Dirty Diana

Chapter 22

Chapter 22

—

A few days later, I sit at my computer and upload a new interview to the Dirty Diana site. The page is simple and clean. Each story gets its own link, with just a first name beneath a loose sketch I’ve drawn, a silhouette of the woman being interviewed. This one is Carrie, one of my favorites.

I have a few fantasies. I’m not sure which one to share.

Tell me about your favorite one.

My favorite…I’m actually my age in my favorite. Usually I’m younger in my fantasies.

How old are you?

Sixty-one.

And where are you?

I’m at a brothel. I know. So old-fashioned. Maybe I’ve been watching too many movies. It’s only my fantasy in my dreams. When I’m awake—well, it’s different.

What happens in the brothel?

Usual things. Lots of corsets and velvet and loud men drinking at a bar downstairs. There’s no one playing the piano or anything. But it still feels like something you would see in the movies…. Should we have another drink?

Sure.

Anyway, in my fantasy, I’m the only woman there. No one else is working that night. My boss tells me there are some sailors coming in that night. They haven’t seen a woman in months.

Does that excite you?

Not at first, no. I’m worried they’ll be disappointed. I’m the oldest woman there. I’m afraid that when they see me, they’ll ask for another girl—or won’t be aroused. All those destructive little voices. But they’re supposed to walk through the doors any second, so I force my insecurities aside and I put on some lingerie and a silk robe, and I wait for one of them to come in. I look in the mirror a thousand times and lie on the bed in a hundred different positions, trying to find my best angle. There’s a tentative knock on my door. And then he walks in. And he’s so young. Like one of those old black-and-white photos your grandmother would have carried. Classically handsome in a tragic sort of way. And he’s even more nervous than I am. I can practically see him shaking. So I stop thinking about how disappointed he must be and I start trying to make him less nervous.

I peel off his clothes until he’s naked. He’s already hard. A kind of hard I forgot about. Like he’s about to burst through his skin. And so I put him in my mouth. I feel him grow even more inside me. And I know he’s not disappointed because he moans in pleasure and looks at me in astonishment. I know how to please a man. And it feels so good to please him.

I work my hand around his erection and slowly at first then faster as I take all of him in my mouth and I hear him gasp in disbelief. I know that no one has ever made him feel this way. I love it, he tells me. You’re so good. I meet his eyes for a few seconds, tracing my wet lips with the head of his erection. I watch as he gives me permission, leaning in, then silently begging. I can feel him pulsing in my mouth, and he tells me he’s close, so I slow down and draw it out as long as I can, moving him in and out of my mouth until he finally comes. And as I get up to leave he pulls me into him, pinning me against the bed with his lips, kissing me with such passion. But I have to pull away, I have another client in the next room.

I wrap my robe around me and walk next door. The man waiting there isn’t disappointed. He takes me in his arms and tells me how beautiful I am. How happy he is to see me. He opens my robe and tosses it on the floor. I push him onto the bed and climb on top of him. His mouth is open, searching for anything to suck so I let him find my nipples. I push into him, inviting just the tip of him inside me. He slides in and out of me, gasping in pleasure. I’ve never felt so desired. So wanted. And I get bolder and bolder. I stand up, leaving him writhing on the bed. I walk into the next room completely naked. I can please any man. I know it in my skin.

What about you? Who pleases you?

The last room I enter.

Who’s in the last room?

All of them.

—

I shut my computer and check the time. I spend extra effort on my hair in preparation for seeing my mother-in-law, then wait for Oliver to finish getting dressed.

When he comes down the stairs, I almost lose my breath. He’s wearing a gray flannel suit perfectly tailored to his body. I’ve always been a little unnerved by the fact that his mom still buys him clothes, but she does have impeccable taste.

“You look nice,” I say.

“Thanks. I’m running every day now.”

“Wow,” is all I can think to say. Raleigh’s words echo in my head, “If I were at a key party, I’d pray for his.” Oliver usually shaves before we see his mother, but he’s left a three-day-old shadow. A subtle fuck you or laziness? Whatever the reason, it suits him. Of course other moms have crushes on him. “You really look great.”

