Autopsy of a Boring Wife Page 5

  “Oh! Hello, Diane! Thank you, Josy. You can close the door on your way out.”

  “Do you want me to take your calls so you won’t be disturbed?”

  “No, no, you can send them through. Not a problem.”

  “Ah! This is an informal meeting?”

  “No, it’s a professional one. Thank you, Josy.”

  Once the door was closed, J.P. rolled his chair around the desk and next to me, then spoke to me in a hushed, confidential tone. “Listen, Diane, I’m a little uncomfortable asking you this — even a little embarrassed — but I couldn’t help noticing earlier . . . ”

  I didn’t hear the rest. I could see his mouth was moving, his hands gesticulating, but for long seconds, what he said completely escaped me. Radio silence. I was hypnotized by his beautiful hands, his perfect mouth. Which was all I needed. That he might employ them to other ends than kissing me bothered me not one bit. When his lips stopped moving, he placed his hands gently on the desk and widened his eyes to indicate it was my turn to speak.

  “Uh . . . ”

  “I’m sorry, it was rude of me to ask.”

  “No! No, no . . . uh . . . I just didn’t hear. I didn’t hear what you said.”

  “Oh?”

  “I zoned out. I’m sorry.”

  Like I said, I’d look like an idiot.

  “Okay. Uh . . . I asked where you bought your boots. I like them, and my wife’s birthday is coming up . . . ”

  “You’re married?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, that’s funny. I didn’t think you were. It’s rare, for your generation.”

  “Uh . . . I think we’re . . . about the same age.”

  “Oh really? How old are you?”

  “Forty-four.”

  “No way!”

  “Yes way.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Very possible.”

  “You can’t be!”

  He didn’t look a day past thirty-five. I could have slapped him and his adorable crow’s feet. Behind him, through the poorly washed bay window I could make out a corner of the Plains of Abraham, their historic beauty trampled by a motley group of creatures come to re-enact some bucolic scene before returning to their concrete cages. I imagined throwing myself out the window and, without so much as a blink, could almost feel the grass under my feet. Suddenly, I felt the urge to run.

  “What size shoe does she wear?”

  “Eight.”

  “Perfect.”

  I got up and, leaning against the corner of his desk for balance, took off my boots and placed them on top of the neat stack of files waiting for him. He tried hard to stop me — to convince me to put them back on — but I assured him they were new, that he wouldn’t find any others like them, and that they hurt anyway.

  “No, really, it’s so generous of you, but I don’t want your boots, I just wanted to know where you bought them. Don’t be ridiculous, I can’t take the shoes off your feet. Come on, Diane, please, you can’t leave like that.”

  “It’s okay. You made me realize I’d rather people looked at my eyes, not my feet.”

  “Okay, I offended you, I’m sorry. Your boots are beautiful, it’s just . . . ”

  I turned around, opened the door — no Josy, thank God! — and took off in socks down the corridors of the fourth floor, onto the ice-cold concrete of the stairwell, to the fifth floor. I ran, arms pumping, like Wonder Woman. I shot out of there, like I used to do in grade school at the sound of the bell. It felt great: everything seemed lighter, less bureaucratic, less stifling. Whenever I passed someone along the way, I made the sign of the devil’s horns to indicate there was nothing to worry about, that it was just a fleeting moment of madness. They could all go back to their paperwork, to the insufferable boredom of it all, but me, I had to run. And oh, how I ran! In my head, I was Lola, Forrest, Alexis the Trotter. I stopped when I reached the closed conference room door, lungs heaving, dark stains of sweat under my arms, socks blackened with dirt.

  And that’s how Claudine found me, a complete mess. I smiled at her, flashing teeth yellowed from years of drinking coffee and red wine. I was fine, obviously.

  “You should try this one day, it’s fantastic!”

  And then I ran back into the stairwell, laughing like a girl without boots, without reason, without a husband.

  I asked the taxi driver to take me to the nearest sporting goods store. Anyone could see I needed new shoes.

  * * *

  When I walked into the store in my filthy socks, the two young salesmen met me with worried expressions. It was understandable: in my state, I must have looked like a panhandler come to beg for some shoes. One of them smiled at me anyway. The sight of my Italian leather handbag must have reassured him.

  “I want to start jogging.”

  “Did you lose your shoes, ma’am?”

  “No, no. I gave them to someone who needed them.”

  “Let’s see what we can do.”

  He flashed me the dazzling white smile of a non-coffee-drinker and we proceeded to the back of the store where hundreds of brightly coloured sneakers formed a dizzying mosaic of technical and futuristic brilliance. I sat on a bench to stop my head from spinning.

  I took off my socks and put on the ones “Karim, at your service” handed me. Socks all the wannabe joggers slipped on before trying on running shoes — socks theoretically full of fungus, as Jacques, who had an irrational fear of foot diseases, would have said. I pulled them on happily. I liked living on the edge.

  “Follow me, let’s have you run a bit.”

  “Run a bit?”

  “I need to see how you run to know what kind of shoes you need.”

  “I just want ordinary running shoes.”

  “Yes, but I need to analyze your stride in order to give you the right fit, otherwise you might hurt yourself.”

