The Loyal Wife Read online

  “My Lord, Tamra, I didn’t think we’d see you today!”

  I take my coat off and hang it on the rickety wooden hanger in the corner.

  “Why’s that, Moira?”

  “Well, you know…” She lets the sentence trail, and I look at her straight on.

  “Know what?”

  “I saw you on TV yesterday.”

  “Did you?”

  I take my place at the desk, and she comes and sits next to me.

  “Tell me, what really happened?” she asks, her face bright with the anticipation of gossip.

  “If you saw us on the TV, you already know. Some people are spreading vicious rumors about my husband, and he’s standing up and defending himself.”

  She raises an eyebrow at me, then she nudges me with her fat elbow and smirks. “You know what they say…”

  “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “About being no smoke without fire. Tamra, the poor girl, right near your house—”

  Just as she says that, all the other staff walk in at the same time. All four of them stop in unison when they see me, like they don’t know what to say or what to do, and I realize it was a mistake coming here. What was I thinking? That we would all simply pretend nothing’s happened?

  I throw her my most cutting stare. “Why don’t you come out and say it, Moira?”

  And because she’s not the brightest spark in the firmament, she takes my question at face value. She nudges her chair closer to me, even though the others are making no secret that they’re listening. With her little pig eyes boring into mine, she says, “Aren’t you scared? To be in the house with him?”

  I stand so quickly that I make myself dizzy. I look them all in the eye, one by one. I can’t make up my mind if I should go for ‘should I be? Scared?’ but I quickly settle for the loyal wife angle.

  “My husband is a good man. He’s a kind and honest man, and if you went to our church, you’d see that. You would be embarrassed to be speaking about him like that. There’s a terrible tragedy that’s taken place here, and that poor girl is dead! We should all think about her and her poor parents! Can you imagine how they must feel? But to cast aspersions like that onto my husband—” and I turn to face Moira as I say this, “—is deeply, deeply unfair. There’s a monster out there—” I lift my arm and with a trembling hand point at the window “—who not only has killed a young woman but is intent on hurting my family. You of all people, Moira, know what violence really looks like, and I can’t believe that you would gossip like that about my family. We’re in real danger, you know. We are being targeted by an evil stranger and we have no idea why, or who. But my husband is standing tall and doing everything he can to protect his family, and I’m real proud of him for that.”

  I finish with, “Any questions?”

  You could hear a pin drop. One of the girls lifts a finger to wipe a tear, and someone claps. Moira stands and takes me in her arms, wedges me against her generous bosom, and says, “I’m sorry. Forgive me.”

  Then we all hug and someone says they brought donuts and someone else makes a pot of coffee in the seedy kitchenette and I feel fantastic. For a moment there, I even believed my own words.

  * * *

  It’s that kind of day, the kind that just gets better and better. Just as I finish my work at the Center, my cell rings. I don’t recognize the number, but I take the call, anyway.

  “Tamra. It’s Patti. From Mike Mitchell’s office.”

  “Patti?”

  “Is this a bad time? I want to apologize.”

  “No… Okay…” I say, not completely certain what’s coming next. Her clipped tone is a little confusing, but then again Patti has never called me before, and certainly never said something so nice to me.

  “I have the utmost admiration for the way you are standing by your husband. I am also disgusted by his behavior, I don’t mind telling you.”

  “What behavior?”

  “I’ve been reluctant to say, because it’s none of my business, and I pride myself on staying out of people’s affairs—”

  And I wonder if she realizes how badly she just put that, but probably not, because again, Patti is not terribly self-aware.

  “—but I have been aware of certain transgressions, let’s say, which I’ve decided, you have every right to know about.”

  This girl talks like a dictionary. It’s kind of off-putting as it requires a fair bit of concentration. “What are you saying exactly?” I ask.

  “That he’s been screwing around.”

  I knew it. I knew it was someone from work, as per usual. Why shop around when he has an office full of bright, young, lithe things right under his nose? My chest tightens, and my heart feels like it’s being squeezed. And there I was, inching back in. Getting sucked into his manipulative trap.

