Graham smells nothing like he looks. You would expect him to have a crisp, clean scent—newly minted cash soaked in lemon verbena. Instead, he smells like hot testosterone, like something feral, like the kind of man who would hack down the door with an ax to save kittens from a burning building. I don’t know what to do with his smell. There is nothing more confusing than being sexually attracted to your husband.
He steps back, fixes my hair. He hates when my part is uneven. Then he leans in close so he can whisper in my ear, “If you think this is going to make up for what you did, you have another think coming.”
LYLA
The sun has set by the time we sit down to eat. We are so high up that you can see three or four stars, even with the city lights down below. I try to find them every night. Tonight, I find only three. They make me think of the housekeeper’s necklaces.
Graham is groaning over her dinner. “This is actually superb, you know.” He spins the spaghetti neatly on his fork with a spoon. He has immaculate table manners.
“You’re welcome.” I’ve lost my appetite.
“Well, you didn’t make it, did you?” It’s like this every time. The game ends, and he recedes.
“You’re being mean.”
“Why do you think that is?” My fork scrapes the plate.
“It’s not my fault, what happened.”
“It absolutely is.” He dabs his lips with a linen napkin. “You warned her.”
I twirl my fork in the pasta. Margo hates when things go wrong. She likes to think she can control everything: the light, the mood, the weather and especially people. “It was her choice. It’s no one’s fault but hers.” It’s trite and it sounds it. The kind of phrase that’s washed of color by overuse.
He shrugs, angles his hips so he can spread his legs, getting comfortable. I know he agrees. They’re his words slung back at him. We gave her a choice, but she created her own option, one we had never even considered. “Well, you’ll have your chance.”
“What does that mean?”
“There’s another one moving in this weekend.”
My chair jumps. “What?”
“Margo’s idea. The best way to get over someone is to get someone else.” He stuffs pasta into his mouth, relishing this. He dines on discomfort. He swallows it whole.
“Why do we need another tenant? Can’t we just take a break? Have some time to ourselves for a change?” He looks bored by the proposition.
My relationship with Graham has always been a throuple: me, Graham and boredom. It was there the day we married, warming itself in the backseat of the Rolls-Royce as we drove down a lane of sparklers, silver cans rattling in our wake. It was on the private island on our honeymoon swimming circles around us in the bathroom bleach blue water. It was waiting for a turn, every time he took me to bed. It is especially present at anniversaries and birthday parties and holidays. Anytime we are expected to be happy, our third raises its head.
It was Margo herself who sat me down one afternoon and told me how to get rid of it, or at least get it out of our bed.
We were sitting in the second tier of her garden, having a tea. She peered at me over her fine bone china cup, eyes echoing his. “My son has needs,” she said. “We are not like ordinary people, the kind of people you’re used to associating with.” Margo was always sure to sneak a dig into any of our conversations. “We have more money. We get more bored. If you want to keep him and keep him happy, he needs amusement. He needs amusement above all else.”
Margo and Graham need the tenant. They need someone to dominate. Other rich people have nannies, dog walkers. That’s not enough for them. They need tenants and their tenants need to be special. Exceptional. The game is more entertaining that way. If they don’t have their tenants, they will find their entertainment elsewhere. They will play their games with me.
“Margo had an idea how to make it interesting,” he says. I brace myself. “She thought you could take a turn.”
My back stiffens. “But I don’t want to take a turn. I don’t want to play.” I have accepted this little anomaly in Graham, but it’s not for me. It’s his hobby. He doesn’t insist I play golf. I don’t invite him shopping.
“It’s not really about what you want.” He spins his fork. “You need to prove yourself.” I want to argue but I have to be careful. Graham often uses Margo as a scapegoat. This might not be her idea at all. It might be his. More probably, it’s both. It’s not important who thought of it first. They share blood and sometimes a brain. “You need to show her that you deserve to be here.”