The Affair Read online

  What scandalous secret will V uncover?

  Will she leave the philandering Roger

  and find happiness with Eddie?

  Or is there another man in her future?

  And what amazing talent will V discover

  she possesses that helps her solve a

  shocking local crime?

  V’s intimate life story goes on in …

  THE DIARY OF V The Breakup

  Coming in September 2001

  from Warner Books.

  V

  from A to Z

  Suddenly I envisioned the torture of hammering out a custody agreement and knew I could never divorce him. I may be celibate and miserable for the rest of my years, but I will not leave Roger. If only I could have it all, a husband and a lover. The French manage it, don’t they? Or is it only French men? What do I know?

  Eddie wants me. That’s all I need. He caught me staring and winked. As I watched him, I realized this guy isn’t even my type. In retrospect I realize that what attracted me to Eddie was his attraction to me. I saw his desire and suddenly it didn’t matter what my type was.

  ’Til next time,

  “You’ll absolutely love V—in fact, you’ll wish you were her friend. But since that can’t be arranged, you’ll happily settle for reading her diary and discovering her most private thoughts and all the outrageous things that happen in her life.”

  —Kate White, editor-in-chief, Cosmopolitan

  Copyright

  WARNER BOOKS EDITION

  Copyright © 2001 by Women.com LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Warner Vision is a registered trademark of Warner Books, Inc.

  Warner Books, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBrookGroup.com

  www.twitter.com/centerstreet

  First eBook Edition: June 2001

  ISBN: 978-0-759-52486-6

  For Jeff, Adam, and Lisi

  And for my parents,

  Martha and Donald

  Acknowledgments

  This book would not be possible without Jeff Isaac, my husband and biggest fan for two decades, the person who pushed and prodded and ultimately convinced me that Valerie Ryan deserved her own book. I also want to give special thanks to my delightful children, Adam and Lisi, who love me even when I appear to be joined at the hip with my iMac.

  Kate White is my patron saint, as intuitive as she is adroit, always supportive—a gem.

  My agent, Sandy Dijkstra, who must have been my favorite aunt in another life, is tireless and wonderful and exquisitely patient.

  Amy Applegate has filled the dual role of dear friend and wise counsel, and I’m grateful that she found her way to our dear little town.

  My editor, Maggie Crawford, is a writer’s dream: smart, enthusiastic, insightful, and always in good cheer. I adore her.

  I thank David Salzman for his guidance, and Peggy Northrup at Redbook and Judy Coyne at Women.com for their commitment to V, online and everywhere else.

  Andy Mallor is the best-dressed attorney I know, and I’m grateful for his help with the legal plotlines. He is brilliant. Any missteps are strictly my own.

  Donna Wilber, Lorraine Rapp, Lisa Kamen, and Alisa Sutor are my personal pom squad, true allies and confidantes, the finest friends a woman could ask for.

  Chelsea, Poe, and Joseph P. Kendicott are perfect exactly the way they are, even if they’ll never read anything I write.

  Love and gratitude go to Teresa Coleman, my favorite aunt in this life; Brian Kent and Richard Spitzer, talented and honorable men; Hy and Sylvia Isaac, who have supported me in every possible way; Carole Holton, a true alchemist and treasure; and Ann Smith and Vivian Counts, my beacons, my fellow travelers.

  I thank Martha Spitzer, who inspires me with her spirit and passion and strength.

  And I thank Donald Kent, a fine poet and writer who left us too soon and will always be missed. This one’s for you, Daddy.

  Contents

  From A to Z

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Begin Reading

  About the author

  October 3

  Worked late last night, trying to catch up on paperwork. It’s just me, the Hungarian cleaning ladies, and the guy who waters the plants. I couldn’t help but notice his arms, thick and hairy (nice hair, not gorilla-man hair), and his torso is a perfect V. He is sex in a pair of blue jeans.

  I realized that he was spending a lot of time around my desk, which didn’t make sense since I only have one sad little ficus. Then he smiled and said, “Working late again, huh?” He was on one knee, tamping the mulch around the base of the tree. His fingers were thick and strong. “You ever find time for a little fun?”

  A legitimate question, actually. Since my promotion from staff therapist to “senior partner in wellness” here at the Westfield Center for Mental Wellness, I’ve had little time for anything but thrashing through heaps of paper and going to management meetings where I get to vote on such critical management questions as Does Filomena Perez in reception deserve a nineteen-dollar-a-week raise? (Yes.) Should our holiday staff party be catered or a potluck? (Catered. Who the hell has time to cook?) Should we start a softball team next spring? (God no.) As senior partner I was responsible for generating new “wellness bridges” to physicians, divorce attorneys, school counselors, and others who were in a position to send new clients our way.

  “Nah, you don’t get out much. I can tell.”

  Wait a minute. Was this guy trying to pick me up? My whole body prickled to life. It had been two and a half months since Roger and I had sex, so it wouldn’t take enormous effort to get me interested. His name was embroidered in neat cursive over his pocket. Eddie. “You have a cute mouth,” he said.

  Flirting! Oh joy! I straightened up and smiled at him. I licked my lips. “Excuse me?” I said disingenuously.

