Love struck, p.4
Love Struck, page 4
I froze, not letting myself turn toward the sound of the voice.
A sultry British voice, on the other side of the room.
“Hello? Hi. Over here.” As if I didn’t know.
I turned to see the most beautiful woman ever standing in the doorway of the bathroom. She was a goddess: caramel-coloured, flawless skin and long, thick, wavy, dark hair with buttery highlights that matched her amber eyes.
Why?
I wanted to cry.
To be perfectly honest, I wasn’t expecting her to be that gorgeous.
Sure, in made-for-TV movies the mistress was always this young, hot, sexy girl that the tired, overweight old wife and mother of five couldn’t compete with. But this was reality, not Lifetime. And I wasn’t a tired, overweight old wife and mother of five. I was only twenty-seven. My near-daily raw lunches ensured I was still a size two, and thanks to thrice-weekly Pilates classes I was a quarter of an inch taller than I was when I met Parker. My blond hair was always shiny and perfectly coiffed into its pixie cut with sideswept bangs that highlighted my defined cheekbones, my tailored clothes were always minimally accessorized and my nails were always (today’s catastrophe of a pedicure aside) perfectly manicured. I wasn’t trying to be smug—after all, I knew my shortcomings, and could rattle them off effortlessly: cooking, baking, knitting (or any other sort of happy homemaker craft), politics, gardening (though I had a knack for choosing fake plants that looked real), finance (aside from sales tax, which I could practically calculate in my head on any purchase), sports and karaoke.
But making a good impression—as superficial as it seemed—that, I was good at. My job as an image consultant was to make others seem perfect—or as close to it as possible—so it just went without saying that it was my job to always look as close to perfect as possible. And it was my firm belief that anyone, no matter what unfortunate genes they were given, could impress even the most discerning critic. I was proof: in grade school, I was nicknamed Poppycock. I had horrible acne, abominable eyesight, a lack of curves and too many cowlicks to count. But it was nothing a round of Proactiv, laser eye surgery, a pixie cut, a padded bra, a set of etiquette lessons and a positive attitude couldn’t fix.
It wasn’t that I thought looking good was the be all and end all, it was that if you looked good, then you’d feel good and you could stop thinking about your appearance and get on with the stuff that really mattered to you (like being a good mom, or a good wife, or being good at your job or, say, gardening with real plants). In reality, I was the equivalent of a maid you hired to clean your house so you didn’t have to do it. I cleaned, defined and refined others’ appearances while wearing pretty shoes. I had done it to my own life when I’d met Parker and now I helped others get the happy life that they dreamed of. Just like the happy life I had (until this whole affair debacle, that is). So it was a rare instance when I felt intimidated upon meeting someone for the first time. But intimidated was exactly the word that I would use to describe how I felt looking at the part Angelina Jolie, part Megan Fox creature who was passing in front of me as she strutted from the bathroom to her bed. I might have been pretty and perfectly put together, but this woman exuded raw sexiness—and she was still in her hideous hospital gown.
I was demoralized.
This woman worked in finance? Shouldn’t she have had a conservative bob and tight lips, not long flowing locks and a perma-pout?
Then I remembered she was a research assistant, with a degree in Mrs.
“Are you all right?” Sienna asked, bending down to pick up a white Gucci handbag with tacky gold lamé Gs from the chair by her bed. As she stood up, she flipped her long dark waves over her tanned shoulder, exposed above her gown. “You look a bit woozy,” she added, not unkindly, which made me feel slightly guilty.
But I wouldn’t fall for her charms. It was probably just the British accent. Brits always seemed so polite and caring even when they weren’t. Look at Simon Cowell. Or Jack the Ripper—he was hardly a goody two-shoes, was he?
“I—I’m fine,” I stuttered.
Sienna nodded. “Okay . . . so then . . . are you looking for someone?”
