Home > The First to Lie

The First to Lie
Author: Hank Phillippi Ryan

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CHAPTER 1

 

 

NORA


Lies have a complicated half-life. Nora—for now—tried to calculate the life span of her most recent one as she waited on the corner of Tremont and Union Park, the evening’s first snowflakes beginning to accumulate on her new—to her—black cashmere coat. Boston was new to her too, with its treacherous weather and confusing streets and wary response to newcomers. They’d warned her, laughing, not to ask for directions. You can’t get there from here, people told her.

Now, after just three weeks as a sales rep, she knew it was true, all of it. But this was the right corner, and Douglas had said he’d lived here for years, so she could rely on him for directions. Geographical, at least. The other directions—those he’d take from her. That was the plan. She could, indeed, get there from here.

Douglas would arrive soon, and he’d be happy to brush the snowflakes from her shoulders, take her someplace private and scotch-infused. She closed her eyes with the rhythm of her process. With keeping her balance. Not crossing a line.

Behind her, a horn beeped. She turned, carefully casual. Nothing. She checked for surveillance cameras: none. A seemingly oblivious passerby pinged her inner alarm, but the guy with the backpack was too focused on his phone to be a threat—someone following her, or watching her. The interior lights came on in a maybe-Volvo parked half a block down the street.

Nora eased, slowly, into the lee of the streetlight, keeping to the shadows. But it was just a mom, or nanny, extricating a baby from a car seat in the back. Nothing about Nora.

“Nora? Ms. Quinn?”

She whirled as the voice came from behind her. So much for her detective skills.

“Douglas,” she said, softening her face into Nora’s face, relaxing her smile into Nora’s welcoming smile, opening her arms like Nora did. Establishing first names. But had she already failed? Douglas might notice her artifice. How she’d first flinched at his voice.

“Did I scare you?” He came toward her, leaned to her, his breath puffing in the early evening chill. “I couldn’t wait to see you. Am I early?”

Yes, you scare me, Nora wanted to tell him. You’re a monster. “Of course not, Doctor,” she said, using his title on purpose, teasing, proving her admiration. She slid her hand through the bend of his elbow to avoid his clumsy attempt to kiss her. She was Nora, she’d be Nora, she had to stay Nora.

A turning headlight grazed his face then slipped past, leaving the memory of paisley and camel hair, of gray at the temples and Ivy League posture. Chin up, shoulders back, privilege confidently in place. Nora tried to match him stride for stride in her ridiculous but necessary suede heels, but she stumbled on a jagged shard of sidewalk.

“Oh!” she cried, suddenly precarious, grabbing his sleeve. A reflex, not a tactic. Her heels, inappropriately but deliberately too high, would be ruined.

“Gotcha.” Douglas caught her, collecting her with a paternal chuckle, preventing her from landing on the cold and gritty concrete below. “Have you already started on wine?”

“No, silly.” Gotcha? Really? Nora ignored his patronizing tone, then pivoted to cash in on her unintentional damsel-in-distress moment. “Oh, no! Look at that!”

She extended her bare leg from under her coat, pointed her toe so daintily, and pretended to pout. Sometimes it was scary, honestly scary, that this came to her so easily. “These poor little shoes are probably the worse for wear.”

“Nice leg,” Douglas said.

You idiot, she thought. Gotcha.

They walked arm in arm toward the hip South End restaurant he’d chosen, Calabria. Nora had scouted it in advance, all dripping ferns and dark wood and sophisticated stained glass and subdued lighting, with high-backed mahogany booths for those who needed privacy, and spotlighted center tables for those who needed to be noticed. Dr. Hawkins has selected a booth, the obliging maître d’ had informed her. Perfect.

She’d met Hawkins earlier this morning in his clinic office, where he’d been flat-out fifty-three minutes late for their appointment. She’d hung her coat on the rack, then kept track of every passing minute, using the calculation to intensify her resolve.

Doctors. So many of them thought they were the important ones. That the women waiting, appointment-bound, fidgeting in hypoallergenic chairs and carefully choosing glossy magazines from the glass-topped coffee table, were merely supplicants. Needy. They should be grateful for the eventual attention, for whatever medications the doctors chose.

As if the doctors could have known about these medications on their own. As if they’d chosen them without the persuasion of a salesperson like Nora. She’d patted her square black briefcase, as if to reassure herself that all her ammunition was still at the ready. Notebooks, pamphlets, dosage instructions. Samples. Those she’d taken from her personal storage unit this morning. Carefully counted, making sure, then locking the unit again. Nora wasn’t the only one with a key. Her new employer, Pharminex, could have their security goons check her supplies anytime they wanted.

The other women in the doctor’s waiting room, leafing through the array of magazines or glued to their phones, some even wearing sunglasses, all needed the good doctor. They’d realized, maybe, with the gasp of mortality or a push from a spouse, that their window of time for having a child of their own, a biological child, was slipping away. Now they waited, some hopeful, yearning, optimistic. Some fearing failure.

A dark-haired prospect, wearing the expensive Uggs and pill-free leggings, wrapped a cashmere shawl closer around her shoulders and flipped at her cell phone screen with a manicured finger. Her feet betrayed her, though, one toe tapping persistently on the thin-piled beige carpeting. A weary blonde, posture sagging and dark circles not hidden even by too-big sunglasses, cocooned on an ivory tweed club chair next to Nora, studying the floor. The zipper of one salt-edged brown boot was not fully closed. Not her first time here, Nora thought. Maybe her last.

Their eyes met in a flash of sisterhood, maybe, or sympathy. She’s probably evaluating me, Nora thought. Good luck with that. It’d be impossible for anyone observing her to reach the correct conclusion.

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