But if I played that game today, with Marie as my cheating significant other, I’d have a different answer. No. Don’t tell
me. Keep your trap shut. Because if I ever found out she’d done that, loved another guy that way, once I had that image blistering
in my brain, I’d be forced to break up with her. Or live with it. And either way, I wouldn’t be able to eat or sleep or breathe,
which means I’d probably croak, quick. So the best option would be never to know. And if she has a twinge of guilt, that’s
fine—she should—let her go to a priest or rabbi or Rosie and spill the whole affair and get it all off her chest, cry a river
of tears if need be, but don’t tell me. Let me play the oblivious fool till the day I die.
But I can’t do that to her.
I get up from the bed. “I slept with Katharine.”
The way I say it, apropos of nothing, I can tell she doesn’t know who I’m talking about—Katharine
who
?—then she does, and then she’s grasping at the other part—that I
slept
with her—and then she’s trying to put the two together: that Mitch, her fiancé, slept with Katharine Longwell.
“The day we ran into Hannah and you found out who I really was. I flew to Chicago that night and we talked about my book and
had dinner and slept together.”
There’s a mighty relief in saying it, finally getting it off my chest, and it’s clear now that we could’ve never started a
life together, not an honest one, without my telling her. But keep this in mind about getting something off your chest: once
it leaves there, it goes somewhere else. In this case, that’s Marie, and all she keeps hearing is, “I slept with Katharine,
I slept with Katharine.” I’m losing her fast.
“Marie, please, listen to me. I saw that look on your face in the mall, when you told me never to touch you again. I panicked.
I did something stupid and cowardly and horrible, and I’m so sorry, and it’s the worst thing I’ve ever done. But you need
to know, I only did it because I thought we were over.”
Silence. She doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, no tears, no words. She just sits there. It’s haunting, really. And it’s beginning
to dawn on me that when she finally does come around, there’s no way we’ll be able to work through this tonight, or sleep
in the same bed or room or hotel. One of us has to go.
I
need to go. But I’m not going to make the same mistake I did the first time; I’m going to say what I need to say.
“I did an awful thing, Marie. I know that. But I love you. And I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”
She says just the sort of thing that you’d expect in a situation like this: nothing.
I slip into my clothes and don’t bother to comb my hair or grab any toiletries, and I barely remember my wallet and don’t
even try to get my watch, because it’s on the nightstand on her side, and the whole time I don’t look her way, don’t say a
word, and best as I can tell she still hasn’t moved. Only when I have my jacket on and I’m standing in front of the door do
I hear something from her, which sounds like her clearing her throat, and I allow myself to turn her way.
“Why now?” she asks. She’s still on the bed, still with her arms wrapped around her legs, and I can tell she wants to be strong
and furious, but her voice is twisted-up and whispery. “Why did you tell me now?”
I think I know the answer.
Because I wanted to give you the power to crush me, because I’ve done something to crush you
. But I don’t say that. I stare as long as I can bear it into those beautiful, terrible eyes.
“I thought you deserved to know.”
And then I go.
I’m out on the street and it’s after ten, and the voices that visited me the day after Thanksgiving to tell me it was over
with Marie show up again, now in Dolby surround sound. And I don’t suppose it’d be too hard in New York City to find something—or
someone—to take my mind off everything for a while. But of course, that’s what got me into trouble in the first place, so
this time I hit the mute button, unplug the system, toss the whole thing into the sewer. I find another hotel, which costs
a fortune. I zone out in front of TV and keep my cell phone on, in case she calls, but she doesn’t. Nor does she call the
next morning, but I don’t panic. She didn’t want to come anyway, even before I dropped the bomb on her, so I put on last night’s
clothes and head for the meeting, reminding myself that I did everything I possibly could last night to let her know how I
feel. I’ll handle this. We’ll get through this. I won’t do anything stupid. (That is, other than telling her I slept with
Katharine in the first place.)