“Actually, I’m just, uh, a sociologist, doing a study on the types of events that land people in the ER.” Did sociologists even do things like this? I had no idea, but I had to assume Sienna didn’t either. Confidence first, knowledge second. That’s what I always told my clients. I reached into my handbag and pulled out the spiral notebook I always kept in the inside front pocket, and reached for my fountain pen. My fingers ran across something smooth, and I pulled out a coffee-coloured eyeliner. It would have to do.
“Would you mind just telling me a bit about what happened to you, to land you in the ER?”
“Oh, um . . . is this protocol?” Sienna asked, and I couldn’t help but notice just how perfectly aligned and white her teeth were. I bet she drank red wine through a straw.
“Of course,” I said with confidence while doodling a lightning bolt on my pad—wishing one would strike her down before my very eyes.
“Well, I’m hoping they’re about to discharge me,” Sienna announced. “You don’t mind if I get changed in front of you while we talk, do you?”
I shook my head. This was a nightmare. I was about to see my husband’s mistress naked. The way he saw her. Sienna untied her blue gown and let it fall to the tile, revealing a tacky black-and-red leopard print satin lingerie set that was fit for a cougar of the New Jersey species, not a twenty-something vixen. I studied her as though she were an animal in the wild that I needed to better understand.
“You know . . .” Sienna said slowly, placing her hands on her bare, curvy hips, which balanced her large C-cup breasts. “I feel like I’ve met you before . . .” she said, squinting her eyes critically and I froze, horrified. Of course, I thought. She’s probably seen my picture on Parker’s desk. I’m caught. But I shrugged, trying to act nonchalant.
“You’ve probably seen a lot of people this evening. I bet we’re all starting to blend together.”
She didn’t look convinced, but then nodded. “I suppose you’re right. Everything’s a bit fuzzy. I was hit by lightning, you know. Can you believe it?”
I wanted to say, Of course you were struck by lightning. That’s what happens to women who steal other women’s husbands! But I didn’t. Instead, I put on my most surprised look.
“Lightning! Gosh, that must have been quite a scare . . .” I scribbled on my notepad some more.
“Yes, it was,” Sienna said thoughtfully and then paused as though considering saying something else. “It’s been quite a day.”
Sienna picked a slinky piece of fabric off the chair and tossed it over her head, then slithered into it. Although the colour was lovely—a deep plum that made her caramel skin glow—the top looked like a cheap polyester blend and was at least two sizes too tight, making her breasts look like they were trying to escape the purple restraints. Then she slipped on a tight black skirt that was four inches too short and was pilled around the hem, and a three-quarter-length black blazer that barely buttoned up, but at least helped rein in her bosom. Finally, as I stared in wonder, she stepped into a pair of purple Gucci patent leather pumps with two-inch soles and four-inch heels, leaving the rose tattoo on her ankle exposed.
I was too stunned for words. This was the type of woman my husband liked? I stared, mesmerized, as she slipped on a dozen gold-plated bangles. She added an oversized black and gold ring that spelled out Sienna over three fingers, and slipped a large slate-grey plastic link necklace with a Gucci logo over her long dark waves, flipping the ends over the back of her neck like a Pantene commercial. She grabbed her bag, reached inside and pulled out a piece of bubble gum, unwrapped it and stuck it in her mouth, completing her image. “So what did you want to know?”
I looked down at my pad to compose myself. “Um . . . what were you doing when it happened?”
“Well, we’d gone to Frites for dinner . . .”
Frites? They went to Frites for dinner?
Parker and I had been planning to go to Frites together. It had just opened the week before, and Parker and I always tried out new restaurants together, especially high-end ones, and especially if he was considering taking clients there for dinner. It was tradition. Sometimes, though, I wished we could go for a simple date. Something that cost less than a bottle of San Pellegrino at one of those restaurants. Popcorn and a movie. A burger and fries. We were so busy we rarely went to movies, and the only fries we tended to eat were those called frites.
We were adults. We ate at adult establishments. Like Frites.
Or—we used to, anyway.
