Things You Won't Say (10 page)

Simon was going to be her first client.

He’d texted that he was working late again and would meet her at her apartment around 10:00
P.M.
In the early days of their relationship, he’d taken her to dinner or the theater. Now she was nothing but an occasional booty call. She’d typed back something flirty and brief, to avoid making him suspicious. Then she’d put on her disguise.

She slid her camera into her shoulder bag, put on her sunglasses, and headed to her Miata. She figured he wouldn’t be leaving the office before 6:00
P.M.
, since he’d never ducked out early even during the hot, heady days of their relationship. His office was on K Street in downtown D.C., a busy avenue where you couldn’t park during rush hour. Her plan was to drive to the Metro, then take the train downtown and linger near the glass-walled lobby of Simon’s building. That way she could observe him if he left on foot, but she could also keep an eye on the exit to the garage in case he drove somewhere.

She didn’t know what she’d do if he took off in his car. D.C. had plenty of cabs, but it wasn’t like New York, where ones sped by with the regularity of seconds ticking past on a clock. At least traffic would work in her favor; most streets were gridlocked during rush hour, which meant if she hurried, she
could probably keep an eye on Simon’s car until she managed to wave down a cab. It wasn’t a foolproof plan, but it was the best she could come up with.

Forty-five minutes later, she was outside Simon’s office, sweltering in the heat. Why hadn’t she considered the fact that it was summertime before she’d put on the trench coat? She positioned herself so that she was out of the line of view of the security guard manning the desk in the lobby, took out her iPhone, and prepared to wait.

After an hour, though, her calves ached, her scalp was soaked with sweat under her wig, and she could feel blisters forming on her heels. She was certain Simon hadn’t left yet. She’d seen dozens of men exit the building, all looking vaguely alike in their dark suits and wingtips, but Simon wasn’t among them.

Was it possible he’d been telling the truth?

Simon wasn’t anything like the men she’d dated in the past. She usually went for strong, silent types, bad boys who took her to pool halls or pressed up against her at bars. She’d been on the back of more than one motorcycle, and she’d had her name tattooed on two different biceps. Simon was different. She’d met him at a bookstore, of all places. She’d taken Henry there on a Saturday afternoon because he’d gotten a gift certificate for his birthday, and she’d gone to the little coffee shop to get a latte. Simon was sitting there, reading
The Wall Street Journal,
wearing jeans with ironed creases down the front (after their third date, she’d gently suggested he have his cleaning lady stop doing that). The café was busy, and when Christie got her drink, she’d stood there for a moment, wondering where to sit. Simon had looked up, assessed the situation, and gestured for her to take the empty chair at his table.

“Thanks,” she’d said. As she put down her latte, a little liquid had sloshed over the rim of her cup, onto the table.

Simon had put down his newspaper and reached for his napkin, which was as crisp and fresh as the rest of him.

“Thank you,” she’d said, giving him a closer look as he cleaned up the spill. He wasn’t ugly; he was just bland. He was on the thin side and wore his straight, gingery hair combed from a side part. He had on wire-rimmed glasses, a watch that was so plain it had to be expensive, and a striped oxford shirt. His teeth were very white and had obviously been coached into a perfect arc by an orthodontist. She ran her tongue over her own top teeth—one of the front ones tilted in toward the other, but some men told her it was sexy—and decided she could use a little more politeness in her life. The last guy she’d dated had called her a bitch when they’d argued about what movie to see.

When Simon didn’t pick his newspaper back up, she’d known he was going to ask her out, and he had, after they’d chatted for a few minutes. After giving him her phone number, she’d excused herself and gone to look for Henry, before he could come to her. She wasn’t planning to hide her son forever, but there wasn’t any need to advertise the fact that she had a teenager just yet.

They’d gone to dinner a few nights later. She’d been waiting in the lobby of her apartment building when he pulled up, because she wasn’t ready to let him see her place, either. She’d walked outside as he stepped out of the car, and he’d hurried to open the passenger-side door of his Porsche before she reached it. Christie knew about cars; enough of the men she’d dated had been obsessed by them. One had even had a photograph of Simon’s exact vehicle pinned up in his garage.

