Dirty Diana

Chapter 23

Chapter 23

—

Eric shimmies up to the table carrying a fresh round of drinks. He sings a Billy Idol song from at least a decade before he was born. “In the midnight hour, she cried more, more, more!” Then he adds his own sparkle, “More Ladies’ Night!” With a flourish, he places a glass of rosé in front of L’Wren and a martini in front of me, vodka splashing from the glass. “What are we eating tonight, ladies, the usual?”

“Actually, hon, we need another minute.” The first couple times Eric danced up to our table, L’Wren gave him a kittenish grin, but his shtick has grown tired and her tone is more bored than coquettish. “This is a serious question,” she says, as he walks away. “Do you think that routine gets him laid?”

I smile for the first time since we sat down. I’m grateful to be here with L’Wren, for finally coming to my senses and opening up to her. And here we are at P.F. Chang’s, looking like a pair of eHarmony hopefuls, drinking away my marriage sorrows.

L’Wren swirls the wine in her glass. “So…strippers? That’s his thing, huh?”

I shrug and take a long drink. I’m drinking too fast. My head swims with the din of restaurant noise and Eric’s singing from another table. I tell L’Wren how Oliver came home from the strip club that one night smelling like a Yankee candle.

“And the jerk didn’t even bother to take a shower first? After being in a place like that?”

“No.”

“Oh. My. God. Fucking, Oliver. He’s the nice one !”

“Turns out…” I know I should come all the way clean. About me going to the club with Oliver, about every terrible thing we’ve said to each other. I’m so pathetically desperate to have L’Wren fully on my side that I can’t be totally honest. I still want to be the person L’Wren thinks I am—a grounded, good person who wants all the same things in life that she does. But of course I’m naive for assuming I know what anyone really wants.

I’m about to tell her about the Dirty Diana site, to see what she thinks, when she shakes her head. “Everyone has secrets. No one really knows the real anybody.” L’Wren chews delicately, seemingly lost in thought.

A week after Oliver moved into a hotel, we clumsily explained things to Emmy. I called in sick to work all week, partly because I was too sad to get dressed and partly because I couldn’t face everyone at the office yet.

At the end of the first week, when it was clear Oliver wasn’t coming home for the weekend, he and I sat Emmy down on the sofa. We told her we were seeing a counselor to help us “work out our differences.”

“Daddy is going to take a break,” I said.

Oliver shot me a look. “ We’re taking a break. It just means different arrangements and that you’ll be loved under two roofs.”

Oliver must have googled that line.

“A break?” Emmy looked from me to Oliver and back to me.

I turned to Oliver with the same question in my eyes. The break I had suggested was supposed to have been met with vehement protest and quickly forgotten about, but the longer it lasts, the scarier it feels.

“It means,” Oliver said, “that your mother and I both love you very much, and no matter what happens between the two of us, we’ll always be your parents and you are always the most important person in the world to us.”

Again, Emmy looked at us both. After a quiet moment she said, “I don’t want to watch your explosion.”

Then she tented her fingers together—I guess like the sides of a volcano—and made the sound of an eruption as her hands broke apart.

“We’re not…” Oliver started.

“We won’t explode,” I finish.

“Can I go play upstairs?”

I’ve spent the past couple weeks scouring her artwork, looking for her distress hidden in her rainbows and caterpillars, but if there is pain there, I can’t find it. I went back to work and she hummed around the house and didn’t seem to notice whether Oliver joined us for dinner or not. In the early evenings, I take Emmy on long walks around the neighborhood. One night, after dinner, I watched her play alone in the backyard catching fireflies. “Don’t forget to let them go!” I called through the screen door.

“So what’s the game plan here?” L’Wren waves Eric down and orders some chicken lettuce wraps. “If you want a divorce, I’ll get you the best woman in Dallas, she’s a beast. Or if you want Oliver back, I’ll literally drug him and lock him out on my catio with a litter of hungry kittens until he comes to his senses.”

