“Amber Lawson,” she read. “Her secretary.”
“She’s… efficient,” I said cautiously. “She stays late whenever Travis asks her to.”
The look Rachel gave me could have ripped the paint off a wall. She turned her attention back to the financial documents, her eyes quickly scanning the paper as she deciphered diagrams that were, in fact, quite obvious.
His finger stopped on an element of the line.
“This $8,000 withdrawal is labeled as a guest entertainment expense. But note the date.” She tapped the paper. “It corresponds to this credit card charge at the St. Regis. Presidential Suite. Champagne. Room service for two.”
She looked up at me.
“Was this entertainment for the customers?”
Travis was supposed to be at a conference in Miami that weekend. What a conference!
Rachel opened her laptop with a swift movement, her fingers quickly moving across the keyboard. “Let me show you how to recognize financial trends.”
During the next hour, she taught me to decipher my own story through numbers: “business expenses” that coincided with purchases in luxury jewelry stores, “client gifts” that corresponded to transactions at La Perla, regular monthly transfers to an account that was neither mine nor ours, but which, in one way or another, drew on our joint funds.
“He spends about twelve thousand dollars a month on someone other than you,” Rachel said softly. “That’s more than your annual teacher’s salary, and it funds what looks very much like a very comfortable second life.”
The air in the café suddenly felt stifling. I excused myself to go to the restroom, gripping the sink as I splashed cold water on my face. The woman who had been staring at me finally understood.
My marriage wasn’t deteriorating. It had never really existed. I had been part of the carefully staged success story Travis had created — a supporting figure meant to appear grateful to be in the spotlight.
When I got back, Rachel had prepared some information about secured credit cards. “You need a card in your name only. Your teachers’ credit union can give you a card based on your income. Start with a small amount. Build up a credit history. And keep track of everything: every expense, every incident, every receipt.”
“Emma won’t be at my birthday dinner,” I said abruptly. “Travis says she doesn’t fit the image we’re cultivating. She’s an ER nurse and saves lives every day, but apparently that’s too ordinary for Château Blanc.”
Rachel reached across the table and shook my hand. “Then Emma is exactly the person you need by your side. Those he pushes aside are the ones who will help you through this.”
Three days before my birthday, I decided to put him to the test. We were having dinner at home – a rare occurrence in our house – on an evening with no clients or work obligations. I prepared coq au vin, one of the few dishes he still enjoyed, and waited until he had drunk half of his second glass.
“Marcus’s new Porsche is magnificent,” I said lightly, carefully carving my chicken. “The metallic blue one he brought to the club yesterday.”
Travis froze mid-bite. “Were you at a club?”
“It was a professional development day. I had lunch with Patricia and Jennifer,” I lied easily. “They told me Marcus has been doing very well lately.”
“Marcus is renting that car,” Travis replied sharply. “True wealth isn’t displayed with flashy toys.”
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