  “Oh, serious business!”

  I went over to the mat and ran back and forth a few times in front of Karim, who, kneeling to examine my stride, had a perfect view of all the flab north of my knees. I’d already self-sabotaged once today, I could handle more. I considered it to be my good deed for the day: tonight he’d find his girlfriend — or boyfriend, for that matter — hotter than ever.

  In the end, I learned that I suffered from something called “overpronation.” I’d come in to buy running shoes and left with a medical condition. Out of the hundreds of shoes on display, only three would work for me, and all three were hopelessly ugly, awful combinations of neon colours and lines that hinted at aerodynamics. I have nightmares about the revival of 80s fashion, an almost clinical fear. I revelled at the selection.

  I was also forced to swallow my usual pride when choosing workout clothes.

  “Does the bra fit, ma’am?”

  “Uh . . . I think so . . . it’s a little tight around my chest . . . ”

  “That’s normal. It’s supposed to squeeze your breasts a little. For support.”

  Squeezed was an understatement; my breasts had been squished into a single shapeless mass. I could have had three or four breasts and no one would have known. My nipples would never again poke through, even when I was cold, unless they tried to go through my back.

  “Can you jump a few times, ma’am? That way we’ll know if you have enough support.”

  I’d come this far, so why not? The hinges and lock on the fitting room door shuddered as I jumped — lightly — up and down. The mirror did what it could, but if I kept it up any longer, I’d need a screwdriver. The situation was more ridiculous by the second. I was about to crack up when I realized there might be a camera hidden somewhere. And the sight of me monkeying around on YouTube would finish me off.

  Following Karim’s advice, I picked out a few articles of high-tech microfibre clothing, including Shock Absorber leggings and a pair o
f underwear “scientifically proven” for comfort. I’m an easy target for sports marketing: I’ll buy anything if science says it works.

  “What’s great about this pair, ma’am, is that it has strategically placed antibacterial mesh vents.”

  He was basically telling me with a straight face that I needed to aerate my crotch and butt crack to prevent the proliferation of unwanted germs.

  “You can also choose your preferred gluteal support. Over here, we have a range of choices . . . ”

  “Oh boy!”

  “I don’t recommend the thong. It’s popular with younger women, but more for aesthetics.”

  “What do women my age usually get?”

  “The Firm-Control X-treme.”

  I wish I’d had the guts to ask him if the underwear he was suggesting compressed backsides as much as the bras compressed boobs, in which case I wouldn’t even have a butt crack to have to aerate, but I was scared he would ask me to jump up and down to test the jiggling.

  After discussing my most private of parts with a perfect stranger, I walked out of the shop $427 lighter. I needed to run straightaway so I wouldn’t regret my purchases. Charlotte was right. Running is free — once you’ve invested the initial hundreds of dollars.

  * * *

  Later, once I was in bed — the bed in the guest room — I laughed until I cried as I pictured J.P. trying desperately to hand me back my boots like they were hot potatoes. Then I opened my computer and ordered myself a new pair made in Italy if not quite as flashy. I had to give my eyes a chance.

  7

  In which I ramble on about mundane things

  “Do you resent him?”

  “Of course I do. A lot.”

  “Why?”

  “Pfff . . . ”

  “Can you try to put it into words?”

  The pale pink of her silk button-down had a calming effect. I’d even decided not to time our session. I needed to focus on being efficient and avoid blubbering like a fool.

  “The last time we slept together, I didn’t know it would be the last time. That’s tough to swallow for a woman my age. It might have been my last time ever.”

  “Would you have wanted to know?”

  “I don’t see how I could have. ‘Hey, Diane, by the way, this is the last time we’ll ever have sex . . .’ ”

  “Hmm.”

  “But he knew, obviously he did. That’s what I find so disgusting.”

  “Why does that disgust you?”

  “Because I can picture him saying to himself, ‘Come on, Jacques, bang your wife one last time. After that, you’re in the clear . . .’ ”

  My voice broke. My chin started to tremble. The pain was never far off, rising in my throat every time I met it head on. My therapist looked deep into my eyes without moving, without speaking. I felt the pain recede, until it was gone. Had it not been for the grace of her non-response, I’d have stopped right there. Big hot tears traced an arc across my cheeks before slipping down my neck.

