The Divorce Club (25 page)

"Didn't you say you had to be somewhere
tonight?" My voice drips with fake sweetness. "Like cliff diving,
parachuting, or swimming with sharks without a cage?"

"Nope." Greg takes my fork and tucks into
Sam's lasagna. I wish I could just empty the plate over his head,
but my daughter's here so I'll have to make do with a glare when he
says, "Hey, babe, still have the TV trays? I thought I'd watch some
TV in the living room. Sam, do you want to join with me?"

"We eat dinner at the table, Mister Caveman.
Please don't pass your bad habits on to my daughter." I smile. "We
also use this neat little invention called silverware and napkins.
I hope you're a fast learner."

"Ha, ha." He winks at Sam. "Isn't your mother
just hilarious?"

"I love seeing you two kid around like it
used to be," Sam says.

Greg nods. "It's nice, isn't it?"

"Oh, yeah. I hope Mum lets you stay
forever."

"Wouldn't that be generous?" Greg grins. "I'm
sure your mum wants to see you happy."

"Thanks, Mum," Sam says. I groan inwardly. If
only she knew the truth. I can't stand her annoying father.

Greg tucks into my lasagna, spit dribbling
out as he speaks. "See that? Your daughter's never been
happier."

"You forgot Dad's plate," Sam says. "We
wouldn't want to see him go hungry."

"Oh, no, we wouldn't. How silly of me." I
slam a plate on the table and toss a piece of lasagna on it, the
sauce staining Greg's shirt.

"Hey." Greg jumps up.

"I'm such a klutz. I'd apologize, but love
means not ever having to say you're sorry." My tone is beyond
sarcastic, but Sam doesn't seem to catch on. Even if she did, I
couldn't help myself.

"This is good, but not as good as your mum's
homemade lasagna," Greg says. "We'll let her be a lazy cook today.
After all, she did just get out of the hospital, however, next week
it's back to what we're used to, right?"

Sam bobs her head up and down. "Yeah, Mum's
homemade stuff is awesome. I miss it."

"Maybe now that I'm back, things will return
to how they used to be." Sam grins at me. I feel all color draining
from my face.

Cleaning up his dishes and the crumbs strewn
across the living room and the subsequent slaving on his laundry
and cooking dinner for fifteen years was bad enough, I'm not going
back to that after his affair. He can take someone else for
granted.

"Mum, can you teach me how to walk in these
crutches?" Sam asks.

Here's my chance to get back at him so,
naturally, I'm not going to miss it. "Your father will be home all
day long, most likely planted on the couch. He'll have a few
minutes to spare."

Sam shrugs. "Great. Where's your plate?
Aren't you hungry?"

I shake my head. "I suddenly lost my
appetite."

"It must be the pain pills," Greg says.

"A bitter pill stuck in my throat that won't
go down—or away. Sorry, I've got work to do." Gritting my teeth as
I hold on to the fake smile on my face, I stomp out.

"Don't work yourself into an early grave,"
Greg calls after me.

He might've won this time by manipulating Sam
into wanting him to stay with us, but sweet revenge will be mine.
After half an hour of relaxing in the bathtub, I wrap a towel
around my sore body and prepare for a long afternoon in front of
the computer.

Cancelling yesterday's class means I'll have
to find another time slot in an already busy schedule. With Mindy's
personal appointment still to keep I doubt the meeting will fit in
before Friday, but I can't afford to cancel and lose my clients.
For the first time, I sit in my chair and stare at a black screen.
Whatever it was that I wanted to teach my eager students, Greg's
annoying presence has made my brain so scattered I've no idea where
to start. I manage to come up with half a dozen possibilities when
my phone rings.

"Hey, how are you?" Mindy sounds cheerful,
but there's an undertone to her voice I can't quite place.

"I'm well, thanks for asking. So good to hear
from you." My gaze wanders to the screen, eager to get back to work
and finish so I can rest. Mindy seems to have other plans
though.

"Yeah, I figured since you didn't turn up
yesterday and the meeting was cancelled, I'd check to make sure you
haven't forgotten about me." She laughs softly.

I rub my forehead as I fight the urge to hang
up and pretend the line disconnected. "I'm so sorry, Mindy, this
isn't such a good time."

