The Affair (26 page)

Also, I’m pissed at Roger. And not just because of the Diana thing, which I’ll get to later. When he was at the writer’s retreat,
I hired Red Ripley to build an entertainment center for the family room. Real cherry cabinets, glass doors, storage space
for Pete’s games and puzzles, plenty of room for the TV, stereo, etc. Red came highly recommended, and it’s almost impossible
to get on his schedule. I signed a contract and gave him 25 percent down. Yes, it was pricey, but Roger and I had talked about
doing this ever since we moved into the house, and I felt we could afford it. I also felt flush: I’ve picked up twelve new
clients since January and an outpatient consulting gig with the hospital.

When I mentioned it to Roger yesterday, he hit the roof. How dare I sign the contract without consulting him? Where did I
come off hiring a fancy carpenter to build an entertainment center when we could buy one for half the price at IKEA? Or better
yet, he screamed, he’d build it himself! (Sure. He couldn’t even assemble Pete’s swing set, let along construct an entertainment
center.)

He would not let up. At 2
A.M.
he was still at it! I finally tore up the contract and yelled:
“Fine! You build the friggiti’ entertainment center!”
The next thing I
know, we’re having the hottest sex we’ve had in months—maybe years—but I was angry the whole time. I even left teeth marks
in his shoulder. And I’m still angry. Does every single decision have to be a
committee
decision?

I continued to be disturbed by Diana’s reappearance, thanks to my darling husband’s decision to hire her as a research assistant.
I called my parents and told them what Roger had done. Dad said Roger was “up to his old tricks.”

Mom agreed. “You’d better watch that man,” she told me. She urged me to get one of those video monitoring systems that people
use to spy on their nannies. “Forget the camera,” Dad chimed in. “Tell him he can’t do it. He’s got a history. It’s just not
appropriate. He’s just setting himself up for another … situation.” Then I heard him mutter, “The rotten bastard.”

I didn’t want to hear that. Three months ago I did, but not now. Not when we’re trying to work things out. I had naively wanted
to turn this Diana thing into some sort of healing experience, a chance to fully trust Roger and forgive her. But my father’s
words emboldened me.

When I got home tonight I found a vase of creamy pink tulips on the kitchen table. A note: Meet me upstairs. I could hear
the water running in the Jacuzzi. I saw two empty wineglasses and a bottle of Merlot. Roger emerged wearing the red silk boxers
I’d bought him for our second anniversary.

He slipped off the shorts and silently proceeded to nuzzle my neck from behind. “Where’s Petey?” I said into his chest. “Next
door at Hunter’s,” he said, reaching around to unhook my bra. “Lynette said she’d take him for at least an hour, maybe more.”

He bent down and put his lips on my left breast while
I watched the top of his blond head move up and down with every lap of his tongue. But I couldn’t relax. “Where is she going
to work, exactly?”

Roger continued at my nipple. “Who?”

“You know who. Diana.”

“Shhhhh. Not now. Please.”

I had a choice. I could focus on sex, enjoy myself for an hour, get closer to my husband, and demonstrate to both of us that
I had transcended all the Diana crap. Or I could pull my breast out of my husband’s mouth and decide that standing my ground
was more important than sex, intimacy, transcendence, or chocolate chip cookies. I chose sex, and I’m glad I did, but I’m
still mad. Diana starts on Monday and I find myself wondering where I should hide a nanny-cam.

’Til next time,

There seems to be some movement on the lawsuit. Alyssa’s lawyer told Roger’s lawyer that he’s planning to gather some damning
depositions for the stupid sexual harassment case. I say, enough with the friggin’ depositions! This is torture! At this point
I just want to get it over with. Even if it turns out he’s guilty, I just wish it would end.

Right now I have to focus on repairing my marriage. After all the crap we’ve been through, pulling together is my number one
priority. I know how strange that must sound coming from me—so Tammy Wynette, so Laura Schlesinger. Even though I’ve always
wanted to
keep it together for Petey, I wasn’t fully committed to Roger in my heart. Word of his transgressions would have been enough
to get me fantasizing (or more) about other men, whether it was Eddie or Ben. Now I realize I have to
grow up.
I’ve got to rise above Roger’s mistakes and my own destructive impulses. I have to believe that Roger can change. I’ve tried
to talk to Betsy about this, but I’ve got to say, she’s not giving me a lot of support right now. It’s almost as if she wants
my marriage to fail. This may be the biggest spiritual and emotional challenge of my life.

Diana hasn’t made it easy. I can’t stand having her in the house. I go into the kitchen, she’s sitting at the counter (my
counter), drinking coffee from the belly-shaped mug Roger bought me when I was pregnant with Petey. (She had nine million
mugs to choose from. Why that one?!) I pass by Roger’s study, and the door’s closed, and I can hear them giggling or talking
in hushed tones. I pull out of the driveway, and she’s pulling in, waving and smiling brightly. One day I came home and found
them in the family room watching
Xena
together. (What is it with guys and that show, anyway? Roger claims he likes it for the martial arts, but Dale says its the
lesbian subtext.) When I walked in, Roger obviously anticipated my concern, because the first thing he said was, “We’re just
taking a break. It’s been a grueling day.”

