Make Believe Wife Page 11

  Work was intensely difficult. Lisa didn’t mind that I showed up late, but everyone wanted to ask me about Roxy.

  The stunning photos of the delicate, beautiful woman tied in purple rope had gone viral in our office. Everyone wanted to meet this model that graced the page with her extraordinary composure. Even some of our regular models expressed extreme jealousy. I just smiled and told them Roxy hadn’t been in many publications yet, that was why they hadn’t seen her in anything.

  The pictures kept popping up, on my desk, in my email, in the break room. People were gushing about her relaxed pose and calm but energized expression. Roxy just doesn’t get it—modelling isn’t easy. Holding a pose is something anyone can do, but to do it calmly but with good expression is extremely difficult.

  I wish she had taken my compliments as they were given. I wish that I could take back all my words about dressing her ‘properly’ and telling her what to do with her time.

  That’s just my training, the exact training that I’m trying to break. What is the ‘proper’ way to dress or act, anyway? I don’t know what I was thinking.

  As the day winds to a close I feel completely exhausted, even though I came in late. I can’t wait to get home and lie down, although I suppose I’ll have to talk to Roxy first.

  I wait for a cab as the wind starts to turn cold. Even though I’m still angry and frustrated, I can’t wait to see my girl.

  We just need to talk. If she doesn’t want to model, I’ll be disappointed, but I can’t push that on her. Work dinners will be a thing. She can’t refuse every time. As for the wedding, she can plan it however she likes. So long as I’m standing next to her at the altar, that’s all that matters.

  By the time I get out of the cab I’m practically singing. I nod to my doorman as I walk past, swinging my hips. My girl is upstairs and soon I’m going to talk to her and straighten out this whole damn mess.

  When I open the door, I almost expect her to jump on me. Sexually or angrily, I’m not sure which. When I open the door and there is no sound at all, I feel terribly let down.

  After standing there for a few seconds, I start to get scared.

  Maybe she’s just in the bath.

  I head up the hallway, waiting to hear splashes or singing. Nothing. The lights are off. Not there.

  I go to the bedroom, really hoping—and expecting—that she will be waiting for me between the sheets.

  The bedroom is dark. Not there.

  I can feel my breath coming harder and shorter as my heart rate starts to rise. I get hot in the cheeks and I’m terrified because I don’t even know how to deal with this physical response to stress. I spent my whole life carefully guarding against it.

  I talk myself down in the way I always have. She went for a walk, she’s just down the road, everything is fine.

  I go for a shower and try to lose myself in the relaxation of the water, but it doesn’t help. I’m just far too tense. When I get out and put on some loose slacks and a top, I pace by the window.

  I don’t even recognize myself.

  I decide on a cup of tea. If it doesn’t soothe my nerves it will at least give me something to do. While the kettle build, I try a few texts, but Roxy doesn’t answer.

  I’m too chicken to call.

  While I make the tea, I decide to take a look at my stash. Whenever I have a hundred dollar note I stick it in the coffee can. Sometimes I put it in the bank, other times I’ll blow it on a big present for myself. A weekend at a spa, sexy new outfit, something like that.

  Thinking about all the ways I can treat myself makes me feel better immediately. Maybe I can buy something for Roxy. Obviously, I won’t suggest a new outfit.

  When I pull out the jar and open it, the money isn’t there.

  I frown at it uncertainly, as if all I have to do is glare and the money will reappear as easily as it vanished. I know it was here.

  I start opening jars like crazy. Why do I have so many different types of coffee! By the time I’m done I have about twenty jars in front of me, coffee, sugar, tea. Not one of them has the wad of cash.

  Every note was a hundred. There was several thousand dollars in there. I was thinking about going on a cruise. Where the fuck did it go? Money doesn’t just get up and walk away!

  But Roxy does.

  From the stories she’s told, she’s really good at it, too.

  Fuck!

