The Affair (42 page)
I told Omar that I’d changed the locks.
“Big mistake,” he said, and I felt like crying. “You’ve got to play it cool now. Can’t let this bastard know you’re onto him.”
Bastard.
I was thrilled to hear the word. Already, Omar was my advocate. But then I panicked. I’d just destroyed most of my husband’s
wardrobe and changed all the locks. How could he possibly assume I planned to stay married to him?
“As your lawyer, it wouldn’t be ethical for me to urge you to lie,” he started, and my heart sank. “I mean, I wouldn’t tell
you, for instance, to say you came home and found the bags on the curb and figured someone was out to get him. And you got
scared because there was a stranger in the house, which is why you changed the locks.” He paused to let me absorb his meaning.
“I’d
never
tell you to do that.” My mind raced. What about fingerprints? What if he calls the cops and they find my prints all over
the bag?
“My guess is, your soon-to-be ex will be scared shitless. He’ll be wracking his brains trying to figure out which of his paramours
went ballistic on him. He’ll be so worried about you busting him, the last thing he’ll want to do is pursue it with the cops.
Take it easy.”
I felt better already. I arranged to meet Omar at his office the following morning to plot our strategy. “It’ll be like Normandy.
We don’t make a move until every last detail is down. Then BOOM!”
The phone clicked. Call waiting. It was Eddie. “Is the jackass home yet?”
“No,” I told him. “Not yet. But any minute.”
“So? How’s the prospecting going?” he asked. I tried not to wonder whether Eddie seemed a little too interested. I told him
I hadn’t started looking for the gold.
“Hey. You know what?” he asked in a low voice.
“What?” Where the hell was his wife right now?
“I haven’t showered yet. I can smell you on me. I don’t want to lose it.”
I felt a full-body flush. “Please,” I whispered. “Eddie. Don’t start.”
“Okay. Okay. I’ll be good. For now.”
Then I heard the familiar hiss of the van’s cranky engine. If this ruse was going to work, I couldn’t wait for Roger to start
fiddling with his key. I met him on the driveway and tried to look stricken. “Oh, thank God you’re home!”
Roger looked at me warily. “Why?”
I pointed toward the Hefty bags. “Just look. It’s awful.” I watched Roger slowly walk toward the bags. I mentally reviewed
my script. I’ve always been terrible liar; Roger says he can tell I’m fibbing by the way my lower lip twitches. Roger may
be the playwright in the family, but tonight I had to be the actress. I couldn’t let him know the truth. Not yet.
’Til next time,
Roger pulled himself out of the van and the liquor on his breath wafted upwards like a hot air balloon. This feckless bastard
wasn’t merely a cheater, he was a drunk driver, too. I quickly eyed the inside of the van, expecting to find a pair of panties
or a stray earring. I
felt the disgust rise inside me. How I loathed him! But for now I had to play my part. If Roger suspected I was anything other
than caring and kind, my plan was doomed.
I watched as he moved unsteadily toward the trash bags. The moon was full and resplendent, a shimmering disk in a deep indigo
sky. What a waste, I thought. This gorgeous moon should have been illuminating a loving couple, not a drunk lech stumbling
toward a pile of Hefty bags and a wife who pretended it was someone else who dumped spoiled ricotta cheese on his $100 silk
shirts.
He turned toward me and asked, “Just tell me. Is it dead? It’s not a dead baby, is it?”
“No. It’s nothing like that.”
“Well, then, is it a head, a decapitated head?”
“No, Roger, it’s not a decapitated head.”
My soon-to-be ex-husband picked up a fallen branch and began poking at the bag. What a sissy. I was beginning to grow exasperated,
but reminded myself I was supposed to appear shaken and scared. After all, a stranger had just broken into the house and ransacked
our closet. He squinted at the bag and poked again.
“Do I have to play goddamn twenty questions, or what? Can’t you just tell me what it is?”
I shoved a knuckle into my mouth, as much to feign horror as suppress a smile.
“It’s your clothes, Roger.”
