Reputation(15)
“Just take a Tums,” I murmur to him now.
Desperation flashes across Patrick’s face. “Nice to see you again,” he says to Rupert, as he backs away.
Rupert loops a fleshy arm around me. “If you leave, I might just take this one home!” He squeezes me tighter. His skin smells like Scotch and, underneath it, Bengay. I laugh along, but inside, I’m rolling my eyes. If I suggested that Rupert and I get naked, he’d probably piss his pants.
“But seriously,” Rupert adds to Patrick, “you’ve got a real gem with this one. She can tell a joke, speaks four languages, and she was telling me earlier that she’s skilled in French cuisine! Watch out, Julia Child!”
Patrick laughs halfheartedly. “Yep, Lynn can pretty much do it all.”
He squeezes my arm, gives me one more kiss, and heads to the door. I glance around to see if anyone’s seen. It doesn’t seem so, but I wish Patrick weren’t walking out of the museum so damn quickly. I mean, he’s practically jogging away from me.
I wish Patrick’s e-mails were on that hack server. I want to believe that he’s faithful—he’d better be—but after trolling so many accounts on that hack database, I don’t have much trust in humanity. Kit’s husband’s dalliance was far from the only transgression I found—totally unassuming people are having affairs, people I would have never guessed. Like my sweet, slightly na?ve neighbor Charlie in Aldrich University medical research? He’s banging his research assistant. And Tomiko Clarke, who has an executive role in Aldrich Alumni Relations, is cheating on her wife with a man. I even found a dozen long, deep, emotional letters to a person named Sadie in my boss George’s drafts folder. I don’t know who Sadie is—and considering that George’s wife is with him tonight, either they’ve worked it out or she hasn’t trolled his e-mails yet.
But Patrick would be a fool to play with fire. It’s not even worth dwelling on—I have a job to do. I have donations to bring in and money to make. I also still have the Kit Show to watch. And so I turn to her, watching as she staggers about, arms flailing, body listing. I have a good feeling that after tonight, everything is really going to change.
7
KIT
THURSDAY, APRIL 27, 2017
The first thing I smell when I come to is bleach. Which is unfortunate, because I hate bleach: It always reminds me of being in the morgue all those years ago. A dry heave wells up inside me, and I press onto my arms. My eyes feel reptile-dry as I open them. There is the taste of death in my mouth. Where the hell am I?
The world spins. I see the overhead light blaring, the tile work, a dust ball, a strand of my highlighted hair. And then I see the photograph. It’s an Ansel Adams print of Siesta Lake in Yosemite Park. The real deal Ansel Adams, not some lame print you buy in a mall art shop—Greg bought it for me as a wedding present. I even remember the card: A cool, tranquil respite for my cool, tranquil respite. Greg was such a Lord Byron back when things were fresh and new.
Okay, then. I’m in my downstairs powder room. In my craftsman-style home tucked on Hazel Lane in Blue Hill, one-point-six miles from the museum, where the gala was held. How did that happen? Did I walk here?
I struggle to my feet. The world lurches, and I catch the side of the sink. I’m definitely still drunk from the gala. What did I drink? All I can remember is one martini. I notice my reflection in the mirror: My gray gown is as wrinkled as elephant skin. My makeup is ghoulishly smudged around my eyes. My lipstick has long been eaten away.
It feels like the tundra in the front hallway, and I’m quick to discover why: My huge, arch-shaped craftsman-style door stands wide open. A crisp breeze gusts in the smell of earth and mulch. Jesus. Did I really leave that open? And then I spot my car crookedly parked in the driveway. I close my eyes, desperately wanting to blot out what my brain now knows. I drove home. I can’t quite believe it: I never drive drunk.
I twist around, peering back into the bathroom. My clutch lies facedown on the tile, a lipstick and my keys fallen out. I scoop everything up, pull out my phone, and look at the time. It’s past 1:00 A.M. Cold, clammy panic overtakes me. The last I remember checking, it had been only a little after ten. I’ve lost three hours.
I retrace my steps: I’d gone inside the gala. Talked to Dad. Drifted over to Lynn Godfrey. And then . . . Patrick. I shut my eyes. I’ve temporarily forgotten.
I recall dinner, sort of—talking to the Farrows, the Reeds, the Lechters—but I also remember hiccupping loudly. All eyes on me again. Someone laughing unkindly. Someone mentioning an MRI machine. Lynn Godfrey watching me, amused, from a few tables over . . . with her husband. But I couldn’t look Patrick’s way. I didn’t want to know if he was watching me—or if he wasn’t watching me.
At some point, the Lewises tapped my arm and said they were leaving—and, oh yes, they were reconsidering their donation this year, considering all these hack scandals that were coming out. “You mean about my husband?” I’d blurted. God, had I actually said that? They’d looked at me partly pityingly. Maureen, the wife, said I should go home and get some rest.
But everything else . . . all those other hours and minutes . . . I can’t remember. At all.
“Aurora?” I call out into the hallway. No answer.
“Greg?” I sound like a witch, my voice craggy and sick. As I look down, I realize I’m only wearing one shoe.