Falling in Love (20 page)

“Thanks,” I said, taking a long drag. We talked a bit. He was Jack R., a corporate lawyer, who was once a partner in a large firm but now he worked on his own.

“What do you do?” he asked.

“I’m sort of a legal secretary,” I replied.

“Sort of?” Jack paused and then said, “You mean when you show up for work on time and are not hungover?”

I nodded. “Lately, I seem to have a little problem with that.”

He smiled, unfazed. “I’m looking for a secretary right now. Maybe we can help each other stay sober.”

He was so good-looking that I wanted to go out with him and I was afraid that if we worked together he would just look at me as a secretary and not want to get involved. Then I thought about him being close to twenty years older than me and wondered if I just needed a father figure. I had enough problems without throwing that one into the mix.

Still, this would be the perfect way to leave Adam without having to tell Dede that I screwed up. She couldn’t fault me for trading in temping for a permanent job. And if I came into the office half-drunk, wearing the previous day’s clothes, Jack would understand. He was an addict, too. When he mentioned a starting salary that was considerably more than my temp salary, I was sold.

He handed me a business card. “How about we start Monday morning?” Jack asked with a perfect smile. “Nine-thirty?”

“Great.”

We crushed out our cigarettes and started inside when a horrible chill came over me. I stopped. “I need to know. Have you ever molested children?”

Jack smiled again and shook his head. “Not my thing.”

I managed to stay sober all weekend and early Monday morning, I called my agency and explained the situation and left a message with the floor receptionist to tell Adam that I had gotten a permanent job. Since I had pretty much turned down his own job offer he would probably know that something wasn’t right but neither was I.

To make sure I wasn’t late, I arrived at Jack’s office an hour early and talked the security guard into letting me in. Jack’s office was small but nicely appointed. No family pictures adorned his shelves, only several honorary plaques. The last one was dated over a decade before. He appeared to have been a high-powered lawyer until something happened. It wasn’t hard to imagine what that something was.

I sat in my small cubicle and looked at the inbox of docs to see if I could get an early start. But the computer needed a password so I busied myself with pinning “One Day at a Time” next to “Progress, not Perfection” on a cork board beside my desk.

Just before ten, Jack walked armed with coffee and looking ragged.

“Good morning,” I said, cheerfully.

“Morning,” he answered, barely glancing at me. “Come into my office.”

At his desk, he sat down gingerly in his chair, and I asked, “You okay?”

He nodded. “Just a headache. I had a small slip last night.”

“I looked at a few of your documents,” I admitted, as I settled into a leather chair. Jack didn’t reply as he downed a couple of aspirins with his coffee. “That unclaimed beneficiary document you’re doing? How much will it cost to find him?”

Jack glanced up. “Who do you want to find?”

“My mother.”

He gave me a long look and slugged his coffee. “Give me what information you have. We’ll call it a hiring bonus.”

I worked hard all day, trying to be both fast and accurate and Jack seemed to appreciate the effort. But he showed no personal interest in me. Maybe someday, I thought.

During my first week with Jack, I didn’t act out once. Five days! A record! Knowing that Jack understood my problem was comforting. I no longer felt like I was one binge away from starting all over again. I knew I would have at least a few chances with him. I actually felt proud of myself since twice Jack came in hungover but I was also impressed that he never let it affect his work. On Saturday night, I decided to test myself with one drink in a village bar. Bad idea. I woke up on my living room floor nude from the waist down.

The following week, I also managed not to act out because Jack was preparing for a huge closing and we worked late every night. At 8 o’clock on Thursday evening, we finally finished all the documents. I was so tired that I wanted to go straight home but Jack insisted that we go out to dinner to celebrate. He took me to a lovely restaurant below the Brooklyn Bridge. As I stared in awe at the spectacular, and romantic, view of Manhattan and the Harbor, I fantasized that that Jack was trying to start a relationship. I wasn’t sure about dating another addict but knew that it would immediately give us a common bond and I had certainly never dated someone who was both handsome and rich. I decided to try to let things happen and not worry about where they might lead—at least not until after our first kiss.

Jack asked me what it was like growing up in Indiana. I knew he was giving me a choice of either making small talk or saying something real about my childhood. In group, I had watched countless people share their painful childhood stories and felt sure that such courage would always elude me. I only whispered softly, “I was abused and have spent my entire life trying to deal with it.”

Jack had no such qualms about sharing, saying that he couldn’t blame his addiction on his parents or anyone else, that he had enjoyed a typically normal childhood. “My most traumatic childhood event was breaking my collarbone while skiing but that was because it took forever to get down the mountain to a hospital.” He added, “God only knows why I am a sex addict because I sure as shit don’t.”

