The Affair (25 page)

The irony was, of course, when she’d first met Robert six years earlier, she hadn’t really liked him. He wasn’t especially handsome, he was incredibly arrogant and brusque to the point of rudeness, and he seemed very much under the thumb of his wife and Maureen, the old dragon of a secretary who ran the company.

She’d been aware even then that relations had been strained between Robert and his wife. He had been very careful not to say anything directly about it, but she had picked up enough by what he said, and how he said it. She learned more by simply listening to Kathy and Maureen talk about him; it was obvious that neither woman respected him and, as time went by, she started to feel sorry for him.

Stephanie had been brought in to do the research for what seemed like a simple premise for a TV show,
One Hundred Years Ago on This Day
—events from the last century presented as if they were contemporary news pieces, but with a strong Americana flavor. It should have been a straightforward gig, but the pieces had to be intensively researched, and every fact had to be spot-on because R&K Productions was hoping to sell the series, and there was talk of a DVD and a companion book. The problem was the number of programs: They had secured a twelve-week run on the Discovery Channel, five days a week, which came to sixty programs. The more she researched, the more difficult she found it to find interesting news for every day one hundred years ago. The past could be boring too, and some days nothing really happened. The other problem was that Robert couldn’t afford to get another researcher, so she was absolutely swamped. That was when they had first started working together, traveling all across the country, trying to guerrilla shoot the segments on site. She had really gotten to know him on those trips and was surprised to discover that beneath the bluster and the arrogance was a clever and sensitive man who had traded dreams of directing important and worthy documentaries in return for putting bread on the table and setting up college funds for his children.

Eventually, she ended up practically producing the series herself: researching and writing the scripts, then finding the pictures and archive footage to match the words. Robert was so impressed with her work that he gave her on-screen credit as writer and producer and took the executive producer role for himself. The screen credit had, in so many ways, kicked off her own career and, for that, she would be forever grateful.

He had been her first real mentor.

She hadn’t had the slightest romantic or sexual interest in Robert then. She’d just been coming out of a relationship with a minor league baseball player who was as poor as a church mouse when he was with her and had allowed her to pay for everything, but as soon as he left, had signed a multimillion-dollar contract with the Colorado Rockies. Nowadays she saw him on the back and front pages of the tabloids practically every other week having committed another gaffe either on or off the field, and considered that she’d had a very lucky escape.

The gig with R&K had ended suddenly too; she remembered that. With still three weeks left on her contract, Robert had called her into the office on a Monday morning . . . no, Tuesday; it was just after a long weekend. He had given her three weeks’ salary, plus a bonus of an extra two weeks’ pay, and had told her she was to finish up that day. He had never given any explanation, and it wasn’t until years later, when she and Robert had become an item, that she discovered Kathy had accused her husband of having an affair with her.

Talk about the shape of things to come.

With the two weeks’ unexpected bonus, she’d gone on a trekking tour through Spain, where she had met a young woman who worked as a researcher on breakfast-time TV in Britain. They had exchanged addresses, and six weeks later Stephanie had moved to London and was working on
BBC Breakfast,
first as a researcher, then, when it was discovered that she had credits for
One Hundred Years,
as associate producer. She stuck at that for a year before joining one of the largest advertising agencies in the world. Again, it was through a fortuitous meeting: Charles Flintoff, the head of the agency, was a guest of
BBC Breakfast,
and had been impressed by her professionalism. He had offered her a job on the spot and she had accepted. She had returned to the States and rented a beachfront apartment in Miami just blocks from her new job and spent a couple of years honing her skills at the agency.

Life was full of small instances, little moments when a simple decision had extraordinary consequences years down the road. If she had not taken the job as researcher with R&K, she would not have gone to Spain, would not have gotten the job on breakfast-time television, would not have met Charles and gotten her position in Miami that eventually returned her to Boston, and back into Robert’s world.

She’d been in the city less than a week when she bumped into Robert. They’d chatted about old times, then gone for a drink, in the Penalty Box of all places: not exactly the most romantic pub in Boston. But that drink had led to dinner a few nights later. She often wondered if that was when the affair really began, with that single drink in the Penalty Box.

The irony of the bar’s name did not escape her.

S
tephanie stood in the kitchen, wrapped in her flannel robe, waiting for the microwave to ping. A low-calorie, low-sodium, low-taste excuse for a meal spun slowly behind the glass. “Instant Meal,” it said on the package; that meant it took eight minutes to cook, including standing time, which she now knew really translated as the time you spent standing in front of the microwave. Her freezer was filled with a variety of frozen healthy meals; the only thing they had in common was the tagline “Dinner for one.”

Advertised loneliness in a box.

Her cell rang, and she automatically opened the microwave door before she realized what she was doing. She’d left her phone on top of the counter. Grinning, she snatched it up and glanced at the screen, seeing the three
X
’s she used instead of Robert’s name, and felt her insides physically shift.

“Hi.”

