Page 9 of Dirty Ink

I inhaled shakily. Then Tim was there in the doorway. Nothing in his hands as I had thought. As I had expected. As I had wanted? His breath did not catch as I had thought it might. As I had maybe been naive to expect. As I was childish to want. He frowned at me like I was a small inconsistency on a loan application.

“Did you forget about Invig? It’s already past six,” he said, crossing to the closet.

Not getting within six feet of me. Not getting anywhere near close enough to reach out to me. Not getting anywhere near close enough for me to reach out to him. I heard him rustling through the closet, moving the hangers apart, brushing his fingers across his custom suit jackets, but not touching me.

“It wouldn’t be the end of the world if we were a little late, would it?” I asked.

My voice was sweet, gentle. It was the voice I used with Tim. The voice JoJo made fun of me for. The voice I hardly remembered anymore wasn’t my own.

“I don’t think they’d appreciate that,” came Tim’s voice from the closet.

He emerged with his fingers on his lapels, his fingers on his buttons. Ivory. Imported from France. With his fingers everywhere but on me.

“You know,” I said, trying to smile seductively, playfully. “We could have ourselves dinner in tonight.”

I ran my hand along the curve of my waist, trying to not be embarrassed that I was naked. That I had thrown myself out there like a fool. That Tim was checking out the time on his watch, but not checking out me.

“Rachel,” he said, levelling his eyes at me, not like I was his to-be wife naked and eager on his bed, but like I was a client who hadn’t brought in the correct documentation again, “we’ve been waiting months for a reservation.”

No, not we. Him. What did I care for fancy new restaurants in the city? What did I care, except that I was supposed to? Because this was to be my life: waiting around for reservations at restaurants that left you with a bill the size of a normal person’s monthly Manhattan rent and an empty stomach. No spontaneity. No losing track of time between the sheets. Appearances. Appearances. Appearances, Rachel.

Just like that, the decision that I didn’t know was a decision was made. The choice that I hadn’t known was even a choice was fixed upon.

“Tim,” I said as I slipped out of bed and tidied the covers behind me. “I meant to tell you.”

He admired himself in the full-length mirror. While I got dressed like his sweet little fiancée. While I put my hair back in a chignon the way he liked it, appropriate for the image of innocence, of virginity, even if he could forget long enough that he sometimes fucked me. I grabbed my shoes from the closet. The ones not too tall. Not too flashy. Not too slutty. Sweet. Innocent. Tim’s little rescued orphan.

“Is it about the alcohol in the kitchen?” he asked.

Had he forgotten about my trip to city hall? Perhaps not. Perhaps he just assumed I was legally allowed to marry him. How could I possibly have a past? And a dirty one at that?

“No,” I said, turning around so that he could zip up my dress, the one he selected for our dinner. “No, it’s… I got an audition.”

“Rachel—”

“I know, I know,” I said. “But it’s a good role. Shakespeare. On one of the big stages.”

Tim exhaled slowly. I knew what he was thinking: how would that look to his finance friends? How would that look to our old money acquaintances? Would his boss be impressed or find it distasteful when considering promotions?

“Well,” was all Tim said.

Mild approval. That was all I was ever going to get for my “little hobby”.

“Yeah,” I said. “The only thing is…well, it’s in Dublin.”

Tim patted my back to signal that he was finished.

“Just remember we have those reservations at Viande next month with the Strausses,” was all he said.

“Right,” I said, still facing away from him.

“My assistant will book your flight.”

I nodded.

“Now, really, Rachel,” Tim, my fiancé, my love said. “We’re going to be late. You know how I hate that.”

He stepped over my silk camisole still on the floor. I guess he supposed the maid would take care of it after all. What did it have to do with him? After all.

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