Page 2 of Rebound
AMBER
?
Icheck my teeth for rogue lipstick and smooth down a maverick hair. Heaven forbid I should have even one out of place—what would people say? I’d be the talk of Manhattan. I can imagine the headline: Shock in the City: Scandal as Amber James Looks Less than Perfect.
I allow myself a small smile at the idea. Maybe I should turn up in jeans and Birkenstocks just for fun. Maybe even Elijah’s old Ramones T-shirt. No, that won’t work. Can’t risk him thinking I’ve cherished it all these years. Wouldn’t want him to know that I sleep in it every night when he’s away. He might start thinking I have fond feelings about our early days together, and that would never do. I’ve worked too hard to convince him and the rest of the world that I have no feelings at all to blow it with a twenty-year-old scrap of cotton.
I scoop the T-shirt up from my bed, where I left it this morning, and hold it under my nose. Obviously it’s been washed in the last two decades, but some trick of the brain allows it to retain a lingering scent of that time in my life: hint of Love Spell, a trace of Elijah’s shower gel, and base notes of pancakes, coffee, cheap beer, and the occasional cigarette. Carefree times when the world looked like a very different place. I allow myself one last inhale before I stash the shirt in its rightful place at the bottom of my underwear drawer. That’s where I keep all evidence of my one guilty secret—that I am actually human.
That taken care of, I pose in front of the full-length mirror and carefully examine myself from all possible angles. Dressing for a wedding is always a challenge, at least partly because I hate weddings. They’re too full of hope and promise. Still, I can’t get out of this one, so I need to tough it out. It could be worse—at least my in-laws won’t be there.
My dress falls to right below the knee and is fitted but not full-on bodycon. It’s a deep shade of red that communicates restrained class. I add some earrings, tastefully small diamonds, and a spritz of my favorite perfume. I’ve moved on from Love Spell to something French and unfathomably expensive, as is befitting a woman of my station. I slip on my heels and do a final inspection. Yes, that’ll do nicely.
Thanks to years of practice, I know how to find the proper balance for a wide variety of social occasions. For a wedding, one mustn’t try too hard and risk accusations of attempting to upstage the mother of the bride. However, one must always look perfectly put together or risk whispers and titters behind her back about how she’s letting herself go.
In the mirror, I practice my repertoire of wedding smiles—a wide-eyed, excited to see you; a soft, doesn’t-the-bride-look-gorgeous bit; and my personal favorite, the simpering oh-my-goodness-how-long-has-it-been routine. As I check the time, I’m unable to help a small laugh at my cynicism. I remember when this life seemed so glamorous. How long has it been since I felt that way?
Is it too early for a glass of wine? Maybe a quick glass of pinot would help me through the day. Tempting, but no. It’s not quite noon, and although I’ve never known what a yardarm is, I’m pretty sure the sun isn’t past it yet. Vivid memories of my own mother still haunt me—raising her glass at breakfast, laughing as she said, “It’s definitely gin o’clock somewhere in the world, darling.” I have no desire to stagger in her footsteps and continue that family tradition, even if I can now understand its appeal.
Of course, I could get away with it if I wanted to most days. I could drink a whole bottle and nobody would notice. I am alone in this vast, beautiful townhouse of ours. A Beaux-Arts building constructed in 1908, it comes complete with four stories, six en suite bedrooms, and a roof garden that offers stunning views of the city. How many women have lived here over the decades, and have any of them ever felt as lonely as I do right now?
Despite the size of the place, we don’t have any live-in staff because that’s how Elijah and his brothers grew up. His mom liked it that way, but there was always noise and energy in their home. This place feels more like a mausoleum. A memorial to all our broken dreams. When Elijah isn’t here, I rattle around it alone. Actually, I pretty much rattle around it alone even when he is. It’s so big we can both easily live here without ever seeing each other. Perhaps that’s half the problem. Perhaps we should sell it and buy a trailer instead. That would force us to confront the reality that is the state of our marriage. And what then? Would we choose to fix it or to walk away? Hold ’em or fold ’em? I have no idea.
