Hidden in Lies (3 page)

THE NEXT MORNING
I wake up to an empty bed. The sun is just peeking out over the horizon, and I know I should go downstairs to see Cal before he heads off to work. Stretching my arms above my head, I hoist myself up out of bed and throw on my silk robe that hangs next to the door before going to the bathroom to brush my teeth. I stare into the mirror as I take in my reflection. I still look the same with my straight, light-brown hair, green eyes, full lips, and high cheekbones, but every day I feel myself changing slightly. The burden of playing the perfect, plastic wife is starting to take its toll on me emotionally, and I wonder how long I’ll be able to keep up the charade before I crack.

After I brush my teeth, I walk down the stairs and can hear Cal talking quietly as I get closer. I pause outside the entrance to the kitchen to listen to what he’s saying.

“I told you to get the damn votes. I don’t care who you have to fuck over or make promises to, get it done. If this bill doesn’t go through, I can kiss my presidential candidacy good-bye.” Cal pulls the phone away from his ear and tosses it on to the kitchen island. He runs his hands through his reddish-brown hair, letting out a deep sigh in frustration. I walk around the island to make my presence known.

When he lifts his eyes, I give him a small smile. “Good morning, love. Is everything alright?” I ask.

“Nothing for you to worry about. Do you want to have some coffee with me before I leave?” The stress lines in his face have smoothed out. That’s the one thing about Cal; he’s good at masking his emotions. It makes it difficult to read him, and one of the things that annoy me the most. He always gives off a cool façade. Always the politician.

Once I pour us both a cup of coffee, I set his in front of him and walk around behind him. Rubbing his shoulders, I say, “You seem tense. Everything going well at the office?” I know I’m prying, and I’m sure it doesn’t go unnoticed by him either, but maybe I can help or if nothing else, provide him some comfort.

“Like I said, dear, it’s nothing for you to worry about. Everything is fine.” His voice is tight and I know that’s the end of the discussion. Giving up on that line of questioning, I decide to ask him something else that I’ve been pondering recently.

“Are you planning to run for president? I thought I heard Aaron talking about it one day, but you never—” I’m cut off midsentence when he turns around on his bar stool and grabs my hands, cutting me a sharp look.

“Elizabeth, why all the questions? I told you, when I make a decision, I’ll let you know. Until then, don’t worry your pretty little head over it, got it?” His grip on my hands tightens.

Struggling to hold my tongue, my lips twitch with effort to smile. “Yes, dear. I only ask because I care.” I look down at the ground to break eye contact.

“I know you do,” he remarks as he lifts my chin up with his finger. “But it’s really not the place for a wife to be sticking her nose.” The back of his hand brushes against my cheek as his voice softens. He says this gently, but pointing out that he doesn’t see me as his equal has the opposite effect on me. My stomach twists and my jaw tightens being told so blatantly that I am beneath him, but I quickly cool my features to keep from giving away my disgust at his comment.

“My apologies.” I lean down and kiss him on the cheek which seems to placate him. “I’m going to jump in the shower. I’m having lunch with Catherine down in the city.”

“That sounds nice. Tell Catherine I said hello and have fun.” He kisses me on the lips, smiling at me as he pulls back.

“Should I expect you home for dinner tonight?” I walk backward, letting our joined hands stretch out between us before letting go.

“I’m not sure. I have a few meetings with some lobbying groups, but I’ll call and let you know.” Getting up from his stool, he takes his coffee mug and places it in the sink.

“Okay, I’ll talk to you later,” I say over my shoulder as I make my way back to our bedroom. Once I’m in the privacy of my bathroom, I sit on the closed toilet seat and struggle to put a lid on my emotions. My frustrations over being ignored and treated like a piece of decorative furniture are starting to fester the longer I’m married to Cal. Squeezing my eyes shut and balling my hands into tight fists, I shut down the part of my brain that’s telling me to march back into the kitchen and tell Cal to go fuck himself.

After sliding off my bathrobe and nighty, I step into the shower, letting the hot spray relax my tense muscles. Part of me wonders what would have become of my life if I had never listened to my mother’s constant talk about finding a man with money and just followed my heart. If I had married for love instead of wealth.

Maybe there was a man out there who was financially stable that I could have loved. I did try to find a man like that, someone who could provide for me that I cared about and enjoyed spending time with. I’ve never dated a man that I loved unconditionally, and I don’t think anyone has loved me without something to gain from our relationship. Unfortunately, I was never able to find a compromise between love and money and circumstances in my life forced my hand into settling with Cal.

I’m just walking through the doors of Siroc, the restaurant I’m meeting Catherine at. As usual, Cal had a driver come to the house to take me. Even though I don’t mind taking the Metro or a cab, Cal insists. He once told me that having the wife of a Fitzgerald taking public transportation was a disgrace and that he would not stand for it. Not to mention his mother and father would blow a gasket.
God forbid the world thinks they’re average.

“Hello, Mrs. Fitzgerald, how nice to see you again,” the hostess greets me.

