I used to think that Richard was my dream come true. We met at the science publishing house where I worked. I made a correction in his book on infections in gynecology. You could hardly find a more erotically discouraging environment. One day I called the author to make sure about the name of the disease, which appeared in the book in various forms.
Richard Nowak, the youngest professor of gynecology in the country, had a velvety voice. I could imagine that for this reason alone, queues of women were lining up to him. However, academic titles, foreign publications and opinions on the Internet indicated that he was as good a specialist as he was a companion.. And that’s how it progressed, from a chat about the difference between a vagina and a vulva to hands-on instructions.
Barbara filed the divorce petition, claiming that “their personalities mismatched so much that it was pointless to remain married”.
Barbara’s turning point actually came when she locked herself in her office next to their large and idyllic manor house, with a patient of hers. Richard’s wife was a dentist. The ecstatic screams of her lover pierced over the sound of the drilling device that Barbara turned on to drown out the sounds of love. At first, Richard thought there was an exceptionally sensitive patient who wasn’t anesthetized. It took him a moment to realize that the unfortunate man was shouting the name of his loved one.
He embraced his wife’s affair with surprising calmness and dignity. He claimed that they had been falling apart for some time, and Barbara was more willing to spend her time at conferences than on family trips. Maybe that is why she freely agreed to alternate care, which in practice was such that she took her sons for one weekend per month, instead of the entire week. Remaining days Michael and Jacob lived with us.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Before I moved in with Richard, before I even thought we were really going to be a couple, I spent dozens of sleepless nights thinking about him. I waited for him for two years, which dragged on mercilessly, even though I never told him. I had no hope that he would ever leave his wife for me, a beautiful, ambitious and high-earning woman. And since I couldn’t imagine romancing a married man, despite the chemistry that had already appeared between us during that first phone call, I tried to keep my distance.
Richard pressed however, he proposed meetings, lunches, dinners, joint trips to meetings of gynecologists to the most distant, most attractive corners of the world. Because it should be noted that gynecologists are the most demanding group of doctors. They cannot organize a conference just anywhere, they will not be satisfied with some run-over venues to hold conferences. It has to be something extra, Bangkok or Miami.
Once, I flew with him to Florida. Even the most exclusive hotel in this country was not too expensive for a gynecologist convention organized by a pharmaceutical company. Richard paid for my ticket with his own money. He wanted me to see how much he cared for me. Despite that, I did not sleep with him at the time. Someone else would find me ungrateful, but not Richard. Not my perfect man with a velvety voice and coal-black eyes. Tall, delicate, with impeccable manners. I could bet that he always shakes hands with his patients getting up from the gynecological chair.
This is indeed the case, as one of my friends told me later. Out of curiosity she was compelled to see him. The fact that she spread her legs in front of my husband… well. I just had to accept the specificity of his profession. He said I had an eighteen-year-old vagina, small and delicate. But back in Miami he didn’t know it yet.
We were sitting in a cozy neighborhood shop with coffee in hand and I couldn’t help but imagine running my fingertips through his wavy hair. I stared at him and wondered how it was possible that his eyes and hair were naturally black, like the darkest night.
Lots of women envied me. Female doctors of all ages repeatedly smiled at him, timidly, meaningfully, provocatively. Even the conference organizers looked at him greedily. Yet he paid attention to me. Though the bravest thing I did was show myself to him in my bathrobe. He wanted me. It all seemed surreal. Our first kiss happened only after he told me that Barbara was cheating on him. By then, I was deeply in love with him. So when I saw the court letter with the divorce hearing scheduled for a date, I almost went mad with happiness.
The most sought-after, one of the smartest, and certainly the most handsome gynecologist in the country was to be only mine. I agreed to everything. For a civil wedding instead of a church wedding, for an intercourse, which was to be a proof of my pure intentions, and that I would become a stepmother, guardian and housekeeper for his sons.
Richard described me as his ideal second half. His dream has always been to marry a woman who is capable of providing for his family, not just serving as his mistress. To create a warm, safe home. A haven to which he will come when tired from work. He was tender in bed. He loved long passionate kisses, which was his way of foreplay. As things progressed, he made sure that my satisfaction came first. I happily returned the favor every way I could. We fit together like bread and butter. That’s what I thought.
***
“Claire!” Jacob’s voice interrupts my thoughts about Richard. “We gonna be late!”
I wash my tearful face with cold water and put on a sweat suit. I overslept so there won’t be a hot shower today. I must have been in shock all last night. Only now do I realize that Richard really cheated on me. For months, he feigned fatigue, headaches, or muscle aches as I tried to get to his fly. I bought a sexy red petticoat once and waited for him in bed. When he came out of the bathroom, he only suggested that I may be cold sleeping in it, and went to sleep.
“Where’s our breakfast?” Jacob complained as I walked into the kitchen.
I don’t answer, just take five bucks from my wallet and shove it into the boy’s hand.
“You’ll buy something in the cafeteria today,” I say dispassionately. I pretend not to notice the knowing look he exchanges with his brother.
