Cynthia Hamilton - Madeline Dawkins 01 - Spouse Trap (8 page)

FOURTEEN

Madeline gave Mike what he asked for in a succinct outline, beginning at the ball. When she was finished, the line was so quiet, she had to ask if he was still there.

“Yep. I got every word of it. I’m just trying to digest it all. Jesus, what a fucking nightmare. What a
fucking
bastard!” Madeline kept quiet while he absorbed everything. “Oh my God, this is like one of those psychological thrillers. Holy Christ. What are you going to do?”

“I…I’m going to fight him. I don’t know how, exactly. It really all depends on what my P.I. can unearth. Oh shit, I forgot to tell you… According to Burt, Steven didn’t actually go to Dallas. He took a flight from Santa Barbara to L.A., but he got on a flight to Boston instead.”

“So, you think maybe
he’s
two-timing
you?”

“Why else would he make a big point of saying he’s got a business meeting in Dallas if he’s really going to Boston? Burt’s got his ‘feelers out’ to confirm his final destination.”

“Well, that was a good move on your part, hiring your own spook.” Mike became reflective again. “Maddie, Maddie, Maddie. You poor baby.
You
do not deserve shit like this. That son-of-a-bitch is very damn lucky he’s not within driving distance. I’d risk prison time to give him just a taste of what he deserves.”

Though she could tell Mike was almost as infuriated as she was, hearing his reaction was a balm for her raw nerves. She relaxed against the sofa, effectively letting some of her load transfer to her old friend and former lover.

“So, you’ve got a couple days left before that asshole gets back to town. What’s the agenda?”

“I hope I can get in to see an attorney, or at least set something up. I’m worried about money. I don’t know if he’s going to want anything up front. I really don’t have access to much, and who knows how long that’s going to last me—even without exorbitant legal fees. I’m thinking about selling my car…”

“What’s it worth?”

“I don’t know. It’s less than a year old. I think I’ve only put about 6,000 miles on it.”

“What’s the make, model and year? I’ll check it out on Kelley Blue Book,” Mike said as he logged onto his computer.

“It’s a 2011 Porsche Carrera S,” Madeline said, knowing she was going to get some ribbing for this. Mike let out a low whistle.

“Well, at least you’ve got some chips to play with. I take it the car’s in your name…?”

“Yes, it was a fortieth birthday present.”

“At least you got that out of him,” Mike said. His pragmatism struck her as being a little crass until she remembered who they were talking about. “I’ll assume it’s got everything but the butler… Okay…retail price, $91,300. Private party sale, $87,700. Does that make you feel any better?”

“A little. Now how do I go about selling it? I don’t have the time to be placing ads and dealing with inquiries,” Madeline said.

“I think you’d have better luck selling it down here—bigger market and bigger egos. What color is it?”

“Ruby red.”

“Nice.
Sure you don’t want to just give it to me? After all we’ve meant to each other?” Madeline let out a soft snort. “Okay, just checking…”

“I don’t see how I can sell it down there while I’m up here—unless I take it to a dealer, but I wouldn’t get as much for it.”

“When will you know if you’re coming down?”

“I don’t know. It depends on if I can get in to see an attorney down there. I’ve got a list of things I need to take care of up here… I don’t know—I’ll just have to wing it.”

“Alright, when you know what your agenda’s going to be, call me. I’m not sure what help I can offer, but I’ll do anything for you, Maddie. You know that.”

These were the words she’d been craving to hear. She let all the air escape from her lungs. It made her feel like she was ridding her body of toxic gases. At least she had one more person on her side.

When Madeline awoke from a deep slumber, she yawned and stretched, a peaceful expression on her face. But reality soon sabotaged her naturally sunny disposition. She sat up abruptly and took stock of her surroundings and registered their implications. She sighed heavily, her spirits taking a tumble as she came to grips with all the chores and errands on her list, none of them qualifying as habitudes.

She allowed herself five more minutes to get adjusted to her new status and review the objectives of the day on her mental list. After plotting a path that would take her through Santa Barbara and Los Angeles—hopefully—she got up and availed herself of the complimentary coffee. Once she got that brewing, she took a quick shower and got herself physically and mentally ready for the long day ahead of her.