"Oh?"

I sigh. "Maybe I can spare a minute. What can
I do for you?"

"We need to get the hubby out of the
way."

Laughing, I shake my head even though she
can't see me. "That won't be possible for the next few weeks."

"Why not?" Mindy asks, irritation dripping
from her voice. "I don't have that long."

"Because—" I take a deep breath, considering
my words. She reminds me of a spoiled child that turns into a
little brat when she doesn't get her way, so I'll have to make it
as clear as possible. "My face is messed up, Mindy. I'm not sure
the hubby will find scratches and bruises attractive. I doubt any
guy in their right mind would want to make out with a raccoon."

"Then slap on the makeup."

"I can do that if he's into clowns. Trust me,
to cover all this up I'll need an entire beauty department."

For a moment, Mindy keeps quiet. I hold my
breath, waiting for another one of her stupid ideas. When it
doesn't come I wonder whether she's hung up on me. "Hello? Are you
still there?"

"It can't be that bad," Mindy mutters.

She's annoyed, which isn't good because in
business matters it's all about customer service and reputation.
"I'll figure something out," I say before I can stop myself.
There's nothing to figure out. I can't march in there and tempt the
husband with a swollen face and a head concussion.

"Listen, I have this friend who's a makeup
artist. She can sort you out," Mindy says. She makes it sound like
I'm a coke addict and new in town. "I'm telling you she can make
Joe Pesci look like Angelina Jolie after a few strokes of blush and
powder."

Annoyed, I start to tap my fingers on the
desk. "I'll be okay in a week or two. In the meantime, we can focus
on your development."

"Sarah—" her tone is sharp, almost a hiss
"—there won't be any development if she fires me. Apparently, I'm
already taking way longer than it should take to get her the
necessary proof for her little plan." She's talking about the boss
again.

"Why isn't she just hiring someone
again?"

Mindy draws her breath sharply. "Because she
doesn't trust anyone."

I don't want to point out that some private
detective firms are certified and just as hell-bent on maintaining
their good reputation as I'd be if I made millions a year. "How
come she trusts me?"

"That's an easy one." Mindy laughs. "She has
more money and knows where you live."

If that's not a first-grade threat, I don't
know what is. "How reassuring." The shop assistant's words flash
through my mind. Could Mindy's boss be my stalker? But what would
be her motive? Stalkers don't need reasons for what they do. A cold
shiver's running down my spine as I say, "Listen, I need to meet
her."

"That's out of the question. What would you
need to meet her for anyway?"

I hesitate, considering my possibilities.
Telling her the truth isn't an option, but I can't come up with a
good excuse either. "I was just hoping to put a face to the name,
that's all."

"So, are you coming over now? We need to pick
up your wardrobe, tramp you up and work on our plan," Mindy
says.

"Can't we do it next week?" I sound just like
my daughter when she doesn't want to make her bed or help wash the
dishes.

Mindy lets out an exaggerated sigh. "No, or
do you want me to get fired because of you?"

"Of course not."

"Good, because I'd never find work again. She
said if I mess this up she'll write the worst reference ever."

A pang of guilt hits me, but I've no other
choice than to point out the obvious. "I don't have the money to
buy something new to wear."

"Hold on a second." I can hear shuffling and
whispering in the background. Then, "Don't worry. She's paying for
it."

I've run out of excuses and my brain's
throbbing harder than before. "Okay. Let's—"

Mindy cuts me off, "Meet me at my place in
half an hour. Don't be late."

Shaking my head, I listen to the disconnect
tone. If that girl were a car salesperson she'd be elected employee
of the year.

Half an hour is barely enough time to drag my
hurting butt off the chair and out the door, but I try nonetheless,
lest the employer make her threat real and come after me with her
entire bank account. I arrive at Mindy's house late, hoping she
won't be too peeved. As I slam the car door, I notice her peering
from behind cream curtains. She doesn't seem too happy.

"You're late," she greets me at the door.
"And you weren't lying. You do look like hell."

I scan the tiny hall as I walk past. A few
hooks hang from the flowery wall, a shoe rack's squeezed between a
door and the stairs leading to the first floor. "Traffic," I
mutter, my head throbbing in spite of all the
Tylenol
, or
whatever they gave me at the hospital, coursing through my
bloodstream.

