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WHAT WOULD YOU DO IF you found out your husband was having an affair? Would you:
(a) be understanding—he's just going through a midlife crisis;
(b) throw your glass of champagne in his face and storm out of the restaurant;
(c) tell him about the new love of your life—Sven, your Swedish masseur; or
(d) order an extra-large piece of chocolate cake?
You can cross (a) off the list—believe me, I wasn't in a very understanding mood. And (b) is out too. Why would I waste a perfectly good glass of champagne? Of course it's not (c)—what kind of girl do you take me for? The correct answer is obviously (d), chocolate. Lots and lots of chocolate, washed down with lots and lots of champagne.
You know what made matters worse? He told me about her during our ten-year anniversary dinner. You're supposed to get diamonds after ten years, not your husband's confession about his torrid love affair with some hussy named Marjorie Jane. And, as if that weren’t bad enough, it turned out that she was a redhead! I mean, Lucille Ball is great, but certain other redheads really made my blood boil.
There we were, dining at my new favorite seafood restaurant, Chez Poisson, when Scooter reached across the table, took my hand in his, and rubbed it softly. This was the moment I had been waiting for. Any minute now, he was going to reach into his jacket pocket and present me with a velvet jewelry box containing some lovely little thing encrusted with diamonds.
Instead, he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. “You know how much I love you, don't you, Mollie?” I nodded, wondering why he was holding his phone. Maybe it was going to magically turn into a diamond bracelet. I kept my eyes on it, just in case.
He pressed a button, looked at the screen, and smiled. “Well, it turns out I've fallen in love with another pretty lady too. Her name is Marjorie Jane.” He glanced at me and chuckled. “Not that anyone could replace you, of course, but Marjorie Jane is pretty special.”
I was stunned. My husband, in love with another woman. And not only in love with another woman, but casually announcing it over dinner as if I'd be okay with it. I think I would have been less surprised if Scooter's phone had turned into a diamond bracelet than I was by his confession.
“Wait until you see these shots of her,” Scooter said. He adjusted his tortoiseshell glasses, then swiped his finger across the screen on his phone, gazing at picture after picture of the new love of his life. “She has the sleekest lines. You won't believe how she moves through the water.” He got a dreamy expression in his dark brown eyes. “You can really see her red coloring shimmering in this one.”
Now I was starting to get angry. There he was, ogling photos of this red-haired hussy in her bathing suit, swimming in the water. I bet it wasn't a one-piece suit either, but one of those skimpy bikinis that left nothing to the imagination.
I leaned back in my chair, ran my fingers through my frizzy, mousy-brown hair, and stared at my empty crystal champagne flute. I really needed a refill. And where was the cake I had ordered earlier?
As I scanned the restaurant for the waiter, my eyes were drawn to a young couple sitting by a window overlooking the water. She toyed with her wedding ring while the waiter refilled her wine glass. I heard the young man tell his wife to close her eyes. He got up from the table and walked behind her. He pulled a small velvet box out of his jacket pocket, opened it, and removed a necklace. Brushing her long, black hair to the side, he gently placed it around her neck. She opened her eyes and squealed as she looked down and saw—yes, you guessed it—a diamond pendant sparkling on a delicate gold chain. I bet they hadn't been married for even a year and he was already giving her diamonds.
Our waiter bustled up to the table, interrupting my thoughts about sparkly diamonds and unfaithful husbands. “Voilà, madame,” he said, putting a dessert plate down in front of me with a flourish.
“You call this big?” I pointed at a tiny slice of chocolate cake. Sure, it was beautiful, artfully arranged on a rectangular white plate with a drizzle of raspberry sauce and crushed hazelnuts sprinkled in the shape of a heart, but it was positively microscopic in size. “I specifically asked for the largest piece of chocolate cake you have. Can't you see that this is an emergency?”
I thrust the plate into the waiter's hands. “Take this back to the kitchen and add at least three more slices before you come back.” As he started to walk away, I grabbed his arm. “How about a couple of scoops of chocolate ice cream while you're at it?”
