The Wednesday Group (12 page)

Flavia holds her shoulders high. “I will wear my red dress.”

“I don't know what I'll wear,” Bridget says. “But count me in.”

“It will be black and pearls for me.” Of course, now Hannah must come back, at least one more week. But if it helps Lizzy feel even a tiny bit better, then it's worth it.

“Mine will be a surprise.” Lizzy smiles for the first time tonight.

Hannah looks at Gail, who says, “I'll think about it.”

Kathryn glances at the clock, then begins to wind down the group. Lizzy has come out of her corner a little and isn't as slouched. Bridget's knees aren't bouncing, and Hannah is oddly relieved she won't be quitting after all.

 

Gail

Gail steps out of the shower and quickly dries herself, avoiding looking in the mirror. She can feel she's put on fifteen pounds. It's Friday morning, and she will start her diet today.

Jonah left early to meet with a colleague about the paper he's working on. She is so pleased he's started to write again. It's a healthy habit. From her walk-in closet, she picks a dark blue suit and a white blouse. She touches the outfit she bought for the dinner at the Harvard Club. She will also wear it to next Wednesday's group. Of course it's silly, this whole idea of getting dressed up, and it's certainly not the type of thing she goes in for, but in the spirit of camaraderie and solidarity, she's going to go along. She pictures Lizzy, how drawn and sad she looked.
There but for the grace of God go I
.

The zipper on her skirt doesn't close all the way, but the jacket covers the flaw. She will have an orange and some grapes for breakfast, a fat-free yogurt for lunch, and a salad for dinner. On the way out of the bedroom, she passes the large tapestry armchair. She picks up Jonah's light blue sweater, one she gave him. As she folds it, she gets a whiff of roses. She brings the sweater to her nose. Although the scent is faint, it's distinctly perfume, and not one she uses.

She feels sluggish as she walks down the hallway to the room they have deemed the library. Its wall-to-wall bookcases hold everything from law reviews to fairy tales. A long desk sits in front of the window. She opens her laptop and does a search for perfume smells on sweaters. Most of the sites explain how to get rid of the smells, but one site has what she's looking for. It suggests that you first familiarize yourself with the scent of your husband's regular clothes. Most important, you should not be able to smell someone else's perfume on his underwear.

In the laundry room, she finds a pair of his white underpants. She picks them up by the waistband and sniffs. There's a faint odor of detergent, mixed with some less pleasant smells, but definitely nothing like his sweater. Relieved, she's ready to smell all his dirty clothes just to be sure. When she's finished, she's convinced that she overreacted. He'd probably worn the sweater on a humid day, sat in an office with someone who had on far too much perfume, and the fibers absorbed the fragrance. Woolen fabric is known for its ability to attract scents, a fact she's heard in a number of trials.

She's half an hour late for work. Barbara has three briefs for her to sign before she's even had a chance to sit.

“You're due in court at ten o'clock,” Barbara says as she places the papers on the desk.

“I have five minutes.” Gail is terse, irritated with herself for being late. “I had some business at home to attend to.”

“I'm sorry.” Barbara fiddles with her light blue scarf, the same color as Jonah's sweater. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“What kind of perfume do you wear?” Gail asks.

Barbara looks confused as she keeps fidgeting. “Perfume?” she asks.

“Yes,” Gail answers.

“Uh … normally none. But if I do, White Linen.”

“Does it linger on your clothes?”

“I haven't really noticed.”

“What about if you're out somewhere, say a restaurant that uses a lot of garlic. Do you notice that on your clothes?” She looks into Barbara's blue eyes. They also seem like the color of Jonah's sweater, insipid and irksome. Why had she ever thought it would look good with his light skin?

“I'll try to be more mindful of it. Is there something that's bothering you?” Barbara asks.

Gail waves her hand. “No, nothing in particular. I've been wondering about some evidence.” She pauses. “Court evidence.”

“Yes, of course.” Barbara backs toward the door. “Are you sure you wouldn't like a cup of tea?”

