But it did get worse. Much worse. Not only was Roger on a quest for his own perfection, he was now on a quest for mine, finding fault with me in precisely the same way and for the same reasons that I had once found fault with him.
Here were my demerits, according to him.
I was a dud in bed, both because I often fell asleep the minute my head hit the pillow at night and because I wasn’t daring enough for his taste. Please. I was more than capable of satisfying a normal man—a man whose idea of “daring” was not having sex while bungee jumping.
I did not keep up with fashion trends. Since he was the big shopper now and came home every day looking like a walking window display, suddenly my clothes were under scrutiny. “Boat neck sweaters are so over,” he sniffed when I emerged from the bedroom wearing one. “What were you thinking, Elizabeth?” That you’re turning into a huge asshole was what I was thinking.
I did not keep the house clean. Well, that one was so absurd it was laughable. I mean, he was talking to the Queen of the Dustbusters, the picky AMLP inspector, the professional stickler. I could spot a spill or a smudge or a stain a mile away. Besides, our cleaning lady did a fine job. Between the two of us, the house was a goddamn museum.
I did not keep myself clean. Yup, he was actually on that kick now. He said I didn’t shave my legs often enough, didn’t wash my hair often enough, didn’t floss after each and every meal the way I should. Oh, and he wasn’t crazy about my breath. Ha! I was the one who was never without Tic Tacs! Once, after we’d been to dinner at Drago, another trendoid favorite in Santa Monica, he said I smelled of garlic. “You’re supposed to smell of garlic after you eat in an Italian restaurant,” I said. “Not if you order properly,” he said. Order properly. Really. The guy had taken the “perfect husband” thing and gone Stepford with it.
Rather than continue to run down his list of complaints about me, let me offer up an actual incident for you.
I had been trying to have Brenda over for dinner so she could get a look at the enhanced Roger, and she finally found time in her busy schedule to come on a Tuesday night. I served penne primavera, a green salad, and a round of hearty peasant bread, and the three of us were sitting there eating it when Roger said to me, “You’ve got sauce on your chin, Elizabeth.”
“Thanks.” I wiped my chin with my napkin.
A few more minutes went by. Brenda was in the midst of one of her unburdenings about the stars—Peter Fonda wears bulletproof trifocals, she was telling us—when Roger broke in. “The penne’s not al dente, the way I like it,” he said to me. “How long did you cook it?”
“Ten minutes,” I said.
“Eight minutes would have been preferable,” he said.
“The package said ten minutes,” I maintained. “Ten to twelve minutes.”
“Well, it tastes soggy to me,” he said.
“It tastes fine to me,” said Brenda, who went back to her story about Peter Fonda.
More time passed. Again, Roger interrupted. “There are crumbs on your placemat,” he said to me, then pointed to the area around my plate. “When you tore off a piece of the bread, you produced crumbs.”
I had produced crumbs. “Not to worry,” I said, determined to remain chipper, since we had a guest. “I’ll un-produce them after dinner.”
“You’re going to leave them there while we’re having coffee and dessert?” he said with an amazed and disgusted expression on his face, as if I had suggested that he stick his head in doggie do. Don’t think I wasn’t tempted.
“They’re crumbs, Roger. They won’t bite,” I said.
Yes, indeed. We had switched roles, he and I. Before his enhancement, I would have barked at him about the crumbs, or possibly Dustbusted them up while he was still eating.
After dinner, Roger excused himself, explaining that he had some ironing to do.
“Ironing?” Brenda said when we were alone.
“You heard him,” I said.
She cracked up laughing. She couldn’t breathe she was laughing so hard.
“This isn’t funny, Brenda,” I said. “You wanted to see what Dr. Farkus’s powder did to Roger? Well, now you’ve seen. My husband has turned into such a perfect husband that nothing’s good enough for him. I’m not good enough for him.”
She sobered up, patted my hand. “He’s acting totally bizarre, no question about it. I can’t believe he got so upset about the crumbs.”
“Ah, yes. The crumbs.” I sighed. “But do you know why he left the table to do some ironing? Because he’s got a new client—a bodacious Victoria’s Secret model who’s selling her house in Westwood and wants him to handle the closing. I can tell whenever he has a meeting with her. The night before, he irons.”
“God. You don’t think he’s cheating on you, do you, Elizabeth?”
“I don’t know what to think anymore. I’m petrified every time he leaves the house now. He’s told me in no uncertain terms what a disappointment I am. What’s to prevent him from finding someone who isn’t?”
“Love,” said Brenda, “He loves you, Elizabeth, and he always has, right from the moment he rescued you on the freeway.”
“Then why is he treating me this way?”
“Because of the powder you gave him.”
“The powder you talked me into giving him.”
“You’re blaming me for this?” She looked indignant. “You weren’t blaming me when things were all kissy-face between you two. Then you were thanking me. So don’t you dare make me the scapegoat.”
“Oh, Brenda. Forgive me. I’m so rattled by Roger’s behavior that I don’t know what I’m saying.”
She nodded sympathetically. “You’re forgiven. Have you told Mom about this?”
