Tara called about an hour after Stuart did, which made me feel guilty, even though all I’d done was talk to him. She apologized for bothering me at the office, but said she just had to tell me that business at Lasher’s Meats & Eats was so good that the two of them were planning to buy a second home, in Palm Beach. She went on and on about the merits of “the island,” as she referred to it, and then entered into a debate with herself over whether a gated community was preferable to your run-of-the-mill beach-front estate with caretaker and state-of-the-art security. She added that she would be spending stretches of time at the house whenever her radio show was on hiatus but that Stuart would commute back and forth to New York on the corporate jet.
I found her latest riff on her simply beautiful life as dizzying as all the others, but I also wondered whether there was more behind the intent to buy a place in Florida—more behind Stuart’s intent, I should say—than having another trophy. Clearly, with Tara out of the picture, he’d have more playtime.
I pondered the matter of their increasingly puzzling marriage while she prattled on about the gift she was running out to get for him.
“Remember how I write in the book about buying him little presents for no apparent reason and then slipping them inside his briefcase, or his dresser drawer, or under his pillow?” she said. “To keep the magic alive?”
“I remember.” Some magic. She was slipping little gifts under his pillow and he was trying to make pillow talk with me.
“Well, I’m going to buy him a new leather date book,” she said. “A small one that’ll fit right in his jacket pocket. He’s not a Palm Pilot sort of guy—he can’t even figure out how to program the VCR—so he’s got to write all his appointments down on paper. If he doesn’t, he forgets where he’s supposed to be.” She sighed. “There are times when he literally rushes out of the house because he realizes at the last minute that he’s missing a meeting.”
Yeah, a meeting with one of his mistresses. Maybe I wasn’t the only woman he was propositioning—in which case, Stuart was a very bad boy and deserved to be teased and then tossed.
When he called again the next day to ask if I’d made up my mind about the hotel room, I told him I had.
“Where and when?” I said, much to his delight.
He told me he’d reserve a room at the Plaza and that we should meet at noon the following Monday.
My curiosity piqued, I agreed. Besides, the lunch hour worked for me. I could tell Celebetsy that someone else was picking up the check this time, so her precious budget would remain intact.
“Will the room be registered under your name or a fake name?” I said, naïve in matters of sneaking off to trysts with married men.
“My own name. Why not?” he said.
“Because Tara might find out what you’re doing,” I replied.
He laughed. “Tara won’t find out. She’ll be too busy buying marbleized pencils, or tying ribbons around all our wine bottles, or writing in her journal about the wonder of newly fallen snow.”
So he was making fun of her to me? It was one thing to come on to an old flame, but to ridicule his wife’s passions suggested that he didn’t even love her and that their “deliriously happy” marriage was a total sham.
“But what if she does find out?” I persisted, the possibility unnerving me suddenly. Yes, I relished the opportunity to turn the tables on both of them as well as to find out what was really going on behind their picture-perfect smiles, but I didn’t want to get caught with his pants down. My relationship with Tara was complicated enough. Not only would she accuse me of being vengeful and vindictive; she would also realize that my declarations of love for Tony were complete nonsense and she would think I was as sad a case as ever.
“Hey, trust me, hon,” said Stuart. “She won’t find out. I’m not going to tell her and you’re not going to tell her, so what’s to worry about?”
I did not run out to shop at Victoria’s Secret in anticipation of my nooner with Stuart, although I did manage to find some panties in my drawer that were not ripped or faded or pulverized by the washing machine. As I’ve said, I wasn’t intending to have sex with him, but arousing him and then rejecting him was still a viable option. And so I shaved my legs. That was the extent of my preparation for our rendezvous. Well, that and the skirt that was the size of a paper towel.
As per Stuart’s instructions, when I got to the Plaza, I went straight to the registration desk, where I said I was a guest of Mr. Lasher and that I understood that a key to his room had been left for me.
“Yes, Ms. Oates, Of course we have your key,” said the clerk as he handed it to me.
No. He didn’t make a mistake. While Stuart had no problem using his name, I had a problem using mine. When he’d asked me what name he should give the hotel instead, I happened to be reading a review of a new Joyce Carol Oates novel, so there you are.
