“A tenant?”
“Yes, we used to take tenants in our guesthouse. It was our way of giving back. We would find someone in need and try to help them. This world can be so inaccessible.” I have repeated this spiel so many times, it comes easily off my tongue, but my nose crinkles, my tongue sours.
“Used to?” Her eyes tip up, catch mine, then flutter down.
“We stopped after the last one. It turns out it’s very draining having a stranger practically underneath you. You end up wrapped up in their lives. Besides”—I stand up, walk across the floor to the point in the glass where you can see the house down below—“it’s so hard helping people, you know. Some people just don’t want to be helped.” I see the roof peaking out from below, the porch and the fence around it. I remember nights on that same porch, how loud we would laugh, knowing our laughter would rise up. “There’s a little guesthouse right there. It’s a terrible place to live. It’s very dark and cold. I told Graham we ought to keep the help down there. Would you want to live there?”
“No. I mean, no, thank you.” Her jaw is set in a funny way.
“No.” I run a finger down the glass. “Neither would I.”
* * *
THE PASTA SAUCE is simmering pleasantly when I hear Graham come through the gate. I know it’s him by the way he shoves it, like he hopes it will snap back. I peek around the glass and see him hesitate over the fountain, catching his reflection.
Graham is one of the few people I know who is more attractive close-up than he is at a distance. Far away he could be any other handsome, well-dressed man. Up close, his appearance feels like a threat.
He finds what he is looking for and walks toward the door, briefcase swinging easily beside him. The new housekeeper is gone, like the best help, invisible. I gave her a bottle of Mo?t to take with her.
I can see the scent hit his nostrils as he walks through the door, spring in his step. “What the hell is that?” he says, lips teased into a smile.
“I made dinner.”
He swings his briefcase onto the table by the door. It clangs against a decorative silver tray. “You made dinner?”
“Well, I hired someone. Obviously”
“Thank God.” He undoes his top button. “I don’t want you cooking.”
He pauses at the mirror. Graham is doomed to be beautiful, or everyone else is doomed for him to be. True beauty is always confused for goodness in a man and deceptiveness in a woman. Graham looks like a saint. He dresses in three-piece suits in shades of blue so dark, they’re near black. His suits are so perfectly tailored, it looks like he was made for them. He is so clean that he makes you want to wash your hands.
“And I found a housekeeper.” My voice hits a high note, too eager to please. “Two in one.”
He loosens his tie. “What a woman.” He strides to the kitchen and wraps his arms around me, like tentacles. I can smell him.
Graham smells nothing like he looks. You would expect him to have a crisp, clean scent—newly minted cash soaked in lemon verbena. Instead, he smells like hot testosterone, like something feral, like the kind of man who would hack down the door with an ax to save kittens from a burning building. I don’t know what to do with his smell. There is nothing more confusing than being sexually attracted to your husband.
He steps back, fixes my hair. He hates when my part is uneven. Then he leans in close so he can whisper in my ear, “If you think this is going to make up for what you did, you have another think coming.”
LYLA
The sun has set by the time we sit down to eat. We are so high up that you can see three or four stars, even with the city lights down below. I try to find them every night. Tonight, I find only three. They make me think of the housekeeper’s necklaces.
Graham is groaning over her dinner. “This is actually superb, you know.” He spins the spaghetti neatly on his fork with a spoon. He has immaculate table manners.
“You’re welcome.” I’ve lost my appetite.
“Well, you didn’t make it, did you?” It’s like this every time. The game ends, and he recedes.
“You’re being mean.”
“Why do you think that is?” My fork scrapes the plate.
“It’s not my fault, what happened.”
“It absolutely is.” He dabs his lips with a linen napkin. “You warned her.”
I twirl my fork in the pasta. Margo hates when things go wrong. She likes to think she can control everything: the light, the mood, the weather and especially people. “It was her choice. It’s no one’s fault but hers.” It’s trite and it sounds it. The kind of phrase that’s washed of color by overuse.
He shrugs, angles his hips so he can spread his legs, getting comfortable. I know he agrees. They’re his words slung back at him. We gave her a choice, but she created her own option, one we had never even considered. “Well, you’ll have your chance.”
“What does that mean?”
“There’s another one moving in this weekend.”
My chair jumps. “What?”
“Margo’s idea. The best way to get over someone is to get someone else.” He stuffs pasta into his mouth, relishing this. He dines on discomfort. He swallows it whole.
“Why do we need another tenant? Can’t we just take a break? Have some time to ourselves for a change?” He looks bored by the proposition.
My relationship with Graham has always been a throuple: me, Graham and boredom. It was there the day we married, warming itself in the backseat of the Rolls-Royce as we drove down a lane of sparklers, silver cans rattling in our wake. It was on the private island on our honeymoon swimming circles around us in the bathroom bleach blue water. It was waiting for a turn, every time he took me to bed. It is especially present at anniversaries and birthday parties and holidays. Anytime we are expected to be happy, our third raises its head.
It was Margo herself who sat me down one afternoon and told me how to get rid of it, or at least get it out of our bed.
We were sitting in the second tier of her garden, having a tea. She peered at me over her fine bone china cup, eyes echoing his. “My son has needs,” she said. “We are not like ordinary people, the kind of people you’re used to associating with.” Margo was always sure to sneak a dig into any of our conversations. “We have more money. We get more bored. If you want to keep him and keep him happy, he needs amusement. He needs amusement above all else.”
Margo and Graham need the tenant. They need someone to dominate. Other rich people have nannies, dog walkers. That’s not enough for them. They need tenants and their tenants need to be special. Exceptional. The game is more entertaining that way. If they don’t have their tenants, they will find their entertainment elsewhere. They will play their games with me.
“Margo had an idea how to make it interesting,” he says. I brace myself. “She thought you could take a turn.”
My back stiffens. “But I don’t want to take a turn. I don’t want to play.” I have accepted this little anomaly in Graham, but it’s not for me. It’s his hobby. He doesn’t insist I play golf. I don’t invite him shopping.
“It’s not really about what you want.” He spins his fork. “You need to prove yourself.” I want to argue but I have to be careful. Graham often uses Margo as a scapegoat. This might not be her idea at all. It might be his. More probably, it’s both. It’s not important who thought of it first. They share blood and sometimes a brain. “You need to show her that you deserve to be here.”
I don’t meet his eyes. My neck is hot. “I married you. I sacrificed my life for you. My family doesn’t even speak to me—” He flinches. He hates when I mention them. “I accept you. Graham. I accept you; don’t you understand? When no one else would.” He doesn’t have a monopoly on manipulation.
“That’s not enough. She wants you to embrace us.” He sucks a speck of sauce off his pinkie finger. “Does this have crack in it?”