ON THE HOUSE (Begin Reading)
"Do you think he's dangerous?"
"Ron, you mean? Or Cooper? Down, Cooper." I pushed the Lab's massive yellow paw from my bare leg. With a big-eyed look that meant "just this once," he curled up under my bar stool, nose on my sandal. I loved Cooper. He was the only one whose feet were bigger than mine, and he might just have hated Ron as much as I did. I took a sip of my ill-advised third glass of Shiraz and looked across the bar at Errol. Gave him a "one more" signal.
"I know, you mean Ron," I said to Jess. "And no, he's not dangerous. He's just a jerk."
"A two-timing, paranoid, self-obsessed moron." Jess was attempting to fish a stubborn green olive from the bottom of her martini glass. Failing, she stabbed it with her little red plastic sword and held it triumphantly. "If I could do this to Ron the moron, don't think I'd give it a second thought. Head on a pike. Finally. Justice."
I stabbed my own sword into the little white straw I'd been fussing with. My napkin was already in shreds.
Giving me a patient smile, Errol swept up the shards and placed a new napkin on the battered zinc bar. Followed quickly by another glass of Shiraz.
"On the house, Rachel," he said. "Anyone who's had as bad a day as you have. As bad a couple of months. Errol's can provide one more glass of red."
"Thanks," I said, trying to keep the bitterness out of my voice. Errol meant well. And, true, he'd been hearing my Ron laments for months now. But the phrase makes me wince every time. "On the House" was our dream agency. The one Ron and I were going to open to make us both real estate millionaires. Competing brokers, we'd met at an open house in Back Bay. Neither of us got the sale, but we got each other. For better and, not long after, for worse. Then much, much worse.
Cooper shifted under my stool, probably having some dog dream. My only dream was that I'd never have to set one more toe in divorce court again. At this point, whatever Ron wanted, he could have. All I wanted was out. But out was not in the cards. Tomorrow, we were back in a stifling probate courtroom in downtown Boston. And I knew my return to singlehood was not imminent.
"I'm going to be married forever," I lamented into my glass of wine. Whine. "I'm going to be married to the mistake forever. He's like a--"
"Leech," Jess offered. My best friend could always find the right word.
"It's symbiosis gone all wrong," I agreed. "We used to live for each other. I remember that, don't I? Then suddenly, I was going to work. And he was--"
A drift of some floral scent overpowered the bar fragrance of salted almonds and beer and twists of lemon. I smelled--hair spray? And expensive perfume. And turned to see the platonic ideal of blondeness slide onto the stool beside me. I scooted closer to Jess, giving the prom-queen newcomer all the space she needed.
"Well, he told you he was going to work," Jess said. "He kissed you good-bye. And then went back to bed. How were you supposed to know he was blowing off his real estate job? With--what'd he say? Chronic fatigue?"
"Chronic fathead," I said, taking the last sip of glass three. "He's got enough energy to sneak around with other women and shop with my credit cards. He's got enough energy to criticize everything I do. He's got enough energy to file for divorce. Moron."
Cooper shifted position, stretching out his front paws and almost knocking over my red leather purse. Ron always called him "Klutz." Or "Galoot." Coop did everything a dog could do to insult him back. Planting mud-streaked paws on his Italian suits. Chewing his shoes. The incident of the sweater drawer.
Errol placed another glass in front of me. My brain sent warnings about tomorrow morning and puffy eyes and the harborside condo I was showing at the crack of ten.
"Back in court," I continued, shaking my head at the relentlessness of it all. My life seemed ruined before it had really begun. "I'm thirtysomething. I'm in good shape. My hair is still naturally brownish. My dog likes me. I'm pretty successful, all things considered. And yet I'm--"
"Bummed," Jess suggested, clinking glasses. Her hair, scrabbly and almost-maroon, looked somehow hip instead of wacky. She was a good actress, established in local theater. And she could wear those little ankle boots with a short skirt. I'd look like I was in outgrown hand-me-downs. "He's really asking you to pay alimony?"
Errol put a glass in front of the Prom Queen. Chardonnay, of course.
I turned my back on her, just a bit. But I couldn't avoid her face in the lighted expanse of mirror behind Errol. When she raised her glass at my reflection, offering a friendly smile, I managed a noncommittal one in return. No need to be a bitch just because I'm being taken to the cleaners by a weasel in a Prince Charming outfit. Whatever. I knew what I meant. Being on glass four now meant my metaphors might be turning unreliable.
