The Affair (3 page)

“Diana, I really don’t know what you’re talking about.” (At this point I’m wondering if I look as guilty as I feel.)

She reached out and chucked me under the chin. “Baby, I love it when you lie.” She started for the door and then turned around.
“By the way, how’s Roger?” She left before I could answer.

I spent my lunch hour with Eddie. We grabbed hot dogs and found a green spot four blocks from the office. I kept expecting
Diana to pop up from behind a bush. He hinted at a stagnating marriage (he mentioned that his wife is usually asleep by the
time he gets home), and I hinted at my own (I told him about Roger’s obsession with his play). When we got back to the building
I asked him to take a different elevator. “You know, so people don’t start suspecting things.”

“What kind of things?” he asked, his eyes glittering wickedly as he grinned. God, I love his teeth.

“You know.” My face hurt from smiling so much. An elevator chimed and Eddie hopped in. I could see him staring at me as the
doors closed.

Roger was unusually animated when I arrived home. He had the cordless phone in his hand. “Guess who’s coming to dinner?” He
waved the phone in the air.

I put my briefcase down and rubbed my shoulders. “Tell me it’s a masseuse.”

He smiled. “It’s Diana. She just invited herself over. Two weeks from today. Says she wants to catch up with me. I mean us.”

Now what am I going to do? Diana is totally unpredictable. What if she says something about Eddie?

’Til next time,

Oh no. I can’t believe this. Two minutes ago I heard the phone ring. Roger got to it first. He held his hand over the mouthpiece
as he offered it to me. “Some guy wants to ask you about plants for your office. Sounds like a phone solicitor. Should I tell
him you’re not interested?”

I held my breath. “I’ll take it.”

Roger shrugged and went into his office. As long as I could hear him hammering away on the keyboard, I knew it was safe to
talk. I tried to sound casual. “Hello?”

“Hi. It’s me. Eddie.”

“Eddie? From the office?” Who was I kidding? I knew exactly who it was.

“Yeah, Eddie from the office. How are you?”

Scared, I wanted to say. It felt as if Eddie had violated some fundamental tenet of fantasy and flirtation. How could he call
me at home, the place where my husband and son live in happy ignorance? Eddie had upped the ante. “Fine,” I answered. “What’s
up?”

He cleared his throat. “I’m buying new plants for your floor and wondered whether you had any favorites. You know. For your
office. I mean, before I place the order, I just thought I’d ask.”

I took a deep breath. “You’ve got to be kidding.” I felt dizzy.

“Huh?”

“What is this, junior high school? I know what’s going on here.”

There was absolute silence on the other end and for a moment I thought he’d hung up. But then Eddie’s voice came through,
hushed and soft. “If you know what’s going on, then you must know that I can’t get you out of my head. Especially the way
your mouth curls up at the corners, even when you’re not smiling.” I could feel my lips tingle the way they do when the novocaine
starts to wear off. I bit my lower lip hard.

“I have just one question for you and I want you to answer me honestly. If your answer is no, I’ll never bother you again.”

I couldn’t bear that thought. “What’s the question?” I whispered. My head hurt.

“Are you attracted to me?”

I knew that my answer could change my life. Everyone’s lives. I could hear Roger tapping at the keyboard in the other room.

“Yes. I am attracted to you.”

“Mommy?” Jesus. It was Pete. How long had he been standing there? I pressed my mouth to the phone and whispered, “Gotta go.”
My heart thumped frantically. “Bad dream, sweetheart?” I led Pete back to his room and tucked his dinosaur blanket up to his
chin. He smiled at me and fell back to sleep. I watched him guiltily. It’s almost as if I’m betraying him too.

’Til next time,

It’s 1
A.M.
Pete and Roger are asleep and I’ve just spent the last half hour with my head over the toilet. When Roger asked, groggily,
if I was okay, I told him I thought it was the sweet-and-sour shrimp I’d had for dinner.

I lied.

I know it’s the guilt. Even when there was nothing left in my belly, I heaved the bile. When that was gone, I just shook and
gagged. My cheeks are flushed and I’ve got the chills. It’s the guilt.

Roger had reached for me in the night, then pulled me against him so we nested like spoons, his arm around my waist. I felt
the stirring in his briefs, felt it against me. He was sound asleep. If he could touch me now, why not when we were both awake?

I felt his warm breath against my neck and suddenly I was overcome by pity. I thought of his receding hairline and his futile
efforts to grow a goatee. I thought about the failed plays, the success that has eluded him season after season. I imagined
him hunched over the keyboard, convinced that this time he was golden. I thought of his one positive review, published in
the
Times
ten years ago, now pathethic and yellowed in its frame. I thought of the wife whose heart hungered for another man.