Gail stands and takes her robe from its hanger, then reaches for her purse. “What I'd like is for you to go to Macy's and buy a bottle of rose-scented perfume.” She hands Barbara three twenties. “And don't worry about the cost. Get the one you think is best.”

She takes the money. “Would you like me to do this now?”

“Is something the matter?” Gail asks. Barbara seems skittish. Granted Gail isn't in the most pleasant of moods, but she hasn't behaved in a way that would, on any normal day, unnerve the woman who's been her PA for seventeen years.

“It's nothing.” Barbara picks a dying leaf from the plant.

“Meaning it is
something.
Out with it.”

Barbara looks at her gold watch, a present from Gail. “Another letter,” she says quietly.

“Why didn't you tell me when I first came in?”

“I was going to, but … you seemed preoccupied. I didn't want to bother you with anything more.”

“From the same girl?”

“Yes.”

Gail loosens her skirt a little, then zips her robe. “No return address, I assume?”

“None.”

“I will speak to Jonah. I think a harassment order is the next step.”

“Would you like me to shred it?”

“Yes.” She sits. Her hip hurts. She should be walking into the courtroom. But she feels light-headed, as if she's been under water too long. It could be low blood sugar. Or possibly high blood pressure, even though she did take Atenolol this morning. “No, don't shred it. Bring it to me.”

Barbara scoots out, returns with the letter, and hands it to Gail, trying to keep her distance.

Gail reads the first paragraph.

I'm so sorry to have to write a letter like this. I always swore to myself I would never get involved with a married man. I wouldn't do that to another woman. But falling in love is a game changer.

What a silly young woman. Gail opens her bottom desk drawer and takes out a Kit Kat. The handwriting in the letter is neat, not indicative of any sort of mental illness, but it's hard to tell with only one sample. What Gail is sure of, though, is that she cannot keep receiving this sort of nonsense at work. It's too distracting. She will speak to Jonah tonight, ask him for the girl's full name. Then, even though he'll protest and tell her he'll take care of it, she will get a harassment order stating that this must cease. Gail licks the chocolate from her fingers and heads into court.

 

Bridget

It's nearly noon when Bridget wakes up on Friday. It took over two hours to fall asleep when she came home from work. She was dizzy and nauseated. Pregnancy and night shifts don't go well together. She gets up to pee and hears Michael playing guitar in the living room. With the band, part-time landscaping, part-time construction work, and random hours with UPS, he's not usually home during the day. It would probably be best to hide under the covers, but if she doesn't put something in her stomach, she's going to dry heave.

She walks downstairs, and he stops playing.

“You want me to make you breakfast?” he asks. He still has no idea she's pregnant. She's waiting for the right moment to tell him. Not a romantic, let's-build-a-family moment, more like a fuck-you moment.

“Nope,” she answers. “Just having toast.”

They both stand and watch the toaster. She tugs at her long T-shirt and looks at her belly. There's a tiny bulge, nothing noticeable.

“You should go back to bed,” he says. “You look exhausted.”

No shit.
“I'm fine.”

“You want to do something this afternoon?” He rinses his coffee cup.

“Not really.”

“
The Avengers
is playing at the Premium cinema. They have great seats.”

She's about to say no, go fuck yourself, but she thinks of movie theater popcorn and wants it more than she wants to knee Michael in the balls. This must be what they mean by a craving, because even as her toast pops up, she can only think of extra butter on popcorn.

“Sure. I'll go.” She has no interest in the movie, but Premium tickets come with all the popcorn you can eat.

“It starts in like half an hour.” He reaches over to touch her shoulder.

“I'll be ready in two seconds.” She ducks under his arm and leaves her toast on the counter. Upstairs, she puts on an old pair of jeans and a black top.

On the drive there, he chatters about how much he's wanted to see this movie and how happy he is that they're doing something together. She just keeps saying, “Yep.”

