All That and Then Some

ALICE - Love Will Tear Us Apart

VIC POKES AT HIS salad like it's his last supper. He's been chasing the same piece of endive around the plate for five minutes.

"Why didn't you order the steak frites?" I ask him. "You always get the steak frites. You've never ordered a salad for your main before."

We're at the little neighbourhood French bistro that we like because I came home in a celebratory mood. The Carvil deal was going ahead — I'd returned from the washroom to find the acquisitions guy sullen and Joss looking smug (Joss' most common expression, I'm learning) — and the lawyer informed me that a new set of papers would be drawn up and sent over in the morning. Upon signing, one million dollars would be allocated to our growth, detailed plans for which would be worked out with the help of Carvil Foods' leadership team. Most importantly, stressed Eloise, we would immediately push ahead with her planned PR blitz announcing the financing. A few snaps of you and Joss shaking hands, clinking champagne glasses, that sort of thing, she'd said, to accompany the story.

It all sounded reasonable to me and I am beginning to warm to my future as a multi-location cafe proprietor wielding the considerable heft of Carvil Foods to create more jobs and living space for homeless youth across the city.

My husband, sulking over his endives, looks less enthusiastic.

"It's not going to turn into another Peter Brady situation, is it?" he asks.

A chill of embarrassment runs through me. I thought we had a mutual understanding that the name Peter Brady was never to be mentioned again after he #metoo-ed me in the bathroom at the marketing awards and Vic gave him a punch in the jaw while the entire staff of Brady Lane, my employer at the time, looked on. The whole sordid episode left a wake of hurt feelings and damaged ego that could have been the end of our marriage if Vic and I hadn't been so forgiving of each others' accidental misdemeanours. Ultimately, it had been a wake-up call that set us back on track and we've been rock solid ever since. Mostly.

But now, Vic's throwing Peter Brady down like a gauntlet onto the table between us. The hurt and suspicion are palpable. Where is this coming from?

"No," I say, reaching for his hand across the table. "Never. This isn't that. That wasn't even that."

As I say it, I wonder if it's entirely true. Like Peter, Joss Carvil does have a particular wolfishness about him. Also like Peter, it's clear that he's used to getting what he wants. But I'm not so gullible as I once was and, anyway, he would hardly have any interest in me. The idea of Joss making a play for a happily married middle-aged  somewhat older woman is absurd. All I am to him is the PR equivalent of the Cayman Islands. A place to hide his sin and avoid taxes.

I can't disregard Justine's warning though. If his sister is willing to pull prospective business associates aside in the ladies' room to warn them about him, he's probably a pretty big snake.

"I'm going into this with eyes wide open," I say definitely.

Vic smirks — an almost smile and the first I've seen in days. "But Joss Carvil's hoping for Eyes Wide Shut. If this business deal is going to turn into an erotic psychological thriller, I just hope I still have a leading role."

"Of course you do!" I squeeze his hand. "Anyway, this is pure business. I promise you, it's all about the money-honey. Now, why don't you get the waiter to add a side of frites to that weird salad you've got and let's properly celebrate?"

I hold up the champagne cocktail I ordered for us both. He looks like he's going to say something more, but goes along with it.

Awkward marital vibes put to rest, I turn the conversation to something juicer.

"Tell me honestly, Vic, do you think Leslie has been having an affair? She's your coworker so I figure you'd have some insight into her comings and goings." I'm speaking, of course, about Vivian's Leslie who hasn't so much as sent her a text since they broke up last week.

Vic looks down and messes with a walnut guiltily. I gasp.

"She has been! Tell me what you know."

He shakes his head.

"No, Alice. I'm not telling you anything. You need to appreciate that I'm caught in the middle on this one. Viv's your friend and she's living in my tv room, but Leslie is my friend and--"

"Oh, friend now, is she?" I say lightly but carefully because I don't want to set us straight back to the Peter Brady stuff, only this time with emphasis on how I accused Vic of having an affair that he wasn't.

He looks at me with a slight dare in his eye.

"Yes, friend. We've worked together for five years. We talk. She tells me stuff. And that stuff is in confidence. She knows I would never share it with you because you'd feed it right back to Vivian."

I huff impatiently.

"Fine. She tells you things and you can't — won't — tell me. But I know you want to get Vivian out of our house as soon as humanly possible. So if Leslie is NOT having an affair, it would be in your best interest to tell me that."

He sighs and puts his fork down.

"She's the opposite of having an affair, Alice."

The opposite? What's the opposite of having an affair?

"Come on, Vic. Vivian says Leslie told her she's in love with someone else." I brandish this remembered fact like proof.

"Did she though? Or is it just possible that Vivian started a huge fight, then misinterpreted Leslie's reaction to her wild accusations because... well, because Vivian loves drama?"

Hmm. Vivian does err on the side of a little dramatic, that's true. But I absolutely believe that she absolutely believes Leslie has been seeing someone else. And I think the ripped-up photograph we found in their old bedroom just seconds that belief.

"But, Leslie ripped up a picture of them together." I say, finger aloft like Inspecteur Clouseau.

"Oh, well, then it MUST be true," my husband says sarcastically. "If she tore up a photograph, she must be putting it around all over town. Makes perfect sense."

I see his point, but find his sarcasm annoying.

"Okay, then why hasn't she texted or called Viv since the night they fought? She's happy that Viv's gone. Leaves her free to conduct as many affairs as she wants, doesn't it? A-hah!"

"Have you considered — have either of you considered — that Leslie hasn't contacted Viv because she's devastated? That she might be so incredibly shaken by unfair accusations and Vivian's dramatic, sweeping exit, that she has crumbled?"

No, to be fair, I really hadn't considered that. Leslie is as stoic as they come. She lacks forgiveness, empathy — anyone who ruins a carpet in her house is OUT FOR GOOD. So, no, I find it hard to believe that she's 'crumbled' as Vic claims.

I purse my lips skeptically (face yoga!). "Is she really?"

"You don't normally see someone cry over an air vent installation, so yeah. I'd say she's pretty much in the pits."

"Interesting." I wonder what Inspecteur Clouseau would say next, but in the end, I decide it's probably better if I change topics to something less friction-y. Like dessert.

"Do you want to get a Tarte Tatin to share?"

Then, as if he wasn't acting strange enough, he pats his stomach as though he's full.

"Let's just get the cheque," he says darkly.

"But, I haven't finished celebrating!"

"I think I have."