I get to Michael’s right at noon, and I’m led past modern art and chrome chairs and numbered booths filled with people who
look like they’re someones to a larger, airy room with lots of windows and a garden out back. Katharine is already at the
table, in a violet cashmere sweater with her hair pulled back, and she looks even better than last time, if possible. (Of
course, I also saw her naked last time, so this clothed version is competing with
that
version and doing funny things to my head.) Brent’s hair is longer, blonder, and he’s swapped the brown leather blazer for
black. Susannah reminds me of Judi Dench: short cropped gray hair, sparkly blue eyes, stylish pantsuit. They all look great.
The man who doesn’t look so great, at least compared to the trés chic trio, is Sheldon Leifer, publisher at Regency House.
He’s bald and has grizzled whiskers and a wrinkled forehead, and he’s the kind of guy that if he were a dog, once he got a
stick in his mouth, you’d never get it back. We shake hands and I take a seat next to Katharine.
“I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” I say.
Sheldon waves it off. “No problem, Mitch. We just walked in ourselves. We were about to order drinks. What can I get you?”
“A soda would be fine.”
“Come on, kid. Your cousin’s getting a book published. We’re tossing around a few mazel tovs, celebrating. Now, what can I
get you?”
“I guess I’ll have a glass of wine.”
“Good man.” He turns to the others. “How about I order a bottle of the Martelet de Cherisey?”
Katharine, Susannah, and Brent nod. It’s obvious Sheldon is used to getting nods. He signals to the waiter, who practically
trips over himself to get right over.
Katharine lays a hand on my shoulder and leans in. “And when will Bradley be joining us?” she says in a low voice.
I try to keep a pleasant face. “She wasn’t feeling so well this morning.”
“Which means she’s running late?”
“Well… maybe worse.”
“How much worse?”
I shake my head. “To be honest, I don’t think she’ll be able to make it.”
“What do you mean she won’t be able to make it?” It comes out a little like a hiss. “Mitch, it’s the one thing I asked you.”
“I’m sorry, Katharine. This was out of my control.”
She gives me a hard stare, and Brent, who has obviously picked up on her tone and body language, gives me one too. Susannah
frowns.
Sheldon glances over. “Katharine, dear, is there a problem?”
She adjusts one of her bracelets. “Um, well, perhaps. We might have an author who’s ill this morning.”
“But she’s coming.”
She readjusts the same bracelet. “Well, that’s just it… she may not be able to make it.”
Sheldon looks at me like I’m to blame, though he knows I’m not, though I am. But I’m not telling. “That’s not good,” he says
in a way I find menacing.
“It’s really no problem. Sir. I can do whatever needs doing. I’ve been handling it all along.”
He gives one of those chuckles that lets you know he’s the opposite of amused. “Hey, kid, that may all be well and good, but
I need to meet with the author.
Capiche
? And since that ain’t you, I’m starting to think that maybe we can all have a pleasant drink together, a good chat, but in
the end we’re just wasting our time.”
I can tell that they’re all upset with me. But what if she really were sick? Would that be my fault?
Sheldon gives Katharine a look. “I thought we had an arrangement here,” he says, his voice steely.
Katharine swallows, and for the first time since I’ve known her, she’s at a loss for words. It’s her chance to throw me under
the bus. “I’m sorry, Sheldon.”
Everything is crashing down in front of my eyes: I’ve embarrassed Katharine in front of a high-profile publisher, Sheldon
may bust my kneecaps, even Brent has turned against me. Susannah doesn’t even know me and already hates me. The fallout from
this will be enormous, and the sound of contracts being shredded pierces my brain.
“Hello. Sorry I’m late.” We all turn to the voice. Marie.
I just sit there, mute as my fork, but Katharine practically leaps from her seat.
“Bradley!” she trills.
Marie doesn’t nod, doesn’t say yes, but she does manage a smile, which, in this situation, is all she needs to do.
Katharine gives her a quick hug, then introduces her to everyone. She takes the chair next to me, avoiding my gaze.
Sheldon gives her a look over the top of his glasses. “Sweetheart, you just saved your cousin here from getting the old heave-ho
out to the sidewalk,” he says, and they all laugh.
The wine has come out and everyone’s smiling now, even Marie, though I’m not sure what’s plastered on my face. It must be
okay, whatever it is, since no one has pointed at me to say, “Oh my god, look at him!”