“I hope I’m not late for my business meeting,” I told the clerk. Well, I couldn’t let him think I was a hooker.
“You’re not late,” he said. “Mr. Lasher hasn’t arrived yet, but you’re welcome to go on up to the room, Ms. Oates. Will you be needing a bellman?”
Yeah, like I had luggage. “No thanks. I’m fine.”
“Then enjoy,” he said.
I smiled and headed for the elevator. As I ascended to the fourteenth floor, I started to feel oddly naughty, sort of wanton. I mean, I never did this sort of thing—taking off in the middle of the workday to meet a man in a hotel room. Particularly a married man. Particularly a married man to whom I’d once been engaged. I was fairly traditional when it came to dating and sex, if you didn’t count my unorthodox relationship with Tony, so this was all new territory for me. Tara was the one in high school who bordered on sluttiness, while I obeyed my parents’ curfews and didn’t let boys go too far and honestly thought I shouldn’t sleep with anyone unless I loved him. But now here I was, prancing down the hall, twirling a room key in my hand, counting the minutes until Stuart showed up.
I counted a lot of minutes, as it turned out. He was late.
To occupy myself, I perused the room. It was a lovely room, by the way—the hotel’s top-of-the-line guest room, with a king-size bed and a separate sitting area and a swell view of Central Park. The bathroom, too, was deluxe: two fluffy terry-cloth robes, lots of fancy toiletries, shower built for two, huge tub, the works. Stuart certainly hadn’t scrimped.
I opened the minibar and took out a pint-size bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream and a small bag of smoked almonds—the almonds because I was getting hungry, the Bailey’s because I was getting anxious. He was fifteen minutes late now and giving me too much time to think about what I’d gotten myself into.
I flipped on the flat-screen TV, channel-surfed, watched a little CNN. Still no Stuart. I considered haranguing him on his private line, but I figured he was already on his way and, therefore, wouldn’t be in his office to hear my harangue.
I went back into the bathroom. I opened the moisturizer and applied some to my hands, turned on the hair dryer and blew my hair around, slipped on the bathrobe over my clothes and posed in front of the mirror. Tried to kill more time, in other words. Still no Stuart.
Okay, where are you, Stu boy? I finally get the chance to burn you and you burn me instead?
Feeling ever more frustrated, I did call his private line, got his voice mail, and hung up, deciding not to incriminate myself by leaving a message. I also pestered the front desk to make sure they hadn’t sent Stuart to the wrong room, but they had the right room in the computer, just no Mr. Lasher to claim it.
Pissed off as well as ravenous, I went back to the minibar, foraged for more to eat, and settled for a couple of those cheese balls that come individually wrapped in wax.
This is silly, I thought, picturing the stack of papers on my desk. I should get back to the office and let Stuart pine for me on his own time.
Speaking of my office, it occurred to me that maybe he’d been detained, through no fault of his own, and left a message for me there instead of tracking me down at the hotel. But after checking in with Scott—he asked where I was and I said, “Having lunch with an old producer friend”—I discovered that there were no messages from Stuart, although there were several from Celebetsy.
I waited until two o’clock—yeah, two goddamn hours. By then, I had consumed the Bailey’s, the almonds, the cheese, some trail mix, and a can of Sprite, and I felt sick. Sick that I had eaten all that junk. Sick that I had stooped so low that I had actually thought meeting Stuart in a hotel room was a good idea. Sick that I had allowed my obsession with Tara to turn me into a person I didn’t recognize. In short, I was repulsed by myself.
I was also furious that I’d been stood up. How dare he lure me to the Plaza with talk of how much I meant to him and how I was such a good listener and how he really, really wanted to be alone with me. The man had begged me, remember? Did he have such little regard for other people—the hell with other people, for me—that he would blow me off like this? Not come? Not call? Not anything? Thank God I hadn’t married him when I’d had the chance! He couldn’t be trusted even to appear at an appointed place at an appointed hour! He was the absolute pits!
I grabbed my purse, took a quick scan of the room to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything (the mere thought of the hotel housekeeper finding out that I’d been there was too mortifying to contemplate), and left, slamming the door behind me.