Had she been thinking more clearly, she would’ve grabbed more impressive clothing from the main house, outfits that would subtly announce her station in life. But she had brought more serviceable pieces—black slacks, boots, cashmere sweaters for layering. She put on the pants and a cream-colored sleeveless sweater and a long, open-front cashmere cardigan with bell sleeves. It was all elegant, expensive attire, but it made her feel drab. And forty. And almost divorced.

As she was putting on her diamond studs, it hit her she had bags of new finery perfect for transforming her look. Hurriedly, she grabbed the shopping bags from the closet and rummaged through them until she found what she was looking for. She pulled off her boots and slipped her feet into the zebra-striped pony hair Manolo slingbacks.

“Now we’re talking,” she said, as she admired her enhanced ensemble. “The necklace!” she remembered as she contemplated her reflection from the waist up. She rooted around the piles of tissue paper until she found the small box with the silver chain and pendant. “Perfect,” she declared, admiring the way it pulled everything together. She grabbed her Prada tote bag, gave herself one more look for courage and left the room.

As she strode through the lobby to the front door, the day manager hastened to catch up with her.

“Mrs. Ridley? Hi, I’m Jeff Bowen,” he said, extending his hand. Madeline, puzzled and a little annoyed by the interruption, was slow to shake it. “If I might have a word with you, in my office,” Mr. Bowen said, his voice just above a whisper. His cautiously discreet manner was like a blow to Madeline’s solar plexus, but she covered it with an air of pragmatic efficiency. She nodded for him to lead the way.

“We tried to process the card number we got from you yesterday, and we received a message to call the issuer of credit immediately. They told us the card was reported stolen last night,” Jeff Bowen said from his side of the desk.

“That’s not possible. I’ve had it in my possession the whole time, and I certainly didn’t report it stolen,” Madeline said, as she removed it from her wallet to prove this was all some sort of mistake. The way Mr. Bowen’s eyes were glued to the card caused Madeline to retract it from his reach.

“Since Burt Latham made the reservation for you, we contacted him first thing this morning. He explained that you are going through a divorce and that it’s becoming rather acrimonious.

“Because of our relationship with him, and our regard for our clientele, I have to tell you we were ordered by the creditor to seize your card. If you can pay the balance of your bill in full by another means, I’ll tell them we were unable to retrieve the card. But if you try to use that card again, it will be confiscated. Just a word of warning,” Mr. Bowen said.

He was trying to walk the tightrope of bearer of bad news and welcoming host, not an easy thing to do. Madeline almost felt sorry for him. She put the now useless card back in her wallet and took out her new debit card, which she handed to him without a word.

“Thank you. I’ll be just a minute,” he said as he excused himself, leaving Madeline to fume in private.

This humiliation had chased away the last bit of doubt and naiveté. Steven was going to systematically beat her down; that was obvious now. But he had already blown her out of the water by demanding a divorce; why was he wasting his time with stunts like this? Just to prove he’s in the driver’s seat? Maybe it was to make himself so odious to her that she’d back off her claim that she’d never stop loving him.

“I’m sorry for all the unpleasantness, Mrs. Ridley,” Mr. Bowen said as he came back into his office. Madeline stood and took the proffered debit card, placing it back in her wallet while the manager fumbled over himself trying to smooth over the incident.

“It’s no problem, Mr. Bowen,” she said as she moved toward the door. “It’s all forgotten. Could you please have my car brought around? I’m running behind now.”

It was all Madeline could do to keep her impulses in check and keep her Porsche somewhere within ten miles of the speed limits. Her embarrassment had given way to pure, black hatred and a hankering for revenge. She took the surface roads to the fitness club, and was surprised by the number of cars on the road so early. She parked in the almost full lot and went inside.

The club was like a city within a city. Members and staff were everywhere: the squash courts were thrumming with the constant
thwak
and
thump
of balls and the occasional muffled curse. Madeline waited her turn at the reception counter, as members received towels and locker keys.

“Good morning,” a college-aged employee greeted her. Madeline returned the salutation and told the girl she wanted to become a member. This caused the girl’s face to cloud over. “I’m sorry, the sales staff doesn’t arrive until ten.” Madeline grimaced and let out a weary sigh. This day was not starting well.

