The First Wives: An addictive domestic thriller, page 17
“I’m only here tonight. I have business.” He leaves his suitcase in the hall and heads for the bar cart. I follow after him like a puppy, watching as he pours himself a Scotch.
“Where is it this time?”
“Does it really matter?” He gulps down his drink, then refills it before taking a seat in the leather chair in the study.
His work really isn’t so demanding that it requires multiple cross-continental trips every month. I think he goes on business trips so he can have alone time away from his kids, or so he can fuck a flight attendant before eating at a Michelin-starred restaurant and reading a book by the pool of some luxury resort. When you’re a billionaire, the money does most of the work for you, earning tens of millions in interest per year.
His whole I-work-so-hard image is such a facade.
I wasn’t expecting him, so I don’t have a lot in the kitchen, but I manage to whip up something—still grieving my burger. I boil pasta and sauté it with a little spinach and white wine sauce. We sit at the island, eating in relative silence—just soft classical music playing in the other room.
I’m on edge and I’m not sure why. I don’t like it when Blake just shows up unannounced. I keep glancing towards Hannah’s house, but the heavy blinds block out the view.
Blake pushes his plate away when he’s finished eating and starts telling me about some building he bought in Paris. I’m only half listening, because I don’t particularly care.
“Wait, you did what?” I almost drop my fork when my brain registers his words. Did he just say what I think he said?
“I bought you that apartment you’ve been wanting in Paris,” he repeats himself. “I think the renovations are almost done, but I have a hard time understanding the French contractors on the phone. I’m going to send you their contact info. I’m sure you can handle it from here.”
“I, uh, don’t know what to say,” I stammer. “Thank you.” He bought me that flat in Paris? Jesus. I wasn’t even serious when I said I wanted it.
Later that night, after hours of sex, Blake is showering and I’m sitting in the living room with the back windows wide open, having a cigarette. I’m thinking about his gift. The flat in Paris. It’s supposed to be some grand romantic gesture—more than he’s done for me in years. But I know Blake. He’s not doing it because he loves me and he’s sorry for everything he’s been putting me through. He bought it to entertain me. He thinks I need a project. Something to keep me busy, like decorating a newly renovated 5,000-square-foot flat, instead of obsessing over the family next door. Hannah texting him about my behavior must have really freaked him out. He didn’t tell me she messaged him, but I snooped on his phone and saw the conversation. How did she even get his phone number?
No matter.
If Blake wants me to go to Paris, I guess I’ll go.
After he leaves the next morning, I spend a few days going back and forth with the contractors over the phone. They said the flat is move-in ready.
I peek out the windows, looking across the way at Hannah’s house. I’m going to miss her and the twins, but since everything has gone sideways, moving to Paris is probably the best thing I can do. After that debacle when she returned from Iowa and caught me having a glass of wine at her house, when I’d told her I was moving to the UK, there is nothing I can do to fix it.
I did feel bad—it really was my intention to leave.
But fucking Blake. He forbade it. That was my first mistake, telling him my plans to leave. I should have just left and asked for forgiveness later. He was such a dick about it too—
why didn’t he just tell me it was because he’d bought the flat in Paris and that’s where he wanted me to go? He’s always so secretive, it drives me crazy.
Buzz.
It’s Blake.
“Good morning,” I answer.
“When do you leave?”
“I don’t know, a few weeks.” I walk over to pour myself another cup of tea.
“No. Leave tomorrow. And, Sophia, get some new clothes—you’re not doing that new look of yours justice. I mean, what are you, some American housewife? I was honestly a little disappointed in your appearance the other day.” He hangs up.
My blood pressure rises. I look around nervously. Did he really just say that to me? I look down at myself. I’m in a pair of sweats and a baggy off-the-shoulder sweatshirt. It’s comfy—I’d planned on snuggling up on the couch with a new novel all day. But apparently not. Apparently I need to turn up the volume on my looks and get on a plane to Paris tomorrow.
Why do I do this to myself?
Let him dictate the kind of woman I’m allowed to be?
I glance at my Joan Miró painting and think about my sister, Lauren… She never would have let a man treat her the way Blake treats me. She demanded respect. Maybe that’s why she was better than me.
Or maybe that’s why she’s dead.
Tears stream down my face. My limbs feel heavy, the weight of all the bad decisions I’ve made over the years bearing down on me. I collapse in a heap on the floor, allowing myself a few minutes to let the darkness in.
I wish I could call Hannah.
She always knows how to pull me up when I start spiraling into a depressive state. But since calling her is out of the question, I decide to call her friend Sinclair. The only person I know who can help me right now.
THIRTY
HANNAH
“Oh, the drama.” Sinclair says. His forehead is Botox frozen, so I can’t tell if there should be worry lines cut into his features. His text was vague, wanting to know if I was home alone and if so, whether he and Jamie could come over for dinner. He even said they’d bring the food. Who was I to refuse a visit from my best gays and a delicious meal?
“Well, hello to you too.” I lean in and give him a kiss on each cheek, then I open the front door all the way for him and Jamie to waltz inside. They’ve come bearing Italian food, a bouquet of flowers, wine, and what I assume is—gossip.