What do I want? I stare at the drink in front of me. It goes blurry through my tears. But even through watery eyes, my thoughts crystallize and I know one thing to be true: I have only ever known what I want in opposition to what I never had. I built something safe and steady. I chose Oliver and this town and our house and my job as a way to erect the most impenetrable foundation I could. No moving from one crappy apartment to the next, outrunning angry landlords and bill collectors. Emmy would never have to hold her breath when she flicked a light switch, hoping for power, or dance around a parent’s capricious moods.

“I don’t want a divorce,” I say. “I want my life back.”

“Okay. Okay.” L’Wren processes this, as if running it through some kind of plan-hatching filter. “You need to go to him. It needs to come from you and you need to put yourself out there. You need to swallow your pride and go to his apartment and tell him you want him back. You need him back. Use the word ‘need’ a few times because men get total boners for it.”

I’m stuck on the word apartment. Oliver’s been living in a hotel. Day-to-day. Temporarily. “What apartment?”

“Oh shit. Oh shit, shit. I’m such an idiot. I’m so sorry, Diana. I assumed you knew about the apartment?”

“What apartment?” I ask again.

“Kev and Oliver went out for a drink. He said Oliver rented a loft downtown because the hotel was costing a fortune. I can’t believe he didn’t tell you!”

Breathe, I tell myself.

“I’m sure it’s one of those sad divorced-dad apartments that’ll make him miss y’all even more. So, show up to his shitty, midlife crisis apartment with a trench coat on and nothing else. He won’t know what hit him and he’ll be back home in no time. If that’s what you want, of course.”

I watch as L’Wren texts Kevin for Oliver’s new address, pretending she wants to drop off a housewarming plant. The truth is I don’t know what I want. The only thing I know for certain is that this middle place we are in is horrible. I keep thinking of ghosts trapped in the middle—not allowed into heaven or hell because of unfinished business on Earth. Maybe this is my unfinished business. I need to know that I have tried everything to save my marriage before I can accept that it’s gone.

I tell L’Wren I want to go there now, to tell Oliver how I feel tonight. She offers to give me a ride and on the way there, I realize just how drunk I am. I’m grateful to L’Wren for the lift. My body feels fuzzy with too much vodka and not enough food. To calm my nerves, I imagine this all playing out the right way: Oliver’s initial confusion at seeing me will give way to excitement. I won’t even need to speak. He’ll see me standing on his threshold and he’ll take me in his arms. He’ll slip my shirt off and let it fall to the floor. The fact that I’m wearing no bra will seem planned and not the reality of a depressed person who barely got dressed to go out.

I imagine Oliver undressing himself quickly so we can stand naked in front of each other, lovingly drinking the other in. Then after we have sex, I’ll tell him how sorry I am that I pushed him away and ever suggested the break in the first place. And he’ll tell me he’s ready to come home, that he never meant to leave like this. We can fix this.

Can’t we?

—

When we pull up, I immediately sense the flaws in my vision. Even his apartment isn’t what I imagined. I pictured his building would have some kind of brick facade, maybe with units overlooking a neglected swimming pool that residents, mainly divorced men, would try to coax their kids to swim in every other weekend.

This building looks brand-new. It has five stories that rise up at all different angles to showcase each apartment’s enormous teak deck. Even at night I can see how beautiful the surrounding gardens are, bursting with flowers manicured to look just wild enough without being messy. The outside is lit with fairy lights that illuminate a stone path that leads to the glassed-in lobby.

“Let’s go home,” I tell L’Wren. “This is a horrible idea.” I’d rather land in hell, I think to myself.

L’Wren takes in every detail of the building. “Who the heck does Oliver think he is? Don Draper? Mr. Cool McCool guy? We’re not giving up now. You’re going in.”

A young couple is exiting the building, and L’Wren shoves me out the door so I can slip into the lobby without having to be buzzed in. L’Wren shouts at me as the door closes. “You got this! Call me tomorrow, postcoital!”

I take the elevator to the sixth floor and knock on Oliver’s door. I wait for what feels like a long time. I knock again. It’s only nine-thirty, but maybe he’s already asleep. Then I hear footsteps. Oliver opens the door wearing a slim-fitting T-shirt and dark jeans, neither of which I recognize.

I smile up at him. I’d glossed my lips in the car and run my fingers through my hair, hoping to look tousled, in a sexy way, instead of spun out.