  How could I have been so stupid? I left her alone here in my apartment and of course, she would have found the money. It must have been too tempting to her, especially after the fight this morning.

  Thinking about the fight just gets me thinking about last night and that’s just painful. I thought we had something. It felt to me that we had a connection. I can’t understand how she could betray me this way after what we shared.

  I try to be firm with myself. Because she’s a fucking street rat. No Helen don’t let your heart break. You did this to your fucking self.

  Tears threaten me but I push them away with rage. She’s not going to get away with this. She can’t just take my money and run. I’ll see her again and I’ll get her explanation, even if it’s in a courtroom.

  I grab my phone and call the cops. The woman on the phone takes my frantic tone with grace and tells me there might be a bit of a wait but two officers will be along soon to investigate. Don’t touch anything, especially the evidence. When I tell her I already did she sighs like a sleepy horse.

  She says alright ma’am and thanks for reporting the crime. I almost hurl my phone across the room.

  In a way this is worse than waiting for Roxy. I’ve got a million things to say but I know now I can never say them. I don’t even care about the money, not really. I’m just using it as an excuse to see her again.

  How could she do this to me?

  Tears start to fall, and I blow my nose, hard. I try not to blame myself. Yeah, I trusted too easy. But Roxy is the one that runs, that doesn’t stay still, that doesn’t get connected to people.

  So, if she’s so toxic, why do I want her in my arms right now?

  Twenty-Six

  Roxanne

  The market just down the street is crazy busy. I head into a nearby restaurant and order up three different kinds of pasta, garlic bread and some pastries. Then I take myself into the market.

  It’s fancier than any place I’ve ever shopped before. I’m glad that I wore some of Helen’s clothes and I fully recognize the irony of that.

  I spent the morning arguing that I wouldn’t be forced into a certain look, now here I am happy to be hiding behind it.

  It’s nice to walk around in a place like this and not get stared at though. I wonder what it’s like to get stared at for completely different reasons.

  Like, if I was famous in Helen’s magazine. The thought gives me a thrill.

  Okay, so prancing around in front of a camera making faces is not something I ever thought of doing. I actually felt sorry for girls like that. Whether they were aware of it or not, they were trapped. Trapped in a cage where they always had to look and act in a certain way. Like seriously, no one is going to tell me what I can and can’t eat.

  I saw Scarlett Johansson on a late-night show one night talking about how she can’t eat cheese. Like fuck. Talk about the price of fame.

  It’s not like I’m trying to get into that prison of printed paper though. Helen was offering it to me. She said I was good. I guess that point being so difficult to believe was what made it feel insulting.

  When she piled the rest of her comments on top, the clothes, the piercings, the hair—well. It just made it sound like ‘hey, maybe you could be good if you do certain things’. That is a line I don’t take too well.

  I love me. You take it or leave it. I might be running and running from place to place, but I’m not one of those people running from themselves. No way.

  I go over the bottles of wine while I’m thinking, trying to remember which one was her favorite. There are two different ones that I just
can’t choose between. I decide to get both.

  This dilemma comes up multiple times. Chocolate, ice cream, they all seem to be the right one. I’m really starting to worry I won’t have enough cash. If most of the notes in my pocket are fives, I’ve ridiculously overspent.

  I dig through my pocket and pull out the wad and flick through it.

  I’ve always trusted my instincts. It keeps me safe, always has. The stab that goes through my guts right then is one of the worst premonitions I’ve ever had.

  They are all hundreds, every single one of them. I feel like I’m being choked by my own goddamn blood vessels! Fuck!

  I’ve taken a few thousand dollars to do a bit of grocery shopping.

  It’s getting dark. Helen will be getting home soon. I wanted to be waiting there with my presents but if she gets home before me, if I’m not there—

  It’s bad enough that she’ll think I left. I almost cry right there thinking about how upset she would be and that I could never leave her like that, but she might think I’m the kind of person that would.

