Anyway, here she was. Again. Taking it from behind, over the couch in her boss’s corner office with those expansive city views. The world was a field of lights spread wide around them. She tried to enjoy it. But, as was often the case, she just kind of floated above herself. She made all the right noises, though. She knew how to fake it.
“Oh my god, Anne. You’re so hot.”
He pressed himself in deep, moaning.
When he’d first come on to her, she thought he was kidding—or not thinking clearly. They’d flown together to DC to take an important client who was considering leaving the investment firm out to dinner. In the cab on the way back to the hotel—while Hugh was on the phone with his wife—he put his hand on Anne’s leg. He wasn’t even looking at Anne when he did it, so for a moment she wondered if it was just absent-mindedness. He was like that sometimes, a little loopy. Overly affectionate, familiar. Forgetful.
His hand moved up her thigh. Anne sat very still. Like a prey animal. Hugh ended the call and she expected him to jerk his hand back.
Oh! I’m so sorry, Anne, she thought he’d say, aghast at his careless behavior.
But no. His hand moved higher.
“Am I misreading signals?” he said, voice low.
Stop. What most people would be thinking: Poor Anne! Afraid for her job, she submits to this predator.
What Anne was thinking: How can I use this to my advantage? She really had been just trying to do her job well, sort of. But it seemed that Pop was right, as he had been about so many things. If you weren’t running a game, someone was running one on you.
Had she subconsciously been putting out signals? Possibly. Yes. Maybe Pop was right about that, too. You don’t get to stop being what you are, even when you try.
They made out like prom dates in the cab, comported themselves appropriately as they walked through the lobby of the Ritz. He pressed against her at the door to her hotel room. She was glad she was wearing sexy underwear, had shaved her legs.
She’d given Hugh—with his salt-and-pepper hair, sinewy muscles, flat abs—the ride of his life that night. And many nights since. He liked her on top. He was a considerate lover, always asking: Is this good? Are you okay? Confessional: Kate and I—we’ve been married a long time. We both have—appetites. She couldn’t care less about his marriage.
Anne didn’t actually believe in the things other people seemed to value so highly. Fidelity—really? Were you supposed to just want one person your whole life? Marriage. Was there ever anything more set up to fail, to disappoint, to erode? Come on. They were animals. Every last one of them rutting, feral beasts. Men. Women. All of society was held together by gossamer-thin, totally arbitrary laws and mores that were always shifting and changing no matter how people clung. They were all just barely in line.
Anne neither expected nor encouraged Hugh to fall in love. In fact, she spoke very little. She listened, made all the right affirming noises. If he noticed that she had told him almost nothing about herself, it didn’t come up. But fall in love with Anne he did. And things were getting complicated.
Now, finished and holding her around the waist, Hugh was crying a little. His body weight was pinning her down. He often got emotional after they made love. She didn’t mind him most of the time. But the whole crying thing—it was such a turnoff. She pushed against him and he let her up. She tugged down her skirt, and he pulled her into an embrace.
She held him for a while, then wiped his eyes, kissed his tears away. Because she knew that’s what he wanted. She had a special gift for that, knowing what people wanted—really wanted deep down—and giving them that thing for a while. And that was why Hugh—why anyone—fell in love. Because he loved getting the thing he wanted, even if he didn’t know what that was.
When he moved away finally, she stared at her ghostly reflection in the dark window, wiped at her smeared lipstick.
“I’m going to leave her,” Hugh said. He flung himself on one of the plush sofas. He was long and elegant; his clothes impeccable, bespoke, made from the finest fabrics. Tonight, his silk tie was loose, pressed cotton shirt was wilted, black wool suit pants still looking crisp. Garments, all garments—even just his tennis whites—hung beautifully on his fit body.
She smiled, moved to sit beside him. He kissed her, salty and sweet.
“It’s time. I can’t do this anymore,” he went on.
This wasn’t the first time he’d said this. Last time, when she’d tried to discourage him, he’d held her wrists too hard when she tried to leave. There had been something bright and hard in his eyes—desperation. She didn’t want him to get clingy tonight. Emotional.
“Okay,” she said, running her fingers through his hair. “Yeah.”
Because that’s what he wanted to hear, needed to hear. If you didn’t give people what they wanted, they became angry. Or they pulled away. And then the game was harder or lost altogether.
“We’ll go away,” he said, tracing a finger along her jaw. Because of course they’d both lose their jobs. Hugh’s wife, Kate, owned and ran the investment firm, had inherited the company from her legendary father. Her brothers were on the board. They’d never liked Hugh （this was one of his favorite pillow talk tirades, how Kate’s brothers didn’t respect him）。 “We’ll take a long trip abroad and figure out what comes next. Clean slate for both of us. Would you like that?”
“Of course,” she said. “That would be wonderful.”
Anne liked her job; when she’d applied and interviewed, she honestly wanted to work at the firm. Numbers made a kind of sense to her, investment a kind of union of logic and magic. Client work was a bit of a game, wasn’t it—convincing people to part with their cash on the promise that you could make them more? She also respected and admired her boss—her lover’s wife—Kate. A powerful, intelligent woman.
Maybe Anne should have thought about all of that before she submitted to Hugh’s advances. He wasn’t the power player; she’d miscalculated, or not run the numbers at all. She made mistakes like that sometimes, let the game run her. Pop thought it was a form of self-sabotage. Sometimes, sweetie, I think your heart’s not quite in it. Maybe he was right.
“Ugh,” said Hugh, pulling away, glancing at his watch. “I’m late. I have to change and meet Kate at the fundraiser.”
She rose and walked the expanse of his office, got his tux from the closet, and laid it across the back of the couch. Another stunning item, heavy and silken. She ran her fingers lovingly along the lapel. He rose, and she helped him dress, hanging his other clothes, putting them back in the closet. She did his tie. In his heart, he was a little boy. He wanted to be attended to, cared for. Maybe everyone wanted that.
“You look wonderful,” she said, kissing him. “Have fun tonight.”
He looked at her long, eyes filling again.
“Soon,” he said, “this charade can end.”
She put a gentle hand to his cheek, smiled as sweetly as she could muster and started to move from the room.
“Anne,” he said, grabbing for her hand. “I love you.”
She’d never said it back. She’d said things like me, too or she’d send him the heart-eyed emoji in response to a text. Sometimes she just blew him a kiss. He hadn’t seemed to notice, or his pride was too enormous to ask her why she never said it, or if she loved him. But mainly, she thought it was because Hugh only saw and heard what he wanted to.