Once down in the lobby, I went to the front desk and handed the key to the clerk, who asked me if everything was “to my liking.” The truth was, I wasn’t to my liking, but that wasn’t his problem.
I went back to the office. I did not return Betsy’s ninety-seven calls. I did not make follow-up calls to media people. As a matter of fact, I was so angry, hurt, and humiliated by Stuart’s no-show that I avoided everybody; I told Scott I wasn’t feeling well and headed home early.
At about eight o’clock, I had hunkered down in my apartment—was in bed, under the covers, with all the lights off—when the doorman buzzed me to announce that I had company.
He wasn’t specific, because he was Croatian and his English wasn’t the best, but I knew who was there: Stuart. Who else? He had probably cooked up some lame story about how he’d gotten held up with a business thing earlier and didn’t have a second to call me but that he had come to my apartment to ask for another chance. With flowers, I figured. Or, given that he was such a high roller these days, a diamond bauble, like the ones he gave his wife.
Well, bauble or no bauble, I’m not interested, I thought, and told the doorman I wasn’t receiving visitors.
I trudged back to bed, about to get comfy, when there was a knock at my door.
I kicked off the blanket in disgust. Leave it to Stuart to dole out a big tip to the doorman so he could march himself up to my apartment without an invitation.
I was so mad, I didn’t even bother to change out of my bathrobe or run a comb through my hair or plop on some makeup. Who cared what I looked like for that bastard? I didn’t. Not anymore. Let Tara have him. Let them have each other. Good riddance to bad rubbish, as my grandmother used to say.
I pumped my fist as I realized that, for the first time since I’d walked in on the two of them in our bedroom four years before, I didn’t care what either of them thought of me. I really didn’t. Maybe Stuart’s not showing up at the hotel was the last straw, the final indignity, the blow I needed to conquer my demons once and for all. Maybe it had been good for me to sit by myself in that room at the Plaza, swilling chocolate-flavored Irish whiskey and stuffing my face, to show me what a waste of energy it had been to try to compete with, stick it to, one-up, or pay back Tara. Maybe I saw how pathetic it was that I’d allowed myself to get hooked into her life again instead of living my own. Maybe I’d hit rock bottom with my Tara Messer addiction.
That’s it, I thought as there was another, louder knock at the door. I’ve been liberated. No more toxic friendship with her. No more turning myself inside out for her or because of her. No, I had achieved my moment of clarity. She was never going to have power over me again.
I know what you’re thinking: famous last words. And you’d be right, sort of. When I flung open the door, fully prepared to announce to Stuart that he should get the hell out of my sight and go back to his wife, where he belonged, I was stunned to find it was not Stuart after all, but three police officers.
“Amy Sherman?” said one of the cops while flashing his badge at me.
“Yes?” I said, clutching my robe to my chest.
“I’m Detective Rojas and this”—he nodded at the others—“is Detective Burnett and Detective Vincent. We need to ask you some questions.”
“Oh, okay. So this must be about the guy in Seven G, right?” I said, referring to one of my neighbors. He’d gone a little postal a few days ago and whacked the washers and dryers in the laundry room.
“No, but we’d like to come in,” said Detective Rojas.
“Why? I’m not in trouble, am I?” Yes, I had left work early, but Celebetsy wasn’t crazy enough to sic the cops on me, was she?
“We’d just like to talk to you, Ms. Sherman,” he said, and muscled past me into the living room, his buddies close by.
Now I was getting nervous. What could they possibly want to talk to me about?
“Tell us about your relationship with Stuart Lasher,” said Rojas when we were all seated and after he had explained that he was with the NYPD but that the other two were from Mamaroneck.
My relationship? God, had they wired that hotel room? And if so, why? “He’s married to a friend, that’s all.”
“When was the last time you saw him?” said Rojas.
“Let’s see. Maybe a couple of weeks ago? He was with his wife and I was with a date, and we all had dinner together.”
“But you were supposed to see Mr. Lasher at the Plaza earlier today, weren’t you, Ms. Sherman? Weren’t you?”