They pick two of the large center seats. About ten other people, three who are alone, are dotted throughout the theater. The previews take forever, and she's already finished with her first bag. She stands to get another.

“They serve here,” Michael tells her.

It might be five minutes until someone comes by, and she needs more now. “I'd rather get my own.”

After her second bag, there have already been at least ten fights on the screen. She likes Captain America and Robert Downey Jr., and now that her craving is gone for the moment, she can watch. But the plot doesn't interest her. She turns to look at Michael. He's transfixed and smiling.

She pokes his side.

He looks at her, grins, and turns back to the screen. Did he think that was a friendly nudge? She pokes him again.

“What?” he whispers, not turning this time.

“I want to go home.” That will piss the shit out of him.

“Bridge,” he whispers. “The movie just started.”

“Yeah, well, I don't like it.”

“Shush. I'm not leaving yet.”

“Then I'm going to keep talking.”

“Quiet,” someone chides from a few rows back. Michael tenses, embarrassed. Good, she thinks.

“Take me home,” she says.

“For God's sake, stop it. You're behaving like a child.”

“I'm getting more popcorn,” she announces.

When she returns, she puts the bag on Michael's tray, jiggles the straw in her drink, then finally sits.

“What is with you?” Michael whispers.

“You really want to know?” she asks.

“Come on, keep it down,” the man from the back scolds again.

Michael shakes his head. At least he's not enjoying the movie anymore.

She finishes her third bag, feeling stuffed, uncomfortable, and queasy.

“I need to go home and puke,” she says.

“No wonder.” Michael punches the armrest. “Just use the bathroom here.”

“I'm not throwing up in some gross movie theater bathroom. I want to go home.”

“Come on, you two,” the man says. “Show some respect.”

Michael turns. “Sorry,” he tells him.

“Yeah, apologize to him. Be nice to some stranger, but treat the woman you're supposed to love like dirt.”

“Bridge, what is with you?”

“Maybe you should have worn a condom the last time you fucked me,” she says, at the exact time there's a lull in the action.

“Okay, that's it,” the man says, and stands.

“Don't bother,” Michael says. “We're leaving.” He yanks Bridget up and practically pushes her up the aisle.

In the lobby, he holds on to her arms and stares at her. “What the hell is your problem?”

She looks at the concession stand. She's dying of thirst. “I need a lemonade.”

He follows her. “If this is your way of trying to make my life a living hell, good job. But it's not gonna work, because I'm just not gonna go out with you again.”

She orders a large drink. “You've made my life a living hell.”

“Ahhh, Bridge. I know. You tell me all the time. I get it already.”

“You don't get shit.” She heads to an empty table and sits.

“I'm not getting into this in public.”

“You ashamed of me?”

He sits across from her and lets out a long, deep sigh. “No, I'm not ashamed of you. But I'm not airing my dirty laundry for the world to hear.”

She glances around. There's a large woman who collects the tickets sitting at the entrance, and a pimply kid behind the counter. “Not exactly what I'd call the whole world.”

“Enough.” He stands. “I'm going back in.” He strides toward the door. Regardless of how much she can't stand him, he still has the best ass.

“I'm pregnant,” she shouts.

He turns.

“I'm pregnant,” she says again.

He walks toward her and sits.

“When?”

“When did it happen, or how long have I known?”

“Both. Either.”

“It happened when you didn't use a condom. I've known for a little over a week.” She draws the straw from her drink and bites it.

“Wow,” he says. “Didn't see this coming.”

“That's what happens when you think with your dick.”

She glances around again, this time looking for somewhere more comfortable to sit. The hard little café chair hurts her back. She'd like a couch. Actually, she'd love to lie down. She's suddenly so tired. Not sleepy-tired or stress-tired, more like bone-tired, a different kind of exhaustion than she's ever felt. She walks to a small vinyl-upholstered couch and plops down.

He joins her. She glares at him and scoots away.

“We always wanted kids,” he says.

“I always wanted a faithful husband.”