She put her dinner in the microwave, shut the door, and set the timer. There was a crackle of static, and she moved away from the microwave. “I was going to call you later. I’m really missing you tonight.”

She heard movement on the other end of the line, the signal dipping in and out. She wondered where he was now, what he was doing, what he was wearing.

“I know. I miss you too,” Robert said quietly.

She could tell immediately by the tone of his voice that he was at home. He always spoke to her in softer tones there, as if he was afraid of being overhead.

“I was working on the DaBoyz pitch. Then I decided to get away before traffic got too awful.”

“How’s it coming?” The DaBoyz contract was the biggest job she had so far managed to send his way and the one she had the most doubts about. He’d never shot a pop video before, and although she was sure he could, she was beginning to regret having recommended him. She left the kitchen and wandered into the living room, curling up on the sofa.

“Good, I think.”

“You can do it. I know you can.”

“I hope so.”

She heard it then, the self-doubt in his voice. “Of course you can. It’ll be a new direction for the company.” She wondered who she was trying to convince. This was DaBoyz’ last chance. They were on the verge of splitting up, and their manager, Eddie Carson, looked as if he was going to take one of the boys under his wing and manage him as a solo artist and dump the rest. It was a classic move in the music industry. Create a band like *NSYNC, find the breakout star like Justin Timberlake, and then navigate him on his own trajectory to stardom while the remaining band members are lucky to find a slot in the sixth or seventh season of a bad reality TV show. “Do one good pop video, and you’ll be the next big thing. All the bands will flock to your door.”

“You’re right. I know you’re right. Thanks again for getting me the pitch meeting.”

He sounded flat, beaten. She’d come to recognize the signs; he’d fought with Kathy. There was a time when she had thought he was simply a coward, unwilling or unable to stand up to his wife. More recently, she’d understood that he didn’t fight with her because he hated upsetting her. It had been a shocking revelation, because it begged the question: Did he still have feelings for Kathy? He said he didn’t, but . . .

“What’s wrong?” she asked gently.

“Nothing.”

“Yes, there is. I know there is.”

“How can you tell?”

She forced herself to keep her tone light and bantering. She needed him positive and focused on the meeting in the morning. “Short sentences. When you’re tired or bothered, you reply to me in short, staccato sentences.”

“You and your Ivy League education,” Robert joked.

“Nothing to do with Princeton. ‘The Interpretation of One’s Lover’s Moods’ was never covered in Contemporary Literary Theory. So what’s bothering you?”

“Oh, the usual. I’m just tired. It’s been a long day.”

“And Kathy?” she pressed.

There was a long moment of silence, then he said, “She’s not great. I saw her taking some pills; I think she may be coming down with something.”

Stephanie opened her mouth to respond, but closed it tightly without saying a word. He knew there was a problem in his marriage, but he refused to face it, and, more important, deal with it. He always made excuses for her: Kathy fought with him because she was tired, because she was ill, because she was upset. When was he going to realize that maybe she fought with him because it was the only form of communication open to her?

“You think I’m making excuses for her, don’t you?” he snapped, his quick touch of temper surprising her. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that,” he added immediately in a much more conciliatory tone. “I’m tired. Yes, there were a few words this evening. But only to do with Christmas. It’s the pressure of the season.”

It was the opening she was looking for. “Am I going to get to see you over Christmas?” she asked. If he said no, then she might very well book that flight back home and surprise the family. It might be nice to have a family Christmas, especially when considering the lonely alternative. And at least if she went back to Wisconsin, it would be neither lonely nor quiet. It would be loud and joyous, with lots of shouting, crying, arguments, and food. Lots and lots of food. She’d go sledding with her nieces and nephews; her mother would bring out the photo albums; her father would set up the old slide projector, and the entire family would gather around to laugh and cry at the old photographs. She found herself nodding; suddenly home was beginning to look very attractive.

“Of course you will,” he said quickly.

“Any idea when?”

“Well, I’ll see you on Christmas Eve. Give you your present. And then probably the day after Christmas.”

“So I won’t see you Christmas Day?”

“No, not on Wednesday, Christmas Day. But the day after. Actually, no, shit, not the day after, scratch that.”

“What’s wrong with Thursday?” So, she wouldn’t see him Wednesday or Thursday; maybe if she went online now she’d be able to book a ticket. Logan to General Mitchell Airport direct would be good, and she could rent a car and drive to Madison. There were bound to be seats left, even if they were middle seats in coach—her idea of hell. The microwave pinged, and she uncurled from the sofa to return to the kitchen.

“We always have dinner with Kathy’s sister Julia on Boxing Day. Her husband’s British. It’s a tradition.”

“Oh. A tradition.” Spending Christmas with loved ones was also a tradition, she thought, but resisted the temptation to say it aloud. “I remember you did that last year. And, I’m pretty sure you said then it was going to be the last one you went to.” She juggled the hot container out onto a plate and peeled back the melting plastic top with a fork to allow steam to escape. The faint aroma of Indian spices filled the kitchen.

