The Wife of Reilly (11 page)

My husband.
“Thank you,” I said, struggling to lift the box from the counter.

After work I went to Sophie’s apartment, where Chad and Jennifer planned to meet us after dinner. As soon as the kids went to bed, we’d review Reilly’s letters and find a few good women for him. Sophie’s apartment looked like her life. Despite the fact that she had young children, her carpets were unstained. Her white walls were free of fingerprints. The rooms were done in sets of clean, modern furniture, modified just enough to differentiate it from the showroom displays. Her apartment building had been around for decades, but with a fresh coat of paint and new fixtures, her place looked as if no one had lived there before.

As we were eating our pizza, I told Sophie that I planned to have my eyes and lips done. “Why do you want to do that?” Sophie asked. “Your eyes look fine to me.”

“Look at these huge bags,” I leaned in toward her. “I look tired all the time. And look at these,” I said, pointing to the lines around my eyes. “And my lids look like paper bags. After the lift, they won’t look so droopy.”

“Your lids don’t look droopy,” Sophie said, a bit bored.

“Yes, they do. I want them wide open and bright looking.”

Devy raised her hand. She and Oscar had just started kindergarten and brought their school protocol wherever they went now.

“Yes, Devy,” I said.

“Will you see any better?”

“What?” I asked.

“When your eyes are more open, are you going to see better?” asked Devy.

“No. No, honey, I won’t see any better. I’ll look better, though.”

“Oh,” she shrugged and went back to picking the cheese off her pizza.

“Maybe I’ll do Botox and get rid of this line,” I said, pointing between my eyebrows.

Sophie laughed. “You can’t be serious, Prudence. You’d pay someone to shoot botulism into your face and paralyze your forehead? My friend in San Diego did that and she couldn’t feel her head for three months. I’ve only heard one idea nuttier from you, but have faith, the week has just begun.”

* * *

After the kids were in bed, Sophie asked me if I’d heard from Matt recently.

“Every day,” I beamed.

“And when is it that he’s coming to New York?” Sophie asked.

“I arranged his visit for the same week Reilly will be in Tokyo,” I told her.

“Where is he going to stay?”

“At the loft.”

“At
your
home?” Sophie gasped. “Isn’t that risky?”

“The day Reilly leaves, I’m going to take all of his clothes downstairs and leave them in the gallery office. All photos, shaving kits, shoes, Speed Stick will go in boxes to be moved back as soon as Matt leaves, which gives me two full days to move Reilly’s stuff back in.”

Sophie didn’t say a word, but her face showed that she disapproved.

“I know it sounds cold,” I apologized.

“It really does, Prudence,” Sophie said.

“What’s colder, this, which he’ll never know about, or walking out on him? I realize how strange this whole thing sounds, but desperate times call for desperate measures.” I knew I’d hit a sore spot with Sophie as soon as the words started coming out of my mouth. Walking out on her husband Bob was exactly how she had made her migration east. I don’t know the details. None of us do because Sophie quickly dismisses all inquiries about her divorce from Bob, her husband of eight years. She offers one of her stock, blithe one-liners that make her sound like Mommy Go-lightly, and it’s clear that the conversation is going no further. Miss Free Spirit has her limits.

“I just don’t understand what makes these times so desperate,” Sophie said.

Sophie went into the kitchen and started boiling water for tea. She wiped down the counter with a cloth and tossed it into the sink when she was done. “Sometimes I think we must be the ones who are crazy for not understanding why you’re doing this. Maybe you’re the most generous woman in New York for going to such great lengths to make Reilly happy.” I knew there was more. “Other times I think this has nothing to do with Reilly at all.”

Meaning what?

The thing I hated about having an affair was that my friends felt it gave them free license to play my therapist. Chad, Jennifer and Sophie were constantly sharing their theories on what issues I was “playing out” with Matt and Reilly. If Chad asked one more time what my relationship with Matt was “really about,” I’d jump on his back and snap his neck. Now Sophie was my self-appointed guru.

“You’ve got to take a good hard look at what’s driving you to do this,” Sophie offered.

“I know what’s
driving
me, Sophie,” I said sharply. “I love him. I love Matt and I want to be with him.”