  I’m embarrassed, too, because I’m his wife and she’s his secretary, and he shouldn’t behave like that in front of the staff. I’m about to contradict her, ‘No no, you must be mistaken, Mike assures me he’s been completely loyal,’ but instead I blurt out, “Who is she?”

  * * *

  We meet for coffee because I have to know. On the way, I console myself with the thought that Mike and The Slut are no longer an item. I know this, or I’m pretty sure I know this, because I’ve checked his phone incessantly, he hasn’t been sneaking out lately, and the way he’s been with me—well, sorry, but you can’t fake that. Anyway, let’s face it, it’s not like he’s the catch of the century. Not anymore.

  Patti’s already here, her lips pursed, blowing on a cup of steaming liquid that turns out to be chamomile tea. I’ve got butterflies in my stomach. I can’t work out if it’s because I’m excited to find out, or devastated.

  She tells me again how impressed she is by my loyalty—again, words I never thought would come from her lips.

  “You said before, that Mike’s been screwing around.”

  She winces, looks away. “I think I’ll be resigning soon because of it. I don’t think I could stand to work in his office much longer.”

  “You don’t need to do that. Keep your job. We all have to eat, Patti.”

  She shakes her head a little, like she’s thinking about it. Wait. I forgot. Patti is one of those completely self-centered people that pretend they’re overly loyal and selfless. Are we going to be here so that I can counsel her or something? Jesus.

  “I was shocked to hear the news about that poor girl, Charlene,” she blurts, holding onto her cup so tightly that her fingertips have gone pale.

  “Of course, you worked with her, didn’t you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What was she like?” I twirl a spoon in my coffee so that I don’t have to look at her. I’m hoping it makes me look nonchalant and not particularly interested.

  “It’s hard to remember to be honest, she wasn’t with us that long.”

  “Oh.”

  Then she reaches across the table and puts her hand on my arm. I force myself not to squirm away.

  “I was aware that they were having an affair, Tamra. I’m terribly sorry.”

  “You were?”

  She screws up her eyes and nods quickly, like now that she’s given in to the impulse, she can’t stop.

  I tentatively pat her hand. “How did you know?”

  She sighs. “Unfortunately, they didn’t make much of an effort to hide it.”

  “Unfortunately?”

  She shoots me a look. “Do you think it was pleasant? Knowing what she was doing? In front of the whole office?”

  And here we are again, making it all about Patti.

  “Of course. That must have been very unpleasant,” I say, and I’m wondering what we’re talking about exactly because the way she puts it, I have visions of Mike and Charlene going at it on Patti’s desk at peak hour, and it’s an image I’m keen to displace.

  “What did she do, exactly?”

  The sharp whirr of a coffee grinder comes to life behind me, and I have to lea
n in to hear her.

  “She would walk inside his office without even knocking sometimes, and next thing you know, he’s drawn the blinds.”

  I feel sick. I supposed I asked, but I didn’t think she was going to put it quite that bluntly.

  “It went on all summer. It was disgusting.” She shakes her head. So it hadn’t been just once. It had gone on for the duration of her employment, more or less. Just as I thought. I wonder if Mike has done that the whole time we’ve been married: have affairs with the staff. I look away.

  “I’m sorry,” she quickly adds.

  “That’s okay.”

  Neither of us speak for a few minutes. We’re both in our own little world, sipping our drinks. The coffee is hot and bitter on my tongue. She keeps blowing on her chamomile tea that surely must be just about tepid by now, while I’m desperately trying not to smash my cup into the wall.

  I wait for her to say something about The Slut, but she’s lost in her own thoughts.

  “What about the new one?” I prompt, finally.

  “The new one?”

  “You said he’s been screwing around.”

  “Well, yes! With Charlene! Under the circumstances. I thought you had the right to know.”

  “Oh!”

