Someone Else's Husband(90)

“Oh, Mrs. Falk,” the doorman called out as she strode quickly toward the elevator. This had become her M.O. Move quickly, but don’t be frantic. She had no reason to think that her neighbors knew what was happening. But the co-op board was notoriously gossipy, pumping the doormen constantly for intel. Police at someone’s door would certainly qualify. “Your mail.”

“Hold on, Hilary,” she said, forcing a casual smile as she came back to collect the huge stack of envelopes. How many days had it been? Richard always got the mail. “Thank you, Joel. Hilary, I’m getting on the elevator. I might lose you.”

“You should go see him, Gretch,” Hilary continued, as the elevator doors slid shut. “Get it over with. Ask him about her. Look him in the eye when he answers and see if you believe him.”

“And what if I don’t believe him?” Gretchen asked. God, it was so hard to admit.

“Then you’ll deal with it. And I’ll be here to hold your hand,” Hilary said. “But you can’t pretend this away, Gretchen. You just can’t. I mean this with love—you have to start facing things.”



* * *



*

Gretchen had to tell someone about Richard, but she was as surprised as anyone that the person she picked was her own mother. Later, she would ask herself whether she’d done that on purpose to wake herself up, like splashing cold water on your face. Because she could have guessed what her mother would say even before she uttered a word.

For nearly a whole year after Gretchen found the receipt from the Crosby Street Hotel, she kept her mouth shut and tried to pretend that it had never happened. That she’d never seen that stupid scrap of paper. And she was also careful to keep her gaze averted from anything else potentially incriminating, lest she stumble on something even worse. She didn’t reach into Richard’s pockets, didn’t look at his texts, didn’t ask him details about his schedule.

But then someone started calling the house and hanging up. It could have been anyone. Telemarketers or someone pranking the children. But Gretchen worried it was the woman Richard had been seeing, or screwing, or whatever he called what they’d done at the hotel. Fucking—that’s what it was. Gretchen hated that word. It was just so…crass. Like describing two animals. But maybe dirty talk was what really turned Richard on because he had never fully shed his terrible upbringing.

Regardless, with the hang-ups, Gretchen began to truly seethe, her anger growing and growing until it spiraled out of control.

Soon it had leached into every part of her life. She existed in a constant state of barely suppressed rage. Became someone she didn’t even recognize. But it wasn’t until she screamed at poor five-year-old Becks when he spilled a glass of juice by accident—a completely innocent accident—that she realized she couldn’t live this way anymore.

Which left what?

She considered leaving Richard. Her distrust was a cancer, so maybe the only reasonable solution was to cut it out. To cut him out. She even met with a divorce attorney. Confidentially, of course. A friend of a friend from Choate, in Westchester, of all places. Gretchen couldn’t risk word getting out in the city—their circle of friends devoured bad news like flesh-eating bacteria.

The Westchester lawyer had assured Gretchen that she was in an excellent position financially. Her multimillion-dollar inheritance belonged to her—in a trust from her grandfather—because she received it long before she and Richard ever married. There was also a very good chance that she would be entitled to half of all the marital assets, including everything Richard had ever earned.

But Gretchen wasn’t worried about money. She was worried about what getting a divorce would do to the children. About what it would do to her. It was one thing to be “just” a homemaker when you had an actual home to make. But the handful of divorced women she knew all had careers or had always wished they’d had careers. The divorce had been their chance at a second life.

Gretchen didn’t want a new life. She wanted to keep on taking care of Richard and the children. She wanted the choices she’d made not to be bad ones because Richard couldn’t keep his hands off other women—was that so very much to ask?

And yet, she still couldn’t bring herself to ask him about the receipt or Chicago or about other women in general. What if he admitted it? What if Richard said that he loved someone else?

And so she ended up in Greenwich, talking to her mother.

Gretchen and her mother hadn’t ever been big on heart-to-hearts. Her mother had an icy streak. No, she was an icy streak. But who else could Gretchen trust with the ugly truth about her marriage? At least she knew for sure that her mother wouldn’t tell anyone.

Her mother had listened on the back porch, stirring her iced tea, expressionless, as Gretchen shared her concerns, just enough to get across how bad the situation was, but perhaps not the full shameful reality. After all, her mother had a bottomless appetite for the unseemly.

When Gretchen was finished, her mother made a small snorting noise and kept staring out into the distance. And then she was just…silent.

“I’m sorry, dear, what’s the question?” she asked finally.

Now it was Gretchen’s turn to snort. “The question is whether or not I should leave Richard.”

“A divorce?” Now there was an actual burst of laughter.