“I think I say that every year.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

“No.”

“So, given the choice, dinner with your sister-in-law or spending time with me, what would it be?”

“No contest. Spending time with you,” he said immediately.

“Then do it.” But even as she was saying it, she knew that he was going to find a problem with the suggestion.

“It’s not that easy.”

“It is if you want it to be.”

“You know I want it to be.”

And suddenly she was tired of the sparring. She had to accept that she was not going to see him on those two days; this was part of the price of dating a married man.

“I know you do. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t pressure you. I guess I’m tired too. I’m seeing you tomorrow though?”

“Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I double booked. I’ve got Jimmy Moran lined up for dinner tomorrow night. I’m really sorry. Blame it on the situation in the office. I thought Maureen had canceled him, and Illona never thought to check. I’m sorry.”

“It’s no problem.” She was pleased she managed to keep her voice even and disguise her disappointment. “These things happen. Any sign of Maureen coming back?”

“January. Maybe. I sent her a few e-mails but she cannot—or will not—give me a straight answer.”

“You need to start thinking with your head rather than your heart on this one,” Stephanie suggested. “And if you do manage to get the pop video gig, do you want someone who looks like a glamorous granny at the front desk or do you want a gorgeous young European?”

“Well, since you put it that way . . .”

“This business is all about first impressions. Come on, Robert. Who do you want to be the face of your company, Maureen or Illona?”

“You’re right. I know you’re right.” He sighed. “But I don’t feel good letting Maureen go before Christmas.”

“You’re too soft,” Stephanie murmured. “Though I usually change that,” she added quickly, her voice raw and husky, catching him off guard.

“You’re bold!”

“Sometimes. So I won’t see you tomorrow at all?”

“I’ve got the pitch in the morning, then dinner in the evening.”

“Wanna have a sleepover after dinner?”

“Maybe,” he said coyly.

“Maybe.” She laughed, the sound high and light. “Just maybe?”

“Would it be worth my while?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” she promised.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“You do that,” she said, and hung up. She carried her
mattar paneer
dinner back into the living room. She hit the remote control on the arm of the chair, and the CD clicked on. Medwyn Goodall’s appropriately named
Timeless
filled the air. She loved the simple, ethereal music. She concentrated on the gently lilting guitars and mechanically ate the dinner for one, trying unsuccessfully not to rerun the conversation she’d just had.

Izzie was right. Izzie was always right when it came to men. Her friend had one rule: no married men. Although Izzie was close to getting engaged to her current boyfriend, she had had scores of boyfriends in the fifteen years Stephanie had known her, but none of them had been a married man. Izzie even tried to keep her casual friendships with married or attached men to an absolute minimum. When Stephanie teased that platonic relationships were possible, Izzie laughed at her, claiming that sooner or later platonic eventually drifted into sexual, and once sex entered a friendship, then everything changed.

It had certainly changed for Stephanie when she and Robert went to bed together. The sexual tension had been building for a while. She had recognized what was happening a long time before he did. In those early days together, they would visit sites across New England, “scouting locations” they called it, and walk and talk together. She’d learned a lot about him on those walks, about the young man he’d been, full of dreams and plans and hopes for the future, and she’d learned even more about the man he’d become, with no real plan and a lot of broken dreams, trapped in a loveless marriage, and with a job that was slowly spiraling into the ground.

The first time they had made love had been . . . extraordinary. He had been passionate and gentle, fearful of hurting her, terrified of letting go, and afterward he had wept. She had never been entirely sure why; he had told her it was because he was happy and hadn’t, until that moment, known he’d been unhappy beforehand. But she wasn’t entirely sure if she believed him.

She had never believed she was taking him away from a loving wife. He was always incredibly loyal to Kathy, and never said anything against her, but from the scraps of information she had picked up on their walks and talks, she’d come to understand that a great gulf had opened between them. If there had been no children, they might have split up and gone their separate ways, but their relationship was wrapped around house and home, the kids and the business. It was complicated.

When he was with Stephanie, he acted like a single man and Stephanie treated him like one.

They made love because they wanted to; she didn’t feel guilty, and neither did he. He was an old-fashioned and unimaginative lover, but he was considerate, and she enjoyed the physical aspect of their relationship. She especially loved waking in his arms, feeling the warmth and comfort of them around her.

Stephanie pushed away the plate; she hadn’t tasted a single mouthful. She climbed slowly to her feet and carried the plate out to the kitchen where she dropped it into the sink. She knew she should wash it now, but a growing, numbing exhaustion crept over her, and all she wanted to do was to climb into bed and sleep. The CD had finished, and the condo was still and silent. She moved through the rooms, checking that the doors were locked and the lights were off. She recognized what was happening. It had taken her a long time to put a name to the emotion she was now feeling, and when she had, it had both surprised and frightened her. She felt lonely. So incredibly lonely.

It was an emotion she had not experienced in a long time. She had always been resilient, confident, and self-sufficient. She was always in control, needing no one, wanting no one in her life.