How to Kill Your Husband (10 page)

“No,” Claire said. “I gotta throw up.”

She took off with a hand over her mouth. It didn't feel like she was going to make it, but nothing came up until she was safely hovering over the toilet. With some of the liquor gone, Claire's head cleared a few degrees. She thought about the new plans they made and felt like she was on the right track.

Contrary to what she told her friends, Claire definitely felt George was cheating on her, but that didn't matter tonight. Tonight she felt good, and according to the mirror in the ladies room, she still looked good, too.

As if for confirmation, a nice-looking Jewish fellow hit on her when she left the restroom.

“Oh, no. No thanks,” Claire told him. “I'm married. He's dead to me, but he's still mine. For now…”

CHAPTER NINE

MAKE A MOVE

Two weeks passed without incident.

Claire didn't think she could live with someone she utterly despised for that long, but it was just an issue of mind over matter. When they lived in Alaska some ten years ago, George had a big, ugly St. Bernard named Chuck. Claire hated that dog, but George wasn't around much, and Chuck became her responsibility. She walked him, played fetch, and even let him slobber on her a few times. Claire decided if she could pooper-scoop those monster turds day after day for two years, then certainly she could tolerate a nastier dog named
George
for another month or so.

The girls made plans to follow his sorry ass a few more times, but George was stuck at the office the past two Fridays. Claire considered that good news, figuring he wasn't able to commit adultery if he really was at work, but Melanie wouldn't let her fall into that pathetic groove of acceptance.

What if he's going straight to her house after work?
she would ask.
What if he's having lunch with her every day? Just 'cause he's not doing it on his poker night doesn't mean he's not doing it.

Claire took all of that in and remained vigilant. Deep inside she wished the affair would just blow over, but things didn't seem to be headed in that direction. She watched her husband like a hawk for fourteen days, and George's pattern of infidelity became clear. He came in late from work smelling like Irish Springs
soap on three separate occasions. Once he brought home the scent of a strange perfume.

* * *

On a pleasant Wednesday afternoon, three weeks after the original stakeout, Claire took Becky to lunch at a newly opened French bistro. The
quiche aux poireaux
was divine, and the
salade aux lardoons
was interesting. Midway through the meal, their waiter even offered them two complimentary glasses of wine. Claire was pleasantly surprised, but she told him they had to go back to work after the meal. Becky voiced her disapproval when he left the table.

“Man, you're such a stickler.”

Claire cocked an eye. “A
stickler
?”

“You know,
stickler for the rules
.”

Claire frowned at her friend and shook her head. “Becky, you can't call someone a
stickler
without saying
stickler for the rules
. Stickler makes no sense by itself.”

“My son calls me a stickler,” Becky said.

“That's sweet,” Claire said. “But in your case it's a term of endearment.”

Today Becky wore a black skirt with a turquoise blouse. Claire still wasn't at the point of wearing skirts to work, but she did have on a yellow blouse with her navy blue slacks. She had on eyeliner and a little lipstick as well.

“No way are you going to still feel that wine by the time we get back to work,” Becky said.

Claire checked her watch. “We have to leave in fifteen minutes. And it only takes ten minutes to get back to the office. You'll be sitting at your desk at thirteen-hundred, still buzzed.”

Becky laughed at her.

“What?”

“You said ‘
thirteen-hundred,
' ” Becky pointed out.

Claire thought about it and frowned. “Damn that man,” she said. “You know, he walks around the house doing that all the time: ‘
Come on, girls. Get a move on. It's oh-six-forty-five, and we're leaving at oh-seven hundred!
'”

Becky giggled at her George impersonation. “You're good at that.”

Claire rolled her eyes. “Try listening to it for sixteen years.”

Becky nodded and her smile faded a few degrees. She put her elbows on the table and laced her fingers together as if praying. She rested her chin on her knuckles and stared into her friend's eyes.

“What?” Claire asked.

“How's it going with George?” Becky asked. “What did he smell like last night?”

“Like regular man funk,” Claire said. “He came straight home from work.”

“I don't see how you can do it,” her friend said. “If Brent ever came home smelling like a
fresh shower
, I would have had it out with him right then.”

“Patience is a virtue,” Claire said and looked away uneasily.

“You don't want to kill him anymore?” Becky asked.

“We decided not to do that, remember?”

“Yeah, but we didn't decide to do
nothing
,” Becky said. “We haven't done any more stakeouts or anything.”

“He didn't play poker the last two weeks,” Claire said. “I told you that.”

“Yeah, Claire. You did…”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

Becky shrugged. “I don't know. It just seems like you're okay with the way things are, like you're glad he didn't play poker because you didn't want to follow him anyway.”

“I
don't
want to follow him,” Claire said. “I told you so.”

“So if he doesn't play poker anymore, you're done with it?” Becky asked. “You're going to forget everything you already know? Pretend he's not taking showers before he gets home?”

Claire put her fork down, and her stomach rolled with discomfort. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Have you searched the office again?”

Claire shook her head.

“That doesn't seem odd to you?” Becky asked.

“What are you saying?”

Becky shrugged again. “I don't know, Claire. It just seems like you're trying to back away from everything. You're hoping it will just go away.”