“Shall we?” he replies flatly.

Oliver is quiet on the drive to the gala. That’s how we are in each other’s company lately, like we’re waiting to take the other person’s temperature. But mostly we just wait.

—

The first time I attended Vivian’s annual fundraising gala, Oliver and I were an hour late because I couldn’t leave his bathroom. Oliver had tried to coax me out from the other side of the closed door. “I could run out and get some Pepto?”

“I think I’m done. I’m so sorry. I didn’t expect to be so nervous.”

“My mom is going to love you.” Oliver sounded so confident I almost believed him. But when I looked down at my Steve Madden pumps that were chipping at the front I wasn’t so sure. “Do you have a Sharpie?” I spit onto my finger and tried to rub the scuff marks away.

“A Sharpie? Not on me, no.”

Three flushes later, I finally felt confident enough to stand up and look at myself in the mirror. The pearl-colored silk slip dress I spent an entire paycheck on was creased at the crotch because I’d been sitting on the toilet for so long. “Don’t suppose you have a steamer?” I called out nervously to Oliver. The night was already a disaster, and it hadn’t even started.

Oliver knocked softly on the door. “Can I come in?”

“Fine. Just hold your nose.”

Oliver walked in and immediately turned around and walked out. “Probably better if I don’t come in.”

“Oh my god. Just tell her I’m sick. Please. I don’t think I can pull it together and we’re already so late.”

“Nothing has changed, Diana. I love you and so will she. It literally smells like death in there and my eyes are watering, but if you told me you wanted to have sex right now I’d take you on the toilet. You look stunning.”

Oliver’s parents lived on the other side of town, in one of the oldest and wealthiest sections of Dallas. I tried to steady my breath as we drove north on Oak Lawn Avenue and the houses got older and grander. Oliver had told me stories about his childhood, about the neighborhood kids daring each other to TP the multimillion-dollar estate where the owner of the Dallas Cowboys lived, and how it wasn’t uncommon to spot Laura Bush power walking on the next street over.

As I tried to smooth my dress, he drove around a circular, hedge-lined driveway, past a valet station, and pulled up next to a Rolls-Royce and a vintage Jaguar. His parents’ home was a stately English Tudor flanked by live oaks on a lot that seemed to go on forever. It was glowing from within, perhaps from the sheer amount of diamond carats inside. Before we got out of the car, I sprayed my bare arms and legs with mosquito repellent, knowing I would get eaten alive. Oliver put a hand out to stop me. “You don’t need to worry about mosquitos. My parents have a guy for that.”

“Really?”

He smiled. “He’s a mosquito bouncer.”

“Very funny.” But his joking helped put me at ease.

Vivian swept down the stairs to meet us in the foyer. “Oliver, I swore I gave you the right time. What on earth happened?”

“It was my fault actually. I wasn’t feeling well. I’m so sorry.”

Vivian looked at me and plastered on a smile. “No matter. Let’s get you upstairs and get you dressed!”

“Mom…” Oliver said, a warning tone in his voice, but Vivian pressed on, feigning innocence. “You should have told me Diana didn’t have anything to wear. I would have sent something over.”

I crossed my arms self-consciously over the slip dress Cindy Crawford had worn so well. Of course it wasn’t appropriate for a Dallas gala. What was I thinking?

“And what size are you, Diana? You’re absolutely petite.”

“A medium?” I said, my face turning bright red.

“I meant the shoes, sweetheart.”

“Oh. Right. I’m a seven.” The shoes hadn’t passed inspection either.

“Perfect. I’m a seven too!”

We settled on a two-piece Chanel suit that made me feel about eighty years old. Closed-toe shoes because I hadn’t had a pedicure, and also that was all Vivian had to loan me. “Sandals are for the desperate,” she muttered. Like me, I thought, as I wedged my foot into a Burberry pump.

When Oliver saw me, he couldn’t help laughing. “That’s what you chose?”

“The outfit chose her, Oliver. Doesn’t she look darling?”

“She looks like one of your sorority sisters.”