“First, my compliments on the book,” says Katharine. She lays her hand on Marie’s, and I can only imagine how this makes Marie
feel. “You did a wonderful job.” Sheldon echoes the sentiment, as do Susannah and Brent, all of their faces considerably thawed
since Marie’s arrival.
Marie bows her head. “Thank you. And thanks, all of you, for bringing this about. But as I’m sure Mitch explained, I’m not
one for the spotlight. I just wanted to stop in and say hi and thank everyone, because I knew that was important to you, Mr.
Leifer. But I really must be going.”
Sheldon looks disappointed. “Stay. Chat. Order some food. I have this beautiful bottle of wine, I’ll order a second.”
“That’s very nice. But if I could be on my way, please, I’d be very grateful.”
“Then as you wish, my dear. I’ll make this brief.”
Sheldon picks up his wineglass—“A toast,” he says—and we all follow suit, except Marie. She picks up her water goblet.
“Bad luck to toast with water, darling,” Sheldon remarks.
“I’m sorry. This is the best I can do right now.”
“Then good enough,” he says. He holds his glass higher. “To Bradley. Welcome to the Regency family. May your time with us
be healthy and prosperous.”
“Here here,” we all chime in.
Marie barely takes a swig of her water and puts it down. “And now, if you’ll excuse me. I assume Mitch can handle everything
from here.” She stands up and pushes her chair in. “Again, thank you for all you’ve done.”
She smiles again to the group and we all say goodbye, then she’s off, weaving her way through the tables to the front door,
and as she does so, I hear Sheldon say he plans to rush the book through production, six months tops, and absolutely no author
photo for the jacket, to play up the mystery of it all, and Katharine agrees, then I realize they’ve asked my opinion.
“Great. Listen, I need to make sure she’s okay.”
I dart to the front door and outside, where I’m met by a frigid blast of January air and a million people. But Marie hasn’t
gotten far. She’s on the corner, waving for a taxi.
“Marie, wait up!”
I push my way upstream through a wave of bodies to get to her.
“Can you believe it, Marie? We did it!
You
did it. You were fantastic in there. They loved you. You couldn’t have been any better if you actually were Bradley.”
I step forward to give her a hug, but she stiffens, pulls back. I freeze.
“Marie… ?”
She takes a breath, which immediately disappears over her shoulder as a ribbon of vapor. “You didn’t have to tell me, Mitch.
You could’ve kept me in the dark about the whole thing, played it off like it never happened, and I never would’ve found out.
You know that. But you did tell me, even though you knew I could walk in there today and spill my guts and ruin everything
for you. You gave me that much. So that’s why I came.”
Her eyes are turning glassy.
“But I spent the whole night tossing and turning and crying, that image of you and Katharine…
together
, playing out in my head. But you know what made it worse? Wondering where you’d gone and what you were up to, and had you
gone back to her, and were you doing it again,
right now
. Can you imagine how that made me feel, thinking my fiancé was out screwing someone else?”
Sick. Insane. Just the way it’d make me feel.
She gives me a bitter stare. “So did you?”
I deserve that.
“No, Mitch, don’t just stand there. This isn’t a fucking rhetorical question. I want you to look me in the eye and give me
an answer. Did you sleep with Katharine last night?”
“Marie. No. God. I got a hotel and went to bed. That’s it. That’s the truth.”
“That’s such a comfort, coming from you.
Jason
.” She says it with a meanness I’ve never heard from her. “And you didn’t even think about it, going off to a bar, club, some
place to take your mind off us, do something stupid?”
I’m silent.
“Jesus, you
did
.”
“Maybe something crazy flashed through my head, I don’t know. We all get crazy thoughts. The important thing is I didn’t
do
anything.”
“
This
time. But what about the next? Or the next? Can’t you see, Mitch, that’s what I’ll always be wondering, what about the next
time? What if things get dark enough or bleak enough and you think it’s over, so you go off and do something again?”
You can see how angry and disgusted she is with herself for having these thoughts, for grilling me like this, for being backed
into this corner in the first place, and I want to sweep her off the sidewalk, take her back to the hotel room, sit her down,
and tell her this is all a horrible misunderstanding. But the Marie I know and love has checked out of her skin and I’m talking
to someone else.