Oliver squints as if I’m backlit by the sun. “Diana? What are you doing here? Where’s Emmy?”

“At L’Wren’s. Kevin took the girls to the movies.”

“Oh. I…” Oliver glances over his shoulder.

“Can I come in?” I slide past him, purposely grazing his biceps with my chest.

“I didn’t know you were coming over. Did I give you this address?”

“I need to talk. I hope that’s okay?” The door opens up to the living room, with a kitchen off to the right. The place is small but tidy, with blond wood floors and beamed ceilings. I’d been hoping for more of a Top Ramen and mattress on the floor vibe. “This is nice,” I say brightly. “Much better than a hotel,” I add, so he’ll know he’s off the hook for not telling me.

“I like it.” Oliver stands in the foyer, seeming uncertain what to do next. Behind him, I hear water running from what must be the shower. Through the living room, the sliding glass doors are open onto the deck, with a small café table and two chairs.

And two empty wineglasses.

When I turn to him with the obvious question on my face, he’s ready with the answer. “That was a friend. We were just having a glass of wine. Which I gather you have too? Maybe you need some food. Why don’t we go to Delmonico’s?”

“Oliver. It’s late.”

“Of course. Right. What about Sam’s? They’re open late?”

“I’m happy here.” Keep things light, I tell myself. I can’t ruin it right off the bat by seeming wounded—I need to be fun and playful. Of course I want to know who the friend was, but I won’t ask. “Go ahead and shower; I hear it running. We can talk when you’re done.” I almost offer to join him, but something about seeing those wineglasses has sobered me.

“Right. Just give me five minutes.”

While I wait, I lap the living room. On the side table, I see a framed picture of Emmy from when she was four years old, all arms and legs and big front teeth. “Where did you find this? I haven’t seen it in forever!” I remember it was taken on a father-daughter camping trip. They’d come home covered with mosquito bites and Emmy beaming that she’d jumped off the highest rock into the river. I remember the way Oliver stood behind Emmy and shook his head, mouthing, Not that high, just so I wouldn’t have to imagine Emmy in danger. I walk toward the bathroom holding the picture. “Oliver, I love this picture. Where did you even find it?”

And that’s when I see it. A felt cowboy hat with a big pink feather, sitting on the arm of the couch. The cowboy hat Raleigh made herself.

My legs stop working and I lean against the wall for support. Was Raleigh the one drinking wine with Oliver? Is this why Oliver is trying to rush me out of his house? Is she in the shower? Go! Go now, I tell myself. Leave before you have to see her. I rush toward the door, hugging the picture of Emmy to my chest, my heart beating hard against it, but I’m not quick enough.

“Diana?” Behind me, Raleigh’s voice is soft.

This is so far from the plan that I dreamed up I feel as if I’ve stumbled into someone else’s plan. Someone with a cruel sense of humor.

“Hey,” Raleigh moves closer, but I can only shake my head as I try to unlock Oliver’s front door. There seem to be about four extra bolts and none of them are opening.

“It’s the top one, Diana,” she says gently. “Just pull it.”

“Please don’t talk to me. Please.” My hands are shaking so hard the picture frame slips from my grasp and hits the floor.

“How did you even know I was here?” Oliver has appeared again and picks up the frame.

“Fuck you, Oliver. We’re married. ” My plan to be fun, easy-on-Oliver Diana has flown fully south.

Oliver’s T-shirt is stuck to him and I can’t tell if it’s from the shower steam or his own flop sweat, but either way the body beneath is unfamiliar, muscular and hard.

“I’m not doing anything wrong,” he says, his voice rising with defensiveness. “You agreed to this.”

“It’s been about thirty seconds, Oliver, and no, I never agreed to you fucking my friend.”

“Let’s talk about this in therapy. I’m not doing this with just you.” I swear I see him look back at Raleigh, as if to a coach on the sideline. “It’s too toxic.”

“Toxic? Oh god.” I roll my eyes and keep them on the ceiling, praying for godly hands to reach down and extract me. Or at least unlock the fucking door.

“Diana, please. Why don’t you stay and we can talk this through,” Raleigh says.