“That part I can live with, but what’s behind this ridiculous plan? You’ve had to notice that no other women are out there doing this. We live in a very large city, Prudence. A city where people are known for doing their own thing, no matter how offbeat. Have you ever heard of any other woman doing this?”

“Maybe they should!” I defended. “I don’t know why basic human kindness is considered diagnosable by you three. I completely understand why I’m doing this. What’s
driving
me,” I mocked her.

“Look, there’s no need for you to get snotty. I’m just suggesting you take a look at what’s motivating you to act so, so extreme.”

“Is that how you handle things, Sophie? Examining every step you take?” I said, terrified of her reaction.

“You’re right, Prudence. You should only take advice from people who are perfect.”

* * *

Jennifer and Chad arrived at Sophie’s just after ten, twenty minutes after Sophie’s last words. The two had just been to the opening of a restaurant where one of Chad’s friends is the head chef. “You two missed a great party,” he reported. “Lisa is a genius in the kitchen. I would’ve eaten the garnishes if they weren’t so gorgeous.” He looked at Sophie. Then at me. “Why so tense? What did I miss?”

“I’m sorry, Sophie,” I ignored Chad.

“I’m sorry too,” she playfully pouted her lip before scampering across the room to hug me.

“What did I miss?” Chad said again.

Jennifer looked tired, but was eager to read the letters women had written to Reilly. “Let’s divvy these up, read through ’em and make three piles. Yes, no and maybe. Plan?”

The idea was to quietly read the letters to ourselves, then sort them for callbacks or rejection. That plan fell by the wayside within ten minutes. “Must share this one,” Jennifer was the first to call out.

“Reilly my dear,
I know we have not met, but my psychic says we are destined to be together because we were lovers in a past life…”

“Freak,” said Chad. “This one is even better.”

“If you choose me as your wife, I will do whatever you want so we can be happy. I will love you, cherish you and keep you close to my heart. We will have good times and bad times, mostly good…”

“Who is this woman, Darva Conger?” he quipped.

“Who?” we all asked.

“You remember that dippy blond from
Who Wants to Marry a Millionaire?”

“Toss that one,” I instructed. “She’s too accommodating. Reilly needs someone a little more —”

“Conniving?” Chad finished.

“No,” I teased back. “Someone with a spine. Ditch Darva and let’s move on.”

The floor became our “no” pile. One-word dismissals like “desperate” or “loser” were quickly followed by letters flying to the floor. Some women sent photos, which made it harder to reject them as quickly because it was a reminder that we were talking about actual people. Some women were attractive; others less so. A surprising number mailed in photos from Glamour Shots, the studio where they doll up women and produce a soft, muted photograph that makes them look like 1940s film stars. Or cowgirls.

“Listen to this one,” Chad offered.

“I’ve got long red hair, I love the outdoors and I am loyal through and through.”

“Sounds like a golden retriever,” he said, tossing her letter to the floor.

“Talk about a has-been who never was,” shot Jennifer, reading a list of close calls with fame a woman had experienced ten years ago.

“This woman is naked!” shrieked Sophie.

“Who?” we all asked.

“This lady sent a naked photo,” she laughed. The picture was of a young bottle blond in a Santa Claus hat and a wide-open red velvet jacket with white cotton trim. She was posed on a stuffed reindeer, holding a whip. Sophie was right. Other than the jacket and hat, the woman was completely nude.

“I want to be your nasty Santa,”
Sophie read.
“Whether you’ve been naughty or nice, I’ve got a special gift for you this Christmas — a ride on my one-horse open sleigh…”

“This lady is a slut,” Sophie said.

“What happened to your sluts-as-free-thinkers philosophy?” I asked.

“This one wrote a poem for Reilly,” Chad said of another letter. He cleared his throat.

“There once was a man named Reilly…”

“Good Lord, it’s a fucking limerick,” he rolled his eyes. “Okay, let’s see where Miss Cutie Puss goes with this.”

“The thought of him makes me all smiley.”

“No, no, no, no,” he speedily dismissed. “Next.”

“This one sounds normal,” I chimed. “She’s a lawyer, she’s divorced…. Let’s see, let’s see,” I said skimming the page. “Okay, she sounds like a keeper.”