“Now to the car, be gone with you!” Upon arriving at school, the boys, as usual, leap out of the car without saying goodbye and rush to their friends, who are talking about something lively. Amber McThomas, the head of the class committee, steps in front of the hood as I was about to press the gas pedal. I brake sharply, the momentum throwing me forward.
“I almost ran you over!” I say, shocked.
Amber is clearly not phased by it. She always has the same expression: polite, but subdued; she rarely smiles. Always to the point, and only says as much as it takes to get the point across. Occasionally she gives me complexes, and she makes me uneasy sometimes. While she is a chief accountant for a large corporation, she still finds time to organize school trips and plan events for Valentine’s Day and Women’s Day. Of course, she writes everything into the appropriate boxes in Excel tables, and sends it to the parents for confirmation.
“I need you to bake cakes for a carnival party. Can you do it?” She asks, and without waiting for an answer, adds:
“That cheesecake and brownie that you made for Christmas. Two sheets each?”
“Okay,” I respond, because I don’t know what else to say. I still have the image of Richard getting frisky with Martha in my head.
“We need to decorate the room somehow. Do you still have those lanterns from last year?”
“They should be in the attic somewhere.”
“Great. I will distribute the rest of the tasks as usual. Expect an email. Have a good day Claire.”
“Take care Amber.”
I drive home, oblivious to my surroundings. The Lumineers play on the radio, the song Richard and I danced to at our wedding. I start to cry. Tears flow down my cheeks as I wait for the green light. The old man in the car next to me looks at me horrified. I calm down a bit when I see him, wipe my face and keep going. It’s one thing to have to deal with your husband’s flaws and wonder if you still feel affection for him, and quite another to actually lose him. After all, what happens next? Will he leave me for Martha? She is beautiful, independent, and has a career.
A housewife like me doesn’t have much to offer. “Be careful, or he’ll look for another.” Her words ring in my head. “Parades of patients line up to his office. I’m telling you this for your own good.” What a bitch! Why is she pretending to be a caring friend when she screws him behind my back? A friendly warning?
Will I have to move out of the house and go back to my mother? Most likely. After all, at the beginning, I will not be able to keep up with those little orders that I am hiding from him anyway. Richard persisted in asking me to quit my job until I finally agreed. I quit my job and only edit one book a month to have any change for my expenses. I put everything on an account that Richard doesn’t know about. Over the last few years, a substantial sum has accumulated there, but it will not be enough to buy a flat. At most a used car, because you can’t count on my husband giving me a BMW for a sendoff, which I drive now.
Today is Monday, a day of washing and ironing. Rather than getting down to business, I start my laptop as soon as I walk inside the house. I want to ask the publisher for more jobs, review job offers that sometimes fall into my inbox.
I immediately notice the first message from above. How did he find me? I scan the content of the email.
– Thank you for snooping on LinkedIn;) –
– It’s flattering and I appreciate it. –
– I’m sorry you didn’t show up at Marry Dane on Saturday. –
When I read Max’s email, I am able to hear the sarcastic tone in his voice. I haven’t used my LinkedIn profile in years, but after meeting Max in a cafe, I couldn’t resist the temptation and searched for information about him online. I wanted to check if this man was being honest. True to his word he really owned an event agency. I found only professional information about him and a few formal photos in which he looked like a model promoting Italian suits. I found no photos of his family or mutual friends. Neither was he on Facebook or Instagram, unless he had hidden accounts there, inaccessible to outsiders.
I glance at the pile of clothes prepared for washing and feel more discouraged than usual. On the keyboard, I type a message:
– I just changed my address and surname. –
– The photo is also very out of date, as you’ve probably noticed. –
I click “send” and then enthusiastically walked down to the laundry. What the hell is this man wanting from me? The thought that he might like me makes me laugh. The menial work of sorting clothes by color takes one hour off my day. Then I go ahead and iron the dry ones. With a pile of boys’ t-shirts, I go to Jacob’s and then Michael’s room and put them in the drawers.
When I go back to the kitchen, a new message icon flashes on my laptop. I’m curious, but I somewhat anticipated this is another email from Max.
– It’s very good that it is out of date. –
– Now you are definitely more appetizing than my favorite eclair. –
– What are you doing next Saturday? –
I can’t believe my eyes. Why is he pursuing this charade?
– I take the boys to tennis, clean the house and mend socks, – I write back a little truthfully and a little maliciously. In his style.
– Why do you ask? – I am genuinely fascinated.
– Do you want to come to an Olga Kern concert? –
– A rare occasion. Do you like classical music? –
– If not, you’ll like it.” –
I lift my laptop off my lap and start laughing. For the first time in two days I feel merriment, and if only for that reason it was worth having this conversation. Is this guy crazy or what. I calm down and start typing decisively:
– Look, I’ve had a few bad days and it’s not going to get better, so let me ask you –
– What are you talking about? –
– Did you get struck by lightning in the middle of a shopping mall or what? –
The answer comes right away:
– So what if I have? –
I slam the lid of my laptop shut and set it aside. I don’t have time or patience for online blanters, and the boys’ favorite tomato soup will not cook itself.