  He pointed to my computer. “Your mouse. Cute.”

  He was talking about the fuzzy mouse cover I’d bought at Staples. “Oh. Yes. My mouse.” I was mortified. The man leaned across me to pet the mouse and I could feel the heat radiating off his forearm. “Well, I’d better get the rest of the floor,” he said. Then he winked.

  Roger was in his study when I got home. He didn’t turn around when I walked into the room. It’s been a week since I lightened my hair and he still hasn’t noticed. I moved closer, bent to straighten some papers on his desk, flipped my hair in his direction. “Valerie, I’m working on a critical scene. Later, okay?”

  I would have slammed the door but my anger was suddenly tempered by simply this: Eddie.

  ’Til next time,

  October 10

  It took me exactly twelve minutes to get home from work and that’s with “traffic,” a word that we invoke with feigned exasperation because we know that five cars stuck behind a tractor on Middle Street is nothing compared with rush hour in the Lincoln Tunnel. In this midwestern college town, everything is situated twelve minutes away from everything else, regardless of where you are or where you are going. It takes twelve minutes to get from my house to the health club. Twelve minutes from Pete’s preschool to the pediatrician’s. Twelve minutes from my office to the Dairy Queen, or the dry cleaner, or the supermarket, or the mall.

  This calculus only works if you live in one of the two main residential areas: “in town” or in one of the subdivisions. If you live in town you can walk to campus, which is why professors c
ovet this pricey neighborhood, and you can buy an older home made of something real and sturdy like stone or brick, but you only get one full bathroom, and the windows on these homes don’t close right and all the rooms are drafty and you live in mortal terror that your World War II–era furnace will blow up on the coldest day of the year.

  If you’re willing to live in the suburbs, you can buy, for significantly less than the price of a house in town, a big new house with a new furnace, five bathrooms, a nice yard, a walk-out basement, a cedar deck off the family room, another cedar deck off the master bedroom, and windows that close properly. So the good news is, if you live in a subdivision, you can pee in five different toilets. The bad news is that your house is made of the lumber equivalent of Spam, an unnatural amalgam of chips and fillers. The houses look stately, but they’re like those propped-up facades at a movie studio theme park. God forbid we should have a tornado in my neighborhood, these stately Spam houses will be flattened like roadkill.

  When I got home, I snarfed down dinner and got Pete in bed for the night. I yanked on that itchy black teddie Roger bought me four years ago, yet one more attempt to resuscitate my sex life. I stood near his desk, cleared my throat. He looked up. “Hi, hon,” he said, absently. He was looking right through me, his mind clearly on his work. Then his eyes focused and he sighed. “Oh. I get it.”

  Maybe another woman would have persevered, but I felt too self-conscious to continue. “Forget it,” I told him. “It was a dumb idea.”

  I headed to the kitchen, clicked on the TV, and opened the pantry in search of anything chocolate. I found an orange plastic pumpkin behind a dusty waffle iron. Pete’s Halloween candy left over from last year. Three Hershey’s Kisses and a roll of those tart candies kids reluctantly accept when they’d much prefer anything chocolate. I unwound the tiny foil wrappers one by one and let the candy soften in my mouth. The irony was not lost on me: If I couldn’t have my husband’s kisses, Hershey’s would have to do.

  Three cheers for Roger, I thought bitterly. Mister Playwright. Mister Broadway. It’s been nine years since his play Basic Black hit it big. Critics called him a genius. They had great expectations of him. We all did. But Roger hasn’t managed another hit. He sits at his Mac and stares at the screen. He types. He scratches his stubble. He deletes. He types. Scratches. Deletes. He did manage to squeeze out a one-act play in the summer of ’94, but it was so bad that some people walked out within the first fifteen minutes, and there was booing and giggling during the curtain call. Roger went to bed that night and stayed there for two weeks.

  I’d feel sorry for the guy if I weren’t so angry. Instead of turning to me as an ally, he has turned away. I feel like such an impostor. Big-shot psychotherapist. How can I possibly help my clients when I can’t even manage my own marriage?

  The good news is that Eddie came by to water my tree this morning. Since when does he work in the morning? And why did he tend only my tree and no one else’s? Am I wrong to think this has something to do with me?

  He was wearing a baseball cap, chinos, and black high-tops. He looked like a street kid but I could tell that he was about my age, maybe a little older. Black hair, olive skin, and—yes!—slightly bucked teeth, that orthodontic imperfection I happen to find attractive. I’m no gardener, but I could see that he wasn’t doing anything productive with my ficus. Then he said, “So, uh, you think you’ll be working late tonight?”

  “Actually, I have an appointment this evening,” I answered, wishing that I could cancel the dinner we’d planned with that vulgar producer and his wife.

  “Uh-huh.” His back was toward me so I couldn’t see whether there was disappointment or indifference on his face.

  ’Til next time,

  October 17

  My first appointment wasn’t until 10 so I stopped at McD’s across from the Center for a cup of coffee. I was scanning the local paper (Council Approves New Stoplight. Charity Run Rescheduled Due To Flooding. Farmer Reports Pig Theft) when he walked in. I didn’t recognize him at first because he looked out of context without his watering hose. He said something goofy like, “Is this a private party or can anyone join in?” I swept my newspaper off the table (a bit too eagerly, I’m afraid) and he sat down.

