Unfaithful - Natalie Barelli Page 0,50
turns it around so I can see it.
“Here we are. It sits above the collarbone. Is that not the case for you?” She tilts her head and looks at my neck, which is of normal size and certainly not so big that this necklace won’t wrap around it.
But I’m not listening to her anymore. I pull the catalogue closer and stare at it. The necklace is shown in a full page, color photograph, and the only word for it is exquisite. Of course, the artist and the curator—what else could it possibly be? It’s a fine gold chain, as fine as a gossamer thread, with two narrow baguette diamonds on one side, just above the collarbone. I’m going to be sick. My silver heart-shaped earrings suddenly feel trite, the kind of gift you give your wife to show you appreciate her but without the investment. A gift for the giver’s benefit, just one step up from a KitchenAid.
I snatch up the receipt from the glass counter and walk out.
Nineteen
It’s been two days and I’ve been ruminating incessantly about the necklace. I did another forensic search that afternoon, in case there is a pretty gift box with my name on it hidden somewhere. It goes without saying that I didn’t find one. I was almost tempted to confront him about it, but then I thought, the gift isn’t recent, what if it was given in the heat of lust? What if it is over between them? Luis has been attentive to me lately. We are happier, aren’t we? And what if the gift really is for me? How will it look if I’ve been snooping around, checking his receipts? You’re so jealous sometimes, Anna. Why can’t you trust me?
No. I made the decision: I absolutely have to pretend everything is fine until I figure out what’s really going on here.
And now, it’s Sunday morning, and Luis and I are strolling around the flea market, holding each other’s gloved hand. I have a thing for winter outdoor markets. I love them. I love the icy air on my cheeks, the vendors with their fingerless gloves, the white sky, the promise of snow. I’m warm in my duffel coat, a blue and white woolen scarf that Carla knitted for me a few weeks ago around my neck. It’s a new hobby for her and we’re all wearing beanies that are too small and scarves that are strangely misshapen, and I love them all to bits.
Luis stops to look at a Bakelite clock and I turn around, scanning for the source of that roasted chestnut smell.
I nudge Luis. “Do you want some?” He looks up.
“Sure.”
The vendor is roasting them on a hot plate and selling them in paper cones. I’m digging up the right change, fingers like blocks of ice, when a voice behind us calls out. “Luis?”
We both turn around.
Isabelle.
“Hello,” she says, smiling at my husband. She’s stunning with her bright smile and her blonde hair cascading out of an elegant black fur hat. She looks like she’s just stepped out of a Disney movie.
I am not an angry person. I am a happy person. I am calm and dependable. Everyone says that about me. But right now I am livid as I watch my husband kiss her quickly on the cheek with a fake, desultory Hey-how-are-you? All very chaste, that goes without saying—I am here, after all. But my lips are trembling as I say hello through gritted teeth because is this meeting really accidental? They’re standing too close to each other and it’s making me boil. I imagine myself pushing her away with both hands, palms slapped hard against her long black leather coat. I picture her stumbling backwards and hitting her pretty head on the asphalt. I imagine her mouth making a perfect ‘O’ of surprise and her blue eyes wide in shock, and fear too, until her eyelids close like the eyes of a vintage doll. Then I imagine the blood. A tiny rivulet at first, seeping from the back of her head so slowly we don’t notice it until it grows into a pool and we have to step away so as not to get it on our shoes. I imagine everyone agreeing it was an accident. The heels of her tall leather boots were too high, too thin, too unstable. Silly girl, she couldn’t keep her balance.
I sigh. As tempting as it is, I don’t push her. Because I am a happy person. And a rallier, which