Now Sienna and Parker did. But then I realized. That’s it. They had dinner. Maybe nothing more. Parker had said it was a business dinner, so surely there were others there. Still, what was Sienna—a research assistant—doing at a client dinner? Of course I couldn’t let on that I knew anything about the dinner. “So that’s it? And then you went outside to head home and the lightning struck?”
Sienna shook her head. “No, then we left and went to Le Germain.” She raised her eyebrows for effect.
My heart was pounding and my hands were numb.
They went to a hotel? A boutique hotel with 600-thread-count sheets and down-filled mattresses. But why?
Of course I knew. But I couldn’t stop. I had to get her to say Parker’s name to my face.
“Sorry, it was you . . . and . . .” I suddenly regretted what I was doing.
“Parker Ross. My boyfriend.”
Her what? My stomach clenched and my mouth went dry. My arms felt frozen but a trickle of sweat escaped my underarm. My eyes filled with water and I tried to blink back the tears but there were too many. My legs felt weak, like I might collapse at any moment. How dare she call my husband her boyfriend. I wanted to slap her.
What was I doing here, in the same room as my husband’s mistress, listening to her tell me where they’d gone for dinner and where they’d gone to have sex? This was torture. I didn’t deserve this. Perhaps I wasn’t the perfect wife or even the perfect person, but this was too much.
“So, do you have any other questions for me? Because I want to try to track down a nurse and get discharged so I can go check to see how my man’s doing.”
Her man? She was calling Parker her man? Who was she, a character in a Spike Lee movie?
“I have to go,” I said abruptly, backing toward the door. I had to get away from her.
“Sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” she called to me before I could escape.
“Uhhhh . . .” My name. I hadn’t thought of an alias.
“What was that?” She laughed, mocking me.
I felt sick. I was always so composed. This woman was ruining me.
I couldn’t let her.
“Uhma.” I said, suddenly mustering a burst of confidence. I would not let her get the better of me. “Like Uma but a short ‘U.’”
Sienna studied me, then nodded.“Uhma. Interesting.”
I had to get out of the room. I had to get back to Parker before she did.
~
I arrived back at Parker’s room slightly out of breath after running up three flights of stairs in three-inch wedges. Parker was still lying in bed, his eyes closed, body still. I collapsed into the chair beside his bed and stared at his serene face.
I suddenly had the overwhelming urge to slap him. I wasn’t usually a physical person, but looking at him lying there, so peacefully, as if he’d done nothing wrong, while I was forced to deal with the results of his actions, forced to watch his mistress dress in front of me and describe the details of their evening together . . . it just made me crazy.
I didn’t want him to die. All I wanted was for him to wake up. But then what?
I leaned over and took his hand in mine and squeezed it, wishing it were a time warp button that would send us back in time.
Why couldn’t things go back to being perfect? To this morning, when I still thought I had the perfect husband. The perfect marriage. The perfect life.
Why couldn’t he just be asleep? When he woke up it would be just like when we were at home, when he rolled over in the middle of the night, kissed me on the tip of my nose and whispered, “Love you, Popsicle,” before pulling the covers over himself and going back to sleep.
What if he never called me Popsicle again? What if I never even heard his voice again? I shook my head, tears welling up in my eyes. That couldn’t happen. He had to wake up. Even if he went back to Sienna. Even if he left me—God, a divorcee at twenty-seven—he had to wake up. Just to give me a chance to fight for him. Or for me to give him a second chance. For us to work this out. If he would just open his eyes.
And then he did.
He opened his eyelids to reveal his sparkly blue eyes. He looked at me and smiled. This was the man I loved. This was my husband. I had to fight for him.
“Poppy?”
I squeezed his hand as tears formed in my eyes.
“I—” He tried to cough but no sound came out. “Wha—?”
“Don’t move. I’ll call the nurse.”
“Don’t go.” He squeezed my hand back.
Tears streamed down my cheeks. I nodded. The nurses could wait. My husband was awake.
“What happ—?” he tried again.
“You were hit by lightning.”
His eyes widened. “What?”
