Infidelity (12 page)

( CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE )

It took over a month, but the news of Ronnie and Aaron's engagement finally began to spread among their friends and family. Aaron wanted to do a letterpress announcement card but Ronnie, with her quiet reservations, was resistant.

“We should get photos done. Engagement photos we can send to our parents,” he said enthusiastically.

“But why?” she asked, genuinely perplexed as to why someone would subject their loved ones to posed glamour shots of them “in love.”

Of course, when the news was discovered everyone was thrilled, and messages of congratulations crammed their mailbox, inboxes, and voicemail. There was, however, a degree of condescension to most of the well-wishes, each note suggesting “it's about fucking time,” especially those that came from their families.

Ronnie's mother's immediate response, fuelled by white wine, was “Are you pregnant?” assuming that the couple could find no other reason to go the traditional route. To this query Ronnie laughed, although the entire idea of it depressed her more than ever.

“Really, I am very proud of you, sweetheart,” her mother said.

“Proud of me for getting married?”

“Well, marrying someone like Aaron is something someone like you should be proud of, don't you think?”

As more people mailed and called in their well-wishes, Ronnie knew it was only a matter of time before she would have to tell Charlie that Aaron had proposed. Each time she saw him the words were in her mouth, but if they escaped she knew there would be endless tears and questions, and she was intent on living in the happiness of their meetings for as long as possible.

The proposal had the capacity to force a decision, what decision Ronnie had no idea, but she wasn't there yet. She wasn't ready to choose.

Aaron was forcing things as well, immediately interested in the complexities of wedding planning, and starting to fill a journal with his ideas, contacts, and to-do lists. Their apartment became a suffocating place of expectations, decisions, and fabric swatches. The possible-menu tastings were endless, their oven always on and full of things to serve to potential guests. Aaron had pooled all of his attentions into planning the perfect backyard wedding, as if perfecting the event was a way to distract from Ronnie's disinterest in getting married at all, which she was sure he was aware of. When Ronnie failed to care about making guest lists and ordering personalized coasters, he simply cut her out of it. “At the very least, find a dress to wear and show up. That's all I ask.”

He pestered Ronnie to commit to a date almost immediately, outlining the various virtues of spring, summer, and fall nuptials. During each conversation Ronnie found reasons to put off the event.

“What if I'm not well?” she finally said. The question felt strange as soon as she heard it, knowing that she, in fact, was not well. The tests so far had said as much.

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“You never take this seriously.”

“Of course I do. I just think you worry too much about things before they happen.”

“Aaron, this is happening. It looks more and more like I'm going to have to get the surgery. You know that.”

The surgery
was easier to say than
cancer
. It was an event. Something that came and then went. Not an ongoing ordeal to be coped with.

“Fine. If that happens, it happens. But we can't put our lives off,” Aaron said, not making eye contact.

“This is not us putting our lives off. This is our lives. This is my life.”

Despite Ronnie's protests, they eventually decided on a June wedding, a little more that a year away.

“June is the only month worthy of us, no?” Aaron asked sincerely.

Ronnie laughed, but didn't explain why.

( CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX )

“You're going to marry him? And you waited until after to tell me?”

Ronnie was lying on her back in their king-sized hotel bed, having a cigarette in their non-smoking room. The blankets were looped around her midriff in a way that clothed her from the waist down. Charlie was propped up on one elbow, fully clothed.

“I've been trying to find a way to tell you. The time never seemed right.”

“You know, Ronnie, you really shouldn't smoke. We might have to pay for that,” Charlie said.

“It's adorable that you think me smoking in our hotel room is the biggest problem we're facing right now,” Ronnie mocked.

Their trysts had been much more comfortable since Charlie had made the decision to stop meeting in his office. Although the hotel option was more costly and more difficult to conceal, it did prevent being heard or spotted by those hell-bent on exposing them. His writer-in-residence position had been winding down anyway, so their secrecy would become difficult. Charlie didn't regret this, he was glad the residency was coming to an end. He was more devoted to finishing the novel he had started, anyway, a book in which a version of Ronnie he had invented and defiled featured heavily.