"Yup. He wants me to pay him. Beyond ridiculous. Wish I could, I don't know, do something," I said. I used Jess's little sword to stab holes in a cardboard St. Pauli Girl coaster. Right in the milkmaid's nose. Whatever she was. Beer maid. "Like, erase the condo listings from his computer. Change the speed dial phone numbers on his cell phone so whenever he called someone, he'd get someone different."
"Funny," Jess agreed, contemplating. "But it wouldn't get you a divorce."
True. That was the problem. All I wanted was a divorce. And Ron was doing everything he could to delay it.
"Why? Why? Why?" I asked, perhaps more dramatically than necessary. Cooper looked up, his cocoa eyes questioning, making sure I was okay. I blew him a kiss, and he flopped his tail once, understanding. "I realize he ridicules me to cover up his own failures. But he knows he lied. And cheated. And stole."
"He's doing it to make you miserable," Jess said. She hooked those little heels over the rail of her stool, facing me. "That's all he has now. That's like his job, you know? He gets up in the morning and thinks of ways to make you miserable."
"Well, he's damn good at it," I said to my wine. "I'm miserable."
"Last call," Errol said.
I looked at my watch. "You're kidding. It's one thirty on a school night?"
"A court night," Jess reminded me.
"Men are like that." The voice came from behind me. Not a bitter voice, not a sad voice. Just straightforward. Matter-of-fact.
I turned.
Jess leaned her elbows on the bar, curving herself to see past me.
"I've known too many of them," Prom Queen added. She lifted her almost untouched Chardonnay, toasting me again. Her pale lipstick had not even left a smudge on the polished glass. "And they all want the same thing. Don't they? They all want their own way."
Well, that was interesting. Cooper lifted his head, sniffed, and gave her his most adoring look. That was interesting, too.
I looked up, catching Errol's eye. He was in classic bartender pose, towel and martini glass. He shrugged.
"Last call," he said.
"Do you think she's dangerous?"
Jess moved a stack of magazines with her foot, making room on my just-dusted coffee table for her legs. She leaned back against the puffy navy cushions of my couch, staring at the ceiling.
I swatted Jess's feet back to the floor, replacing them with a casual, but thoughtful, display of cheese and crackers. Prom Queen's name turned out to be Camilla Ayers. She was on the way. And she was offering an interesting proposition.
"No," I said. "Camilla's got a genius plan. And in a little while, we're going to find out if it can work."
Cooper snuffled toward the Brie. I pointed sternly, an I-am-the-master-you-are-the-dog gesture to indicate that cheese was people food. Cooper pretended to be confused, the way he always does when I give a command. Most often, he does just the opposite of what I say.
It wasn't my usual Saturday afternoon. But yesterday had been my usual Friday. Court, arguments, and Ron's histrionics. He was representing himself after he'd refused to pay his original lawyer. Typical Ron: the rules don't apply to him. Oh, he was out of money. Oh, he was too sick to work. Oh, "the defendant" should give him alimony. Oh, she got the dog just to drive him crazy.
It was all I could do not to leap out of my rickety wooden chair. I couldn't believe the judge stood for it. Sat for it. But she did. And Ron got yet another continuance.
How could I have made such a life-ruining mistake? I'd longed for a husband. A partner. Maybe even a baby. But Ron soon decided everything wrong in his life was my fault. And never let me forget it.
I looked toward my front door, even though there's no way to see who's walking up the front path. I'm on the top floor, and you have to buzz to get through the main entrance. No buzz yet.
"Don't you think it's genius?" I said, looking to Jess for reassurance. "I mean, I'm not hiring her to kill him. It's not like she's some FBI agent, entrapping me into a sting. And there are no hidden cameras here. It's my own apartment."
Jess swiped a Sociable through the Brie, using one finger to cut her gooey cheese away from the white triangle. "There are no real hired killers," she said, licking her finger. "They're all FBI agents. I've never understood why people don't realize that. I mean, don't they read the paper?"
