Chronicles of a Midlife Crisis (24 page)

He doesn’t stop. “I’m getting Sam some clothes. She’s staying with me for a while.”

“Oh, no she’s not!” I say, grabbing a handful of underpants and attempting to return them to her dresser.

Trent blocks my way. “She’s upset and humiliated. She doesn’t want to be around you right now, and frankly, I don’t blame her.”

In all our years together, Trent has never pissed me off enough to strike him—until this very moment. I wind up and swing. Unfortunately, all those years without practice have made my punch a little easy to predict. Trent grabs my fist before it connects.

“You fucking bastard,” I hiss.

“You selfish bitch.” We stand for a moment, eyes locked, our breathing labored. And then Trent yanks my wrist, pulling me toward him. Before I can react, he’s kissing me, hard, almost painfully. There is nothing tender or loving about it: it’s angry, violent, and so goddamn hot! For a moment I consider pushing him into the pile of underwear on Sam’s bed and ravaging him, but sanity prevails. I pull away from him.

“Get out,” I croak.

Without a word, Trent continues gathering Sam’s belongings, almost as though the kiss never happened. I find this confusing and, for some reason, wildly attractive. But I can’t forget that Wynn is downstairs, nursing a dented cheekbone. “Tell Sam I’ll expect her home tomorrow,” I say in a tone not open for argument. Turning on my heel, I hurry downstairs to make Wynn an ice pack.

Trent

I DROVE SAM UP TO CROFTON HOUSE
in time for the 8:40 a.m. bell. Thank Christ she didn’t put up a fight. After all that Wynn Felker shit last night, the last thing I needed was to get into a scrap with her. She pouted the whole way, of course, but that’s starting to seem pretty normal. I sat in the car until I saw her go into the school, just in case.

Granville Street is surprisingly clear, so I push the speed limit just a little. I love driving this car, I really do. It’s a bit of a release from all my pent-up frustration. Yaletown living has turned me into a total pedestrian. Not that I want to be sitting in my Lexus for an hour each morning while I commute to mini-mall hell. Forget it. And even if I was okay with the drive, there’s no way I could do it now that Sam’s living with me.

It’s a temporary situation, it has to be. But when I told Sam that her mom wanted her home tonight, she laughed as if I’d said I was having a sex-change operation. I can’t blame her. This whole thing with Lucy and that Cody kid is sickening. I’m glad I punched him, frankly. The little pansy deserved it. I just can’t believe Lucy would humiliate Sam and me this way. Yeah, Annika was a mistake, but at least she wasn’t a
public
mistake. Lucy always seemed the poster child for good judgment. She was always worrying about what the neighbors thought, what other parents thought. That’s obviously gone out the window.

My cell phone rings, causing my stomach to drop a little. If it’s Crofton House telling me that Sam’s done a runner, I will ground that kid for the rest of her life. Digging the phone out of the console, I check the call display. The number is blocked.

“Hello?”

A male voice with a British accent says: “This is Paul Arnett calling from
In Touch
magazine. Would you like to comment on your wife’s relationship with Wynn Felker?”

It’s April Fools’ Day today. This has to be a prank. But no, given my luck recently, I know it’s real. “How did you get this number?” I demand, pulling the Lexus to the curb.

“It must be hard for you to watch your wife carrying on with a teen heartthrob. How does your daughter feel about it?”

“Leave my daughter out of this!” I growl, a wave of fury nearly overwhelming me. But I quickly regain control. “No comment,” I say, hanging up the phone and turning it off.

I sit in the car for a few minutes trying to calm myself. This can’t be fucking happening. If the press has my cell phone number, they probably know where I live. They probably know where Sam goes to school. We’ll be swarmed every time we set foot outside. Our pictures will end up in all the trashy magazines: the poor, pitiful husband and daughter of Wynn Felker’s new girlfriend. Well, she’s not his new girlfriend, goddammit, she’s my wife. Yeah, we’re going through a rough patch, but that kiss yesterday proves there’s still something there. We’ve got a kid and a home and we’ve still got the chemistry. Of course, right now I’m totally pissed off at her, but that doesn’t mean I’m giving up on our marriage.

