks.”
“The way she makes love?”
“I let it go too far. Boundaries got blurred. I’m sorry.”
Anne looks at him, at that face, telling her that his work is more important than their marriage. Or is he just using that as an excuse to get his rocks off? She slaps him hard, so hard her palm burns. She stands there for a moment, not quite believing what’s happening. It’s all so wrong-that their marriage has come to this. And tomorrow she’s going to kill her baby.
“We had everything, Charles, everything. Why… why?”
He puts a hand on her shoulder.
“Don’t touch me! Don’t you dare touch me!”
Charles looks her right in the eye. “I won’t touch her again, that’s over. I promise you that. But try to understand. The last book was hell, and the truth is I’m afraid to let her go. I’ve grown dependent on her for this new book, in some way I don’t really understand. This is for our future.”
Anne can feel his fear and it makes her afraid. She’s confused and weary and soiled. She believes him-he is using the girl for his new book-but what kind of man does that make him?
“I don’t ever want her to set foot in this apartment again.”
“Fair enough. And I promise you that as soon as the book is finished, she’ll be out of our lives forever.”
Anne feels the fight go out of her. The fact that Emma is inspiring him hurts the most. A fuck is one thing, but that Emma could be such a part of his work, in a way that she’s never been… Suddenly all Anne wants is for him to be out of her sight, to be alone. A bath, a hot bath.
“I don’t know, Charles, I honestly don’t know.”
“I love you, Anne, and I’m very sorry.”
Without answering, Anne walks past him, through the bedroom and into the bathroom, locking the door behind her…
Charles races down the hallway toward the elevator. The door is closing-he sticks out his arm to stop it. It rolls open and he steps in. Emma is backed into the corner, her forearm covered with bloody scratches.
“Did Anne do that?”
She quickly rolls down her sleeve. “Leave me alone.”
My God, she did it to herself.
“I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”
She stares straight ahead as the elevator begins its descent.
“Emma, talk to me.”
“There’s nothing to say.”
“There’s everything to say.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Be reasonable.”
“Don’t you mean obedient?”
And she turns on him, fierce. A bloodstain appears on her sleeve. They both notice it. She turns away, breathing in quick, shallow gulps, her lower lip trembling. She might leave town, and the book isn’t finished; he needs her, needs to protect her-she’s suicidal, isn’t she?
“Emma, listen to me. I’m going to tell Anne I want a divorce.”
Emma tries to disguise her shock, and her hope-but it sparks in her eyes. She just keeps staring straight ahead. Charles lets his words sink in.
“And from now on, we’ll work at your place. You’ll never have to see her again. Emma, you must know you’re more important to me than she is. Didn’t we prove that today?”