We have people who clean and fix and drive and keep everything running perfectly so we can get on with our Very Important Business. In Elijah’s case, that would be making more money. In my case, it would be giving it away. I’m under no illusions—I live a blessed life, at least financially. The only work I do is for charity, and in all fairness, I’m good at it. It’s another role I play well, like Loving Wife and Delighted Wedding Guest. I plan an epic party, I’ve raised funds for at least a hundred different causes, and I’m an asset to Elijah and the company he runs. On the surface, I have everything a woman could want.
Beneath the surface is a completely different story, of course. Beneath the surface, it’s a total shitshow.
Damn. That glass of pinot is really starting to call my name.
* * *
Elijah’s text comes through,telling me he’ll pick me up in “ten minutes sharp.” Obviously, I’m ready, but I’ll make a point of keeping him waiting anyway. He’ll be expecting it, I suppose. I don’t think I’ve left the house on time in years. Something always stops me from walking out the door when he arrives. Even now, knowing he’s on his way, I feel nerves begin to flutter in the pit of my stomach. I check my appearance once more in the full-length mirror. Everything looks perfect.
Perfect.
Before long, I hear the sound of the Bentley’s horn tooting outside. But I stay where I am, as though my feet have taken root to the floor. The thought of a whole day of pretending, of being the perfect wife… My blood runs cold. I perch on the edge of the bed and take a series of deep breaths. A few hours and it will all be over. I just need to get through today in one piece, and then I have no social events to attend for another three nights. Three whole nights when I can watch TV alone or plan my next triumphant gala. Three whole nights when I don’t have to see Elijah and be reminded of how much of a failure I am.
Another beep of the horn, and I glance at my phone. How have fifteen minutes already passed with me sitting here, trying to find enough oxygen to fill my lungs? He will only become more irate when he sees that I’ve read the increasingly irritated messages he’s sent. I really must go down there. I sneak a quick glance through the window, hidden by the drapes. There he is, my husband, leaning against the car and looking mad. Mad and far too sexy for my own good.
When I do emerge from the house, Elijah’s nostrils are flaring, his gray eyes flashing. Both signs of extreme annoyance, which I very much deserve. I see him take in my outfit, his gaze lingering on my legs, and can practically feel him making the effort to calm down. There remains a physical attraction between us that neither of us can ignore, no matter how hard we try. And I do try, but my husband is effortlessly sexy and impossible to ignore. He feels that pull too, I see it in his eyes, but he fights it as much as I do—which is no doubt why he left our marital bed.
“You look beautiful,” he says quietly, catching me unaware. It’s a simple statement, the words sincere, and my breath catches in my throat. After all these years, all the coldness between us, this man can still unravel me so easily. I was expecting him to snap, and instead, he chose to soothe. It’s much more difficult to handle. My sudden vulnerability has my legs shaking and my heart pounding. I’m emotional, and emotions are the enemy.
I simply nod in thanks, and he opens the car door for me. It’s such a small gesture of chivalry, but he’s never once failed to do it. Even in the midst of a fight that will leave us not speaking for days, Elijah always opens the car door for me. Sometimes I think it’s sweet, and often I want to tell him I’m a grown woman who can open her own damn doors. Today? Today, I simply accept it and gratefully climb into the darkened interior of the Bentley. Once inside, I feel far less exposed than I did standing in the unforgiving autumn sunlight.
“Hi, Gretchen,” I say to our driver. “Sorry I kept you waiting.”
She meets my gaze in the mirror, her dark eyes sparkling with amusement. Gretchen insists on wearing a driver’s cap even though we don’t ask her to, and her curls spill out from underneath it in a black tumble. “Are you really, Mrs. J?” she replies. “Are you really?”
I wink at her but don’t answer. Elijah settles himself next to me, and Gretchen activates the privacy screen.
“How was your night?” he asks, smoothing down his pant legs and removing a piece of invisible lint. He smells divine—almost as good as that Ramones top, but a lot more sophisticated.
“Oh, the usual high-octane thrill of event-planning drama. As you know, I’m joint hosting at the Met next month, and I had a few fires to put out.”
“Yeah? Were you kicking down doors and taking names?”
“Absolutely. I mean, who on earth seats Rowena Fitzpatrick next to Olivia Samson at a charity function?”