  I don’t see any reason why she would check her stash in the kitchen, but if she does…

  I gather up my stuff in a basket. Suddenly it doesn’t matter what I choose, just so long as I get back before she does. The checkout takes a long time, far longer than I was expecting. When they pile up my bags with all the chocolate, snacks and wine, I don’t even know how I’m going to carry it all.

  Struggling under the weight of the bags, I head back to the restaurant. They are busy and even though I’ve been gone nearly an hour, the food isn’t ready yet.

  I stand by the counter tapping my foot. It’s even luckier now that I’m dressed in Helen’s clothes. Impatient women are unpopular enough without adding torn fishnets and ragged edged mini skirts to the mix.

  When the man at the counter piles up my food I ask if he has a bag. He looks positively insulted as he stacks it into a plastic carry bag. I hold myself back from snapping at him, just barely. Am I the only customer in the universe who ever asked for a bag?

  Now I have three bags to manage and the paper sacks from the market don’t have handles. I stand on the curb trying to get a cab, but the pressure of every passing minute is just too much for me and I start walking.

  With the two paper sacks pressed to my chest and the plastic carry bag weighing me down, I can barely see let alone walk. I stop again, try to hail a cab but still have no success.

  I know that the smart thing to do is wait for a cab to stop. I’d be home in a few seconds.

  Wow. I’m calling it home. It’s such a big step for me and yet I just did it without thinking. Home. I have a home.

  Maybe. If I can get there in time.

  All I’ve been worried about so far is that she’ll get home before me, already upset from this morning and think that I’ve abandoned her. I can’t stand to think of the look on her face, the pain in her heart that will undoubtedly happen if she gets back and I’m not there.

  I would never betray her, and I hope she knows that. After the fight this morning though, I couldn’t blame her.

  And the cash. God, the cash. Why didn’t I count it before I left? All I had to do was look at it and take a couple of notes instead of the whole fucking wad.

  Still no cabs stop for me and tears of frustration start to trickle down my cheeks. I pick up the bags again and set off with long, determined strides. Dad taught me, sometimes you’ve just gotta walk into it with confidence. Especially if it’s really bad. Get some steel in your spine, some fire in your belly and go for it.

  No more wasting time stopping for cabs. I’m going to get there on my own two feet and I’m going to convince my girl that I love her. We can work this out.

  It’s so dark by the time I get to the apartment block. She must be home already. I’ve got to get up there!

  Luckily, the doorman recognizes me from when I went out earlier. He buzzes me in with a smile and a nod. I grin back, aware that I probably look like a manic raccoon more than a sane young woman.

  Waiting for the elevator is torture. The bags are so heavy my arms feel like they are about to fall off. If we do get this stuff all sorted out, maybe she’ll give me a back rub.

  When I approach the door, it’s open just a crack. Her handbag is dumped on the floor just inside. It’s not like Helen to do that. She must have been in a rush.

  I run forward, eager to get in the door and show her what I’ve brought. We can eat and talk and this whole fucking nightmare day can just be over.

  As I get closer to the door, I can hear her talking. I’m angry all of a sudden. I know its crazy, but I’m just that into her that I can’t handle the thought of another woman anywhere near her.

  I work out pretty quick that this is not a flirty conversation.

  “Roxanne is her name. Last name? I’m not sure. Leland, I think. Leemon? I’m not sure. What do you mean you can’t go on that? Can’t you do a search or something?”

  My heart freezes in my chest as I stand at the door.

  “Yes. Several thousand dollars. Well, yes, I did leave her alone in my apartment… Listen lady, that’s just victim blaming. I was trying to do the right thing! She needed help! Well, yes, she was here a few days. I don’t know why she didn’t steal the money straight away… Maybe she only just found it and decided to make her break right then and there. I’m practically doing your job for you here… No, I do not make a habit of letting strange girls sleep at my house! Who the hell do you think you are?”