“I love it,” I lied. I didn’t want to be the source of Oliver and his mother arguing. “It’s beautiful, Vivian. Thank you.”

“I better go downstairs. Everyone must be wondering what emergency had pulled the hostess away from her own party for so long!”

When she left, I buried my face into Oliver’s chest. He rested his chin on my head. “Would it make you feel better if you knew she bought my entire outfit? She likes to dress people. That’s all.”

I spent the entire party wishing I was somewhere else. Two of Oliver’s ex-girlfriends were there, both dressed in lovely, age-appropriate Diane von Furstenberg wrap dresses. Every single person he introduced me to looked at a spot over my head when they talked to me, craning for the next person to talk to. I had never felt so insignificant. I was the Golden Boy’s plus-one, and clearly someone they’d assumed they would never see again.

—

Tonight, we pull in to the same circular drive, past the valet station once again. The house looks unchanged, all the many windows glittering against the dark night. Vivian greets us in the foyer, this time wearing a tightly fitted dress with a long skirt of blue chiffon.

“Fashionably late, per usual. Oliver, why didn’t you shave? You look unhoused.”

“It’s nice to see you too.” Oliver kisses her cheek.

“Oh, please. Don’t be dramatic. Your father is by the bar. I hear some more groveling is in order.” Oliver nods obediently and leaves me alone with Vivian.

“Remember the first time you attended one of my galas?” She brings this up every year. “And you were wearing one of those—what are they called? Those undergarments?”

“It was a dress. Not a slip.”

“Yes, exactly. A slip. But look at you now. Quick learner. Does Oliver seem unhappy to you?” She switches gears abruptly. “He’s lost that spark, hasn’t he?”

A waiter walks by with a tray of champagne flutes and I grab two of them, looking for anyone to give one to and save me from this conversation.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so,” I lie.

“But isn’t that your job? To know when your husband is unhappy?”

Vivian doesn’t wait for a response. Already bored by me, she flits away on her own. She has always held me at an arm’s length, unable to make a final verdict on whether I’m good enough for her son. I thought for sure the ice would melt after Emmy was born. Sometimes I still catch her looking at me from across the table, squinting toward me as if to ask, Who are you, really? And where did you actually come from? The subtext of nearly everything she says to me sounds like I’m on to you. Just as I turn into the hallway to find a bathroom to hide in, I bump into Oliver.

“I’m officially sixteen again, getting scolded by my father in public,” Oliver says.

“I’m sorry. How long do we have to stay to not be rude?”

“At least an hour.”

“And how do we survive that?”

“Two words,” Oliver says. “Shrimp. Cocktail.”

I give him a confused look and he laughs. “I’m kidding. Open. Bar.”

Hearing him laugh puts my whole body at ease. Like I’ve been summoned to the principal’s office only to have her say, Relax. We know you didn’t do it. That’s how I feel around Oliver lately, like a kid always on the verge of being in trouble. Miriam would have a field day with this.

Over our first glass of champagne, the frost between Oliver and me continues to melt. “You really do look good,” I say to him. “Really fit.”

“I’ve lost six pounds from running.” I imagine you can’t grow up with Vivian as your mom and not feel proud every time you lose a pound.

“You look so nice.”

“You do too,” he says. “I should have told you that earlier.”

“Thanks,” I say. “Why didn’t you?”

Oliver doesn’t answer. He orders us two more champagne cocktails and hands one to me. “I don’t know.”

Please don’t. Please stay present. Please let’s look at each other like we used to. I didn’t know how badly I needed that until it was gone.

“I get it,” I say. “We seem to have lost the plot, haven’t we?”

“It happens. It’s not like anyone here is on their first marriage.” He gestures around the room of tightly pulled faces and obscene privilege.

Beside us, a toothy woman is discussing the benefits of redshirting her six-year-old, which she hopes will give him an advantage on the lacrosse field. And behind us, a crowd of familiar real estate scions debate which plane to charter for a hunting trip to Wyoming.

“I don’t want a second husband,” I blurt.

Oliver sighs. “Same. I don’t think I have the energy.” It’s not the exact affirmation I’m looking for, but I lean in anyway. I take a deep breath and exhale. “Want to look at the art?”