“Did she send a photo?” asked Jennifer.

“Nope.”

“Red flag,” she said. “Good looking women include photos.”

“I want to keep her,” I whined like a child who brought home an alley cat.

“This one sounds sweet,” Sophie announced before reading the next letter.

“Too sweet,” we all agreed after hearing the rest of her sappy note.

“Her stationery stinks like perfume,” Chad added.

“This lady sounds like she’s pissed off at Reilly,” Sophie said.

“If you want some little cupcake who’s going to agree with everything you say, I’m not for you. If you want some tootsie to fan you with a palm leaf, look somewhere else.”

“What is she talking about?” Chad asked. “We never said anything about fanning Reilly with a palm leaf.”

“Who said she would have to agree with everything he says?” Sophie defended.

“Where’s this attitude coming from?” Jennifer asked.

“If she’s so pissed at Reilly, why is she answering his ad?” I wondered aloud.

“Bipolar,” said Chad, grabbing the letter and tossing it to the floor.

“Traditional values,”
I read sticking my tongue out at the pink letter.

“Likes to have fun,”
read Sophie. “This city is full of sluts.”

“Needs commitment-oriented man,”
Jennifer read. “How ’bout meeting the man before you demand a ring, bitch.”

“I like long walks on the beach and romantic dinners by candlelight.”
We all groaned.

“Open minded.”
Bisexual.

“I need a strong man,”
Chad read. “Because I am a weak woman,” he finished for her.

“I don’t cook,”
recited Jennifer. “Who asked you to?”

“My last boyfriend had sex with my mother,”
I read. Way too much information.

Sophie cleared her throat.
“I am a classy lady who enjoys the finer things in life.”
Gold digger.

“
I am drop-dead gorgeous so people are always telling me I could be a model.”

“Photo?” Jennifer asked. Chad passed her the picture of the woman. “Deluded,” she said, dropping the head shot to the floor.

“I may not always succeed, but I get out of bed every day and try my very best to do the right thing.”
Ex-con, we all agreed.

“Looks not important,”
I read. “And I hope to hell they’re not important to you either because I am one ugly woman,” I read between the lines.

“Ageless.”
Old.

“Stable.”
Medicated.

“Slightly overweight.”
Obese.

“
Christian.”
Won’t fuck.

“Adventurous.”
Will.

“
Passionate.”
Abusive.

“Tornado blew me straight from Kansas, but there’s no place like New York!”
What can we possibly say about a grown woman who likens herself to Dorothy from the
Wizard of Oz?

“I’m really very shy,”
read Chad. “Except for my little habit of trolling for men in the newspaper.”

“Cannot deal with another misogynist,”
Jennifer shared. “Don’t you ever wonder about these women who think every man’s a misogynist? Wake up, honey. Maybe it’s just you they hate.”

“I am a goddess,”
I read.

“Get over yourself, Prudence! Woman ropes in two men and thinks she’s Venus,” Jennifer laughed.

“Very cute. Look, the goddess sent a photo,” I said, holding up her head shot. The room was silent. This woman really was exquisite.

“What the hell is
she
doing answering a personal ad?” Chad asked.

The letter said she is very busy lobbying for a women’s health organization, and doesn’t meet any men. “She says here that the only men she ever meets are elected officials and she’d rather not end up in the river, the tabloids or missing,” I said.

After a long pause, Chad decided this was cute. “Edgy, but cute.”

We agreed to keep the cynical goddess of gynecology.

“
I can go from jeans to evening gown,”
Sophie read. “Big deal, my five-year-olds change their own clothes too.”

“I want you in my life, Reilly, but I don’t need you.”
She owned a vibrator, we decided.

“I can make the perfect martini,”
Chad laughed and shook the letter. “I want to respond to some of these just to tell them that listing their bartending skills is only going to attract alcoholics! Can you just imagine who’s going to answer this ad?” Chad made his voice slur. “Hey love, let’s say you make another one of those perfect martinis for me.”

“What’s wrong with making a perfect martini?” Jennifer challenged. At first I thought it was just for sport, but it turns out that Jennifer also makes a perfect martini. “I took the Perfect Martini class at the Learning Annex. She probably did too. What’s wrong with that, Chad?”