attached. She wasn’t the only woman he did this with, and some day she would move on. Did that mean he would get bored and release her from the blackmail? She should be happy at that prospect, but she felt nothing.
Michael had been civil with her, kind even, but he hadn’t tried to touch her again. Her mind screamed with
the possibilities. Did he suspect? Did he think she was cheating? Had Anton sent the pictures or the video? Surely if it had happened, her husband would have confronted her, and she’d be out on the street by now.
It was Wednesday and Michael wasn’t even pretending to have a nice meal with her. Instead, he stared at the laptop screen, the click-clack of the keys piercing through the silence every few seconds as he shoveled forkfuls of food into his mouth without bothering to look at what he was eating.
“Vivian, what’s this?”
She had no idea what he’d found, but the tone of his voice made her feel as if she were in a free fall. She put a bite of carrots in her mouth and chewed, trying to maintain her composure.
“What’s what?”
He spun the laptop around so she could see the screen. He’d been looking at their joint bank account. He rarely paid attention to that account since most of his money went through a separate, much larger account she didn’t have access to.
Her expression was perfectly blank as she looked at the screen, as if by pretending ignorance, he would go back to his Chicken Kiev and forget all about the matter.
“Twice a week withdrawals. What on earth are you spending that kind of money on? Jesus, Vivi, that’s four hundred and fifty a week.”
A drop in the bucket.
“We’ve got the money.”
“That’s not the point. What are you spending it on?”
There was no answer to give but the truth. The amount was too exact. Why hadn’t she been smarter about it? Had she thought he’d never notice?
Had she wanted to get caught so this madness would end? She could have used the check card at the ATM and taken out more varied amounts. Then she could have said she’d been shopping. Though that probably would have annoyed him, too.
She looked at her plate. “I’ve been seeing a massage therapist.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth she wished she could take them back. Or rephrase them. It sounded like she was admitting to an affair. She chanced a glance up.
His eyes were cold, narrowed on her. He seemed ready to go off on his standard diatribe about money. You’d think they were starving, or even upper middle class.
“Why didn’t you clear it with me, first?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Dr. Smith sent me there. He thought massages might loosen me up.” She didn’t think her face could get any redder.
“You stopped seeing that therapist. You said he made you uncomfortable.”
“I know.” Her gaze was on her plate again, unable to bear the intensity in his eyes. Eyes that might see far too much of her.
“I’m freezing your access,” he said, slamming the laptop shut.
All she could think was, This is it. I’m out on the street. Anton will tell him everything . All at once, her attempt at self-sabotage seemed suicidal. She wanted to drop to her knees and beg him not to, but instead she fell into the pattern that felt like normalcy between them.
Anger.
She leaped up from the table. “Fuck you, Michael. You stingy son of a bitch. Have I displeased you once in the past several weeks? Has your breakfast or dinner been late? Has your house been dirty? Have your shirts been wrinkled? You can’t even accuse me of being frigid because you haven’t made a move toward me.”
Why am I bringing that up? Shut up, Vivian. Shut the FUCK up. If he fucks me, he’ll know something’s different.
She took her plate from the table and slammed it against the dining room wall, narrowly missing the curio cabinet. As the plate shattered, she looked at Michael in time to see his eyes turn to slits. He unfolded himself from the chair.
Vivian backed
Michael had been civil with her, kind even, but he hadn’t tried to touch her again. Her mind screamed with
the possibilities. Did he suspect? Did he think she was cheating? Had Anton sent the pictures or the video? Surely if it had happened, her husband would have confronted her, and she’d be out on the street by now.
It was Wednesday and Michael wasn’t even pretending to have a nice meal with her. Instead, he stared at the laptop screen, the click-clack of the keys piercing through the silence every few seconds as he shoveled forkfuls of food into his mouth without bothering to look at what he was eating.
“Vivian, what’s this?”
She had no idea what he’d found, but the tone of his voice made her feel as if she were in a free fall. She put a bite of carrots in her mouth and chewed, trying to maintain her composure.
“What’s what?”
He spun the laptop around so she could see the screen. He’d been looking at their joint bank account. He rarely paid attention to that account since most of his money went through a separate, much larger account she didn’t have access to.
Her expression was perfectly blank as she looked at the screen, as if by pretending ignorance, he would go back to his Chicken Kiev and forget all about the matter.
“Twice a week withdrawals. What on earth are you spending that kind of money on? Jesus, Vivi, that’s four hundred and fifty a week.”
A drop in the bucket.
“We’ve got the money.”
“That’s not the point. What are you spending it on?”
There was no answer to give but the truth. The amount was too exact. Why hadn’t she been smarter about it? Had she thought he’d never notice?
Had she wanted to get caught so this madness would end? She could have used the check card at the ATM and taken out more varied amounts. Then she could have said she’d been shopping. Though that probably would have annoyed him, too.
She looked at her plate. “I’ve been seeing a massage therapist.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth she wished she could take them back. Or rephrase them. It sounded like she was admitting to an affair. She chanced a glance up.
His eyes were cold, narrowed on her. He seemed ready to go off on his standard diatribe about money. You’d think they were starving, or even upper middle class.
“Why didn’t you clear it with me, first?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Dr. Smith sent me there. He thought massages might loosen me up.” She didn’t think her face could get any redder.
“You stopped seeing that therapist. You said he made you uncomfortable.”
“I know.” Her gaze was on her plate again, unable to bear the intensity in his eyes. Eyes that might see far too much of her.
“I’m freezing your access,” he said, slamming the laptop shut.
All she could think was, This is it. I’m out on the street. Anton will tell him everything . All at once, her attempt at self-sabotage seemed suicidal. She wanted to drop to her knees and beg him not to, but instead she fell into the pattern that felt like normalcy between them.
Anger.
She leaped up from the table. “Fuck you, Michael. You stingy son of a bitch. Have I displeased you once in the past several weeks? Has your breakfast or dinner been late? Has your house been dirty? Have your shirts been wrinkled? You can’t even accuse me of being frigid because you haven’t made a move toward me.”
Why am I bringing that up? Shut up, Vivian. Shut the FUCK up. If he fucks me, he’ll know something’s different.
She took her plate from the table and slammed it against the dining room wall, narrowly missing the curio cabinet. As the plate shattered, she looked at Michael in time to see his eyes turn to slits. He unfolded himself from the chair.
Vivian backed
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