Jack downed his Scotch and motioned to the waiter for another. “I was paying prostitutes a thousand dollars an hour, until I went broke twice. Now, I refuse to pay for sex. It’s my main bottom line.”

An eerie feeling came over me. While I enjoyed looking at Jack’s candlelit face, the evening seemed to be turning into a weird group meeting. Jack showed absolutely no personal interest in me. He just drank heavily and talked about his attempts at recovery. I had been trying to drink less but as I became more discouraged by the lack of connection between us, I began matching his drinks.

On the way home, I was too drunk and too depressed to worry about Jack’s driving but he seemed use to driving drunk. As he neared my apartment a car pulled out. Jack exclaimed, “God! A parking place in New York City.” He slipped into the spot, adding, “We should celebrate or something. Can I come in for a nightcap?”

I hesitated. It was really late and he had his big closing the following day but I figured he couldn’t scold me too much for being hungover when he was the one who had gotten me blasted. Wondering if he was finally showing some interest in me, I nodded.

We got out and as I started up my steps, Jack popped his trunk. “Mind if I bring in my things?”

I turned around. “What things?”

Jack picked up a bag of whips and ropes. “If I see them I don’t fantasize about them. I’m trying to neutralize them.”

I stared at him. “You paid someone a thousand dollars an hour to whip you?” He nodded. I couldn’t believe it. “Have I lived the wrong life.”

I immediately regretted the comment but regretted more Jack hauling his sick “things” into my apartment.
As long as he didn’t do anything with them!

I got us diet sodas and once again listened to Jack talk about himself, finally realizing that he wasn’t going to try to get closer to me. Jack explained that women dominating him turned him on and that he had some clothes in his bag that might fit me if I wanted to try them on.

He pulled out a pair of black spiked high-heeled boots. I just stared at them. Jack grinned and I knew I was lost. I couldn’t believe that I was letting him draw me into his sick fetish. But I did. Like some kind of doll, I let him undress me. My head was swirling as he decked me out in a shear black bra and panties, black silk stockings and those boots. I told myself that my addiction made me powerless. I was a girl who could never say no. But I knew that was bullshit. Sure, he was dominating me by dressing me up like some sick Barbie, but when I gripped that rope, I felt a power, a seduction, that I had never experienced before—of being dominant over a man! Jack laid face down nude on the brass bed and I bound his hands and feet to the posts so tightly that he winced in pain as he grinned. That angered me. I didn’t want him to enjoy this. I wanted him to regret the humiliation that he was causing us.

I grabbed his whip and whacked him hard on the ass. He squealed and squirmed, saying “Yes. Yes!” That enraged me even more. I hit him harder and he moaned louder. I loathed him for manipulating my trust in him and for causing me to slip again. I lashed out at him, even as I knew it wasn’t about Jack. I was unleashing my hatred for men, for my life, for myself.

Something inside me snapped and I lost it. I began thrashing Jack faster and harder. To shut him up! To end this horror! If he was moaning, I didn’t hear him. Just that loud cracking whip’s snap and the throbbing rage inside my head. Like some insane robot, I whipped harder and faster, faster and harder. My arm ached.
Fall off arm!
I kept on flailing him faster and harder.

Suddenly a sound broke though my fury.

Jack was screaming, “Stop! Stop!”

I stopped.

I stood there, gasping for breath, waiting for my heart to pound out of my chest. I looked down and couldn’t believe the carnage. Not only was Jack’s ass a bloodied pulp but bloody gashes ran up and down his back and his legs and even his bloody matted hair. Deep red splotches covered the bedspread, the sheets and were splattered on the walls. Suddenly, I was afraid that Jack would bleed to death if I didn’t call an ambulance. But how could I explain this is the paramedics. I’d end up in jail.

Jack’s pitifully whined, “I finished a long time ago.”

Finished? Finished!
I was supposed to stop when this sick bastard came!
Suddenly, I was enraged again! I sprinted into the kitchen and grabbed the biggest knife I owned. I rushed back into the bedroom and furiously slashed at the ropes, freeing him.

“Get out!” I screamed. “Get the hell out of here!”

Jack rose and gingerly put on his white shirt. It oozed blood. “Look, I—” he started to protest.

“Get out!” I shrieked. I thrust the knife in his face. “Out!”