Easing the car back onto the road, I try to push the one recurring thought out of my mind. Unfortunately, it resurfaces, as it has about four thousand times in the past eighteen hours. There’s no point living with regret, they say. But whoever “they” are, they probably didn’t make a decision that turned out to have such horrible, far-reaching consequences. Yeah, I was selfish and horny and irresponsible, but so are millions of other guys out there. Look at Mike! None of the women he slept with turned out to be a complete psycho who went after his job. Hope didn’t bang some twelve-year-old pop star and end up in the tabloids. Do I really deserve all this? Jesus Christ!

I park the car in my building’s underground lot and walk, in a kind of daze, to the office. The spring sun is making a rare appearance, and on another day I would have appreciated its warmth. But in my current state, it may as well be pouring rain down on me. I’m not completely depressed about what lies ahead. It’s not going to be pleasant, but it’s no worse than all the other crap I’ve had to deal with lately. I guess I’m just resigned. My life has turned to complete shit and I may as well accept it.

Conversations cease abruptly as I enter my workplace. Most of my co-workers avert their eyes; only a couple of the guys give me a nod and a “Hey Trent.” It’s not like I give a shit. In about twenty minutes, I’ll never have to see any of them again. I head straight to Don’s office—no point taking my coat off. He’s on the phone, but when he notices me lingering outside, he says: “I’m going to have to call you back.”

“Hey,” I say, walking into his office.

“So …?” Don says, getting right to the point. “Have you thought about my offer?”

I sit in my usual chair. “I can’t go to Coquitlam,”I tell him. “My daughter’s moved in with me and I need to be around for her.”

Don doesn’t seem surprised … or disappointed. “I understand.”

For some reason I feel compelled to elaborate. Normally I’d want to keep this kind of thing quiet, but Don has become a sort of de facto sounding board. “I don’t know if you saw my wife’s picture in the paper.”

“No. Why was she in the paper?”

“Apparently, she’s having some sort of fling with Wynn Felker.” Don looks at me blankly. “Cody Summers,” I explain.

“Oh my god!” Don says and his shock is satisfying. “Isn’t he like, seventeen years old?”

“His character is. The real guy is twenty-seven or something.”

Don is still disturbed. “My niece loves that kid.”

“So does my daughter. Well, not so much now.”

“That’s got to be tough,” he says. “And the tabloids got a hold of this?”

“One of them called me on my way into work.”

“Jesus Christ.” There’s a moment of silence, and I can practically read Don’s mind: this guy is cursed.

It’s time to get back on topic. “So, I’ll email you a formal resignation letter, if that’s okay. I take it you don’t want me to give two weeks’ notice?”

He shifts uncomfortably. “I’m sorry it had to go this way, Trent. You were a good employee up until …”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I’ll still give you a good reference,” Don says. “And I know McMillan Securities is always looking for good advisers.”

“I’ll give them a call.”

“And who knows … maybe you’ll end up back here one day … when we’ve had some personnel changes.”

It would be great to think that Don will be able to oust that crazy bitch and bring me back on, but I’m a realist. I shrug. “You never know.”

Standing up, I extend my hand. “Thanks,” I say, “it was great while it lasted.”

Don shakes it firmly. “Good luck to you.”

Back in my office, I begin to pack up my personal items. There’s not much: a couple of outdated photos of Sam, a framed ink drawing of ants that she gave me for Father’s Day. The coffee mug is mine but I’ll consider it a donation. I’m going to have to return my cell phone, which is a pain. I think I’ll just hang onto it for a while and pretend I forgot. Within minutes I’m done: seven years captured in one medium-sized cardboard box, and it’s not even full.

“What are you doing?” Her sudden presence in the doorway scares the shit out of me. I look at her standing there in her cute outfit with her cute hair as though everything is just hunkyfucking-dory.

“Packing up and getting out,” I growl. “You should be happy now.”

“Happy?” she cries. “I don’t want you to leave!”

Why am I continually surprised at what a whack job she is? “You said it was you or me,” I grumble. “So now it’s you.”

I grab the box off my desk and try to push past her, but she blocks my way. I’m tempted to plow right through her, but she’d probably charge me with assault. “Excuse me,” I say pointedly.

“Trent, don’t go,” she says, her voice low. “I’m sorry about everything. I was just hurt and upset and I felt used. I don’t want you to lose your job over this.”

“Too late.” I make another attempt to leave, but she throws her body in my path.

“I saw the photo of Lucy in the paper. I know how humiliated and ashamed you must feel. And Sam must be mortified. I want to be there for you, to help you both get through this.”