I instantly regretted my words. It was a traumatic statement to tell someone who’d just awoken from a coma. But it was too late.
And it wasn’t like he wasn’t going to find out soon enough. As soon as Sienna returned to work, everyone would know. Any minute, Sienna could even show up at his door.
But for now, it was just the two of us.
“Don’t worry. You’re awake now. That’s all that matters.” I squeezed his hand even tighter. Even with all the tubes he looked perfect to me as his eyes crinkled up into a smile.
~
I’m not sure how long I sat there staring at Parker before I realized that, even though I didn’t want to leave him, I should probably tell someone—a nurse, intern, doctor, anyone—that Parker was awake.
“Could you call my mom and dad and let them know, too?”
I told him I already had and that I’d left a message on his father’s voice mail, but gotten through to his mother, who’d requested I call again if his condition worsened, since she was at a detox spa in Fiji and didn’t want to make the trek if he was just going to wake up in a few hours anyway. Her self-absorption no longer surprised me, so I wasn’t concerned that Parker gave a half-shrug when I told him, and said he’d call her when we got home.
“Can you call Ray, too? Tell him I guess I won’t make the game tonight.”
I stared at Parker. “Ray?”
Parker nodded as best he could. “Isn’t it Thursday?” He wrinkled his forehead.
It was, but I had a sudden feeling that it was a lucky guess. He hadn’t gone to a basketball game with Ray in two months, since his best friend had moved to Vietnam at the beginning of March.
Didn’t he remember? Maybe it was post-traumatic stress.
“Do you think you could get me some orange juice? I’m so thirsty. But only if it’s fresh. No pulp.”
I let out a breath. Parker loved orange juice (and was very particular about it). At least he hadn’t forgotten that.
Out in the hall, I told Nurse Abigail that Parker was awake and she sent the intern in to check on him.
“He seems to have lost his memory a bit,” I said worriedly to Abigail.
She nodded. “That sometimes happens—especially if something is particularly traumatic. Not to worry. After he’s had a chance to rest for a bit, and we monitor him, we can ask him some questions.” She patted me on the shoulder.
That made sense. Besides, it was just one little thing.
I turned to go back into Parker’s room, but stopped immediately when I caught sight of her. Sienna. She was walking down the hall straight toward me. I slipped into Parker’s room. The curtain was drawn around Parker’s bed and I could hear the intern talking to him. I ducked into the bathroom, closing the door so that it touched the frame, but didn’t shut. My heart was pounding. A moment later I heard that familiar, deceptively friendly British voice say, “This room here?” And then the click of her plastic-soled heels into the room.
“Oh, Parker,” I heard her say. “How are you, sweetie?”
Sweetie? She called him “sweetie”? I wanted to die. Or punch her.
“I’ll come back in a minute,” the intern said.
No! Stay! Don’t leave them alone! I wanted to scream.
Would she straddle the bed like some sort of cheap hooker and start making out with him? Oh God, please no. I’ll do anything, I silently prayed. I’ll be the most perfect wife ever. I’ll be the perfect woman for Parker. I’ll . . . I bit my lip. I’ll go to church? Maybe that was a bit much. I’ll wear leopard print. I’ll forgive him for cheating on me.
“I heard you were unconscious.” I interrupted my list of promises to listen in. “I would’ve come sooner but I was trapped in the ER. Are you all right?”
Silence.
I felt my throat close up. Were they making out? Didn’t God hear me vowing to wear leopard print? I wedged the door open a crack and tried to see the two of them through the slit in the curtain. What was happening?
Finally, Parker said, “I’m . . . fine.” Pause. “I’m sorry. I just—do I know you?”
“Parker, it’s me,” Sienna said, her voice full of confusion. “Sienna. Si-en-na,” she said even more slowly, as though he were stupid.
“I’m sorry,” Parker said again. Was his subconscious talking? “I just don’t remember you. Do we work together or—?”
“Are you being serious?” Sienna said. “Oh—is your wife here?”