  “I’d like to know what I missed. I want to know how these things happen, how they start, who does what. I know it’s silly. This happens to so many people, you hear these stories all the time. But I can’t picture how it all started. Everything’s so blurry. I just keep playing the same scenes over and over in my head. He gave me a rough idea of when he first started seeing his stupid whore, only because I wouldn’t let it go, but I still don’t know how it happened. That part is so vague. Why can’t he just tell me? If only for the closure. When someone is murdered, their loved ones have the right to know what happened. They’re told the weapon that’s used, the time of death, whether the person suffered or not. And, if they did, for how long. I’m convinced it’s better to know everything, because otherwise you just spend your time speculating. I know, I know, no one died. But picturing that first kiss, the first time their hands touched, it’s driving me crazy. Knowing wouldn’t change anything, but at least give me somewhere to start hating. I could direct my rage at something specific — the conference, the trip to Boston, the dinner at Buonanotte . . . Because now, it just feels like I’ve nothing to hold onto, like I’m fumbling around. I picture them at one of those goddamn society parties. Christ, I was so fed up having to fake small talk with people who care only about money. I think of her walking over to him, all glammed up like a starlet, with her big sparkly earrings and kiss-proof lip gloss — so radiant and young, no wrinkles, no bags under her eyes, a goddamn tiny dress over her flat stomach, her tight ass . . . and then I see Jacques looking at her, thinking oh my God, she’s beautiful, offering to get her a glass of white, chivalrous as a knight in shining armour, how their hands touch, separate, come back together, brush against each other again . . . hands. It’s all about the hands. We think it’s our eyes that do the talking but I know it’s the hands. All it takes is one lingering finger . . . I was never the jealous type, it never really crossed my mind. Well, except for 77once, a long time ago, but that was all in my head. His colleagues might have noticed, the moment it all started with Charlene, but what do they care? They might have even thought it was funny, everyone does it . . . so many parties and conferences every year, there’s always an asshole or two. I could tell you some stories, I swear, but about other people, normally . . . sometimes I picture them in the office together. I imagine Jacques’s hand on her shoulder, the beautiful Charlene. ‘Come see me in my office, we need to talk about so-and-so’s file,’ and once the door’s closed, someone makes the first move, it doesn’t matter who . . . He was supposed to protect us, to push her away, that was his job, not hers. She doesn’t owe me a thing, he’s the one who was supposed to shut it down, and because he didn’t, it’s like he made the first move . . . Either way, it all boils down to the same thing: I’m the problem. Whether he approached her or just didn’t say no when she did, it was because he needed something . . . something that wasn’t me. I had no idea he wasn’t happy . . . ”

  The therapist leaned forward a bit and narrowed her eyes, hair cascading over her shoulders.

  “Sure, all of a sudden there were lots of meetings that ran late, or he’d go back to the office to pick up a file . . . Once he came home at one in the morning with a coffee from Tim Hortons. He hates their coffee! He got a new credit card for ‘client expenses’ . . . It could have been just a fling, nothing serious, that I might have understood, to a point . . . but he chose her at the end of the day and that’s what kills. He chose her, he chose to give up everything for her, just flushed twenty-eight years of his life down the toilet for a thirty-year-old bimbo, even though he knew it would destroy me. I’m so naïve, so naïve, I never thought it could happen to me. I know that’s what everyone says, but I really believed it, I’d totally convinced myself . . . ”

  “Why?”

  “Because a part of me always believed those women had it coming to them, at least a little bit. What an idiot I was. In the end, maybe I do deserve it . . . Christ, I thought it was all so beneath me.”

  She wasn’t writing anything down. I was blubbering on, no doubt recounting the same inanities as every woman who’d ever ended up in a puddle on her couch, holding their guts in their hands. I wasn’t reinventing the pain, I was living it. I was working through it like everyone else, had the same thoughts and fears — no need to waste any ink, I agreed with her. It was the same thing, the same fucking thing.

  “I thought everything we’d been through made us stronger, made us steadfast, brought us closer, but now I think it just wore us out. Maybe it isn’t good to know your partner too well, maybe it adds to the distance rather than shrinking it . . . Over the years you keep hearing the same stories, you keep having to deal with the same habits, and the flaws just seem to get bigger . . . I know I got on his nerves sometimes . . . I don’t know what comes first, you fall in love with someone else because you’re sick of your wife, or you fall in love and then get sick of her? Like the chicken and th
e egg. I’m ashamed, which is weird . . . he’s the one who dumped me and I’m the one who’s ashamed. I feel like everyone’s looking at me like I have the plague. I tell myself they must think Jacques had his reasons for leaving me, that I must be boring or unbearable to live with. Maybe he just stayed for the kids — lots of people do. Charlotte did just move out, it’s probably not a coincidence . . . I’m ashamed and I feel dirty. I take scalding hot baths every night and scrub so hard it’s like I’m trying to take off a layer of my skin, but it doesn’t help . . . ”

  I scratched my arm and glanced at my watch: we were thirteen minutes over time.

  “I feel bad for you, you must hear the same stories over and over . . . ”

  “Your wounds are fresh. If you broke your arm, it wouldn’t hurt any less to know millions of other people have broken their arms, too.”

  “If you look at it like that . . . ”

  8

  In which I recall the joys of adolescence

  The notion that I was somehow responsible for my situation came to me partly because of what I’d observed of Claudine’s family: her daughters gave her such a hard time you’d think they wanted her to pay for the plight of humanity. And as with so many stories of this kind, she refused to vilify or accuse Philippe of anything while he had a field day justifying his decision to leave, with all the badmouthing you’d expect. He all but blamed her for global warming.

  In her infinite wisdom, Claudine clung to the belief that sooner or later her kids would figure out the real story and eventually make amends for their cruel and unwarranted behaviour. But as she waited for the blessed day to come, her two daughters made her life hell. They were perfectly comfortable acting obnoxious when I was around, treating me like a piece of furniture. At thirteen and sixteen, they reminded me of Nelly, the little brat from Little House on the Prairie.