“White and black,” Greta said, correcting her.
FEW:?Her dog is beyond spoiled. It’s probably better that she doesn’t have kids. He doesn’t come when she calls him. He’s small, but he has a big personality.
OM:?Does Detective Benson also have a big personality?
FEW:?No, but she carries herself like a famous person. If we’re outside, she’s always looking over her shoulder, as if she’s worried about being photographed by paparazzi.
“Or just run over,” Greta said. “By Keith.”
FEW:?Otherwise, there’s an air of doom about her. She seems profoundly lonely. It’s part of my attraction to her. She reminds me of the church bells of my childhood. In Geneva, all the church bells ring at the same time, every hour on the hour, in every corner of the city, and it’s the most melancholic sound I’ve ever heard, but also beautiful. I think that’s why the suicide rate is so high in Switzerland.
“So, I make people want to kill themselves,” Greta said. “Wonderful.”
OM:?Have you told her about Keith yet?
FEW:?Yes.
OM:?What about Luke?
FEW:?Of course. She knows I’m married.
OM:?Does Luke know of her existence?
FEW:?I’ve told him little bits. He just thinks of her as my new friend, and he assumes she’s emotionally needy.
OM:?Is she?
FEW:?Very. I tend to attract damaged people like her. Broken toys.
“What the fuck?” Greta said.
FEW:?I think she’s attracted to me because I’m stable and secure. I have my life together in a way she’s probably not used to, and sometimes I feel like I’m helping her.
“Excuse me?” Greta said.
OM:?And maybe she’s also attracted to your beauty?
FEW:?We’re about equal in that department.
“Well, well, well,” Greta said. “Hare Krishna.”
OM:?You must make quite a pair, then.
FEW:?I love being in public with her, but we don’t get out enough. We spend most of our time in bed. Her bed. I’ve tried dragging her out for drinks—she won’t go. But she’s agreed to come to my house to meet Luke.
OM:?Sounds slightly… risky.
FEW:?You mean crazy?
“Yes,” Greta said.
FEW:?It was his idea. He wants to meet the mysterious older woman I’m spending all my time with. I showed him a picture, but he wasn’t satisfied. He’s insisting on having dinner at the house.
OM:?Is it my imagination, or are you not concerned about getting caught?
FEW:?When I finally come clean, I think it will be better that he’s met her. Who knows, maybe I’ll ask him to invite his new “friend” to dinner, as well.
OM:?Does the idea of an open marriage hold any interest or appeal?
FEW:?I can make ideological space in my mind for it, but in practice it might be…
“Suicide?” Greta said.
FEW:?Challenging. But it’s something I fantasize about trying. I’ve even read a few books about it.
OM:?Which ones?
FEW:?Beyond Monogamy, More Than Two—
“Millennials,” Greta muttered.
[ALARM]
OM:?You hear that, my dear? It’s my next client—
[END OF RECORDING]
Greta had a delayed reaction to most things and often fell asleep in high-stress situations. She’d slept through one car accident, eight or nine root canals, the SATs, prom, pap smears, her twenties and thirties. She’d fought sleep at her mother’s funeral—and lost, sadly—and now it appeared she’d passed out at her desk. She woke up drooling and disoriented. Evidently, hearing herself talked about in therapy had been as stressful as dental surgery, but now that it was over, the transcript complete and sent, she needed to make sure it never happened again. It was time to end this, to make a stand, to put her foot down. No one should have such easy access to the private thoughts of their lover—or anyone. It would be one thing if she were eavesdropping in the traditional sense of the word, by hanging from the eaves of Om’s office building, straining to hear the conversation within, perhaps catching only snatches, an odd word or phrase, but she was listening from well within, practically from the lapel of Big Swiss’s shirt, and catching every goddamn word, every worried swallow, every exasperated sigh. It was snooping times a million, and despicable. Of course, she had no right to be upset by anything Big Swiss said in therapy, but she hadn’t realized Big Swiss was demeaning herself with Greta, who’d somehow never thought of herself as a broken toy. She’d never been on this side of things, looking up from the gutter. Was this why Big Swiss had such power over her, why Greta dropped everything the minute she beckoned? Well, never again, goddammit. It was time to end this insanity. Today. Right now.
Her phone vibrated. A text from Big Swiss. “What’s your ETA? Dinner will be ready in forty-two minutes.”
Greta typed, “Not feeling well. Sorry to cancel last minute. I can’t do this anymore.”
Her thumb hovered over the send button. Her head felt as heavy as granite and she thought she might pass out again. Instead, she deleted what she’d written and typed: “Coming!!!!!!”
13
Maybe it was the wrong day to try microdosing, but she’d needed something to help her get through dinner, and she remembered Sabine’s saying that one stem plus one cap equaled a Valium and a cup of coffee, or maybe it was one cap, no stem, two Tylenol PM. In any case, she felt pretty loose as she drove to their house, which she’d always imagined as a Swiss chalet built directly into the side of a mountain. The chalet had very wide eaves, of course, with trim painted dark green, and window boxes full of bright red geraniums, and she kept envisioning Big Swiss on a balcony, dressed in a traditional dirndl, the embroidered bodice laced up tight, her tits spilling out of the low, square neckline, and there was Luke approaching from the rear, lifting her full skirt, letting his lederhosen fall around his ankles. Big Swiss closed her eyes and opened her mouth. Was she singing? She was yodeling. She stopped suddenly and started coughing. Luke paused to pat her on the back. Big Swiss pulled a small item from her apron, unwrapped it, popped it into her mouth. “Ricola!” she said, looking right into the camera. There was a close-up of her face. A boom microphone dipped into the frame. “Cut!” the director shouted.
Greta nearly missed the turn and swerved onto their private road. The road meandered over a creek, through a thicket of silver birch, and then under a canopy of budding pear trees. A black wooden carriage house loomed on the right, an undulating meadow on the left, and, straight ahead, the main house, which was not at all chalet-like, but rather entirely modern, low-slung and concise, made of concrete, glass, and steel. They had the Wright style, in other words, were far wealthier than she’d realized, and would probably not be dressed as peasants.
Rather than knock, Greta simply stared at the front door, which appeared to be made of solid chestnut containing many evocative knots. Big Swiss abruptly opened the door and pulled Greta into the foyer. She was flushed, dressed entirely in pink, and seemed to be glowing from within. Greta felt like she was being greeted by a Himalayan salt lamp. Big Swiss kissed the air on either side of Greta’s ears: left, right, left.
“Are you good?” Big Swiss said. “Can you handle this?”