Someone Else's Husband(100)

While the tea was steeping, Deborah took a seat next to Gretchen and explained that she had some work-related papers that required Richard’s signature. She wasn’t sure of the procedure for that sort of thing—she offered this matter-of-factly as though they were discussing how to get something to Richard while he was vacationing in the Caribbean.

“I’m sure his lawyers will know how to go about it.” Deborah placed a folder on the marble counter, pressing down on it with her hand. “Are you holding up okay, Gretchen?”

It was only then that Gretchen realized she’d folded back the tinfoil and was eating Deborah’s cold lasagna right out of the pan with a fork. Had apparently been at it long enough to polish off a solid corner.

“It’s delicious, Deborah,” she said as if she’d known all along exactly what she was doing. As though it were completely normal to eat cold lasagna out of the pan. She secured the foil and stood up to put the fork in the sink, before rubbing her hands together, brushing off imaginary crumbs.

“Why don’t you sit down, Gretchen?” Deborah looked concerned.

Gretchen nodded—that did seem like a good idea—but her phone rang before she could join Deborah at the counter.

“Oh, my…that’s her,” Deborah exclaimed as she reached for the phone and handed it to Gretchen.

“Who?”

“The woman who came to see Richard at the office,” Deborah said, pointing to the screen. “That’s her picture on your phone. She’s calling you right now.”

When Gretchen looked down, there was Hilary’s glamorous photo—sun hat, bathing suit—smiling back at her.



* * *



—

Hilary opened the door in her bathrobe, seeming completely unsurprised to see Gretchen even though she hadn’t called or texted in advance. Maybe she’d been anticipating this confrontation all along.

“Hey, doll.” She kissed Gretchen on the cheek. Despite the robe, she had a full face of makeup on and her hair was done. She also reeked of alcohol. “We’ve got to leave for a few—or I mean…” She scrunched her face playfully. “I mean, I’ve got to leave in a few. I need to meet Scotty at Eleven Madison. Some stupid client he’s trying to impress, even though he knows I fucking hate that place. The ma?tre d’ is such a dick. It’s like, Listen, dick, you do know you work in a restaurant?”

“Scotty’s not here?” Gretchen asked, relieved.

“Nope, and I’m already late. So come in, come in. Sit with me for a minute and I can be even later! You want a cocktail?” she called over her shoulder as she swayed toward the open kitchen. “Don’t worry. I’m not as drunk as I seem.” She refilled her glass. “I am more drunk.”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I would like a drink.” Actually, Gretchen wanted five.

“Alrighty, now we’re talking!”

Hilary had an affair with Richard? Gretchen had been turning the possibility over and over in her head since Deborah left. But it simply would not stick. She didn’t believe it any more than she believed that Richard had killed Frankie—she simply rejected it on a cellular level. But then again, maybe her whole life was built on a shoddy foundation.

“Clase Azul.” Hilary grinned delightedly as she handed Gretchen a very full tumbler of clear alcohol and joined her on the sleek white sectional that was much more comfortable than it looked.

Scotty and Hilary lived in one of those storied prewar buildings on Central Park West that was not the Dakota but could have been. Hilary’s tastes were very modern, though, and she’d insisted on an exorbitant gut renovation that had blown out most of the apartment’s walls. And installed nearly all white furnishings, despite the boys.

Gretchen stared down at her glass. “What is Clase…”

“It’s very expensive mezcal. Just drink it. Oh, and I have good news!” She dug her phone out of her robe pocket and tapped the screen. Google Maps was open to a street view of an address in the West Village. “Noah King! He lives here.”

“You found him?” Gretchen zoomed in on the image for a closer look. It was a doorman building. Very nice. “You’re sure he lives here?”

“Pretty sure,” Hilary said, taking her phone back and draining her glass. “A master class in cyberstalking, if you ask me. Dr. Noah King is not on social media. But Frankie mentioned him by name—first and last—one time in the caption of one post she made about some NYU reunion two years ago. I googled his name and NYU and eventually, voilà. He’s a shrink.”

On one level, Gretchen regretted asking Hilary to find him. Every new rock she’d turned over so far seemed to have something even darker and uglier underneath. But then—there was the matter of the spray paint.

Gretchen had called Luke’s mom, Mathilda, the moment Deborah had left the apartment.

“Oh, hi, Gretchen!” Mathilda sounded thrilled to hear from her.

After enduring a little chitchat, Gretchen had finally gotten to the point.

“This is going to sound like an odd question, but could you tell me what kind of street art Luke does? A friend’s daughter is interested in learning more.”

“Graffiti!” Mathilda said, not bothering to hide her disdain. “Spray-painting, to be more accurate—can you imagine? But believe it or not, a gallery just reached out about selling some of his ‘work.’ Apparently, there’s actually a market for that kind of thing.”