“Isn’t there anyone who can help me?” The girl shook her head apologetically. Madeline looked at her watch, not bothering to hide her irritation. It was quarter to eight.

“Let me just get this man his key. Hi Eric! How’s it going? Good! Have a nice day. Sorry about that,” the girl said, feeling the ire exuding from Madeline and heading her way.

“Can I just have a form to fill out and then bring it back later—save a little time…?” The girl wobbled her head sadly.

“I’m sorry, but we don’t have access to those forms. But if you come back between ten and four, there will be someone here who can help you.” Madeline’s gaze had wandered while she listened to this unwelcome news. She was searching for some way to salvage the time spent on the trip over.

“Is there someone who can show me the facilities, so I can make sure I really want to join?”

“Oh sure—one of us can do that,” the girl replied happily. She looked at her coworkers who had become subliminally aware of the situation.

“I can do it,” another twenty-something said, abandoning the report she was running. “Give me one sec,” she said before disappearing to the back. She returned a moment later with brochures and motioned for Madeline to follow her.

“Hi, my name’s Stacy,” she said as she walked briskly down the hallway. Madeline smiled politely and told Stacy her first name.

After a cursory run-through of the facilities—which were much larger than they appeared from the exterior—Stacy showed Madeline the women’s locker room and showers. Madeline thanked her for the tour and said she’d be back later to sign up.

At least it wasn’t a complete waste of time,
Madeline thought as she got back into her car. Now she’d be able to skip all that later. But the real question would be if she could be back before four o’clock. She glanced at her watch: 8:01. She searched for Barry Houstien’s number and hoped her luck would start to improve.

“Houstien Marcus & Winthorpe,” a curt, professional voice announced. “How may I direct your call?”

“I’d like to make an appointment with Mr. Houstien.”

“And your name, please?”

“Madeline Ridley.”

“I’ll connect you to Mr. Houstien’s assistant. One moment, please.” Madeline thanked the abrupt silence and waited to find out what the next hurdle would be. After four minutes filled with anxious ponderings, a woman’s soft voice came on the line.

“This is Ms. Wendt. I’m Mr. Houstien’s personal assistant. Am I speaking to Ms. Ridley?”

“Mrs. Ridley. Madeline Ridley. Soon to be the ex-Mrs. Steven Ridley.”

“How can I help you, Mrs. Ridley?” Madeline could hear the soft clack-clack of a keyboard as Ms. Wendt logged the conversation. Madeline took a deep breath, hoping she could get her point across before being put on hold again or simply dismissed.

“My husband is trying to use a clause in our prenuptial agreement to divorce me without a settlement or alimony. I have reason to believe he has manufactured evidence which supposedly proves I violated the infidelity clause. He has pictures of me in a compromising position, which I believe were taken after I had been drugged at a social event, of which I was the co-chair.” Madeline paused and waited for the clacking to end and Ms. Wendt’s response.

“So, you believe your husband is fraudulently trying to accuse you of adultery in order to enforce the infidelity clause of your prenup. Have I got that right?”

“Yes. And I have copies of the photos of the alleged affair.”

“How did you obtain these photos?”

“My husband presented them to me before he demanded I move out of the house.”

“You are both California residents, I presume?”

“Yes.”

“With a California marriage certificate?”

“Yes.” Madeline heard more clacking while she waited for the verdict.

“Mr. Houstien has a very full case load right now,” Ms. Wendt informed her. There was a message within this statement; it took Madeline a couple beats to understand what was being asked of her. She didn’t hesitate.

“I was referred to you by Michelle Lambert, the wife of Herb Lambert, the film producer. They’re neighbors of mine.”

“If I could have you hold for just one more moment, Mrs. Ridley…” Madeline let go of the air she had been holding and sat back listening to the Musak playing softly on the line.

“Mrs. Ridley, I was able to speak to Mr. Houstien regarding your situation. He can see potentially being able to help you with your matter. As I said, he
is
rather swamped right now, but if you could be at our offices on Wilshire Boulevard at 11:20, we’ll fit you in. Will that work for you?”