Yikes. So they knew about us? So they did wire the hotel room? So they overheard me talking to myself as I sat there waiting for him to put in an appearance?
“Yes, I was supposed to see him at the Plaza,” I said, figuring I might as well come clean. I’d become a big fat liar, but even I drew the line at cops. “I had planned to meet him there at noon, but he never showed up.”
“And you have no idea where he is?” said Burnett.
“No. Why?”
“Because he seems to have disappeared,” he said.
I grabbed the arm of the chair. “Run that by me again?”
“Mr. Lasher is missing,” he repeated. “We’re just checking around, gathering information.”
“Oh my God. You think he’s dead, is that it?”
“It’s possible.”
I felt dizzy suddenly, as if I might go into some sort of swoon. Sure, I’d wished Stuart dead plenty of times after the way he’d betrayed me—he was a shit, after all—but I’d never really meant it. No, he couldn’t be dead. Maybe he just went off to play golf and got lost driving home. Maybe he was on some highway somewhere without any way to communicate with the outside world. Maybe it was his cell phone battery that was dead, not him.
“Just curious,” I said. “How did you guys know I was supposed to meet him today?”
“There was a notation in the address book that was found in his car,” said Rojas. “He had written down your name and the date, place and time of your meeting. What can you tell us about that, Ms. Sherman?”
“Oh, well, the address book was a recent gift from his wife, “ I said. “She buys him these little—”
“Not interested in that part,” he said rather sternly. “What can you tell us about the reason for your meeting with him? And don’t bother pretending it had to do with the publicity campaign for his wife’s book, because she didn’t know anything about the meeting until we told her about it.”
They’d told Tara about it? You see that? I couldn’t get away with anything. Leave it to her to find out I was planning a rendezvous with Stuart, even though he and I had taken such pains to keep it a secret. Leave it to me to agree to a rendezvous with a man and then have that man go missing.
Tara must be ready to scratch my eyes out, I thought, trying to imagine her coping with Stuart’s disappearance and the fact that he and I were, on the surface of it, “involved.”
“Ms. Sherman, I asked you a question,” said Rojas, bringing me back to the matter at hand.
“Right. You want to know why I was meeting Mr. Lasher at the Plaza,” I said. “I’ll tell you everything, but first let me process all this a second, would you? You’ve just given me very disturbing news, and I’m trying to compose myself. Does Mrs. Lasher have any idea what could have happened to her husband?”
“That’s why we’re here,” said Rojas.
“What is?” I said.
“Mrs. Lasher,” he said. “She thinks you killed her husband.”
“Killed him? Me?” My eyes almost popped out of their sockets. How could she accuse me of something so heinous? Even if she did assume I was fooling around with Stuart, how could she believe that I was capable of murder? And how could she blab to the cops that I was capable of murder? She had pulled some pretty rotten stunts over the years, but this was beyond rotten. This was—
“Weren’t you engaged to him once upon a time, Ms. Sherman?”
“Yes, but—”
“And didn’t he break up with you just before your wedding so he could be with Mrs. Lasher?”
“Yes, but—”
“And weren’t you extremely bitter about it?”
“Yes, but—”
“And weren’t you so bitter, in fact, that you didn’t speak to either of them for several years?”
“Yes, but I went to therapy! I worked it out! I got centered!”
“Not according to Mrs. Lasher. She claims you said you wished her husband didn’t exist.”
I racked my brain. Had I ever said that? Had I? Okay, yes. I’d said a variation of that, when I went to their house for lunch the first time. But I hadn’t meant anything by the remark! It was just a throwaway line!
“Now, why don’t you tell us why you were meeting Mr. Lasher at the Plaza today,” said Rojas, his voice turning soft and sympathetic, as if he hoped to soothe me into confessing to the ultimate crime of passion.
Oh, I told them what they wanted to know all right. More. And when I was finished, I wasn’t the only one with the bull’s-eye on my forehead. Yes, by the time I’d given them an earful about Tara—especially how she was supposed to be so happily married but must have known full well that her husband was hitting on other women—the back-stabbing Mrs. Lasher had some explaining to do of her own.