Mortal Friends Read online

  I have to admit that Violet’s friendship with Cynthia irked me on a number of levels, the chief being that she didn’t seem to see the Cynthia I saw. Cynthia treated Violet very differently from the way she treated me. Of course, Violet wasn’t working for Cynthia, and I was. However, even when you work for someone, they shouldn’t treat you rudely. Just the opposite, in fact.

  Any time I made a date with Cynthia to meet me at the house to show her a piece of furniture I’d had especially carted in for her approval, either she would keep me waiting for two hours, or else she wouldn’t show up at all. It was impossible to pin her down. When I asked her what color she wanted the library, she said firmly, “Red.” “Any particular shade of red?” I said, and she replied, “That’s what I’m paying you for.” So I chose a warm red with a little blue in it, so it didn’t veer into orange. When she saw it, she had a fit, insisting that she hated red libraries and had specifically instructed me to paint it green. There was no point arguing with her, so I had it painted over. Then she screamed about the green being the wrong color. She constantly found fault and ignored what turned out well. She never paid her bills on time. It was a trial working for her.

  In short, Violet didn’t see the tantrums and the dismissiveness and the contradictions. There was also Cynthia’s irritating refusal to talk to me in person, instead making me deal with her crisp-voiced secretary, Ms. Fisk. But I’ve found that when a close friend gets involved with a new person, it’s best not to interfere or make derogatory comments. Let them find out for themselves if the friendship is or isn’t worth pursuing. My theory has always been, what they do to one they will do to another. I just decided to sit back and wait.

  Bob invited me to be his date at the new British ambassador’s “Dinner for Friends,” the quaint name given to a dinner where many of the people were strangers to the recently arrived couple. I knew that Violet was going too, and I suggested we have lunch so she could fill me in on the new ambassador and we could discuss what we were going to wear and all that sort of thing. It was always fun for us to be invited to the same events—even more fun now that I was with Bob and not scrounging around for a date or going as an extra girl.

  Unfortunately, at the last minute she called to cancel our lunch because of some emergency committee meeting. Violet was an eleemosynary workhorse, serving on numerous boards and always at the beck and call of all kinds of charities and worthy causes.

  “Then I’m going home to collapse before the dinner,” she announced just before she hung up.

  I decided to go over and do some work at Cynthia’s house to fill the time. At noon, I was in the dining room, trying to decide between the three orange stripe samples the painter had left, when I heard the front door open and shut. It was the weekend, and no one was supposed to be there. I went on the alert, in no small part because the house was so near Montrose Park. Everyone in Georgetown was wary. I suddenly had a terrible feeling that I was in danger—due, I’m sure, to the fact that Violet had instilled in me a great fear of the stealthy ways of serial killers.

  “They hunt for human game,” she said. “If they’re clever, and they target you, you’re dead, believe me.”

  With Violet’s words ringing in my ears, I stood very still, listening closely while planning my escape. Needless to say, I was vastly relieved when I heard a peal of laughter and recognized Cynthia’s voice. I figured she was there showing off the place to yet another person she wanted to impress. What luck, I thought. I can finally grab her to come take a look at the paint samples in person, rather than having to arrange an appointment through Ms. Fisk—or worse, facing a repeat of the library fiasco.

  I was on my way to say hi when I heard the other voice more distinctly. It was Grant. I knew that mid-Atlantic accent and scratchy drawl of his anywhere. I don’t know why, but something told me not to let on that I was there. I paused and listened to their insinuating sonatina laughter, which quickly segued into a fugue of low moans. Tiptoeing down the corridor, I peered around the corner into the front hall. I could hardly believe my eyes.

  Grant—totem-pole, steel-rod-up-his-you-know-what, mega-WASP, withholding cheapskate Bolton—had morphed into an undulating porn star! His pants were down, Cynthia’s skirt was up, and the two of them were on the floor, going at it like a couple of ferrets. Seeing Grant make such passionate love was like watching a science fiction movie. In fact, I was so shocked that all I could think was what a good thing it was that I’d just had the place steam-cleaned, or else they would have been fucking in a sea of dust.

  I slipped quietly out the back door, praying to God they wouldn’t hear me. When I hit the street, my mind felt like a railroad station with trains pulling in and going out on fifty tracks. How was I supposed to handle this? Violet was my best friend. She and Grant had been married, what? fifteen years? They had the “perfect” marriage. And now, suddenly, in waltzed Morgan le Fay to wreck the whole thing—and I’m the one who had to find out about it? It wasn’t fair. I don’t want to know this, I thought. But how could I un-know it? How could I erase that terrible image and all its implications from my mind?

  I walked back home in a stupor, wondering how long their affair had been going on. I pictured the four of us standing together at the Symphony Ball. Had it started back then? Before then? Was it a new development? Had Cynthia ordered those lightproof shutters for Grant?

  One thing I was pretty sure of was that Cynthia had set her cap for Grant, rather than the other way around. I sincerely doubted that Mr. Unexcitement would have dared to make the first move. But how was that mummy of a man going to resist Cleopatra? However it started was ancient history; it was now going great guns, if that floor show was any indication.