***
“What’s this?” I ask surprised when Richard enters the house in the evening with a bouquet of white roses.
“Flowers for my beautiful wife.” He smiles and tries to kiss my cheek.
I haven’t heard such compliments since my honeymoon, and I only got flowers once while we were still engaged. In this situation, he might as well have written on his forehead, – I’m having an affair. – Maybe if I hadn’t edited so many articles in women’s magazines in my life, I wouldn’t have known that cheating guys try to cover up their behavior by being over-zealous towards their wives. At least that means he feels guilty. Or maybe he’s not going to leave me?
I put the roses in the vase, but I dodge a kiss. Even if he drank a pint of mouthwash, I wouldn’t get over the feeling that I could smell Martha.
“I have a symposium during the weekend in Seattle” he says casually, and I know what is going on.
“You didn’t mention it before,” I reply and, pretending to be stupid, go to the calendar.
“I have a whole schedule here, everything is written down. No symposium here this weekend.” I smile sweetly.
Richard looks at me in disbelief and starts scratching his chin.
“I was not supposed to fly, but it turns out professor Ferrara will be attending.. Remember him, the one from Milan …”
I remember, unfortunately. Richard was in Italy for a guest lecture when the pandemic broke out. I flew to see him two weeks before our wedding. We were supposed to meet in Bergamo, but my fiancé didn’t come because the professor invited him to dinner. That same evening, the guesthouse where I was staying was ordered to quarantine. Miraculously, I managed to come back to the States for my own wedding. I just hope that Professor Ferrara wasn’t just a cover then.
“Martha is going with you?”
“What’s that?”
“Martha, your partner. You know, short, slender and tanned even in January.”
“Ah yea.. of course, she’s coming along. She has long dreamed of meeting the professor.”
“I have no doubts” I grunt.
I don’t look him in the eyes, but I can sense him staring at me piercingly. Undoubtedly his guilt is making him uneasy, so he searches for the signs of me suspecting something. Our conversations aren’t usually like that. I am not that uncooperative. Generally I try to meet him halfway with a compromise. So not to make a big fuss about his departure I just bit my tongue. This compliance doesn’t come easily to me, as I try to keep the lid on my emotions, with anger being particularly rampant. He tries to appear normal, because he knows he’s got blood on his hands.
Maybe I should shout out what I think about him. A bastard, who treats me like a servant, meanwhile he is humping a one to one copy of her ex-wife. But I can’t. I feel that in a moment I will fall into the abyss, and I am not able to get my voice out, make any movement. I’m afraid. Instead of arguing, I mark the “symposium” trip on my calendar with a red marker.
“I understand that Barbara will take the boys for the weekend?”
“Yyy… that’s it. This is the second issue. She’s going out of town with her friends, some bachelorette party or something.”
“Bachelorette party?”
“Yes.”
“And when will I be able to leave? Or go out with girlfriends?” – I bursted.
“What friends, honey?”
“Exactly!” I hardly have any friends anymore, because I only play mother and housekeeper all the time. I haven’t seen Ann for half a year! Do you see what I look like? I don’t remember the last time I had my nails painted, I don’t even dream about a hairdresser. I wear tracksuits because I don’t have time to buy new pants or dresses. Anyway, why do I need new clothes, when the biggest option in my life is shopping in a supermarket or a meeting at school?
“I like you so… natural… If you want, I’ll take you out to dinner at Bucci during the week. I’ll have to check with the schedule first and see what day I have an evening off.”
“I want to go out this weekend. With Annie. I have to or I’ll go crazy.”
“Okay.” Richard gives up.
“Then I’ll give you money for a nanny. Call the agency and get it sorted.”
I wanted to tell him to do it himself, but I let it slide.
“Okay,” I say, and as I leave, I shout over my shoulder, “Dinner’s in the fridge. Just heat it up.”
I go straight to shower and stand under hot water for a long time. I touch every piece of the body that Richard’s hands once visited. It made him happy, he was delighted with me. Now I don’t remember what it was like to feel his hands against my skin. I don’t even try to hold back the tears. I wonder what else I could do to keep my husband with me.
I keep occupying the bathroom for another half hour. I rub lotions into my body, I do pedicure and wax thoroughly. After all these rituals, I feel a little better. At least for a while. It’s cold in the bedroom, but it’s good this time because I need to cool down. Richard probably holed up in his office and perhaps is now in a passionate correspondence with Martha. I do not want to think about it.
I reach for my laptop, but before I open the file with the book to edit, I check my e-mail box. Max’s message is waiting for me.
– Okay, I’ll tell you a secret. I have a weakness for pale blondes with diastema. –
– It’s comically sexy in a way. Not to mention your delicate, super-cute lips which I must shamefully admit, have invaded my dreams at night. –
– I would be a fool not to try my luck here. –
It’s difficult to decode his half-jesting way of expression. I write back, surprising myself:
– Where and at what time is this concert? –
Maybe some fun out and a chance to get my mind off things wouldn’t be the worst idea, even if Max seems a bit full of himself.