  “Seeing you on television, how you stood by him like that, when I knew very well that he was lying, well I said to myself, ‘Patti, you need to speak up. Tamra should know.’”

  “I see.”

  “I hope I did the right thing?”

  “Of course, you did. Thank you.”

  “Are you sure? I didn’t upset you, did I?”

  “No, no. It’s fine.”

  She studies my face for a second, which annoys the crap out of me, then she says, “You didn’t know, did you?”

  “About Charlene? Well I—” It occurs to me she’s enjoying herself while pretending she’s had to wrestle with her inner demons before deciding whether to tell me or not. I’m about to say that I did know, that he confessed everything because we are a team and we are going to get through this and come out the other end stronger than ever, and it’s nobody’s business, but I don’t.

  “No. I didn’t know.”

  “Well, I hope it’s all right, that I told you. I thought you should know, you understand?”

  I so don’t want to be going around in circles reassuring this woman, so I cut to the chase just to get out of here. “You’re saying there hasn’t been someone else? Someone more recent?”

  “At the office? No.”

  I don’t know why I’m disappointed. I finish my coffee quickly and pull out my wallet.

  “Thank you, I appreciate you telling me. If you don’t mind, I should go.”

  She gives me a sad little nod and goes back to blowing softly on her chamomile tea. It occurs to me that she told me just to see my face. Because she’s jealous. She saw us together on TV and she saw the way Mike looked at me, and the things he said to me, and she must have stayed up all night trying to work out if there was a way she could burst my bubble. I just want to get out of here.

  Just as I leave she says, “Enjoy the fundraiser.”

  I turn around. “The fundraiser?”

  “For Pastor Frank’s church expansion project.” Then she quickly puts the cup down in the saucer and looks at me like she’s been slapped. “Forgive me, you and Mike probably wouldn’t want to go out in public so soon. I’m so sorry. That was thoughtless.”

  “That’s okay, I just forgot. Lots on my mind. Yeah, I’ll probably go. Mike will want to go, I’m sure. He is very involved with our church, as you know.” I have no idea what she’s talking about, but if it’s about Pastor Frank, and it’s about money, then no doubt Mike does. “We’ll see you there, I guess.”

  She shakes her head. “I’m Catholic.” And with a small smile of apology she adds, “Always have been.” And I offer a silent prayer of thanks.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  We didn’t know anything about the fundraiser. Actually, that’s not true. There had been talk of a fundraiser for Frank’s church, yes, but that was a while back, before the dates had been settled. When I tell Mike, he says nothing for a second, then he does that snappy thing with his neck and he says, “Looks like we’re going out tonight, baby doll.”

  He barely utters a single word after that. But he gets changed into his beige Chinos and a white shirt, and I choose a short, sequined, revealing little number that makes men stare at my legs, church or no church.

  We drive across to the Country Club that’s been hired for the evening. This isn’t a pass-the-plate type fundraiser. This is the VIP version, where the entry fee will set you back a cool $500 per head, and we don’t have tickets. It’s not like we can pay cash right here and now, and someone will stamp the back of our hands with a star. You have to be on the list, and we are not.

  Mike is livid. He’s already got a couple of Scotches in him, which doesn’t help his anger management, I notice. There’s a young man in the foyer with an iPad and a name tag that says Cherryhill Abundance and underneath, Hi, I’m Ben.

  Ben tries, he really does, but no matter how many times he checks his listing on his tablet, there’s no mention of either Mike or Tamra Mitchell, and he’s terribly sorry but it looks like we don’t have tickets.

  I’d love to go home, not because I don’t enjoy a good party, but because we are embarrassingly underdressed. I can see through the double doors into the main dining room that the men are wearing tuxedos and the women are in evening gowns. Mike looks like he’s dressed for a slow round of golf, and instead of feeling sexy, I just feel tacky.

  There’s a line forming behind us, people muttering and feet shuffling and necks craning, because there’s only one Ben and one iPad. I pull at Mike’s sleeve and whisper in his ear that he’s making a scene, and it’s not a good look under our circumstances. He looks at me with pure hatred for just a second, and I’m actually nervous.