  To blab or not to blab, that was the question. Do I tell my best friend that her husband is an unfaithful bastard? Forget the fact that Grant was having an affair with Cynthia, my financial savior, who now owed me a ton of money? I couldn’t even begin to focus on that aspect of the situation, although I have to admit the thought crossed my mind. The thing I really had to examine was my relationship with Violet.

  I loved Violet like a sister, perhaps even more so because there was no sibling rivalry between us—just pure, unadulterated friendship. The bonds of adolescence never entirely dissolve. When she and I were together, we felt young again and laughed a lot, in that schoolgirls-at-heart sort of way that magically erases the passage of time. We were lifelines to each other’s youth, guardians of our shared memories. We filled in each other’s blanks and spoke the shorthand of true friendship, which takes up where it left off, no matter how long the gap in between, and is always bigger than the sum of its parts. I couldn’t bear to see her hurt.

  But…but, but, but…nothing counts until after the but…. I have to confess I felt a tincture of glee in discovering there was a crack in Violet’s perfect life. Actually, crack doesn’t cover it. Grand Canyon is more like it. Hard as it is to admit, I got a perverse pleasure in knowing that all those times she held Grant up as a paragon among husbands, making me feel like a jerk for having tossed him away myself and tacitly proclaiming herself the smart one for grabbing him, there was something rotten beneath the surface of their marriage that she herself wasn’t aware of.

  Strangely enough, this was the moment where I finally admitted to myself that I was a little jealous of Violet—not because I wished her any sorrow, but only because my own life hadn’t gone as planned.

  I wondered if that made me a terrible person. Possibly. But I had to acknowledge that aspect of my feelings, because my next step was so important. Should I tell her about this or not?

  I tried to put myself in Violet’s position. If I were she, would I want to know if my husband was cheating on me? You bet! I’d want to know as soon as possible so I could kick the bastard out before he kicked me out—or at least start stockpiling information for my lawyer.

  But I wasn’t Violet.

  Even knowing her as well as I did, I still had no idea how she would react
to the news that her perfect marriage was a sham and that her new best friend was busy seducing her husband. And all this coming from me, her oldest friend…? If I told her, would she kill the messenger? If I didn’t tell her and she eventually found out that I’d known all along, would she hate me? If I didn’t tell her and she never found out, would it always be the big pink affair in the room between us? Would I be able to go to dinners and parties with Violet and Grant and Cynthia and simply ignore what I knew was going on under everyone’s nose? Would this omission constitute a betrayal of sorts?

  I wondered if there was a remote possibility that Violet knew about this affair and just hadn’t told me. I doubted it, even though I knew Violet to be an extremely artful dodger when it suited her. She could look people she hated in the eye and make them feel as if they were her bosom buddies if she thought they would be useful to her charities or to the bank. We always joked about how duplicitous she could be in pursuit of a good cause. I was sure that was one of the reasons Grant had married her; he knew her ambition would always trump her honesty. It was probably why she’d become friends with Cynthia to begin with, because Cynthia was doing business with the bank. Still, bank or no bank, I was sure Violet would never condone an affair, and that she would have told me if she had any suspicion that Grant was cheating on her. That’s not something you can keep from your very best friend.

  I was dying to talk to someone about it, someone who could help me figure out what I should do. If it had been anyone else’s husband, I would instantly have called Violet, sworn her to secrecy, and discussed the whole situation with her. But now I had to be very careful who I confided in. This secret was a dirty bomb. Any leakage would have dire consequences.

  I knew one thing for sure: if Violet ever did find out about the affair, and the fact that I’d known about it all along without telling her, she would look back on that period of time using the psychological equivalent of a twelve-gauge pump-action shotgun—aimed directly at yours truly.

  Chapter 11

  That night, I dressed for dinner at the British Embassy with a heavy heart. I felt like I was going to a funeral. The inevitable Maxwell pulled up in front of my house promptly at seven. It was raining lightly. He rang the bell and stood outside, waiting for me on the stoop, a big, black umbrella in hand. I opened the door. His jowly white face gleamed out of the dusk like a pockmarked moon. He held the umbrella over my head as he escorted me to the car.

  “Dismal night,” I remarked—and I wasn’t just referring to the weather. He didn’t reply. I didn’t expect him to.

  Maxwell and I never said much to each other beyond hello and good night. By now, the routine was familiar: he always glanced at me in the rearview mirror, presumably to make sure I was comfortable. I always smiled at him. He always smiled back. Then he drove on. He was attentive and correct, yet careful not to intrude. The perfect chauffeur.

  The green mink blanket was folded neatly on the seat. I absently stroked the fur, dreading the evening ahead. I debated whether or not to tell Bob about the situation. Here again, I had to question my motives. I asked myself if I truly wanted his opinion or if I just wanted to confide a secret to him, hoping it would act as a catalyst to somehow deepen our own relationship.

