I could tell him not to place the palm of his hand flat against my back when we dance, not to close his eyes and bring me close, so close to him, his mouth periodically brushes against my hair where my head rests beneath his chin. I could ask him not to allow his hand to linger at my waist longer than a few seconds when he escorts me into a room. I could ask him not to be my date for every art function, pretending instead to run into him, as if he were a casual acquaintance, but not so obviously my lover.
At dinner with his friends last night, he leaned into me to say something softly, his hand underneath the tablecloth sitting high on my thigh, and I couldn’t help but lean into him in turn, pressing my other thigh into his hand, shivering in quick anticipation before I glanced up to see the frank stares of curiosity from the other side of the table.
I felt myself blush as I tried not to look guilty and casually put distance between us, as if the closeness had been nothing more than just an errant moment, not the constant state of affairs.
“So how old is your daughter now, Helena?” asked Lilian. She is Juan José’s cousin and her question is deliberate, a reminder to the table of who I am and what I’m doing.
“She’s four,” I answer with my brightest smile.
“Wow, that’s young! And you left her alone for… what’s it been, over a month?”
It’s more an accusation than a question, and I feel the warmth reach my cheeks all over again.
“Well, she’s not alone,” I say, far less pleasantly. “She’s with her father and she’s having a ball. I don’t think children need to be attached to their mothers every second of the day, unless, of course, their mothers have nothing else to do,” I add pointedly, because there are several nonworking mothers here.
“It must be nice to have a husband who doesn’t mind staying alone for a month, much less with the children in tow,” rejoins Lilian, all pretense of niceties apparently forgotten. “That is, if you’re married. You are still married, right?”
I seriously consider hurling my glass of wine at her.
Everybody has affairs, don’t they? I want to shout. Why then are you trying to make me feel like the town harlot?
But Juan José intercedes smoothly.
“Lily, you’re such a little snoop,” he says with a laugh, draping his arm around my shoulder. “I always told Lilian she should become a journalist,” he says to the table at large. “You would not believe the things this girl used to ask us when we were kids!”
We laugh, but now the shrimp appetizer feels like lead in my mouth.
Later, as I head back to the table from the bathroom, I pass a half-open bedroom door and the words buffet me once again.
“That was harsh, Lily,” I overhear one of her friends say.
“Someone has to say it,” I hear Lilian answer impatiently. “She’s married; she has a kid, for Christ’s sake. She has a little girl! And she’s here happily screwing around with my cousin. What kind of mother would do that? Not to mention poor JJ.”
“Come on, Lily. I don’t hear Juan José complaining,” her friend answers with a laugh.
“Maybe not, but it isn’t fair to him, either,” says Lilian, sounding angry. “I think he’s falling in love with her. He’s smitten. Really. And it’s just a game to her. She thinks her husband is an idiot and she thinks my cousin is an idiot.”
“Lily, Juan José is right. You overthink things. He’s a guy, she’s pretty, he’s just having a good time. And God knows what her husband is like. He probably doesn’t even care what she does.”
I hear their footsteps coming toward the door and I quickly move to the other room. From where I stand, I see Juan José sitting on the terrace, a glass of whiskey in one hand, a cigarette in the other, talking animatedly, then bursting out in loud laughter.
Marcus would be nursing a Groth cabernet, he would never smoke a cigarette, and his voice would never carry across the room.
But he would care. He would care a lot.