“Are you kidding? Our mother isn’t exactly the one to turn to when it comes to marital advice.”
“True, but she’s experienced with men. She’s had plenty of them.”
“Let’s not go there, Brenda. I’ve got enough trouble with mine to think about hers. In any case, I haven’t breathed a word of this mess to her or to anyone else, except Clover, the woman I mentioned to you. Who would believe me?”
“I believe you, now that I’ve actually seen the new Roger.” She tsked-tsked. “Such a pity. Dr. Farkus is a true genius. The problem here isn’t that his stud stimulant didn’t work, it’s that it worked too well.”
“Too well?”
“Yeah. You wanted Roger to be more energetic sexually, and now he is—only you didn’t mean that energetic. You wanted him to be more attentive to you, and now he is—only you didn’t mean that attentive. You wanted him to be more aware of his personal grooming, and now he is—only you didn’t mean that aware. And you wanted him to—”
“I get the picture, Brenda. It’s pretty gloomy, isn’t it?”
She was about to respond when Roger bellowed at me from somewhere in the house.
“E-liz-a-beth! Would you please come here right away?” he said.
“Where are you, Roger?” I called out.
“In our bathroom.”
I shrugged at Brenda, told her I’d be back in a second. When I returned, she asked me what the emergency was all about.
“He found one of his hairs on the floor, under the sink,” I said. “He wondered what it was doing there.”
“God. Talk about a tight sphincter.”
“This is all my fault,” I said. “Before I gave him the potion, he’d been shedding his hairs all over the bathroom floor and didn’t even notice. It was like having a dog in the house. And now he summons me upstairs because he finds one hair? It’s madness, pure madness.”
“The kind of madness you get paid for.”
“What?”
“You get paid to find hairs on the bathroom floor when you’re inspecting hotels. That’s your job, Elizabeth. In a weird way, it’s as if Roger has turned into you.”
“Oh, stop it, Brenda. That’s not fair. I get paid to check for hairs on the bathroom floor because I’m a consumer advocate, not because I’m a maniac. I get paid to be the eyes and ears for millions of high-end travelers—people who spend a lot of money on their accommodations and expect the very best. And I don’t just check for hairs. I make sure every aspect of a property meets AMLP’s high standards.”
“Right. And now Roger has taken on your high standards.”
“AMLP’s high standards.”
“Your high standards, Elizabeth. You wouldn’t be so good at your job if you weren’t so anal yourself.”
“I am not anal! I’m neat. I’m organized. I’m—”
“You’re just like Roger, the way he’s being now. Think about it. I know you’ll kill me for saying this, but maybe Dr. Farkus is more of a magician that we ever suspected. Maybe he created a specific potion that would change Roger in such a way that it would force you to confront your own flaws. Maybe the potion was intended to show you how Roger wasn’t the only one responsible for the problems in your marriage.”
My mouth dropped open. I was stung by her remarks. “Meaning?” I challenged.
“You get my meaning.” She patted my hand again. “Just think about it, let yourself think about it. You’re my sister and I love you, but you can be a tremendous tight-ass, Elizabeth. It’s possible—just possible—that you’re getting what you deserve.”
“Getting what I—”
Well, I asked her to leave, naturally. She had hurt my feelings. First, Roger was picking on me. Now my own sister was. Thank goodness I had my job to count on. When Preston telephoned to say he was sending me on a trip to Dallas it wasn’t a moment too soon, as far as I was concerned.
The Rancho Miramar in the heart of Dallas was a new property that had been receiving a lot of hype in the travel media. Preston was counting on me to give it the AMLP once-over and cut through all the public relations spin. But I couldn’t concentrate on my work, not from the minute I arrived at the hotel. Not only did I forget to time the check-in, which was unpardonable enough, but I left my Standards Manual at home, a truly dumb move. I felt like a moron when I had to call Preston and ask him to overnight me another copy. He wasn’t pleased.
“This isn’t like you,” he said after I confessed my blunder. “You’re usually so efficient, so competent, so—”
“So perfect?” I said, cringing when I uttered the word.
“Yes. But I suppose everyone is entitled to a lapse here and there,” he conceded. “Write up your evaluation, we’ll take a look at it, and if we feel your report was compromised, we’ll send someone else to re-do the inspection.”
I thanked Preston for being so understanding and went about my business. But, as I said, I had trouble focusing on the job. How could I make myself care whether there were dust bunnies under the bed when Roger was probably at home right that very minute, checking whether there were dust bunnies under our bed! I couldn’t make myself care. I only cared about my marriage, about whether Brenda’s assessment of me was accurate, about whether it had been my own behavior over the past few years that had caused Roger to withdraw, about whether Dr. Farkus had somehow concocted a potion that projected my worst characteristics onto those of my husband. Most of all, I was consumed with the fear that, thanks to the powder, Roger had become so dissatisfied with me that he would leave me for another woman. I was so fearful, in fact, that I forgot to play Torture the Concierge during my two-night stay at the Rancho Miramar in Dallas. As a result, my inspection of the property was not only compromised but incomplete.
“Are there problems at home?” Preston asked after I’d turned in my work. He seemed to be searching for a reason for my sudden ineptitude.