That’s it. I’ll risk an assault charge to get out of here now. “Let me through,” I say, pushing her out of my way. Fortunately, Annika doesn’t scream out in false pain. Unfortunately, she trails me down the hall, yapping like a Chihuahua.

“Why won’t you let me support you?” she says, scurrying in my wake. I don’t respond, just stare straight ahead and try to ignore the eyes watching us in gleeful horror. “I would never humiliate you like that,” she continues. “You can’t go back to her after what she’s done.”

I stop, turn to face her. “After what
she’s
done?”

Annika seems taken aback. “Yes,” she says, somehow missing the irony. Then I remember that she’s a psychopath with no self-awareness. What’s the point talking to her? I push my way out the door.

“This isn’t over!” she screams from the doorway. Thankfully she doesn’t follow me into the street. “I’m not giving up on you, Trent!” she cries as I move purposefully away from her. “I still care about you!” There’s a moment of silence. I wonder if she’s gone inside, but I’m not about to turn around. But then I hear her parting blow.

“You gave me crabs, you bastard!”

Lucy

I
’
M STILL SEVERAL YARDS
from the set entrance when I spot them. A crowd of people—mostly men, mostly wearing cameras around their necks—is milling about, chatting and looking bored. Three sawhorses have been erected as makeshift gates to keep the photographers out. A heavyset security guard, about sixty-five, stands nearby with a clipboard in his hand. Shit. I guess it was unrealistic to hope that Wynn’s being attacked by a forty-year-old single mother wasn’t particularly newsworthy.

Pulling the SUV up to the sawhorse barricade, I wait for the security guard to approach. He saunters over, as do the photographers, their necks craning with curiosity. If they knew that I was the cougar herself, I’m sure there would be more aggressive jostling for position. When the guard is at my door, I crack the window open a few inches.

“Name?” he asks gruffly.

I keep my voice low. “Lucy Vaughn.”

“Pardon?”

“Lucy Vaughn,” I repeat, in a louder whisper.

“Do you have ID?” he asks. Hurriedly, I dig my driver’s license out of my wallet and hand it to him. I wait anxiously as he looks at it then looks at me … back at it and back at me. Christ! What does he think I’m going to do—blow myself up once I get inside? If he doesn’t hurry up, the paparazzi are going to recognize me. Of course, I’m less recognizable with my shirt buttoned up.

“Okay, go on through, Mrs. Vaughn,” he says, in a normal volume that, under the circumstances, sounds like yelling into a blow horn.

“It’s her!” one of the photographers cries. “It’s her!”

As predicted, they swarm the vehicle, shouting questions and popping flashbulbs.

“Are you dating Wynn Felker?” one yells.

“Have you slept with him?”

“Do you still think you deserve to be fucked by the Choice Hottie?”

“What’s the state of your marriage to Trent Vaughn? Are you two getting a divorce?”

Flashbulbs blind me as I hurriedly raise my window. As I wait for the guard to remove the sawhorses blocking my path, I put my head down on the steering wheel to shield my face. This is how Britney Spears must feel. I suddenly have a new empathy for the girl. Not that I’m about to shave my head and stop wearing panties, but this kind of attention could drive anyone to alcohol abuse and poor fashion choices. Eventually I’m able to inch the SUV into the parking lot. To my surprise, the photographers respect the less-than-menacing security guard and return to their previous milling about.

Inside the building it’s only slightly less chaotic. A gaggle of my co-workers, Camille among them, surround Tanya’s desk, talking in excited whispers. For a split second I wonder if they all know about Wynn and me. The abrupt halt to all conversation leaves little doubt.

“Morning,” I mumble, feeling excluded and conspicuous. Hurriedly, I head past them toward my office. Camille breaks free from the pack and follows me.

“Thank god you got in okay. It’s scary out there.”

“Yeah.” I drop my purse under my desk and boot up my computer.

“Don’t bother,” Camille says. “Shooting’s on hold.”

“What?”

“Kev, Ainsley, Wynn, and his management team are having a meeting right now. We might go to hiatus early.”

“Why?” I say automatically, though I know it’s a stupid question.

“For one thing, Wynn’s been mobbed. The studio had to send personal bodyguards to his house to escort him into work.”

“God!”

“And for two, he’s got a shiner. His cheek is all blue and swollen.”