Oliver almost spits out his drink.

Years ago, when we would visit Oliver’s parents, before Emmy was born, I would ask Oliver if he wanted to look at the art, which was code for Do you want to have sex in your old bedroom?

“Look at the art now?”

“Sure. Why not?”

His expression is impossible to read. “With everyone here?”

“Let’s go look at the art,” I say again.

After a moment of silent torture, Oliver nods. “Let’s look at the art.”

We slip from the crowd and up the back stairs to Oliver’s childhood room, holding hands the entire way. Oliver closes the door behind him and smiles. His room has not been touched since he left for college, except to be cleaned, Vivian making sure his rugby trophies are polished regularly. “Shhhh,” he tells me as I start laughing, while kicking off my heels. “We should make it quick,” he adds, still seeming unsure we should do it at all.

“What if I don’t want it to be quick?” I ask. I hate how I sound. I’m trying so hard to seduce him that it feels like a charade. Isn’t seduction always a charade? Why does this time feel so flat-footed?

I carry on and unbutton Oliver’s shirt. I kiss his naked chest, then stand on my tiptoes and start on his neck. But when I look up, he’s not smiling. A dark cloud passes behind his eyes and his jaw clenches. Where I usually see tenderness, there’s only anger. Instead of kissing me back, he grabs me by the shoulder and turns me around so I’m facing the wall. Then he presses his hands on the wall on either side of my body. He moves close to me.

“Why now? Why tonight, Diana?” His voice is almost shaking, as if he’s fighting the urge to be here. “What are you doing?” He doesn’t want to want me.

I lift my dress, inviting him to make love to me. I hear him exhale. I let him tug my underwear to the side but I’m still taken aback by how agitated he’s become. This isn’t how we have sex. He doesn’t fuck me against walls. I gasp when he wedges his knee in between my thighs to open my legs.

“Oh, Oliver,” I moan, but Oliver covers my mouth with his hand. I turn my head to see his face; I need to know what his expression is. I want to look in his eyes, but he keeps his gaze down, watching himself enter me from behind.

It’s surprising being fucked by your husband who is nothing like your husband. He is potent and passionate. There is nothing tentative about him. He tugs at my bra until my breasts fall out and then he pinches my nipple tightly, rolling it between his forefinger and thumb. I turn my head to the side so he can see me moan. But he’s upset. He doesn’t want me to moan in pleasure. He lifts my leg and forces himself even deeper inside me so I can feel his power. His wet lips on my neck, the smell of champagne on his breath as he exhales into me. And then a sharp pain on my earlobe where his teeth meet my skin. I waver for a moment, unsure if the pain is too much. But I’m wet. So wet I can hear the slapping of his erection thrusting in and out of me. “Fuck,” Oliver almost yells. “Fuck.”

“It’s okay,” I tell him. “Keep going. Fuck me.” He uses his entire body weight and presses me flush against the wall, my breasts pressed hard against his plaid wallpaper. I stick my hips out even farther as he speeds up, until it feels like a pounding and I’m riding a fine line between pleasure and pain. Then, in a flash, Oliver changes positions. He pulls himself out of me, takes me to the bed so that I’m kneeling. From behind, he pulls my underwear down to my ankles and enters me again. “Harder,” I whisper. “Even harder,” I tell him. Oliver does as he’s told, clutching the headboard for extra resistance. “Now?” he asks. Before I can answer I feel him pulsing inside me as he comes harder than he ever has.

When he pulls out, I turn to him, finally looking him in the eye. I’m speechless and not because of the pleasure. I don’t know what to say to this man who fucked me from behind and avoided eye contact. Oliver quickly zips up his pants and buttons his shirt. “We should go back to the party,” he says, his voice cold. It’s the strangest response to the strangest experience. So I follow suit. “Sure.” I slide back into my dress. “Let’s go.”

On our way downstairs, Oliver is grabbed by a pair of investment bankers. I go in search of a quiet place where I can process what just happened. I lock myself in a guest bathroom. It’s neat and clean and decorated with seascapes and family mottos. We may not have it all together, but together we have it all!