As for new locales for their meetings, the Delta Chelsea would suffice. Rented for a day and used for only a few hours in the afternoon, the room would be empty and paid for overnight. Ronnie often suggested they give their key card to a homeless person upon leaving, while Charlie would suggest they meet again early in the morning for another romp. They generally did neither, as Charlie didn't trust the homeless and their mornings were generally reserved for guilt and remorse.

The first signs of spring had finally come to Toronto after a particularly brutal winter, and the thaw and smell of it caused Ronnie to feel somewhat more relaxed about balancing her affections for and liaisons with Charlie with the borderline platonic relationship she had developed with Aaron. While the intensity of her meetings with Charlie increased, at home she and Aaron barely touched each other, and Ronnie was struck by how unconcerned he seemed
about this.

She still had an intense fear of being caught, of losing control over the surprise that she was not the good wife he hoped she would become, but she had to accept that she had come this far without getting discovered. Barring the occasional offhand comment from Lisa at the salon and the accusatory voicemail from Sarah, all evidence pointed to it being perfectly natural, even
preferable
, to have a domestic relationship with one man and a lustful, romantic tryst with another. One made the other tolerable.

In fact, she had become so comfortable with Charlie, everything became so familiar, that she could almost pretend she was in a relationship with him. When they had the rare opportunity to spend the night together, facilitated by some carefully constructed untruths (sleeping at Lisa's, working late at the office), they would brush their teeth together side by side in the mirror much like any married couple would. She enjoyed the simple details that affairs often avoided; watching him shave while she was seated on the toilet lid, helping him find his socks in the morning, reminding him of an afternoon dentist appointment and giving him a housewifely goodbye kiss at the hotel room door.

They chose to ignore the fact that the goodbye kiss at the door was merely a function of wanting to avoid being seen leaving a hotel together.

When they only had a few hours in the afternoon, Charlie always got dressed immediately after they had sex, while Ronnie tried to remain undressed and in bed until the final moment. Sometimes Charlie would get anxious and pace around the room aimlessly, checking his watch and then the red glow of the bedside alarm. She forgave him for this.

This time while Charlie paced his eyes were accusing her, the irony of his disdain escaping him. Ronnie took a long drag off her cigarette, looking relaxed and unaffected. “Let me get this straight. You're mad at me because I waited until after we fucked to tell you that I was going to marry him?”

“That's not the point, Ronnie.”

“Answer the question.”

“Yes. I'm mad.”

“That's insane, Charlie.”

“Why? I feel manipulated. Used. When did this happen?”

“Ha! You feel used?”

“Yes, I feel used.”

“Charlie, you're using me a couple of times a week in a hotel room to get away from your wife. You're using me for your midlife crisis. You're using me to get laid.”

“Stop it,” Charlie said. “You know that's not true. But hell, if that's what you need to tell yourself to get by.”

Charlie opened the minibar and pulled out a small bottle of Canadian Club. Ronnie smoked the final drag off her Belmont. They were silent as he poured the entire contents of the tiny bottle into one of the glasses on the dresser and drank a dramatic gulp.

“You don't want ice for that?” Ronnie asked.

“When did this happen?” Charlie asked, ignoring her.

“The proposal? A while ago. It happened a while ago.”

“What the hell is a while ago?”

“About a month?”

“What the fuck, Veronica? You waited a whole month to tell me?”

“Actually, it's closer to two.”

Charlie buried his head in his hands.

“God, don't be melodramatic. There's no need for that.”

“Are you going to wear a white dress? Advertise your ‘purity'?”

“God. What does that even mean?”

“It means you're a hypocrite. You had sex with me. Over and over and over and over and over,” Charlie's volume had increased and he slammed down his glass hard on the heavy wood bedside table.

“You have some strange concepts of purity.”

