Chapter 1 : Part 5

It's About Your Husband
by Lauren Lipton

(Page 5 of 7)

"I have no intention of being hard to get," Val says. I'm only half paying attention. I'm swaying slightly from the beer, looking past the twins at the magnificent four-sided brass clock at the top of the Grand Central information booth. "Five thirty-six," it reads. I'm thinking, But Val, you invited me to happy hour. I'm thinking I didn't get to talk about my day. Val and Vickie stand up and eye each other warily: opponents trying to get away with not shaking hands after the big grudge match. In the end, Val avoids the issue by patting her sister's shopping bags instead of her sister. "Say hi to Mom and Dad."

"Okay." Vickie turns to me. "Take care." "Yes, right. You, too." No spy assignment. So much for my new calling.

"I'll talk to you soon," Val promises me as she (thank goodness) settles the bill, and we all descend the stairs into the crowd, and the opposite twins head back to their opposite lives. For a moment I linger in the middle of the terminal, wondering what to do with myself, and am hit with the irrational urge to return to the bar, blow my future unemployment money on booze, and spend the night having gymnastic sex with a stranger off the six fifteen. Simultaneously, I am aware that what the evening really has in store for me is leftover sesame noodles from Szechuan Palace and, if the gods are smiling, a movie on TV I haven't already seen. I wonder if I'll have to cancel the cable.

"Iris!" It's Vickie, hurrying back over from the doorway to track fourteen, shopping-bag handles looped over every inch of both of her arms. She glances nervously back toward the platform. The train must be close to leaving. "Go ahead," she calls over the din of the crowd. "Tomorrow morning. The address is Twelve Seventy-five Lexington, between Eighty-fifth and Eighty-sixth. He always leaves by seven sharp. You can hide across the street and follow him." She waits, tapping her foot the way Val, impatient for drinks, was tapping her finger on our table earlier. "Okay?"

Sure, except I've never met her husband and have no idea what he looks like. "Can you give me a physical description?" I'm so busy being pleased with myself at "physical description" that when Vickie shifts her bags, works a hand into her purse, extracts a credit card, and holds it up to my face, it takes me a moment to understand she's showing me her husband's postage-stamp-size antifraud mug shot on the front. "Steven Sokolov," the card says. I lean forward and study Steve's tiny face: brown hair, brown eyes-your basic aging frat boy.

Vickie slides the card back into her purse, readjusts her packages, and starts back toward the train. "Wait!"

She whirls back around, looking agitated. "Height? Weight? Clothing? Unusual birthmarks?" I don't want her to miss the train, but, according to the New York State Department of Labor, it's important to gather the correct equipment for my job toolbox.

Vickie edges backward. "About five eleven, one-eighty. No birthmarks. Shirt, shorts-you know, jogging attire. He'll be with a Parson Russell terrier. It's really, really time for me to go." She backs up a few more steps toward the platform doorway.

"Wait! What's a Parson Russell terrier?" "For heaven's sake. A Jack Russell terrier. Same thing. All right?"

"Got it. Do you want me to call you afterward, or . . . ?" She rips off a piece of the striped Bendel's bag, again reaches into her purse, pulls out a Tiffany pen, scribbles a 917 cell phone number on the back of the piece of bag, and practically throws it at me. I'm impressed at Vickie's ability to manage this cumbersome array of possessions while simultaneously walking in reverse and making me feel as if she's my superior.

"What's your fee?" "What?" "Your fee. What you charge."

My fee? Good question. She's about to break into a run, so it might be smart to pin her down first. What would one charge for this kind of service?

"We'll talk about it later!" Vickie shouts, and runs for the train.

Cognitive dissonance. That's the official psychological term for what happens when you find yourself in a situation that completely contradicts the situation you were expecting, and your brain refuses to accept it.

For instance, you're in Grand Central to meet a friend, and get her mixed up with her twin sister.

Or, on your birthday, at the out-of-the-way restaurant where your sweetheart has taken you for a quiet dinner for two, you bump into someone you know: your boss, or a friend you made in the Blue Jay cabin at Camp Sequoia when you were eleven. Your eyes take in this out-of-context character, and your brain thinks, Pat Sweeney at La Ventana the same night as us? Small world! In walks someone else. Aunt Rose, too? Spooky! Only in the face of overwhelming evidence- like fifty people jumping out and yelling, "Surprise!"-does your brain finally make the connection.

Copyright © 2006 by Lauren Lipton

About the Author

Lauren Lipton is a deputy editor at Cosmopolitan. Previously she was a senior editor at In Style and a staff writer at The Wall Street Journal, where for the popular Weekend Journal section she reported on supersize engagement rings, copycat brides who steal their friends' wedding ideas, and luxury homes with his-and-hers garages. Her work has also appeared in publications including Glamour and Marie Claire and on National Public Radio's All Things Considered. She began her career as a staff writer at the Los Angeles Times, covering television and lifestyle trends.