He stared at me. “My what?” He fell to his knees and pulled the cinched bag open. He reeled back on his palms. “Oh no. Oh
no. Oh nooooooooooooo! Shit! Shit! Shit!” He poked his head into the bag, then pulled back again, gagging. “What the hell?
What the hell? Shit! Shit! Shit!”
I’d be lying if I didn’t feel the purest bliss watching Roger holding his nose with one hand, poking through his ruined garments
with the other, alternating between moaning and gagging.
“Who would have done this?” he asked, his face darkening with rage.
“God, I don’t know. Some sick, awful person,” I answered. “I found it like this. The closet, ransacked. The bags at the curb.
It was awful. I called the locksmith right away. I had to change the locks. All of them.”
Suddenly, he began picking through the clothes with renewed zeal, as if he were looking for something specific. “Wait a second…
just wait a second,” he mumbled to himself. “I don’t see …” I froze. I knew what would come next.
“Hey. How come none of
your
clothes are here?” He glared at me suspiciously. Now came the delicate part. I had to tell Roger enough to satisfy his curiosity,
but make him back off.
“The cops had a theory,” I began.
“What kind of theory?” he asked.
“Well, they say that whoever did it was after you, not me. You know, a vendetta.” I took a deep breath. “They actually suggested
it might have been a scorned lover.” Roger held his face in his hands and began rubbing his temples. I forged ahead.
“You know, Roger, I’d hoped we could put this whole Alyssa thing behind us. But it just won’t go away, will it? And now I
come home, I find the closet ransacked “Someone broke into our house, Roger. Our house! What’s next, Roger? Is she going to
go after me next? Or Petey?”
Roger stopped rubbing his head and looked at me.
“Oh, God. What have I done? I am so, so sorry!” (Yes! And she scores!)
I remembered Omar’s instructions. I couldn’t let Roger know I was planning to leave him. I stepped forward and knelt beside
him. I draped my arms around his neck. “It’s going to be okay,” I told him.
He looked bewildered. It had been a long time since I’d displayed any affection toward him. But he was relieved. Now I’d play
the devoted wife. I told him I’d warm up some chicken soup and run a hot bath. “Oh, I feel so terrible for you. Those gorgeous
clothes, ruined!”
“Ruined,” he repeated, dazed.
“Why don’t you go in and get undressed? I’ll get your bath ready.” I helped Roger to his feet and guided him toward the door.
Roger stopped and put his arms on my shoulders.
“You are so good to me. I don’t deserve you.”
I hugged him. “Of course you do, darling. Of course you do.”
While Roger soaked in the tub, I decided to make one quick pass through a filing cabinet in the basement. And there, tightly
wedged between one dog-eared manila folder marked Medical and another marked Utilities, I found a folder with no label. I
tugged until it popped out. My pulse quickened as I opened the folder. It was a document, stapled, slightly faded. I was certain
Roger would come tripping down the stairs at any moment. I sensed that I’d found precisely the kind of information I needed.
As I quickly scanned the page I felt something beyond shock, beyond horror. And I knew that what I’d found would forever change
my view of marriage and men.
Debra Kent writes the Diary of V for
Redbook
and Women.Com and has contributed to such magazines as
Cosmopolitan, Family Circle, Mademoiselle
and
McCall’s.
She lives with her husband and children in the Midwest.
“It’s an amazing feeling,
knowing that somewhere in this world
there’s a man who really desires me.”
She could be your next-door neighbor, your co-worker, your best friend, even you. She’s V, the star of the scan-dalously popular
serial on the Redbook Web site. And she’s your uninhibited guide into the mind of modern women and the state of marriage today.
In her very wild, very honest, very real, very sexy diary, V tells all as she watches her husband stray into the arms of a
younger women. Now payback—in the shape of a man—will be hers. He waters the plants in her office. He’s got gray-green eyes
and sub-toasted skin the color of café latte.
His name is Eddie, and he wants…
“A delicious funny, sexy, tantalizing page-turner…
outrageous.” —Kate White, editor-inchief, Cosmopolitan
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