  It seemed like we talked about everything: white-water rafting, tobacco companies, Chicago Hope, micro-brewed beer. He was so easy to talk to. He talked about his kids (three, all girls), but not his wife. I told him about Peter, but never mentioned Roger. I saw his wedding band. I caught him glancing at mine.

  I looked at Eddie and wondered if this is what his wife saw when she fell in love: celadon eyes, sun-toasted skin the color of café latte. As he talked he ran a finger around the rim of his coffee cup, and I found myself hypnotized by that finger, going around and around and around.

  I raced back to the office and almost crashed into Millie, the coffee lady. (She carries this picture of her dog on the cart, wedged in between the bagels. She’s convinced that the dog is her mother, reincarnated. “Just look into those eyes,” she tells me. “What kinda dog has eyes like that? I swear, it’s Mama.” The really weird thing is, I’m beginning to believe her.)

  Millie grabbed my sleeve as I ran past her. “Hey, where’s the fire?” She looked into my eyes and smiled slyly. “Hey? What’s all this? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re in love.”

  “You’re nuts, Millie,” I told her. “I’m a married lady.”

  ’Til next time,

  October 24

  Last night I dreamed about a man, a stranger. He was older, tall, strong. No sex, just hugging. I vaguely understood that I couldn’t be with him because I was already married, but I couldn’t remember my husband’s name. I fleetingly worried about my stretch marks. The overwhelming feeling in this dream was pure astonishment and gratitude that anyone could love me so profoundly. When I woke up my arms were curved in an embrace. I cried when I realized it was a dream.

  I had lunch with Elaine yesterday. She’s been single for years and it’s beginning to dawn on her, horribly, that she may be single for the rest of her life. She looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, “You don’t know what it’s like to be alone.”

  I wanted to tell her, “You bet your ass I do.” It’s possible to be married and still feel alone, and in some ways that’s the worst kind of solitude. Little Pete gets a surfeit of cuddling and attention; we snuggle him on the living room floor, Roger on one side, me on the other. I watch Roger stroke Pete’s hair and think, at least someone in this house is getting Roger’s affection. I suppose he could say the same about me. I have little interest in touching my husband now.

  Yesterday was our eighth anniversary. I could barely find the motivation to pick out a card, let alone buy him a present. He hired a sitter; I almost feigned illness to avoid going to dinner. What a farce. What are we celebrating, after all? He bought me a sweater in a color he knows I cannot wear (peach), and I bought him a book. We ate at Pico’s in silence as I mentally clicked through all our material possessions and imagined how we’d divvy them up. Suddenly I envisioned the torture of hammering out a custody arrangement and knew I could never divorce him. I may be celibate and miserable for the rest of my years, but I will not leave Roger. If only I could have it all, a husband and a lover. The French do it, don’t they? Or is it only French men? What do I know?

  Saw Eddie flirting with Gail, my secretary, and felt an awful rush of jealousy. She seemed to glow under his gaze. He caught me staring and winked. Why do I care? This guy isn’t even my type. All my boyfriends, and now my husband, have been pale and rangy. In retrospect I realize that what attracted me to Eddie was his attraction to me. I saw his desire and suddenly it didn’t matter what my type was.

  ’Til next time,

  October 29

  Lauren Chapman, another senior partner, cornered me after the management meeting last night. “You gotta hear this,” she says, giggling. Lauren has three kids and easily fits into her high school gym shorts (this I
know because she wore them to the family picnic). And after fifteen years of marriage to her investment broker husband, she still comes to work with marks on her neck that look suspiciously like hickeys.

  She pulled me aside and told me a story I’m sure was meant to entertain but only made me more depressed. Last night she went to meet her husband at his office for a quick bite before heading back home. Living up to his name once again, Randy insisted they make love in the conference room. On the table. “Can you believe him?” Lauren cackled. “He’s got the hormones of a fourteen-year-old!” I wanted to slap her. I know I shouldn’t let this get to me. I’m a therapist, for God’s sake.

  I can hear Roger lifting weights in the next room. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was having sex. All that grunting and gasping. He’s having this love fest with his pectorals and I’m alone in the bedroom watching Lucy reruns.

  I haven’t given up altogether. Inspired by a magazine article (and, I suppose, Lauren’s tale of unbridled conference room lust), I crept up behind him tonight while he was loading the dishwasher and reached for his fly. “What are you doing?” he asked, genuinely perplexed. “Relax and enjoy,” I whispered, determined to get him into bed. He turned to face me, pulling up his zipper. “Honey, did you forget that tonight’s NYPD Blue?”

  I know I should have “communicated my needs in a non-threatening way using ‘I’ messages.” (How many times have I given that advice to my own clients?) But in a perverse way, I’m glad he reacted the way he did. Now I can savor my fantasies of Eddie without guilt or remorse. It’s an amazing feeling, knowing that somewhere in this world there’s a man who really desires me. Right now, I need that.

  ’Til next time,