My husband’s mistress rang our doorbell on Saturday afternoon and, when I opened it, she handed me her coat and said, “Tell Richard I’m here.”
Because she thought I was the helper and his wife of 12 years. I stood there with her designer coat in my hand while she walked into my house as if it were hers: blonde, about 25 years old, wearing a dress that cost more than most people’s rent. He glanced around our hall and said, “This place needs a makeover.
I’ll talk to Richard.”
Richard is my husband. He was my husband, the man with whom I built this house, brick by brick, working two jobs while finishing medical school. The man who, apparently, had a young woman who could be his daughter, who believed he could redecorate my house.
“Where is Richard?” he asked, without even looking at me. “He’s not here,” I said. —Well, when will you be back?
I don’t have all day. “Who are you?” I asked, even though I was beginning to reconstruct it. “I’m Alexis, Richard’s girlfriend.” She tilted her head with an amused air.
“And you’re the maid, it seems?”
She laughed. —Well, yes, of course. But Richard usually has better-dressed staff.
Are they new? In my own house, dressed in my usual Saturday clothes (jeans and a university sweatshirt), I appeared to be the help of this child. “I’ve been here 12 years,” I said.
“Twelve years. Richard has only been here 5.”
He rolled his eyes. “Employees always exaggerate their age.
Just tell Richard I’m here. I’ll be in the room.”
He came into my living room, sat on my sofa, and put his feet up on my coffee table. The coffee table that Richard and I bought at a yard sale during our first year of marriage.
We finished it together in the garage. “Could you bring me water?” he shouted. “With lemon.
Yes, lots of ice.”
I brought him water. Yes, lemon. Too much ice.
She sighed as if she had offended him. “Is Richard upset with you? He doesn’t like things done this way.”
“How does Richard like things done?” I asked.
Co-ownership. Co-efficiency. Co-respect for your guests.
“Are you a frequent guest?”
“I’m here every Tuesday and Thursday when his wife is working,” he said, as if reciting a schedule. “Sometimes on Saturdays if she’s at her book club.”
I don’t have a book club. I haven’t worked Tuesdays or Thursdays for two months since I changed my schedule.
What happened next changed everything… continues on the next page.
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