“All I know is that you fucked me knowing full well that you're planning on marrying him.”

“And you fucked me knowing you're married. That seems worse to me. But it's not really a competition for who can be more inhuman, is it?”

“I'm just saying, having an affair while you're planning to marry someone is pretty sociopathic. Oh my god, are you planning a wedding? Are you planning a wedding in between seeing me? Are thinking about centrepieces when you're with me?”

Charlie had begun to pace around the room aimlessly, his fists clenched.

“Charlie, now you're being mean and slightly crazy. You need to calm down.”

“Calm down? You're getting married.”

“I didn't say I was planning on marrying him. I said that he'd asked me and that I said yes.”

“Tricky, tricky,” Charlie said, lifting his glass from the table and tipping it side to side mockingly.

Ronnie sat up, breasts exposed, her face a mixture of amusement, rage, and sadness. “Please. Couldn't you be upset that I'm going to marry him, instead?”

“I
am
upset about that. Does this mean you're leaving me?”

“Charlie, you're
married
. Have you left me yet?”

“You know, the day you tell me you're pregnant? That's the day I give up the faint hope that you'll ever leave him.”

“I doubt there's much risk of that,” she said, her face suddenly soft with sadness.

To this comment he finally relented. “Oh, Ronnie. I'm sorry.”

He returned to the bed, whisky glass in hand, and ran his palm slowly and lightly across her shoulder, and when she sighed encouragingly, her left breast. He did so in a way that suggested he would miss her if she was gone. She smiled.

“Don't marry him, Veronica. Please don't marry him.”

“Should I marry you instead?”

“You know that's not possible. You know it's complicated. You know I can't—”

“I deserve something. Something like what you have. A home. A life. A child. And besides, my marrying him will never change the way I feel about you.”

Charlie sulked for a moment and then realized the gravity of her sentiment. “Because marriage means nothing to people like us,” he said.

She knew that this was completely true.

“Is it awful that that makes me feel better about everything?” Ronnie asked sincerely.

Charlie put his glass on the bedside table, next to the makeshift ashtray, and leaned in to kiss her.

( CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN )

“Now, I totally understand cold feet and all that, but your lack of wedding excitement is starting to concern me. Most women would have gone intolerably loopy by now.” Lisa put down her bottle of beer and continued applying dye to Ronnie's hair.

The shop was closed and the two had stayed late to have drinks and catch up. A few beers in, Lisa decided Ronnie should be a redhead and there was no convincing her otherwise. Ronnie had been too exhausted to object, a day of enduring the problems of her clients behind her and an evening of enduring her own ahead.

“I mean, aren't you supposed to be going crazy about dresses and flowers and all that by now? Aren't I supposed to be bored of you and all your wedding talk?”

“It's not that I'm not excited,” Ronnie said, looking warily at her dye-soaked head in the mirror.

“It's just that you don't give a fuck.”

“Yeah, that. Should you really be doing this drunk?” Ronnie asked, eyeing Lisa's exuberant application.

Lisa laughed. “You have no idea how many times I've done this drunk.”

“I don't really want to know, thanks.”

Lisa put the dye brush down and lit a Belmont. When Ronnie shot her a vague disapproving look for smoking in the salon, Lisa shrugged it off. “Honey, if you knew the shit I got up to in this place after hours you'd be thankful it was just a cigarette.”

“I'm learning so much about you I never wanted to know,” Ronnie replied.

“So why did you even say yes in the first place?”

“To Aaron or becoming a redhead?”

“To marriage, obviously.”

“After a while you start to owe someone a commitment, no?”

“Uh, no. Fuck that. Life's too short for counting up who owes who what.”

“Easy for you to say, you don't owe anyone anything.”

“Yeah, but you owe me for this and how stunning you're going to be when I'm through with you. Men are going to be falling all over you.”

“Like I need that in my life.”

“Hey, do you think this hair dye causes cancer? 'Cause if so we're totally fucked, girl,” Lisa said, her cigarette dangling from
her lips.