He took her to a restaurant with gleaming wooden booths and dim lighting and hushed voices, and when the waiter handed him a thick wine list bound in leather, Simon didn’t need to look at it. “Do you like Argentinian reds?” he asked Christie. “The Casa Lapostolle is good, if we want to go with a Cabernet. It’s smoky, with hints of berry. Or we could try a Pinot Grigio if you’re in the mood for a lighter meal . . .”

“You choose,” she said, feeling unexpectedly shy. Were you
supposed to put the napkin on your lap the moment you sat down, or were you supposed to wait until the food arrived?

When the waiter brought the wine, Simon went through the ritual of smelling the cork and tasting a sip before crisply nodding his approval. Something about his authority gave him a shot of sex appeal, Christie thought. The waiter poured her a glass and she raised it to her lips. It felt velvety against her tongue, and tasted so different from anything she’d had in the past. She didn’t dislike wine; she’d just never had any worth drinking, she realized.

She took another swallow, a bigger one this time. Simon had chosen the red, and she hoped it wasn’t staining her teeth.

Two glasses later, her confidence had come rushing back. She could tell Simon was a little intoxicated, and not because of the alcohol. He couldn’t stop staring at her. She was wearing a patterned wrap dress from T. J. Maxx, cut low enough that every time she leaned forward—and she made sure to do that often—her creamy, lush breasts were on display. They were absolutely her best feature, even if they’d begun to droop a bit. But a lacy push-up bra took care of that issue.

She visualized the type of woman Simon had dated in the past: yardstick-thin with hair severely scraped into a bun; wearing pantsuits and frowning as she earnestly discussed her rose garden and blue-chip stocks.

Yawn,
she thought, and she launched into a story of her co-worker at the hair salon, the woman who’d accidentally cut a customer’s finger with scissors when the customer had put her cell phone to her ear.

“I mean, it wasn’t her fault!” Christie said, giggling. Simon was laughing, too. “She whipped out that phone the second it rang. I bet the person on the other end was surprised to hear her scream instead of say hello.”

Over tender filet and lemony asparagus, she asked him about his work. “Boring lobbying stuff,” he said. “I’m a partner at a law firm.”

“Oh, I doubt it’s boring,” she said. She’d already Googled him, and she knew he was a name partner at one of the biggest firms in town.

“No, trust me, it is. You’ll fall asleep in your plate if I tell you more. So about your job . . . What is it you do there?” he asked.

The lie slipped out quickly: “I’m the manager.”

What was the harm in one tiny fib? she wondered as the waiter refilled her glass again. She swirled it around, as she’d seen Simon do, and took another sip. He was right; she could distinguish the hint of berries, and the not-unpleasant taste of smoke.

The waiter cleared away their plates, and she protested that she couldn’t possibly eat another bite, but Simon ordered a slice of cheesecake and insisted she try it. It was impossibly tart and airy, the best she’d ever eaten, and she closed her eyes while she sucked the last bite off her fork. When she opened them, she saw Simon looking at her with the expression she imagined she’d worn when she glimpsed the decadent cheesecake. The bill came and Simon pulled out his wallet and put in a credit card without even checking it, but not before Christie had seen that the three-digit total started with the number two.

The valet brought around the Porsche and Simon handed him a folded bill, then tucked Christie into the passenger’s seat like she was a delicate present. She looked over at his profile as he navigated the dark streets, his hands steady on the wheel, the moonlight glinting off his glasses. His shoulders were sloped and his ears seemed a little too big for his head, but Christie knew she could get past that.

“Would you like to come up?” she suggested when he parked in front of her apartment building. She’d been in Simon’s world for the past few hours, where everything was posh and orderly. Now it was time to introduce him to hers, and shake him up a little.

She’d already set the stage earlier in the day, dimming the
lights to hide the fact that her apartment was a little shabby, with a stain on the couch and cheap Formica kitchen counters. She’d gathered up all her crap—shoes, clothes, dirty dishes, old magazines—and returned everything to its proper place. She’d even set up a John Mayer CD that would play at the touch of her remote control’s button.

