Lukas mumbles goodnight. My mom and I walk toward the gate.
As it clicks shut behind us, I feel glad to be out of there, but also troubled. “Mom?” I say, as we turn toward our cars. “Don’t you know some way to contact this guy Daphne’s dating? Do you have his phone number? Or are you like, Facebook friends, or something?”
My mom sounds vague. “Daphne’s not on Facebook. And neither is he, so far as I know.”
Nor is she, really. I set up a profile and page to promote her business. I doubt she posts on it monthly. And when she does, it’s always something weird and random, like a GIF of square-dancing penguins, or a story about volunteer-tourism in the Amazon Basin.
My mother sighs. “Stephen Buxley. Maybe he’s in the phonebook? I really know next to nothing about him.”
That is weird, I think. But is it? They haven’t been dating for very long. Maybe they’re taking things slowly.
“I’m sure Grace is right,” says my mom. “And she’s off with Stephen.” I can hear her determination to be hopeful.
I agree. That’s most likely. But who is this guy? No one knows him—or his motives for dating Daphne. I think of Vonda and her soon-to-be ex, both hoping to land loaded spouses, both ending up disappointed. We think lots of dosh will protect us from harm, and bring respect, security, and comfort. But wealth and luck are double-edged swords that can also attract greed and envy.
CHAPTER 6:
UNFAITHFUL
My office at Greene & Olliartee is smaller than Daphne Dane’s walk-in closet, although at least it’s got a window. There’s a view of the office building across the street and—if you lean really far out—a sliver of ocean.
After days of rain and cold, the sun has broken through. Out of the wind, it’s surprisingly warm. With sunlight streaming in, my teeny room is stifling. Luckily I wore a black tank top under my turtle-neck sweater.
I’ve just shed my sweater when there’s a knock on the door. I smooth back my hair. My next appointment isn’t due until three. Pamela Powell, the firm’s past-retirement-age secretary, never knocks. If it were her, she’d already be owl-eyeing me around the door in her giant Tootsie glasses. Maybe one of my bosses, Mel or Philippa, have stopped by for some postlunch chit chat.
I sit up straighter and use my toes to feel around for my shoes, abandoned somewhere beneath my large desk. “Come in,” I say.
Pamela must be out powdering her already over-powdered nose because it’s a client, unannounced. Her perfume hits me first.
She looks around the door: “Hello, Toby Vong.”
As before, her voice gives me chills—that mix of fire and ice, wood smoke and cold vodka. I sit up straighter. “Hello, Vonda.”
I have to remember to shut my mouth as she sashays across the room. While it hardly seems possible, today’s black patent heels are even higher than the red ones she wore last time. Her stilettos click like black lacquered chopsticks.
Clad in a red dress so tight it’s a wonder she can breathe, let alone sit, she twists into a chair and crosses her killer legs. With one eye overhung by a swathe of glossy curls she reminds me of a sexy pirate. “You said I must prove cruelty or adultery for a Fault divorce,” she begins. Her uncovered eye glints in triumph.
I nod, determined to do my duty. “Yes, but a No Fault would be cheaper and . . .”
She raises a hand and bats this point away. Her fingernails, now gunmetal grey, flash like knives. “No. I vill prove this is his fault.” I wait as Vonda leans closer. Just for a moment, her big grey eyes well with sadness. Then she rallies. Her perfect teeth grit back into a grin. “He is seeing someone else,” she says. “Another voman.”
“Oh,” I say. “How do you know?”
Vonda’s fingernails tap my desk. “His credit card statements.” Her eyes narrow dangerously. “Charges at Agent Provocateur, Victoria’s Secret.”
Seeing my blank look her top lip curls. “He is buying sexy lingerie,” she hisses. “And not for me. There is nothing he can buy for himself at those stores. Nothing! Vhich means he is shopping for another voman!”
“Maybe it’s your Christmas present,” I suggest. Some people actually do shop early, instead of waiting until the last second.
Vonda snorts. Both her eyes and her engagement ring glitter. “No vay! He is cheating on me!” While her ring is fake, it’s still eye-catching. She glares at me. “Can you believe it?”
Not easily, I must admit. If she’s right, her husband’s got balls, no doubt about it. I’d hate to make Vonda angry.
I open my mouth to ask who this other woman is but she’s off again. “There is more.” She swings her small red snakeskin purse off her shoulder and deposits it on my desk, then opens it with a click that makes me jump. “This!” Pinched between the blades of her fingernails is a matchbox. She tosses it to me.
I try but fail to catch it, which leads to an inelegant rummage beneath my desk. I’m about to give up when my sweaty fingers find it.
“It’s from L’Escargot D’Or,” says Vonda, as I resurface and regain my seat. I nudge my almost shoulder-length hair back out of my face, which is also sweaty.
I study the matchbox. Its swirly gold font and snail logo elicit a trickle of regret—this is the place where Josh was planning to take me last night. If only I hadn’t gotten stuck looking for Daphne.
“It is the most romantic and expensive restaurant in town,” continues Vonda, clearly convinced I’ve never been there. Her voice now has an angry swish, like the rustle of tall, dried grass as a cheetah glides through it. “He never took me there!”
“Okay,” I say, satisfied she’s probably right: Dennis Butts, her husband of just three months, may very well be unfaithful. “Do you know who she is?” I ask.
Vonda’s glossy hair tosses. “Not yet,” she says. “But I vill find out.”
I shake my head. What’s Vonda planning to do? Follow her husband? It’s not like she doesn’t stand out. Women like Vonda might blend in at the Playboy Mansion, but here, in Victoria, everyone else is in fleece and Hush Puppies. Maybe a private investigator would be the way to go, if she can afford one.
When I suggest this, a hand flies to her white throat. “No vay. It vill be easy to follow him, once he gets back.”
By now, I’m having to make a conscious effort to pronounce my Ws correctly. “What do you mean?” I ask. “Where is he?”
Beneath her swept-over bangs, Vonda’s scowl deepens. Her gaze turns to my window. Mine follows. In the red brick building across the street I can see into a dentist’s office. A white-robed lady dentist is bent over a guy with buzzed hair, his mouth open and his eyes squeezed shut, as if he’s screaming. My gut twists in sympathy. I look away, as does Vonda. There’s another dentist in my building. I can sometimes hear the drill, when my window’s open.
Vonda licks her glossy lips. “I don’t know vhere Dennis has gone,” she says. Her voice drops. “He didn’t come home last night. He must be off, vooing this other voman.”
“Er, okay,” I say. That’s suspicious. “Has he ever done this before?” I ask. “I mean, not come home?”