Looking like he genuinely feared for his life, Jack threw on his pants and shoes. He ran limping toward the front door as I pursued him, brandishing the knife a few inches behind his bleeding head. He staggered out. I slammed and locked the door. I heard him trip and hit his head against the hallway wall. He kept hitting his head against it, whispering, “Never again. Never. Never. Again.”

I smashed my hands against my ears, trying to block him out. I sprinted back into the bedroom and slammed the door. He would again. Like I would again. Never again was a pipe dream! Elaine had been right. Addiction only got worse! I could never conquer this sickness. One day, I would kill someone or myself or both. I might as well just end my miserable life now!

I yanked the knife up to my throat, commanding my fist to slit my throat in half. It refused. I started shaking and the knife began slicing into my skin. Warm blood trickled down my neck.
Jab a huge hole! Make that blood gush out!
My arm just kept shaking, refusing to kill me.

I’m so pathetic I can’t even kill myself!

At least I could maim myself for life. I held the knife up with both hands, taking aim between my legs, the center of all my pain and problems. The knife hovered over my spread legs. I thrust it down. Loud ripping filled my ears. I slashed the blade down again and again. More ripping. Stuffing exploded into the air, swirling around me. I looked down through the haze. I had only torn into the mattress.
Again a failure! A complete fiasco!

Spent and exhausted, I flopped onto the shredded bed, curled into a tight ball and cried uncontrollably for the infinite time of my life.

MIDLOGUE

Sherry broke down crying. She crumbled on my sofa, her head clutched in her hands, sobbing uncontrollably. After a long while, she stopped, still covering her face. Finally, she wiped her eyes with a tissue from a packet that she had had the foresight to bring. She hadn’t just talked into a tape recorder. She had been reliving her sordid past. Her beautiful face was now twisted in pain.

She desperately needed a break and probably some sleep. I feared the consequences of her continuing.

Most of my projects had involved a lot of emotion and pain. I had doctored scripts for panicked producers and directors who had starting shoot dates but no scripts. I had ghosted celebrity autobiographies for despondent, desperate stars. No one ever wrote their memoir when they were on top. Autobiographies were excuses to explain why they weren’t working and usually frantic attempts to revive their careers. But I had never before experienced this kind of anguish.

Sherry agreed to a break and we dined on Chinese takeout in my back garden. Despite claiming to be famished, Sherry just pushed her Sesame Chicken around her plate with her chop sticks, completely lost in thought. She didn’t want polite conversation. She didn’t want any conversation. Occasionally a tear slithered down her cheek, marking another moment of past agony.

I wanted to know how Sherry’s story ended. What if we didn’t finish on time and there was no ending? I couldn’t create one. Sherry’s story deserved a real ending. Her words would have to reside in my unfinished-projects drawer, waiting for her return, if ever.

I asked softly, “If we don’t get it all this weekend, can you stay an extra day?”

“No,” she replied. “Monday morning, I have to be on a plane. Period.”

Silence enveloped us again. Sheltered from the blaring streets by townhouses and highrises, we heard only the soft hum of air conditioners.

I tried small talk and asked about her relationship with Candice. “We sat beside each other on a plane once,” she replied without looking up. “When we discovered we had Anonymous groups in common, we became phone friends.” That was all she had to say.

Finally, I said, “We have to talk about business.”

Sherry finally looked up, her aquamarine eyes stared at me. She shook her head. “If you think this is about money, you haven’t been listening. I’m not doing this to get things but to get rid of them. I don’t want anything except to be, well, ‘anonymous.’”

I shook my head. “You have to be paid something and the typical token dollar seems a travesty.”

Sherry hesitated a moment and then replied, “Candice says that you know about offshore accounts.”

I nodded. I had once worked for a star who so desperately wanted to claim that the book was written alone that I was paid through an offshore account.

“If the book makes any money, give a portion to charity, mainly ‘Anonymous’ groups. Put the rest of it in some overseas account and give the account number to Candice. Maybe someday I’ll be happy to have it. So we just did business, right?”

I nodded. “I guess we did.”

Although completely exhausted, Sherry wanted to press on. Having spent much of my life on deadlines, I knew how invaluable a few hours of sleep could be combined with strong coffee.

“You can take a cab back to your hotel,” I suggested, “or you can stay here. You can have my bed. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

Sherry opted for the sofa bed.

When I rose at dawn, Sherry had already showered and dressed and had made toast and very strong coffee. She looked like a runway model. I looked like a writer on a deadline. I didn’t bother to shower or shave or comb my hair. A clean T-shirt was the best I could do to greet the day.

Within minutes, Sherry and I were again lost in her story.