The room spins, but I manage to grab the photo from Oliver and get out the door. I take the stairs this time, running down every flight and out into the night. I hear Oliver’s footsteps racing behind me. Now he’ll take me in his arms. Now he’ll realize his mistake.

“Diana. Diana, stop. You showed up here.” In the parking lot, he catches me by the shoulder. “ You left me. ”

“I know. It was a mistake to suggest the break. But I was flailing. I never thought you would agree.”

Oliver studies my face, but I don’t know what he’s looking for. I couldn’t rearrange it the way he wants if I tried. “That’s not what I’m talking about, Diana. I mean you left me months ago. I’ve wanted nothing more than to be close to you. I would have done anything for you, Diana. Anything.”

My shoulders drop. The fight drains out of me. “So ask her to leave and let’s talk. Just you and me.”

Oliver lets go of my arm. He looks at his hands, then up to the sky. He seems to consider the stars, their light cutting through the thick, humid night. “I can’t do that right now.”

I take an involuntary step backward, like I’ve been pushed. Oliver looks as innocent and sweet as he ever has, but he isn’t the man I think I know. “Then go back upstairs,” I say. “But don’t you dare think you’re the good guy in all this. Because you’re not.”

“Diana…”

“What.” My skin is on fire. I think I might burst into flames.

I spin on my heels and march deeper into the parking lot, which is pointless, because I have no car here, but Oliver doesn’t know that. I wait for him to come after me again, for him to realize that I’m too drunk to drive and to worry about how I’m getting home.

I’m not more than five paces along before I sense his absence. I turn and he’s gone.

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. I consider calling L’Wren but it’s too humiliating; her expectations for tonight might have been even higher than mine. I pull out my phone and order a ride. Nine minutes away. Shit. Mosquitoes halo my head and I slap one against my neck, another on my arm. I’ll be eaten alive out here. I walk back to the entrance to the building, hoping I might be able to wait in the lobby. The door is locked. Of course. I imagine the cringing embarrassment of ringing Oliver’s doorbell again to ask if I could wait inside. That would really be the perfect ending to this horrible night. I lean back against the glass door, tears stinging the edges of my eyes. Seconds pass like minutes and there is a light tap on the glass. I pull away and see that it is Raleigh, in workout leggings and a powder-pink sports bra. The evening could in fact get worse.

She opens the door and glances at the phone in my hand. “Do you need a ride?”

“No,” I say, the flames of my anger completely doused by the woman I thought was my friend. A woman I had invited into my home and comforted. That I shared secrets with.

“I’m so sorry,” Raleigh says. “I know that was awkward. But if it makes you feel any better, we mostly just talk.”

Mostly. I will myself not to cry. “What do you want?”

“We can still be friends. This doesn’t have to change anything.”

I want to laugh. This changes everything. “I don’t think so, Raleigh. We were barely even friends to begin with.”

“I didn’t think anything was going to happen between us. But we were both so…lonely. That morning we went running we realized how much we both needed it, as a lifeline. So we take long runs sometimes.”

“Raleigh. Oliver and I are still married.” I see the car on my app slowly wending its way to me and decide to walk to the corner to meet it. Anything to get away.

“That’s really unfair, Diana. The only reason you want him is because someone else does. Why can’t you just admit that it’s over between you two?”

“Are you serious? We’re going through a hard time and you just made it so much harder. If you were really a friend, you would have chosen someone else’s husband.”

She looks wounded. “Well, I don’t want you doing anything with my story. Whatever you’re doing with those interviews, it’s not art.”

She’s unbelievable. I never even asked. “Like I give a shit, Raleigh. Stay away from me.”

“Does Oliver know?”

“Know what?”

“Does he know about your interviews?”

“Good night, Raleigh.”

“So he doesn’t know. Hmm. Just a piece of advice. I’d keep that all to yourself. Because one thing about Oliver? I can’t see him getting back together with a woman who makes porn.”

“Oh, Raleigh.” I turn away and give her the finger, hand held high above my head as I walk off.

My head throbs and tears prick my eyes. I stumble toward the headlights of my Lyft as it heads directly for me, and for a long moment I’m not sure whether the driver spots me emerging from the darkness or not.