How grueling is it to sit at a computer?!? It’s not like he’s digging ditches or working on an assembly line. Give me a break!
Oh no. There I go again. I’ve got to get a handle on this negative thinking. God, give me strength!

’Til next time,

When I came home from work today, I found Diana and Roger at his computer looking at pornography. Roger fumbled for the mouse,
presumably to put the computer to sleep, but he was too late. I’d already seen the picture, a brunette stimulating herself
with a sex toy. I wanted to scream, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” but knew that would only make matters worse.
So I tried the bemused approach: “Researching the play, Roger?”

He swiveled around. His mouth worked crazily, but no sound came out. His face was flushed and sweaty. “Actually, we’re taking
a little break.”

Diana giggled. “Roger insisted there was a woman on this site that looked exactly like me.” She pointed to the brunette. “But
I don’t agree. I think my breasts are a lot nicer.” She looked at me.

“Don’t you?” She arched her back like a ’40s pinup and laughed. I didn’t find it amusing. “Come on, baby. It’s all in fun.”

I walked out, grabbed Petey, and left the house. I wound up at my parents, and called Roger from there. I told him that Diana
had better be gone by the time I got home. She was. And Roger was sound asleep. I got Petey to bed, then woke Roger up and
insisted he fire her. “You’re overreacting,” he mumbled. “We were taking a break. It’s just a picture. Come on. Get into bed.
I missed you.”

If there are two words in the English language that make me absolutely homicidal, it’s “You’re overreacting.” It’s almost
as bad as “You’re too sensitive.” Growing up, that’s all I ever heard from my mother.
Whenever I expressed any strong emotion, the reaction was, “You’re too sensitive. You’re overreacting.” That’s probably one
of the reasons why I became a therapist. In therapy, no emotion is dismissed as an overreaction.

“You’ve got to trust me,” Roger said. “We were just looking. We weren’t aroused. She didn’t touch me. I didn’t touch her.
It was just amusing, that’s all.”

I didn’t sleep in my bed that night. And I’m still mad at Roger.

’Til next time,

I’ve got a new problem at work. Her name is Cadence Bradley (what kind of a name is Cadence, anyway?!). She’s a clinical psychologist,
and the Westfield Center wooed her as soon as her husband was hired by the medical school. She (grudgingly) agreed to give
up her job in D.C. to follow him here. Cadence isn’t just a big fish in a small pond, she’s orca in a goldfish bowl. The partners
are falling all over themselves trying to please her. It’s sickening. They made her a senior partner in wellness, so she’ll
be voting on administrative decisions and getting a share of the center’s profits when she reels in new clients. They also
gave her Penny Lyon’s old office—the one with the private bathroom and fireplace.

Already I hate her. It took me three years to become a senior partner in wellness. She got the title merely by accepting the
job offer. Cadence is tall and big-boned, with coarse, cropped black hair and a small scar over
her lip that gives her face a perpetual sneer. No makeup, trimmed, buffed fingernails.

The day I met her she was wearing a suit the color of a Mary Kay Cadillac. Sounds tacky, but it was truly gorgeous on her—and
expensive-looking. While I’m rifling through the racks at T.J. Maxx, she’s shopping at Bergdorf’s. Next to Cadence, I felt
like a fat, frizzy dwarf. Suddenly all my fashion mistakes came clearly into focus. I noticed the ink marks on my fingertips
where my (brand-new) fountain pen had leaked. I regarded my toenails with alarm (what had possessed me to paint them with
blue glitter?). I ran a hand through my hair and found that patch I can’t straighten no matter how much styling gel I glob
on.

When I reached out my hand to greet her, she gave me a limp-fish handshake and barely listened while I talked about the eating
disorders program I’m developing with Dale. Her expression fluctuated between bored detachment and bewilderment, and after
I’d blathered on and on, her only response was, “I’m sensitive to perfume.” She flared her cavernous nostrils imperiously.
“Go a little more lightly tomorrow.”

Now I’ve got this incessant monologue in my skull that goes something like, Who the hell does she think she is? I’ll show
her! Maybe I’ve never chaired a congressional subcommittee, and maybe I’ve never been interviewed by the
Today Show
, and maybe I make a tenth of what Cadence Bradley pulls down every year, but I’m no slouch. I developed the center’s early
childhood program. I’ve been published in the most respected journals. I have the most referrals in the office. I want to
grab her by those quarterback shoulders of hers and say, “Look, Miss Fancy-Washington-D.C.-Senate-Subcommittee-Big-Shot, I’m
just as smart as you are.
Maybe you’re taller and younger than me, but I bet I could kick your ass. And has anyone ever told you that you look a little
like Henry Kissinger? Because you do!”

The thing is, I must admit that if I were the boss, I’d put her, not me, in charge of the center’s eating disorders clinic.
It doesn’t take a genius to see she’s better qualified than I am to head up the project; I happen to know that she was instrumental
in devising professional guidelines for the diagnosis and treatment of anorexia and bulimia.