Simon looked a little surprised when she led him through the apartment’s lobby. She wondered what he’d expected—a butler and glossy marble floors instead of linoleum? She was a single mother who worked for not much above minimum wage. But of course, Simon didn’t know that. He didn’t know anything about her, and she was beginning to think it would be a good idea to keep it that way for a while.

She unlocked her front door and quickly turned on the music. She didn’t want Simon to spend too much time examining her apartment. She stood in the middle of the room and held Simon’s eyes with her own as she untied her dress, her hips swaying to the languorous beat of the music, the dress slipping to the floor. His gasp was her reward. She was wearing a black lace thong that matched her bra, and thigh-high stockings. She left on her heels as she beckoned to Simon, seeing his upturned face alight. He was like a little boy getting his first glimpse of the Ferris wheel at the county fair.

He hadn’t stayed over that night, but she hadn’t wanted him to. The sex was mediocre, and it was over far too quickly. She’d had better nights with her vibrator and a Showtime movie, which she planned to turn to after he left.

But the next day, flowers arrived. The arrangement was so big she couldn’t see the deliveryman’s face behind it. Simon called a few hours later and invited her to see a play that weekend. A play! She hadn’t been to one since her high school’s production of
Grease.
It was excruciating—a single actor put on different hats and prattled on for ninety minutes—but afterward there was a late dinner with a cheese course for dessert, another novelty for her.

Simon couldn’t get enough of her, at least in the beginning. Once he’d dashed out of work for a quickie when she told him she was standing in front of his office building, wearing absolutely nothing beneath her dress, but now he took a while to return her calls. She knew each brought something fresh to their relationship, something that had been previously missing from the other’s life. She offered excitement and passion to Simon, and in return, he gave her luxury and security. At least, early on that was their relationship’s equation. But then one night, after a few drinks, they’d been in bed together and she’d told him about not knowing her father. Simon had stroked her hair and murmured that he was sorry, and she’d found herself crying. He hadn’t tried to have sex again with her that night, even though he usually wanted to a second time. He’d just held her until she fell asleep. Something within her had shifted during the course of those hours. She realized his ears were actually a fine size. She left a few things at his town house in Georgetown, hoping he might offer her a drawer or some closet space. She even bought a book about sex, thinking they could work together to improve things.

Why had Simon begun to slip away just as she’d started to truly care for him?

Stakeouts sucked, she decided as she sighed, slipped off her shoes, and rested her sore feet against the hot pavement. She was contemplating going home when she caught a glimpse of movement to her left and realized Simon’s Porsche was exiting the garage. She almost couldn’t believe it, even though she thought she’d been expecting the betrayal. She glanced around wildly for a cab, but the only one she spotted had a passenger in the backseat.

Luckily traffic was terrible, just as she’d anticipated. She pulled on her shoes again and broke into a jog, avoiding the subway grates that could snag her heels, and headed north. Then a traffic light that was holding Simon’s Porsche back turned green and he cut into a faster lane, moving a block
ahead. She was in danger of losing him. She felt her wig start to slip, and she anchored it with one hand. It must be close to ninety degrees, and sweat dripped down her face and stung her eyes. The edges of her shoes cut into the tender skin around her heels, but she forced herself to run harder, even when a passing bus exhaled a gray plume of sour-smelling exhaust into her face.

“Someone’s in a hurry!” a guy called after her. She gave him the finger and kept scanning the area for cabs, finally spotting one going the wrong way. She flagged it down anyway and leapt inside, breathing hard.

“Make a right and go around the block!” she said. She craned her head out the window, trying to keep Simon’s car in view for as long as possible. “I’m trying to follow someone.”

She’d expected a reaction from the cabbie, but maybe he was used to this sort of thing, or had seen too many thrillers, because he just nodded and continued arguing with someone over his headset.

For a few minutes she was certain they’d lost Simon. But the cabbie was adept at finding tiny, opportunistic pockets of space, and he managed to move ahead, weaving through the cars clogging the streets.

“There!” Christie shouted.

She could see Simon’s car one lane over. He drove as unimaginatively as he made love, so it was easy for the cabbie to maneuver closer to him. What a waste of a Porsche, Christie thought.