"Probably not," I replied. For the millionth time, I made sure I had pulled out everything Camilla said she needed. Family photos. Wedding and vacation pictures. Memories now so poisoned she could keep them all forever, far as I was concerned. But she said she needed anything that could give her insight into Ron's background. "How do you suppose she'll do it?"
Cooper leaped up, tail flailing, paws scrabbling on the hardwood floor, yipping like an overwound toy. As the snare of the bell hit our human ears, Cooper jumped up against the front door, his pudgy yellow paws leaving even more marks on the painted metal. Stretched out, nose to tail, he was taller than I was.
"Down, Cooper," I said, for the millionth time. He didn't care. "Down."
"Here we go," I said to Jess.
"Your funeral," Jess replied.
Sitting cross-legged on my couch, listening to the best idea I'd ever heard, I briefly wondered if Camilla Ayers was some angel sent by a heretofore unknown society for the protection of cruelty to wronged women. A revenging angel.
"So I'll tell him," she said, finishing up her "proposal." "No sex with me until he's absolutely divorced. Signed on the dotted line, no more continuances, no more court dates, you out of his life forever. Believe me, you'll soon be rid of him."
"You think it'll work?" Looking at her effortless blond hair, her no-makeup makeup, her toned biceps and graceful ankles, it was easy to imagine her getting anything she wanted. From men at least. Even Cooper was smitten, staring at her as if she were a morsel of bacon, placing his nose protectively near her delicately pink toes. I mulled Camilla's idea. Brilliant, but certainly a little out there.
"He's a jerk," Jess said. "He's a manipulative, megalomaniacal, selfish--jerk. My vote? If Camilla does her thing, he'll be toast. Jell-O. Mincemeat."
Cooper lifted his eyebrows toward Jess at the mention of meat. But he didn't leave his post.
Camilla nodded, one lock of blond falling across her brown eyes. And by brown, I mean molten chocolate. Everything about her was delicious. I had to admit, I could see how it might work.
"It'll work," Camilla said. "It's worked every time."
"You mean you've--?" I said.
"You mean it's a--?" Jess said at the same time.
Camilla held up a hand. "Let's just see what we have here," she said, stopping our speculation. She turned a few pages in one leather-bound photo album. "Wedding took place at a ski resort? So he skis?"
I nodded. "Double black diamond."
"School? Family relationships? How does he get along with his mother? Does he have sisters? Do you have his bank records? What's his favorite food? Was he married before?"
By the time we'd finished, all the Brie and crackers were gone. We'd given up tea for Chardonnay. Least I could do. And plan Get Ron was underway. My divorce was going to happen. I was convinced.
What's more, Camilla had promised I could watch.
"Over there, behind the palm tree," I whispered, though I didn't need to, pointing Jess in the right direction. We were positioned on stools at the bar in Larissa, the chicest restaurant in town. Three tables behind us, reflected perfectly in mirror view, were Angel Camilla and Devil Ron.
"Why do men always fall for the hair-flipping thing?" Jess whispered, too.
"Who cares," I said. We were dolled up in wigs from Jess's costume stash, Burberry scarves, and fake glasses. Camilla had promised she'd make sure he didn't see us, but Jess insisted we take precautions. "Look at him. He's literally drooling."
I felt happy for the first time in months. Camilla was in full flirt mode. Laughing, touching Ron's hand, twirling her hair. She was probably talking about skiing and having a younger brother. And loving Italian food and watching the World Cup. Just like Ron. Oh, what a coincidence.
He was a goner. And there was nothing illegal about it. The whole point was that she wasn't going to sleep with him. So it wasn't like she was a hooker or even an escort. She was just on a date. Acting. Not a woman alive who hasn't done exactly the same thing.
And no one was getting hurt. Except Ron. Who deserved it. And he would just be as angry as I was. Welcome to my world, I silently telegraphed across the room. How could I have thought he loved me? I'd made a huge miscalculation. He'd made me miserable. Now it was my turn. I could ruin his life. Just long enough to get free of him.
"Is it creepy that you're not paying her?" Jess asked. She adjusted her plaid silk scarf. "Or would it be creepier if you did pay?"
I had to admit that had been nagging at me, too. When I'd asked, hesitantly, about "reimbursement," Camilla had smiled, waving me off.
"It's on the house," she'd said.
ON THE HOUSE copyright © 2009 by Hank Phillippi Ryan