What would he say if I told him about Eddie? Would he be arrogant and ridicule Eddie’s lack of education, his lowly profession?
Would he crumple in pain? Would he cry? Would he fill with rage and, for the first time in our marriage, raise a hand to strike
me? Or, worse, would he silently pack his things and take Pete away?

I felt his heart beat against my back. He murmured in my hair. Did I hear him say he loved me? I held my breath and listened
keenly like a birdwatcher for the call of the loon. I was wide awake now. I actually hoped he would mention some other woman’s
name Diana, Cameron Diaz, anyone but me. I wanted a reason to want Eddie. I wanted to level the playing field. Roger said
it again, unmistakably. He said, “I love you.” It was at this point that I felt my dinner roil and surge and I staggered back
to the bathroom.

As I write this I can feel the anxiety ebb, finally. I need to get back to sleep. I’ve got back-to-back clients all day tomorrow
and a session with a married woman with four kids who thinks she may be lesbian. I owe it to her and all the rest of my clients
to be awake and alert. Maybe I’ll take something to help me get back to sleep. I think I’ve got some melatonin in the medicine
cabinet.

Wait. My computer just chimed. Who could be e-mailing me at this hour?

’Til next time,

Even before I checked my in-box I knew that the new e-mail was from Eddie. But how did he get my e-mail address? Wait a minute.
I know. I’d seen him flirting with Trish, the new receptionist (implants, I’m sure). She’d handed him something. Red cover,
yellow lettering. Damn that devil! He must have sweet-talked her into giving him the directory! That list is as closely
guarded as the Pentagon—lest any of our particularly unstable clients try to track us down at home.

I clicked on the envelope icon and his name appeared, highlighted on the screen. Edward Bennedetto. I stared at his name for
a long time before I got the nerve to read his mail. Just two words.

“You awake?”

He was on-line. I could have ignored it, could have deleted it. But the seventh-grader in me could not resist. I had to write
back. “Mmmmmm. I’m here.” Not “yes” or “yup.” But “Mmmmmm.” Flirting in cyberspace. What am I doing?!?

He fired back a response. “What are you wearing?” Oh God. Don’t go there, Eddie. I guess I provoked him with that “mmmmmm”
business. By now it’s 2
A.M.
, and I’m so tired I’m seeing bugs on the wall and the drone from my printer is beginning to sound like music. Sheryl Crow,
actually. I could have logged off. I
should
have logged off. But this was too delicious. “T-shirt. Panties. Black, by the way.” Actually I was wearing a Gap sweatshirt
and leggings, my bedtime attire of choice these days. Eddie responded: “Mmmmmm.”

This was too much fun. And so illicit. Then I thought of Roger snoring upstairs in bed, his chiropractically correct foam
pillow wedged under his neck. I could feel my stomach clench, the beginnings of another session of guilt puking. I couldn’t
handle much more of that tonight. “Gotta go. Get some sleep!” I logged off before I could see whether he’d written back.

It’s late. We signed Pete up for peewee basketball at the Y and it starts tomorrow evening. If I don’t get some sleep myself,
I’m going to be zombie mom in the bleachers.

’Til next time,

I feel like crap. It was one of those days when I hated everything. I hated the wasp-like cyclists in their Lycra, riding
three across, hogging the road, so physically fit I wanted to slam my Jeep right into their tight little butts. I hated the
women who jogged in the freezing drizzle with that glazed “runner’s high” look in their eyes (damn fanatics). I hated the
mothers who came to the preschool holiday party in their size four Talbot’s plaids and shiny loafers, all permed and perky
and so damned happy. Can anyone possibly be that happy?

And I hated the fact that Eddie didn’t show up for work today. Forty-five minutes spent getting dressed this morning. All
that effort, wasted.

I’ve noticed that I’ve started to see myself as I imagine he sees me. The image that holds no fascination for my husband now
ignites the lust of another man. I touch my lip and think, this is the lip he loves, the lip that curls up at the corners
even when I’m not smiling. He said it was catlike. I straddle a bench and see the curve of my leg and think, this is the leg
he wants to stroke. I slip off my T-shirt and imagine him watching me from the corner of the room. Is this sick, or what?

Betsy, my dear old college roommate, wants me to do this. I mean, have an affair with Eddie. I e-mailed her last night and
told her everything. (Not that there’s so much to tell: I have a crush on the office plant guy, he has a crush on me, and
we flirt like junior high schoolers. End of story.)

She e-mailed back this morning. “You only live once, kid. You’re young. You’re beautiful. You deserve to feel loved and desired.
Get him into bed!” I was stunned.
This was coming from Betsy, the only girl in my sorority house who didn’t own a fake ID and actually studied for exams while
the rest of us were at keg parties with the Delta Chi boys. Betsy, the good Catholic, the only friend who could legitimately
wear white at her wedding.