I looked over at Scooter. He had been oblivious to the whole chocolate cake fiasco. I took the opportunity to switch my empty champagne glass with his full one. He didn't even notice.
“You're drooling all over your phone!” I said sharply.
Oops, that might have been a bit too loud. The young woman with the diamond necklace turned and stared at me. My mother would have been telling me to use my indoor voice right about then. She'd probably also have had something to say about ordering chocolate cake and what it could do to my waistline.
Just then my phone beeped. I pulled it out of my beaded evening bag. Yep, right on cue—a text from my mother.
What did Scooter get you for your anniversary this year? Something with diamonds?
I sighed. How was I going to explain Marjorie Jane to her? She had never been that crazy about Scooter to begin with. Probably best to get straight to the point. It was easier that way.
No diamonds, just a redheaded midlife crisis named Marjorie Jane.
I saw the waiter coming back to the table with a heaping plate of chocolate cake and enough ice cream piled on top to guarantee a healthy tip. My phone kept beeping. No doubt my mother wanting to know more about the other woman in Scooter's life. I tucked the phone back into my purse. Chocolate deserves one's undivided attention.
“Sir, can I get you anything else? Some more coffee, perhaps?” the waiter asked. Scooter barely glanced up from his phone. “No, thank you. I'm fine,” he mumbled.
Who sits and stares at pictures of their mistress during an anniversary dinner with their wife? I could feel the muscles in my neck tense up. Too bad Sven wasn't around to work out the knots. Maybe that would have gotten Mr. Oblivious's attention—the sight of a cute, young, blond guy massaging my neck. Nah, probably not. He was so wrapped up in Marjorie Jane that he wouldn't have even noticed Sven.
I felt my eyes tear up, which I didn't like one bit. I pride myself on not breaking down every time something goes wrong. I took a deep breath. You're in control. I crumpled up my linen napkin and placed it next to my dessert plate, which sadly only had crumbs left on it, took aim, and kicked Scooter under the table. I was wearing very pointy shoes. That got his attention.
“So, did you think you could just find another woman and I'd be okay with it?”
He looked at me with surprise. “What are you talking about, my little sweet potato? What other woman?”
“Are you serious? You've been staring at pictures of her for the last half hour.” I was proud of myself for using my indoor voice this time. “Sure, I know men have midlife crises, but they usually get a sports car or a toupee or something like that. But no, you had to go and get yourself a mistress. And a redhead at that!”
Scooter's brow furrowed. “But Marjorie Jane isn't my mistress. She's a sailboat. I'm buying her for you as an anniversary present.”
I put my champagne flute down. “What? An anniversary present? A sailboat?” This wasn't making any sense. I wondered if he had had too much champagne to drink, but I think it was possible I had finished off the entire bottle myself. Normally, I would guess that's why my head had started to hurt, but let's be realistic—my husband was talking gibberish. Who buys their wife a sailboat as an anniversary present?
“Yes, a sailboat. See, she's gorgeous.” He passed me his phone. “Look at those classic lines, those teak decks, the red hull, and the white-and-gold trim. Snazzy, huh?”
He leaned over the table and squeezed my hand. “I've arranged for us to meet the boat broker at the marina tomorrow so that you can see her. I know you're going to love her as much as I do.”
I was so flabbergasted I didn't say anything. Trust me, that's highly unusual. I've typically got a lot to say. All of it very interesting, I might add, and none of it about sailboats.
I didn't talk to Scooter as we left the restaurant.
I didn't talk to Scooter on the car ride home.
I didn't talk to Scooter when we got home.
I didn't talk to Scooter when we went to bed.
A normal guy would have figured out by this point that he was getting the silent treatment. Nope, not Mr. Clueless. He was so wrapped up in his daydreams about Marjorie Jane that he didn't even notice.
Marjorie Jane was seriously getting on my nerves. Something was going to have to be done about her.