Heart of the Matter - Emily Giffin [86]
“Eliot Spitzer,” I say, remembering how obsessed I was with that hooker scandal, and more specifically, with his wife, Silda. How I had marveled when she stood behind him at the podium, her eyes puffy and red, looking utterly defeated and disgraced as he confessed and resigned on national television. Literally standing by her man. I wondered how long she had deliberated on what to wear that morning. Whether she had Googled the hooker in question, poring over her pictures online or in the tabloids. What she said to her friends. To her three daughters. To her mother. To him.
“At least Tina doesn’t have to face the nation,” I say. “Can you imagine?”
“No,” Romy says. “I can’t believe these women go on television like that.”
“Yeah,” April says. “I’d be gone in a heartbeat.”
MC and Romy murmur their agreement, and then they all look at me, waiting for me to weigh in on the subject, giving me no choice but to tell them I am in perfect agreement. Which I am. I think.
“Would you find it harder to forgive a prostitute or a love affair?” April asks, reading my mind.
MC chortles. “Burned to death or drowned?” Then she turns to Romy and says, “Sorry, hon. Unfortunate choice of words. Damn. I always put my foot in my mouth . . .”
Romy shakes her head somberly and reaches out to pat MC’s hand. “It’s okay, hon. I know what you meant.” Then she fiddles with her diamond ring, spinning it twice around, and says, “I could never forgive Daniel if he slept with a hooker. It’s just so gross. I couldn’t forgive anything that sleazy, I’d rather he fall in love with someone.”
“Really?” MC says. “I think I could get over something physical—maybe not a hooker, but a purely physical, one-night-stand kind of thing . . . But if Rick actually loved someone . . . that’s a different story.”
April looks contemplative and then says to me, “What would bother you more, Tess? Hot sex or love?”
I consider this for a second, then say, “Depends.”
“On what?” Romy says.
“On whether he’s having hot sex with the girl he loves.”
They all laugh as I think of Nick’s text, feeling sick to my stomach, hoping that I never have to find out exactly what I’d do in any of the above scenarios.
28
Valerie
Charlie Anderson has a purple alien face.
They are words Valerie knows will be seared into his consciousness forever, part of his indelible life story, along with Summer Turner, the little girl who convinced him to remove his mask and show her his scars, right before issuing the cruel proclamation that made three children laugh, Grayson among them.
It happened on the Friday of Charlie’s first week back to school, just as Valerie was finally feeling optimistic. Not home free by any means, but out of the danger zone. She had just successfully argued a motion for summary judgment in front of a notoriously misogynistic judge, leaving the courthouse with a renewed sense of confidence that comes with success, with the feeling of being good at something. Life was returning to normal, she thought, as she reached into her purse for her keys and checked her cell phone, seeing four missed calls, two from Nick, two from the school. She had only turned her phone off for an hour, a rule at the courthouse, and although it occurred to her that something could happen in that short a window, she didn’t think that it actually would. Envisioning another accident, and knowing that she could get a report from Nick faster than a web of secretaries at the school, she frantically got into the car and dialed his number, bracing herself for his medical report.
“Hi there,” Nick answered in such a way that confirmed to Valerie that the calls were about Charlie, and that something bad had happened, but that it wasn’t as dire as she feared. She felt her panic recede slightly as she asked, “Is Charlie okay?”
“Yes. He’s fine.”
“He wasn’t hurt?”
“No . . . Not physically . . . But there was an incident,” Nick said calmly. “The school tried to call you first—“
“I know. I was in court,” she said, feeling overwhelming guilt for being unavailable,