  The bags start to slip. I don’t even notice, really. My fingers start to open, and my arms lose all tension.

  “Thank you. Two detectives you say, or two officers? You aren’t sure. For someone who works there, you don’t know much, do you. Great. Thanks.”

  I hear Helen sigh as she hangs up the phone. I still want to go to her, that’s the crazy part. I want to run in there and throw myself into her arms.

  But I can’t.

  She just reported me. As a thief.

  She doesn’t trust me. She has no faith in me at all.

  I drop the grocery bags. They slide to the floor with barely a murmur. I take a step back from the door, then another.

  I’ve been many things, but I’m not a thief. Never have been, never will be. It would have made my life so much easier if I turned to stealing, but I’m not a thief.

  I pull the wad out of my pocket and hurl it on top of the stuff. Then I turn and run.

  I don’t look back. I couldn’t, anyway. I’m crying so hard I can’t even see.

  Twenty-Seven

  Helen

  Sitting on the couch waiting for the cops, I can’t settle down. I honestly don’t think I’ve ever been this agitated. I’m angry with Roxy and I’m freaked out that she would steal from me, but I also feel terrible about what I’ve done.

  I can’t remember a single time in my life that I’ve done something that might hurt another person. Even by accident.

  I’ve never even reported a crime before. Tame dame Helen, turning someone into the cops to get back at them? No way. Most of my friends would be relieved to see I had that much emotion rather than be shocked, I think.

  I think that might be an example of just how much Roxy affects me. I’ve gotten angry enough to want to hurt her. No, I don’t want to hurt her, not at all. Even though I feel like she hurt me, purposefully too—I don’t want to cause her pain.

  My emotions are a messy tangle and I’m pretty upset about that, too. A whole lifetime of careful, measured actions and now I’ve gotten so out of my own head that I’ve reached out and slapped the person I love the most.

  I can just see her waiting at a bus terminal or train station, waiting for her next big adventure. She’ll be doing her wild, free thing and then suddenly getting jumped by officers. I can see the look on her face, how terrified she would be. How trapped.

  A beautiful panther, meant to be free, closed into a corner.

  And I tried to tame her. Instead of just letting
her be, I had to try and make her into something she’s not. None of this would have happened if I had just kept my stupid mouth shut. Why did I have to wake up this morning and boss her around like that?

  Thinking back on it I really did make it sound like I didn’t appreciate her as she is.

  I want to take it all back. I want to call the cops and say that I made a mistake. But if I do that, how will I ever see her again? What can I possibly do to find her? The idea of never seeing her again is so terrifying I’m prepared to do just about anything.

  I move over to the door, realizing it’s still open a crack and I dropped my handbag right beside it. I’m not usually so untidy or forgetful. I was so scared that she wouldn’t be here and so desperate to see her I guess I just forgot the door.

  When I lean down to pick up my purse, I see something on the floor just outside it. There is only one other tenant on this level and their entrance is at the other end of the hallway. If there is a package out there, it must be for me. Who would leave a parcel this late?

  When I swing open the door hot tears fill my eyes. The reaction is such a shock I really feel faint, as if hot needles are pricking sweat out of my pores.

  Paper grocery sacks spill treats and snacks across the hall. One of them is torn and I see my favorite wine peeking out from the torn paper. There’s two bottles, one sweet and one dry. There’s granola snacks and fresh fruit as well as nuts, all my favorite snacks.

  There’s a big fancy box of chocolates and they are my favorite hazelnut praline. Behind it all is a plastic bag which is still warm, the logo on the containers from my favorite Italian restaurant.

  On top of it all sits the money.

  I kneel down and pick it up. I don’t need to count it; I can see by what’s here that Roxy didn’t spend much. I flick through the notes just to check and she barely went over a hundred dollars.

  Roxy did this. She did all of this for me. No doubt she wanted it set up by the time I got home so we could talk.