Claire hated her friend for being so damned perceptive. Her nose filled with moisture and a tear fell from her left eye. She wiped it casually and sniffled quietly. “I don't want to cry every time we go out to lunch, Becky.”

Becky reached across the table and held her hand. “Honey, I don't want you to cry. I just don't want you to get complacent, like you're going to accept his mistress.”

“I'm not accepting her.”

“You're not going to kill him anymore, which is good, but you're not searching the office, you're not following him around, and you're not calling a divorce lawyer, either.”

“
Oh, God
.” Claire put her hands to her face. “You think that's what I'm doing, accepting it?”

Their waiter approached the table with their bill, and Becky shooed him away quietly. She reached for the tissues in her purse, but she didn't need them. Claire put her hands down and she wasn't crying anymore. She looked tired, and worn out.

“Here,” Becky said. She removed a business card from her wallet and slid it across the table. Claire took it and grinned at the name printed in bold lettering.

“
Trevor Smiley
?”

“Don't let the name throw you off,” Becky said. “He's good, and handsome, too.”

“Becky, I don't care what he looks like.”

“I'm just saying,” Becky said, still digging in her purse. She took out her cellphone, pushed a few buttons, and then handed it to Claire. But Claire wouldn't take it.

“What's that?”

“I'm calling him for you.”

Claire's heart leapt up in her throat. “What? I don't—
what are you doing
?”

“Take it,” Becky said.

“No!”

Becky tossed the phone into Claire's lap and threw up her hands. Claire had to scramble for the cellular because it was going to hit the floor. Someone answered as soon as she got hold of it.

“
Burns and Smiley
.”

Claire looked at the phone, and then she stared at Becky with her mouth ajar. Becky smiled and leaned back in her seat.

“
Burns and Smiley
?”

Claire put the phone to her ear hesitantly.

“Huh, hello?”

“Hi!” a chirpy female responded. “You've reached the law offices of Nathan Burns and Trevor Smiley.”

Claire took a deep breath. Her mouth was very dry. “Um, yeah…” She wiped at the beads of sweat forming on her forehead. “I, uh, I think I need a lawyer.”

“
Okay
,” the receptionist hummed. “Mr. Burns and Mr. Smiley are both
divorce lawyers
. Do you need a
divorce lawyer
?”

The woman was talking down to her, and that brought Claire to her senses. If she was at work, someone would have gotten told off. She rolled her eyes at Becky and took a deep breath.

“Yes,” she breathed.

“Okay,” the receptionist said. “Would you like to make an appointment to consult with a lawyer?”

“How much are the consultation fees?”

Becky was shaking her head.

“There are no consultation fees,” the secretary said.

“Well then, yes. I suppose so,” Claire said. “I would like to make an appointment to see a lawyer,” she stated more firmly.

“Would you like to see Mr. Burns or Mr. Smiley—or does it matter?”

“Hold on,” Claire said. She put a hand over the phone. “They want to know which one I want to see,” she told Becky.

“
Trevor
!” Becky said quickly. “He's the cute one.”

“I don't care if he's cute,” Claire snapped.

“He's the one I used,” Becky said. “He's
really
good.”

Claire frowned at her as she said to the receptionist, “I would like to see Mr. Smiley.”

“Okay,” the woman said. “Hmm, you know what? Mr. Smiley had a cancellation this afternoon. Would you like to come in at two?”

Claire put a hand over the phone again. Her heart banged in her chest.

“They want me to go today!” she hissed.

“When?”

“At two.”

“Well go!” Becky said. “What's the problem?”

“I'll still be at work,” Claire whispered.

“You can take the rest of the day off,” Becky said knowingly. “You've got like,
perfect attendance
.”

That was true.

“I can come at two,” Claire told the lady on the phone. “But I have to pick up my kids at thrwr, three-thirty.” She moved her tongue around, but still couldn't get any saliva. “This isn't going to take more than an hour, is it?”

Becky started shaking her head again.

“No,” the receptionist confirmed. “An hour would be the longest for a first consultation.”

“Okay,” Claire said. “So, I guess I'll be there at two.”

“Do you need directions?”

“No,” Claire said, still shooting daggers across the table. “I was referred by a friend. I'm sure she can tell me where you are.”

“Who referred you?” the secretary asked.

“Becky Adair.”

“
Ooh
, could you tell her Pat said hi? I miss Becky. She's great.”

“Yeah,” Claire said sarcastically. “She's a real
peach
.”

* * *

Claire didn't have any problems at all getting off a little early that afternoon. She requested personal time so infrequently, her manager automatically assumed the worst. After she assured him everyone was all right and she would be in bright and early the next day, he let her clock out at 1:30. Claire got into her Lexus and headed downtown.

She pulled into the underground garage at the Mallick Towers twenty minutes later and then sat there for an additional five minutes debating whether she should even get out of her car. It wasn't that she wanted to accept what George was doing; it was that she knew she really couldn't prove anything. The only thing they knew for sure was that her husband took a strange woman to dinner.

And he gave you the wrong gift for your anniversary.

And you found that card.

And he bathes before he comes home sometimes.

And he smelled like perfume that one time…

Claire still didn't think that was enough.

If you're not sure what to do, then sit your fool ass down and don't do anything.

That was George talking in her head, and that was the one thought that got her moving. Claire was done listening to the likes of him, in real life and in her mind.