“Girl, you are gonna freak out when I tell you what happened today.” Sinclair heads right for the kitchen and begins puttering around, getting out plates, wine glasses, and a vase.
“Babe.” Jamie smacks him on the arm. “You said we’d feed her first, before you fill her pretty head up with all this nonsense.”
“What do you think I’m doing?” He’s scavenging around, opening drawers and closing them.
“Looking for this?” I hand him the corkscrew.
He winks at me, then quickly tackles the cork and fills our glasses. The twins are passed out in my bed upstairs. I let them run around the mall all afternoon, then I fed them Happy Meals.
Jamie’s finished with the flowers and moved on to plating the food. It smells amazing. “Should we eat in the dining room?” he asks.
“Nah, let’s just hang out here.” I sit on one of the barstools at the kitchen island. I don’t want to stare out the dining room windows at Sophia’s house. Even if I can’t see her, I know she’s in there and it makes my blood boil.
“Okay, take a bite so I can say I let you eat first.” Sinclair hands me a fork.
I roll my eyes but oblige, taking a big bite of eggplant parmesan. It melts in my mouth. I hope whatever story he has isn’t the kind that ruins an appetite. Because man, this is delicious. I sip my wine, then quickly take two more bites to satisfy my friends and my stomach.
“I’m dying—just tell me the news.”
I’ve lifted up the fork to take another bite when Sinclair exclaims, “You will never guess who came into the store today and wanted me to dress them.”
My hand trembles and I set the fork back on the plate without eating. There could only be two people Sinclair would be this amped up about coming into the store. Either it was his celebrity crush, Ryan Reynolds—or it was Sophia Carter.
After the immediate shock of learning Sophia went to Sinclair for fashion advice wears off and my head clears, I’m able to speak again. “Tell me everything. Start at the beginning.”
“Okay, well, I was busy with a client and Jamie took the call,” Sinclair says.
“She said she was referred to Sinclair by her husband. Which I didn’t question; Sinclair dresses a lot of men in town.” Jamie is animated when he talks, waving his hands around. “First, I offered her an appointment in a few weeks. But she said no, it was an emergency, it had to be today because she’s getting on a plane tomorrow morning.”
“But you’ve never dressed Blake Carter, have you?” I interrupt.
“No. But we didn’t know who she was yet, so the husband was irrelevant,” Sinclair says.
“Anyway, she said she needed couture and her budget was limitless. So I told her to come in and we’d make it work,” Jamie says.
“Oh, Hannah, you should have seen her when she arrived. Frazzled. She looked like she hadn’t washed her hair in days. Big dark sunglasses, baggy clothes. I was worried she was a vagrant!”
“Which is why I asked for her card before we started.” Jamie smiles. “Amex Black. And that’s when I saw her name—Sophia Carter.”
“With the hair up and sunglasses, I didn’t recognize her, but once I got a good look at her face—I knew it was the same Sophia that’s been stalking you. It was the woman I met at the bar. Her face, it’s uncanny.” Sinclair shakes his head and tops up each of our glasses of wine.
I’m thankful Jamie made me eat something before this conversation started.
Because I have in fact lost my appetite.
There’s no way this is a coincidence. Sophia using my personal shopper. The same man she met at the bar when she was debuting her new look, as me.
“She had to recognize you, Sinclair.”
“She didn’t let on if she had,” he says and clucks. “And in the name of professional clothiers, I did not reveal that I knew her identity.”
“He was so professional—you should have seen him,” Jamie nods in agreement.
“God, she is such a sneaky bitch. I hate that she ambushed you like that.”
“Yes, but this is good news, babes. Maybe now she’ll leave once and for all—she’ll fly off and meet up with her man, in her new wardrobe, and have no reason to return.”
I’ve been texting with Sinclair and Jamie to keep them up to speed on the drama. But I didn’t tell them my latest revelation, that I found Blake’s phone number on a scanned receipt on my husband’s computer. I also might not have told them about walking in on Sophia and Court the day we returned from Iowa. Until I know for sure if something is going on between them, I don’t want to go accusing my husband of having an affair all over town. Telling Cassie is one thing. Telling my two catty gay friends is something else entirely…
So maybe I haven’t kept them up to speed on all the drama.
I do appreciate the info, even if I can’t tell them I’m probably the reason why Sophia is about to see her husband. My text with Blake must have left an impression. Why else would he be in such a huge rush to see her?
“Well, I hope you didn’t dress her in anything that I own,” I say. It’s about the only thing I can say.
“Lord, no!” Sinclair exclaims. “But… I, uh, well…” He pauses.
“You don’t have to say it. I know you were being professional. I’m sure she looked—” I stop myself from saying fabulous. Even though that’s probably exactly what Sophia looked like when she left. “I’m sure she looked lovely when you were done with her.” I reach my hand across the island, and he takes it and squeezes and nods once with a grateful smile. “And if I know you, you called Kenlie to give her a blowout.”
“Well, I couldn’t let her walk out looking like a hot mess. I fucking burned those baggy clothes,” he exclaims.
Jamie leans toward me and whispers, “Not really, but I did put them in the trash.”