  Then out of the blue, Brad King shows up. He extends a warm handshake to Mike and slaps him on the back like with a so great to see you buddy, and he tells me that I look like an angel before kissing my hand. I don’t look like an angel. I look like I belong on stage in Las Vegas, but I appreciate the sentiment.

  Without us even noticing, he has shuffled us to the side and Ben can finally check all the real VIP’s off his list as they move up in the line before piling inside the grand dining room.

  “I can’t believe it. What a monumental screw up,” Brad says. And he looks really annoyed, too, and he says sternly, “Don’t worry, Mike. I’ll get to the bottom of this. You’ll be inside in a flash.” Which surprises me because surely he’s not in charge, is he?

  Mike’s lips are pale with anger, but then they twitch into a half-smile before returning to their tight line. It’s like he can’t decide whether to thank him or to curse at him. Brad King is another contender for state governor, so normally, Mike would barely acknowledge him. And yet here we are, and Brad King is going out of his way to get us in and make us feel good about it. Had the roles been reversed, I have no doubt that Mike would have laughed in Brad King’s face before calling security to throw him out.

  But instead of just ushering us inside, Brad tells us to wait right here, and that he’ll be back in a sec.

  I pull at Mike’s sleeve and whisper in his ear, “Can we just go home?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re here now.”

  People are looking at us because most of them know who Mike is, and if they didn’t before, they do now. So, each time a couple passes us on their way to Salvation by Donation, they throw a disapproving glance at us. I smile apologetically at the wives who look me up and down with barely hidden disdain.

  “I just don’t feel good about this, Mike.” But he ignores me and keeps tapping a foot on the carpeted floor, craning his neck each time the double doors open to let another real guest in.

  When Frank comes out with Brad King, I finally breathe. We can just get in there and we’ll find
ourselves a nice dark corner and do whatever it is everyone else is doing back there. Eat, I guess.

  “Mike! I’m so sorry to keep you.” Frank grabs his hand and does the back-slap thing, but instead of turning around and opening the doors for us, he takes Mike by the elbow and leads him away, toward the exit.

  “What are you doing here?” he says quietly.

  “I’m here for the fundraiser, what else? Something’s happened to my invitation by the way, so I haven’t prepared anything, but I could speak off the cuff, you know me.”

  For a guy supposedly so smart, I can’t believe that Mike still hasn’t figured it out.

  “No, no. You can’t be here right now. Not with the scandal that’s following you around.”

  “The scandal? There’s no scandal, Frank! They’re just ugly, vicious lies!” That’s the power of self-belief. Right there. Mike is so convinced that he’s done nothing wrong that he has erased both the affair and the pregnancy from his history. And the rest. Delete, delete, delete. There. Never happened. Even when he talks to the man who helped him get rid of the problem, so to speak, he can deny it ever happened to begin with. There’s something to be admired in that, I think. Not everyone is capable of such self-delusion.

  “And we’re suing the papers!” he almost shouts, standing tall, like it makes it all okay, I guess.

  “Mike, the police are involved now. I can’t be associated with this!”

  “But that’s a misunderstanding!” he snaps. “We’re clearing it up, aren’t we, Tamra?”

  I blink and nod.

  “It’ll blow over,” he adds.

  “So come back to see me when it has, all right?” Frank is looking over his shoulder now. Like he can’t wait to get back to what he was doing.

  “But I belong here! I’m going to be the next governor! Remember?” There’s the sound of the crowd clapping, and Mike stretches one arm in a sweeping gesture toward the dining room doors just as they open, and I catch a glimpse of Rob and Bethany Wolfe, seated in the front row, their smiling faces upturned, almost enraptured. I tug at Mike’s shirt and at the same time crane my neck a little to get a better view. And there he is. Brad King, on the stage, microphone in hand, and before the doors swing closed we hear,