“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” I said, hoping this was true.
“Or is it the awful business with Art Yarnell?” he said.
“You mean the general manager of the Phoenician Paradise?” I said.
“Yes. I thought I told you about his latest efforts to discredit you.”
“No. You didn’t tell me.”
“Well, let’s just say that the level of his rage has escalated. He’s demanding that we fire you, Elizabeth. What’s more, he’s threatening to pass along your code name and physical description to other hotel managers, which would effectively limit your ability to inspect future properties.”
I panicked. “So I’ll change my code name, wear a disguise, do whatever I have to do,” I said, thinking I should write Mr. Yarnell some nasty letters and see how he liked being harassed.
“Look, Elizabeth, the main point I wanted to make is that we can’t afford another of your missteps. We’re depending on you and your sharp eye for detail. You won’t let us down, will you, dear?”
“No, Preston. Of course I won’t.”
But I did let him down, let the whole company down, and I wouldn’t have if I hadn’t become unglued over the latest fiasco with Roger.
On the eve of a trip to Savannah to re-inspect a Five Key property there, he didn’t come home until two o’clock in the morning.
“Where have you been?” I demanded when he walked in the door looking ridiculously full of pep.
“I was with Nikki,” he said.
“Who the hell is Nikki?” I said.
“My new client. The one who’s selling her house in Westwood.”
“The Victoria’s Secret model?”
“Yes.”
I had trouble swallowing. “What were you doing with her all night?”
“Dancing,” he said, as if there were nothing inappropriate about this answer. “Nikki knows the owner of a new club in West Hollywood. I told her I’d like to try it out, so we did. And, wow, was it ever fabulous, Elizabeth. Great lighting, great D.J., great action.”
Great action. I’ll show you action, you dope. I had the urge to wind up and sock him.
“Is there a problem?” he had the nerve to ask.
Breathe, I coached myself. And remember that he doesn’t know what he’s doing. It’s the powder that’s making him act this way, the powder you gave him. “The problem is that you’ve been with another woman, dancing, while I’ve been sitting here worrying.”
“Why were you worrying? I left you a message on the machine, telling you exactly where I was.” He heaved a big, impatient sigh, as if I were the villain. “You used to yell at me when I didn’t call to tell you my plans. Now I call and you yell at me anyway.” Another sigh. “I even invited you to come and join us, although I figured you wouldn’t show up, because you go to bed so much earlier than I do. I don’t know what’s wrong with you lately, Elizabeth. Your energy level just isn’t what it should be.”
Right, compared to the bionic man.
To be fair, I hadn’t checked the answering machine that night, which was another example of how I was slipping mentally. In the past, I was compulsive about checking for messages—God forbid I should miss a call from Preston about a trip (or from Neiman Marcus about a sale).
“Roger.” I calmed down, moved closer to him. “You’re not having an affair with this Nikki person, are you? Please tell me you’re not.”
“I’m not,” he said rather unconvincingly. “She and I are having fun together, that’s all.”
“Fun?”
“F-u-n. Fun. Surely you can dig down in your memory and recall the meaning of the word, Elizabeth. It’s when people do things together, go out during the week, have a good time.”
My God. Brenda was right, I thought. I was getting what I deserved. I had nagged Roger about doing things with me during the week instead of coming home and zoning out. And now look. He was doing things during the week, all right, but not with me. For all I knew, Nikki wasn’t his only playmate, either.
“I love you, hon,” I said, in a tone that had a pathetic, pleading quality to it.
“I love you too,” he said. “But—”
“But what?” I braced myself. Maybe he was having an affair.
“You have something on your cheek.”
“Something—” I brought my hand up to the spot he’d pointed to.
“It’s brownish. Brownish orange.”
“Oh.” I felt it, identified it. “I didn’t feel like cooking tonight, since I was by myself for dinner, so I had peanut butter on a bagel. I must have gotten some on my face.” Not the crime of the century, was it?
“I see,” said Roger, recoiling slightly. “Well, I’d better get ready for bed. I’m going to sleep in the guest room if that’s okay.”
“Because I got peanut butter on my cheek?” I said.
“No. Because your snoring is keeping me up,” he said. “The wheezing too.”
Yes, I was getting what I deserved.
I was up the entire night wrestling with my thoughts. Why couldn’t I have left Roger the way he was? Why did I have to tamper with Mother Nature? Would I have to wait out the effects of the potion, or was there something I could do to reverse them in time to save my marriage, never mind my job?
I say “my job” because I screwed up again when it came to my trip to Savannah the next morning. I had stayed awake so late rehashing my conversation with Roger that by the time I finally fell asleep, I was out cold and didn’t hear the alarm clock go off and missed my flight. When I arrived at the hotel, I learned that they had given away my room, which I had forgotten to guarantee, just as I had forgotten so many things in recent weeks. I’m telling you, I was messing up royally. Preston actually scolded me, which he had never done in all my years with AMLP.
“Let’s get our act together, shall we?” he said in that noblesse oblige way of his.
“I’ll do my best,” I promised, thinking that holding on to both my husband and my career was going to be a tall order.