I don’t know how all of this is supposed to work in the real world. In every cop show I’ve ever watched on television, the suspect is always told not to talk to the cops without an attorney present.
But I haven’t slept all night. So, when the door swung open and a detective entered with a pot of coffee and two mugs, I allowed him to reel me into small talk.
“So, what is it like to be a model,” he asks.
“It’s not that different from being a cop,” I say. “You show up when they tell you to show up. You wear what they want you to wear. And then, you deposit the checks.”
He chuckles.
“Yeah, you know, I’ve got a friend who’s dated a few models,” he says. “But it never really works out with them. You know why?”
“No, enlighten me.”
“Their paychecks are a lot bigger than his,” he says.
I shrug.
“It makes sense to me,” he continues. “There are always more fish in the sea for us. But for girls like you it’s not an ocean you’re fishing in. It’s a pond. A small pond of men who don’t mind being in the tabloids, who don’t mind being kept.”
I see where he’s going with this. This must be the good cop, bad cop routine – minus the good cop. I sit perfectly still, hoping my face is as blank as I’m trying to make it.
“That’s a lonely life. It must be even lonelier when you’re trying to fall asleep at night, knowing that the guy you’re screwing is probably falling asleep next to your best friend – the woman he’s actually made a lifelong commitment to.”
Where is Richard, I wonder. Is he still talking to Simon?
“Jo-Anna,” Bad Cop says, mispronouncing my name, “do you really think Simon loves you? Do you really think he’s going to protect you?”
What time is it? Couldn’t they at least keep a clock in here?
“You think he isn’t going to sell you out the first chance he gets?”
This coffee is awful.
“Why don’t you use your brain, Jo-Anna,” he says. “Save yourself. Because Simon is not going to.”
He’s just inches from my face now.
Cops aren’t allowed to touch you, right? Even the bad ones?
“I can help you. Just tell me who killed Ariela.”
⤜ ⤜ ⤜
“How can you still be her friend,” Simon asked me on the night of their second wedding anniversary.
We’d opened another bottle of champagne, intended for the surprise party he’d planned. Around midnight, when Ariela still hadn’t come home, the few guests who had remained began to awkwardly file out of the apartment. I was the only one left.
“How can you still be married to her,” I asked. “She hasn’t cheated on me.”
“That’s about the only thing she hasn’t done to you,” he acknowledged, taking another sip. “She doesn’t deserve you.”
“She doesn’t deserve either of us,” I said.
“No,” he said, “she doesn’t.”
I took in their apartment, the mess that remained from the “party,” the otherwise sterile-looking kitchen, the cold color palette of the living room. Ariela was a lot like the apartment she had moved Simon into – gorgeous at first glance, but empty on the inside.
“She’s irresistible, though. Right,” I asked.
Simon downed the rest of his champagne.
“I think I’m finally drunk enough to tell you,” he said, “something I should have told you a long time ago.”
“Go ahead,” I said. “No one’s sober here. You’re safe.”
“Remember that night – the night we met?”
“Yeah, at the club.”
“I wasn’t interested in Ariela.”
“You weren’t?”
“No, I approached her to ask about you.”
I tried to think about that night, to picture Simon and Ariela, but I really couldn’t remember. I hadn’t really noticed Simon until I saw how well he treated Ariela, even when Ariela treated him like he was less than human.
“Really?”
“She told me you weren’t into guys,” he said.
“She told you I was a lesbian?”
“I hate to admit it, but I didn’t think differently until you started dating that soccer player last year.”
It shouldn’t have surprised me. When Ariela wanted something that had my name all over it, she did whatever it took to get it.
That was the moment I decided it was time to get her back for every single time she had screwed me out of what was mine, starting with Simon. – © 2015-2021 Portia July
To Be Continued…
Portia July 