"At least you're here. Come on in." Mindy
leads me through a door to what looks like a living room slash
bedroom slash everything else and points at a tiny sofa covered
with clothes. "Take a seat."

I peer at the heap, uncertain whether it
might be considered rude to push her garments aside rather than sit
on them. Mindy disappears again, so I move the stuff out of my way,
making just enough room to squeeze in. Truth be told, I expected
Mindy to be quite the cleaning freak, but judging from the unmade
bed in the corner and the cluttered desk she's the exact
opposite.

A loud thump outside the door, then Mindy
comes in again, struggling with a tiny tray littered with two
coffee mugs, two desert plates, forks, a sugar bowl and what looks
like a milk container, but I'm not sure because I haven't seen one
of those since my daughter turned three and demanded to drink from
grown-up bottles.

"Coffee?" She places the tray on a side table
as I hurry to hold the mugs in place before they shatter on the
floor. I have no idea what the desert plates are for because
there's nothing on them.

"Thanks."

She smiles and stirs two spoons of sugar into
the steaming, black liquid, than hands me a mug. I cringe, but
don't protest.

"Let's get started then," Mindy says.
"Dressing like a tramp and looking cheap takes a lot of work." I
stare at her, unbelieving. I just had a car accident, and the woman
can't even be bothered to inquire about what happened. She looks me
over. "Your eyebrows need work."

"What?"

"Let's face it, Sarah. They look as though
two giant caterpillars are sleeping on your forehead. Should we
pluck, shave, or wax? And your nails are just horrendous. Do you
bite them?"

"I've had a lot on my plate." I smile.
"Besides, my brows are very useful in shading my eyes from the
sun."

Mindy ignores my joke. "You need long nails
with French tips. How are we going to get you ready by
tonight?"

"I'm such a lost cause, huh?"

"You're so lucky I have a makeover DIY manual
installed in my brain," Mindy says. "We'll give your hair a good
conditioning, throw on some fake eyelashes over glittery lids,
maybe some blood-red lipstick. We'll douse you in his favorite
perfume too." She jumps up and starts rummaging through her stuff.
"Where's the glitter hair spray?"

I bet once she's done with me, I'll look like
a carnival freak.

Mindy continues, "Nothing says stripper like
gold hoops, fishnet stockings and clear plastic platform heels."
Frowning, she turns to face me. "Can you walk in six-inch
heels?"

"I own a fashionable pair of stilettos."

"Good, then you've had practice. One more
thing." She holds up a tight leopard dress, her head cocked to the
side.

"Mindy! I'm not wearing that in a million
years."

She tosses it on top of the clothes pile.
"Fine. No leopard print. It's too cliché anyway. But we still need
to focus on showing lots of cleavage. You have to pull off this
show like a pro. You're available tonight, right?"

"Tonight?" I blurt out. "Ah—"

Mindy smirks. "It wasn't a question,
Sarah."

"What if he doesn't like me?" My hands turn
sweaty; the cave of my mouth feels dry. I've never been a
men-magnet. Heck, usually no one even bothers to buy me a drink in
the hope of a one-night stand with me. How the hell am I supposed
to land a multi-millionaire who most likely could have any pin-up
out there?

"Don't worry, he'll like you. You're
definitely his type," Mindy says.

"I thought you said he preferred
prostitutes."

"Strippers, actually." Mindy takes a sip of
her coffee and grimaces, then scoops more sugar into the mug before
she dares a gulp.

"You do realize you just said I look like a
promiscuous woman, right?" I keep my voice nonchalant and even
infuse a little bit of humor in there.

Mindy shakes her head. "Not all strippers are
promiscuous. Some do it to raise a family or pay for their
degrees."

I'm wondering whether that's how she could
afford her higher education, but I don't ask because it's none of
my business. "Is that the hubby's opinion of strippers?"

"He probably believes the same cliché as
you." For a moment, Mindy glares at me as though it's all my fault.
"Anyway, we'd better get going. It might take a while before we
find something suitable."

Eager to get this over, I stand. "You mean
something to cover up all those bruises."