My breath is impossible to steady. Even now, surrounded by Vivian’s bath towels that match the bath mat that brings out the pale yellow in the floral wallpaper, it’s hard to believe that someone who lived here could ever struggle.

I wonder if Oliver is looking for me in the crowd. But I don’t actually want to know. In my heart, I know he’s not.

I finally let myself out of the bathroom and spend another hour making small talk at the party. Then Oliver and I find each other and agree it’s time to head home.

—

We return to a quiet house. I fight my instinct to ask what he’s thinking. To reach out to him and spin what happened in his childhood bedroom as something positive. I want to believe it was a step forward, not back.

Oliver drives the sitter home, then lies down in bed beside me.

In the dark, I ask, “You know what you said to me—a few weeks ago?” I can’t help myself. I need to know where we stand. “About us being in quicksand. Do you still feel—”

“Diana.” He doesn’t let me finish. “Aren’t you tired? Let’s just lie here for a while.” He turns on his back. “I still haven’t figured out where we are.”

My heart is pounding in my chest. “But we need to.”

“Not tonight.” He gets up and grabs a blanket from the bed, which means he plans to sleep on the couch.

“Maybe we should take a break,” I say in a desperate bid for his attention. I regret the words as soon as they leave my lips.

“You want to take a break ?” He looks at me. “We’re not going steady, Diana. We’re married.”

It works. I have his attention. And now I don’t know what to do with it. I hold it briefly in my hands and immediately want to set it down, somewhere, anywhere. “Something needs to change. Maybe we need to shake it up. We could take a break for a few weeks to figure out how we feel?” Even as I speak, I’m thinking less about the words tumbling out of me and more about how I want Oliver to respond. He’ll snap out of his iciness and come to his senses. He’ll pull me close and wrap his arms around me. We’ll apologize to each other at the same time.

But he doesn’t do any of that. “Okay.”

“Okay?” I echo into the dark room.

“Yeah.” He gropes on the floor for his pants. “Let’s take a break. This is all too much.”

I turn on the bedside lamp and we both squint into the light. This has all gotten so out of hand. “What should I tell Emmy?”

“Is Emmy the only reason you’re even in this anymore? Emmy, and this.” Oliver waves his arms around, taking in the room, the house. “If the house disappeared tomorrow, if we hadn’t had Emmy, would you even still want to be with me?”

Oliver’s words hang in the air for a second too long. I reel at the thought of making a choice like that—of having that choice to make. “I’d never wish away our life.”

“That’s exactly my point. You would never wish away our life. You’d just wish away me. ”

“Oliver.” My head spins. “No. You’re twisting things—”

“Diana. You’re right. We need some space. Because I’m out of ideas.” He’s grown suddenly calmer, as if a task that’s been plaguing him has finally been crossed off his to-do list.

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know.” He finds his running shoes and laces them, sitting at the edge of the bed. “A hotel. I think it’s a good idea. Let’s take a few weeks, a month. See what happens.”

My mouth goes completely dry. I try again. “But Emmy…”

“I agree with you—I don’t think this version of us is healthy for her. I’ll still pick her up from school and bring her home.”

“And the weekends?” What are the right questions to be asking? What’s the question that will break the spell—the one that will make us both see this is silly—this isn’t us, we aren’t here, not yet.

“I don’t know, Diana. We’ll figure it out.”

“Wait…”

“What?” It isn’t coldness in his voice now, it’s sorrow.

“You’re just going to leave?”

“That’s what a break is. You leave.”

“What about…”

Neither of us speaks.

I fill the silence with words that say nothing. “I don’t know. Okay…” The doorway where he stands feels so far it might as well be the moon.

“See you later.”

“What hotel are you going to?”

He shrugs, then a sad smile. “Anywhere but the Rosevale.” He grabs his sweatshirt, which I’d hung yesterday on the hook on the back of our door. He doesn’t pause at the threshold, doesn’t turn around, just closes the door. I listen to the sound of his feet on the stairs, his car door opening, him pulling away.

To the back of the door I ask, “So that’s it?”