“Fabulous.” Posey grins with all her teeth. She likes the threat of violence. I suppose there is a reason she dated Graham.
Mitsi inhales slowly, less sure. “Graham is so masculine,” she decides. That’s one way to put it. “I’m glad Mark isn’t so masculine.”
“Women like games, too,” Posey says. She pinches a finger full of gold dust and blows it across her dress so it looks even more fabulous. I wonder what would have happened if she had married Graham. Would she have played the game? Would she have stayed? The truth is, I don’t know her, and she doesn’t know me. That’s why we’re friends.
“It must be very hard for you,” Mitsi says, “keeping up with him.” She meets my eyes and my chest aches.
“I’m not afraid of Graham,” I volunteer, which is not what she was saying at all.
LYLA
When I get home, the housekeeper is gone and the house is spotless. I have this uneasy feeling. I go to the cupboards and count all the bottles of Mo?t, just to make sure she didn’t take any.
Graham doesn’t return until after sunset. There are so many windows that the dark crowds in, punctured with little lights from the houses along the hills. There are only three stars in the sky.
“Did you read the e-mail?” I am standing in the living room when Graham crosses the long floor. He perches on the arm of the sofa beneath me, looks up at me.
“She makes three hundred and fifty thousand a year,” I say without thinking.
“She sounds impressive.” Graham is always impressed by money. He slides the tie from the back of his neck and it tugs his collar open. It releases his scent, enticing me.
I step forward until I am straddling him. I run a finger down the inside of his open collar. I kiss him, and he kisses me back. I let my hand drift down toward his pants. I kiss him again, but when I find him, he’s soft.
Sex has always been sporadic in our relationship. It was his wedding present to me. A surprise gift that came with commitment.
I remember our wedding night exactly, how he laid me down on the bed in our suite at the Beverly Hills Hotel, just like he was supposed to. How he glistened with perspiration, how he looked at me like he loved me, just like he was supposed to. But he couldn’t have sex with me. He couldn’t. And I told him that it was okay, that it was understandable. You’re tired. It’s been a long day.
And he went out on some phantom errand, to get fizzy water or something, and he came back hours later. I was lying in bed watching Real Housewives. And I switched the TV off and he climbed in beside me and he said, “I’ll make it up to you. I promise I’ll make it up to you.”
We haven’t had sex in almost a year. I know this is true but I can’t believe it. I have this alternate reality in my head where we have sex the normal amount. It protects me from the truth: that even though I have sacrificed myself to be the same, we are not.
I have trawled through Reddit posts of other people with similar problems. I never post myself; I don’t need to. There are people out there who understand sometimes you’re in love with someone who won’t sleep with you. The replies from people who don’t understand suggest visiting a doctor. Who are these people? If I even hinted to Graham that there might be something wrong with him, he would never look me in the eye again. And even if I could somehow convince him to go, I’m afraid of what a doctor would reveal. That everything is fine. That the problem is me.
If you want my professional opinion, you’re not sexy enough.
“I’ve had a long day.” His voice is almost pleading. His animal scent mixes with the leatherwood shampoo in his hair as I press my cheek against his neck. I know it’s not my fault, but it can’t be his fault. I’ve been told all my life that a man will have sex with anything.
“Dinner.” His lids are hooded and he sets his hands on my hips and replaces me. He sets me back so he can stand, look down on me again.
“Graham.” I want him so badly. I want to make him beg and weep and cry out. I want him to worship me. But he walks away into the kitchen and all I see are cashmere throws and white sofas. “It’s okay,” I say but he doesn’t hear. I’m talking to me.
He opens the fridge, takes out a bottle of Mo?t. “Let’s celebrate.” He breaks the seal and pops the cork. “To Saturday.”
LYLA
Demi moves in on saturday. I go out right before she is supposed to arrive, so she will meet me coming back from somewhere. I want her to think I have a life.