“So, did she say where she was going on this spur-of-the-moment, need-a-new-wardrobe vacation? Or how long she’d be gone? Did she make any phone calls? Or texts?”
“Honey, I can’t tell you that. It would break client-clothier confidentiality,” Sinclair says with a straight face.
I look at him, then at Jamie, then back at Sinclair, and all three of us burst out laughing until tears are streaming down our cheeks. I get up and go pick out another bottle of wine from Court’s collection—choosing one I know costs a small fortune and will give him a coronary when he sees it’s gone.
According to Sinclair, Sophia was on her phone, mostly texting, sometimes speaking in hushed tones while he was putting looks together… “But I did hear her arguing with someone in Paris. Sounds like she’s buying an apartment there—but it’s not ready, so she has to stay at a hotel. She was pretty aggravated,” he says.
“Hmmm… Paris, huh?” As long as it’s far away from Florida, I don’t care where she goes. It’s just too bad it’s one of my favorite cities.
After another few hours of wine, laughter, and gossip with Sinclair and Jamie, my friends depart for the night in an Uber—leaving their car in the driveway to pick up tomorrow. I’m glad they came over and we could spend some time together. I seriously contemplated telling them about finding Court and Sophia together in their swimsuits and everything else that’s happened, but I thought it might ruin the evening. I’d just end up crying and they’d try and console me or try and pack my suitcases for me—telling me I’m too good for Court. It would turn into a whole thing.
Instead, I chose to just have fun.
I honestly can’t believe we didn’t wake up the twins, who are still asleep in my room when I creep upstairs to go to bed. Thankfully there’s plenty of room in the bed, and I crawl in and snuggle up next to my babies.
“No matter what happens, at least I have you,” I whisper before closing my eyes and falling into a heavy, wine-soaked sleep.
THIRTY-ONE
I have a strange text message from Court when I wake up.
Did you have fun last night?
As far as he knows, I was home alone with the kids, like I always am. He doesn’t know Sinclair and Jamie were here and that we drank a bottle of his expensive wine and gossiped like schoolgirls. And maybe I’ll keep it that way. Maybe I won’t respond to him at all.
I look out the window while I’m making coffee. I wonder if Sophia has already left for the airport. Sinclair thought she said her flight was early. So I hop on my computer to see what time the international flights to Paris are leaving from the airport—a flight that long, she wouldn’t be taking private. But as soon as I log on, I panic. Wrong computer. I need to set up my new one—and use a secure internet connection. One my husband isn’t secretly monitoring.
The burner phone I bought is going to come in handy—I’ll set it up and use it as a personal hotspot to connect my new computer to the internet. It takes me thirty minutes to get them both up and running. There’s a sense of freedom and relief at being able to search for things online with privacy. Something I’d taken for granted before.
Armed with my trusty notebook, I start making a checklist of things to search about Sophia, with tidy little squares I can check off as I go.
Flight
Website
Social accounts
Looking back at the previous pages of my notebook, I feel guilty that I haven’t been keeping up with my regular routine. Checking analytics. Responding to comments. Checking my influencer contracts. If it wasn’t for my pre-scheduled posts, my social page would have gone dark weeks ago. Not to mention, I can’t remember the last time I checked my bank account.
But I don’t have time for all that right now. I have to uncover the truth about Sophia and my husband. First things first. Did Sophia get on a flight to Paris this morning?
Hmmm… No direct flights from the small international Fort Meyers airport to Paris. So maybe she took a private plane to Miami and caught the Paris flight from there. There’s one way to find out.
“Hello, Sunshine Charter,” the man on the other line answers.
“Good morning, sir.” I turn on the charm. “I was hoping you could help me out with something.”
“I’ll try. How can I be of service?”
“Well, aren’t you a doll? I was just talking to my best friend Sophia, before she got on her plane to Paris in Miami. And see, she realized her Louis sunglasses were missing, must have left them on her charter flight this morning. I told her not to worry, I’d call and see if y’all found them.”
“Sure, I can check. You said this morning?”
I can hear him clicking on computer keys.
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, yes, we flew Sophia McMillian to Miami. If you hold on for a second, I can radio the pilot and see if he found her sunglasses.”
My jaw is on the floor.
Did he say Sophia McMillian?
“Thank you,” I squeak. As soon as he puts me on hold, I hang up. I cannot believe that bitch used my last name to check into her flight. What a complete cunt.
I take a few deep breaths. Reminding myself this was what I wanted. To uncover what’s really going on. I check the flight box off on my list, then I move on to the next item. Website. If Sophia really is an art broker to the ultra-wealthy, and if that’s how she met my husband ten years ago while brokering a deal between her husband and mine—I should be able to find something about her online. Even if she doesn’t have her own website, maybe she’s connected to a big firm. Like Sotheby’s.
I search as many keywords as I can using her first and last name, but I keep coming up empty handed. So I check Sotheby’s website and scroll through their listing of employees. I don’t find Sophia, but it doesn’t mean she doesn’t have mutuals there. I decide to call and poke around, choosing a broker that’s been with them for twelve years. I give myself a minute to think up a cover story before dialing the international number.
