Page 28 of Love in Training
The woman doesn’t extend her hand, so I don’t either, waiting to speak until the door clicks shut behind me. “Mrs. R., I?—”
“I’m in here,” a voice says from an adjacent room. I follow the blonde through a doorway into a brightly lit sitting area decorated in the same tasteful aesthetic as downstairs. A different woman rises as we walk in—slightly older, with brunette hair styled in such perfect loose waves around her shoulders I wonder briefly if it’s a wig. She wears a blouse and stylish white pants, her head topped with a striking cowgirl hat that could only be pulled off by a wealthy white woman of a certain age. Whom she clearly is.
“Uh, Mrs. R?” I ask just to be sure, taking her extended hand.
“Yes, that’d be me,” she says with a sharkish smile—one that strikes me as vaguely familiar. She gestures to the well-dressed blonde. “This is my assistant, Beth.”
“Nice to meet you.” I nod.
Mrs. R.offers me a seat, and Beth pours tea for both of us.
“You’re younger than I expected. But I’ve read every one of your Unmatched articles, and I’m thrilled we get to sit down and chat.”
“It’s my pleasure. And thank you.” I take my phone and a small notebook out of my purse, trying to think where to start. “Unmatched was sort of a passion project for me.”
“Oh? Do you have firsthand experience?” Mrs. R. asks point-blank, jingling a set of gold bangles on one wrist. I don’t even blink. I’ve been asked this before.
“Ah, no... I’m not in a relationship. But I found a good friend’s husband on the app.”
She tuts in a way that makes me think she’s been there and done that.
“So,” I go on, opening my notebook. “I’m curious. When we spoke, you said your husband was on Unmatched too. I’m sorry to hear that. But what made you reach out to me?”
Revenge, most likely. But I want to hear it in her own words.
“My husband is a philanderer and always has been.” She waves her hand dismissively, but I don’t miss the pain in her eyes. “I figured that out within our first year of marriage, which was... not recent.”
Her eyes hold mine. Perhaps waiting for me to balk or question her choices. But I’ve done this enough and have met plenty of women in her situation who made the same decision. I nod for her to continue.
“It’s one thing to make that choice within a marriage. To bethatsort of husband.” She rolls her eyes. “I guess I took issue when I realized he was advertising it to others—enticing, giving permission,capitalizingon it.”
I pause, trying to make sure I’m getting her subtext.
“Are you saying your husband is?—”
“He founded Unmatched.” Her lip curls. “It’s his baby.”
I straighten in my chair, letting this information sink in. I’d been prepared for this woman to be a wronged socialite at the very least. She and her husband are clearly wealthy and probably influential. I don’t even know who they are yet, but ever since I walked through the doors of the Fillmore, I’ve been surewhatevershe wanted me to know would at least make local waves.
Over months of research, I found plenty of users and victims, but I’d gotten nowhere trying to figure out who had cultivated the Unmatched app. On record, it’s owned by some alphabet soup shell company. But I knew there had to be someone, or even several someones, at the heart of its existence. Some man who sat down one day and said,You know what would make agreat business idea? An app that helps married guys get more tail.
“Do you mind if I record our conversation?” I ask, reaching for my phone.
She places her hand over mine. A variety of jewels glitter across her fingers. “Before we go any further, I want to ensure you know what you’re getting yourself into.”
I meet her gaze, pretty sure I know what she means. An assortment of hard-to-forget emails and social media messages floats through my mind. Racial slurs. Dick pics. Threats. The ones that say I’m an ugly bitch and they hope I die. And a few that are even worse.
“Thank you for asking,” I say, swallowing hard. This is my opportunity to back out. Run for the hills—or at least down to Starbucks to ask about benefits. But then I imagine moving back to that garden apartment with the mice. Losing my beautiful, expensive view. And I think of the lady journalists who came before me who didn’t back down just because they were scared.
And then, of all things, I remember something Kyle said after I published one of my very first features—a piece about abuse claims at a juvenile detention facility.
Some people can’t tell their own stories—they needyouto write them.
I take a shaky breath. “There are certain risks that come with this job. But I take them because it’s important.”
She appraises me for an interminable minute, then gives me a sober nod. “And I’m sure you’re aware of the risks in exposing... well, certain members of society.”
My focus lasers in on her. I don’t really follow local gossip, but she has seemed familiar since I walked in. And suddenly I care less about a handful of cowardly online threats than I do about the truth.