Smiling politely, I respond, “Thank you. I’m meeting Mrs. Williams this afternoon. Is she here yet?”

“Yes, ma’am. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to your table.” Trailing behind her, I look around at the other patrons of this establishment. Being that this is in the heart of the city and not far from the White House, most people are dressed in business attire; suits and ties, pencil skirts and blouses. All of them no doubt working for the government in some aspect.

The hostess stops and waves her arm out, gesturing to a booth my friend is already occupying. As I’m taking a seat, the hostess says, “Your waiter will be right with you.” I reply with a thank you and she leaves us.

“Oh, Elizabeth, you look wonderful this afternoon, dah-ling,” she says as she drawls out the last word. The way she talks always comes off so fake to me, like she tries to
sound
rich. It’s incredibly annoying.

“Thank you, Catherine. You look lovely yourself.” Catherine always looks impeccable with her perfectly placed short, blonde hair, flawless makeup, and dressed head to toe in Chanel. She carries herself with an air of superiority, a thing that’s common among people of her stature. My husband and his family included.

“Oh, I look a mess,” she says as she gently pats her hair ensuring not a strand is out of place. This is her response every time she gets a flattering remark. I almost want to ask her how she expects me to respond to that. Sorry, but I inflate my husband’s ego enough at home. I don’t have the energy to inflate hers as well.

Ignoring her ill attempt to downplay my compliment, I look over my menu even though I already know what I’m going to get. The same thing I get everywhere I go; a salad with balsamic vinaigrette dressing. My eating habits stem from another lesson my mother taught me on how to keep a rich man. Always maintain your appearance. When you’re younger, that involves eating right, watching calories, and exercising. And as I age, that will evolve into going under the knife to get a nip, tuck, and lift where needed.

The waiter takes our orders before leaving our table where I’m subjected to Catherine’s endless chatter about all things I don’t care about. Who’s dating who. What happened on this show with these housewives. Who had a nose job. Who carried a handbag from,
gasp,
last season. As always, I smile when appropriate and throw in mindless comments here and there.

Catherine is a nice woman, she really is, but she’s been trapped in this privileged bubble her whole life. For her a tragedy is when her Louboutin shoes get scuffed. She has no clue that there are people out there with real problems and struggles, but I’m friends with her to benefit Cal. Her husband is the owner of Williams Ships, one of the largest shipbuilding companies in the world. And Cal’s family has a highly lucrative contract with them to provide the steel needed to produce their ships.

“So I’m going to charter Henry’s private jet to New York this weekend for some shopping. Would you like to join me?” Catherine asks, pulling me out of my thoughts. Henry is her husband and sends her on weekend getaways often so that he can visit with his mistress. Everyone knows about it, so it would make sense that Catherine does as well, but something tells me she’d rather turn a blind eye than give up the lifestyle she has grown very accustomed to. While her parents are well off, they don’t hold a candle to Henry’s net worth.

“This weekend?” I ask, mostly to buy myself more time to think up an excuse for why I can’t go. Nothing would pain me more than to waste a weekend spending copious amounts of money on frivolous items. Yes, I have plenty of nice things from designers, but that’s all part of the façade. If one is to marry a Fitzgerald, then she will look the way a wife of such a prestigious family should.

It’s another thing Cal informed me of early on in our relationship: Fitzgeralds do not shop at Target. When he said this to me, I smiled and nodded, but inside I was cringing. What would he think if he knew that my family had to shop at Goodwill and consignment shops to put clothes on my back? He knows my family has struggled to make ends meet, but I don’t think he truly grasps the concept. For someone born into a family who’s never had to want for anything, the thought of not being able to pay your water bill is a foreign concept.

“Yes, this weekend. I thought we could leave on Thursday, stay at the Ritz, and come home Sunday night.” Taking a sip of water, she raises her perfectly-arched eyebrows expectantly, waiting for my answer.

“This weekend isn’t good for me.” I make a show of being disappointed by sagging my posture. “I already promised Cal that I would be all his this weekend.” It’s a complete lie, but one I’ve been keeping up for a while now pretending that Cal is the doting husband who loves to spend all his free time with me and attends to all my needs. This is obviously furthest from the truth.

She sighs. “Oh, alright. I guess I’ll have to battle the trenches alone.” Her phony laugh pierces my ears as I take a sip of my water to give my mind something else to focus on.
Yes, shopping is exactly like a battlefield,
I think sarcastically.

After another hour, I’m finally seated in the quiet space of the car assigned to pick me up from lunch. All that time with Catherine has given me a headache. Looking at my Rolex watch, I notice that it’s only one thirty, which means the cleaning lady is probably still there. It might seem weird, but it’s incredibly awkward for me to be home while she’s cleaning. I often wonder if she’s judging me for sitting around doing nothing while she cleans up after me and my husband. I had told Cal that I’m more than capable of keeping a clean house, but he wasn’t having any of it, insisting that he wasn’t going to have his wife’s hands scrubbing toilets. So, when I know she’s there, I try to steer clear. With no real plans, I decide to drop by Cal’s office for a surprise visit.