  Bob and I had been seeing each other practically nonstop for over a month—which may not seem like a long time in the scheme of things, but when you’re at these older bat ages and time is precious, it’s a significant investment. We were still skimming the surface. Bob didn’t like to talk about personal things. I kept hoping for that “watershed moment,” when we’d open up to each other and take the relationship to a whole different level. But it never seemed to come. I knew I couldn’t push it, so I just decided to relax and have fun.

  Now I had something serious on my mind. Perhaps this was the time to find out if he could be of some real emotional support to me. By the time we reached his office, I’d pretty much decided to take the chance and confide in him.

  Maxwell pulled up in front of the building. He spoke on the phone for a moment, and then turned back to me. “Mr. Poll apologizes, Ms. Lynch. He’s running late.”

  That was actually the most I’d ever heard Maxwell utter at a clip since Bob and I started dating. I was anxious, so I started up a casual conversation to calm my nerves.

  “How long have you been driving for Mr. Poll?” I asked.

  “Five years,” he replied without turning around.

  “This must be a wonderful car to drive.”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am,” he said emphatically, patting the steering wheel. “’Course, she requires a lot of maintenance—just like all you beautiful ladies.”

  I asked him if he was from Washington, and he told me he was from Seattle originally. I remarked that he was a long way from home.

  “Yeah. I miss it sometimes. ’Specially this bakery I lived around the corner from. They had the best chocolate chip cookies,” he said.

  “Oh, I love chocolate chip cookies. There’s a farmer’s market up in Bethesda that makes fabulous chocolate chip cookies. I’ll bring you some.”

  “Thank you, ma’am! Though Lord knows I don’t need ’em.”

  Maxwell reminded me of a jolly uncle.

  I asked him some more about the car, just to make conversation. Of course, what I really wanted to ask him was how many of his boss’s women he’d looked at in that rearview mirror, and what he thought of them all. I wanted to ask him if Bob acted any differently with me than he did with the others. I wanted to ask him about Melody Hartford and what the real story was there—what she was like, and why she and Bob had broken up. I wanted to ask him who else Bob had dated.

  If anyone knew the secrets of Bob Poll’s life, it would be his chauffeur. There was also Felicity, of course, the incongruously named secretary who arranged his schedule with dour efficiency and who Bob referred to as his “Chief of Staff.” I actually spoke to her more than I spoke to Bob about our plans. But Felicity probably never laid eyes on most of the women she arranged dates for, including me, whereas Maxwell was on-site. He’d met us all in person. I sensed that old Maxwell was a loyal soul, however, and that I wouldn’t be able to maneuver him into a personal conversation about his boss. So we just kept talking about the car.

  Bob emerged about fifteen minutes later, wearing a tuxedo, patent leather pumps, the long white silk scarf around his neck, and a gray cashmere topcoat draped over his shoulders. Maxwell ushered him to the car, holding the umbrella over his head. Bob apologized for being late, then fell ominously silent.

  “The embassy, sir?” Maxwell said.

  Bob nodded curtly. He always took my hand when we were in the car, but that night he didn’t. He stayed close to the window on his side with his legs crossed, the dark green mink blanket almost like a barrier between us. I knew something was wrong, and that made me even more nervous.

  “Can I ask you a hypothetical question?” I said.

  He paused, then turned to me, looking distracted.

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  “Okay, let’s say you found out that the wife of a very close friend of yours was cheating on him. What would you do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You wouldn’t tell him?”

  He shrugged and looked contemptuous. “God, no.”

  “Why not?”

  “Men don’t tell each other that kind of stuff.”

  “Do women?”

  “A lot more than men.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because it’s been my experience that women can’t wait to break up their friends’ relationships,” he said with a bitter chuckle. “You gals are always egging each other on to leave us guys. You’re always telling each other there’s something better out there.”

  I got the feeling he had a specific case in mind.

  “Is that what Melody’s friends told her about you?” The question flew out of my mouth. I regretted it the second I asked it.

  “This is your hypothetica
l case, not mine,” he snapped.

  “Okay, so you wouldn’t tell him—even if you knew his wife was making a fool of him?”

  “Maybe he knows she’s having the affair. Maybe he doesn’t mind. Maybe it turns him on.”

  “There’s a revealing comment,” I remarked.

  “I don’t think people’s sex lives are anybody’s business but their own. The last time we made a big deal about an affair, it cost the country a billion dollars, made us the laughingstock of the world—and to what end? Anyway, you can’t prove it unless there’s a video cam in the bedroom…or DNA on the dress, of course…. So who’s your girlfriend?”

  “What girlfriend?”

  “The one with the unfaithful husband who you can’t decide whether or not to tell.”

  “Very good.”

  “You’re not subtle,” he said. He didn’t say it gently or jokingly. He said it rather cruelly. I turned away.

  He reached across the blanket, took my hand, and kissed it. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I have a lot of things on my mind right now. I didn’t mean to be so dismissive. How can I help you?”

  “I don’t know. I think I’ll have to figure this one out for myself.”

  He cast the blanket aside and moved in close to me, putting his arm around me. “You look beautiful tonight.”