Chapter 11
I really did try to do this the nice way—tried to be a friend to Curt and Jack, truly wanted to be a role model for Penny. I wasn’t even bullshitting about building them a guest suite in the basement. We could’ve been one big, happy, transatlantic family—if only they hadn’t freaked the fuck out.
Now I’m left with no choice. I have to find another path to the house. And may have just supplied one possible route: Blackmail. (Guess Bezos didn’t call it the Everything Store for nothing.)
DO NOT TRUST CURTIS brADSHAW.
The one-star review that could lead to my five-star life. Because if Curt really is hiding something, and it’s juicy enough, I might be able to use it to pressure him into selling the dream home to me and Ian.
So, I spend the rest of the afternoon Googling varying combinations of his name with possible misdeeds.
“Curtis Bradshaw harassment”
“Curtis Bradshaw cheating”
“Curtis Bradshaw fraud”
“Curtis Bradshaw theft”
“Curtis Bradshaw disorderly conduct”
“Curtis Bradshaw disorderly conduct Sagrada Familia”
“Curtis Bradshaw pretentious dickhead”
I run his name through PACER, the electronic database of federal court records.
I try in every jurisdiction where I know he has a connection: Connecticut, where he grew up; New York, where he worked at his dad’s hedge fund; Maryland, where he lives now; DC, where he lived previously and where his employer, Georgetown University, is located; and New Hampshire and Pennsylvania because he has degrees from Dartmouth and Penn.
Then I do the same thing with the local courts in all those places—both county and state level.
But after hours of digging, the only hit that comes up is a twenty-year-old civil suit against his dad, Curtis Bradshaw, Sr. According to the complaint, an analyst at his hedge fund accused him of forcing his tongue down her throat in the office one night, then withholding a promotion after she rejected him.
Curtis Senior settled with her for an undisclosed amount before the case got to trial.
Imagine being so rich that you could throw money at a problem like that and make it vanish.
This is embarrassing—and gross. But I need something that incriminates Curt, not his dad. Something damning enough that he’d sooner sell to us than have it come out. And so far, I can’t even find a lousy DUI.
By the time I hear Ian’s key in the door, it’s after six thirty and my eyes feel like sandpaper. I’m also starving. Did I ever break for lunch?
I peer over my shoulder at him from my desk. “Hey, let’s go out to eat tonight. Maybe the Royal?”
He inspects me from the doorway, probably debating whether I’m setting a trap. It’s true we haven’t been speaking much. But if we’re still going to find a way to make a run at the house, I need to coax him back onto my team.
“Okay…” He sets his brown leather backpack on the floor and puts his keys on the shelf. “Are you, um, doing all right?”
I look down and take in that I’m still in my robe. Only when he flips the switch in the kitchen do I realize that the apartment had been nearly dark.
I’ve always been like this. In college, and later, when I was trying to prove myself at the Post, I’d get so wrapped up in a story that I could lose hours and hours tracking down a single phone number.
Last year, when I was deep into researching fertility options, Ian came home from a work trip to find me glued to my computer screen, barely having eaten in two days.
“Yep, I’m all good,” I say, standing from my desk. “Just hungry.” But my legs betray me. They nearly give out, both asleep.
“Whoa, careful.” Ian hurries over, grabbing hold of my elbow. The gesture startles me. It’s the first time he’s touched me on purpose since the night of the dinner.
“I’m fine. Really.” A warm buzzing fills them now. “I had a break this afternoon so I worked out downstairs. I just haven’t had a chance to get dressed since I showered.”
He eyes me warily, rakes a hand back through his hair. “When do you want to leave, then?”
“Just give me twenty.”
I pat on some tinted moisturizer and pull on some jeans and a top, and we’re out the door.
The sky is cloudless, and the air bites now that the sun is disappearing.
Late commuters and other people in search of dinner snake around each other, everyone well rehearsed in the clipped choreography of the after-work rush.
The Royal, a neighborhood spot with great coffee during the day and even better cocktails at night, is only three blocks from our building. But this walk seems to grind on forever—Ian staring at the ground as he cuts down my attempts at a conversation.
“How was the office today?” I ask.
“Fine.”
“Anything new in the river dumping case?”
“No.”
Even on a Monday, the restaurant is nearly full.
The whole bar and a long communal table up front are occupied by happy-hour holdovers.
I’ve tried more than once to convince the owners here to sign with Buzz, but they’re probably right that they don’t need any help with publicity.
There’s a couple vacating a table toward the back, so I hastily pull Ian behind me to claim it.
He discards my hand as soon as we get close.
He didn’t come home from Pittsburgh until Saturday morning.
Then I took Fritter on a hike along the Potomac that afternoon since Natalie had a day shift and I needed to clear my head.
Ian spent Sunday at the Nats game with work friends.
Somehow, we’ve managed to successfully avoid a real conversation since last week’s disaster, which was fine with me because I was still figuring out what I wanted to say.
But now I’m ready to explain the other possibility I’ve been working on, and a public venue makes for safer territory than the apartment.
“So, I broke up with Ginny today,” I say, after the server sets down our cocktails and we’ve both finished ordering food through the QR code on the table.
“What?” He looks up from his phone, no longer able to ignore me. “Why would you do that?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking—and please just hear me out for a minute—I think we should still make an offer on the house, and obviously we can’t use Ginny for that.”
He throws his head back in exasperation. I knew he’d react like this, but I just need to keep him from walking out.
“Listen to me, Ian. There has to be a way to do it anonymously, right? People buy houses with LLCs all the time—that stands for ‘limited liability corporation.’ You can use them to hide your identity.”
“Yeah, I know what an LLC is.”
“Well, the rules about them are different everywhere, but it looks like you can set one up pretty easily in DC, right online—it only takes a few days. Or, another option could be designating our new agent as a trustee who could sign the paperwork for us. Have you heard of those, too? It seems like either way might work, but I was hoping you could help sort out the details, since you’re the lawyer. ”
He sighs and crosses his arms. “Margo, I’m worried about you.”
So, Condescending Ian has arrived.
He leans forward, his gaze flitting to the table next to us to make sure they’re not eavesdropping. “This is not normal behavior,” he whispers. “You must know that.”
I resist rolling my eyes and remind myself that I need his help.
“Babe, I know it sounds like a lot of extra trouble. But haven’t you noticed that not a single decent house in our price range has even come on the market in the last two months?
It’s not like we’re drowning in options.
And if we get started tomorrow, I think we can have the legalities of it all squared away by the time Jack and Curt list it next Thursday.
They probably won’t even take offers until after the weekend, which gives us even more time.
” I pause for a sip of my daiquiri. “I thought we might ask Erika and Heath to refer us to their agent.”
Ian pinches the bridge of his nose. “Is this what you worked on all day, sitting there in your robe, in the dark?”
No, honey, I researched this yesterday. Today, I combed through court records looking for blackmail material, just to cover all our bases.
“Not all day,” I say placidly.
“All right, let’s put aside the fact that there are many, many legal and financial reasons this would never work, and walk through the hypothetical.
” He swallows the rest of his negroni. “We submit this brilliant, anonymous offer, and then what? You think after everything we put those guys through, Jack and Curt are just going to look at it and say, ‘Oh, gee, nothing weird about this! We’ll just consider it right along with the other nineteen bids in the pile’? ”
“Oh, well, that’s another thing—I don’t think they’re going to get nineteen bids, Ian. Did you see the news about rates today? They’re past five percent! That has to cut down on the competition, don’t you think?”
He buries his face in his hands, just as the server arrives with our food. She sets down Ian’s burger and my fish, then starts to ask if we need anything else, but upon assessing the scene opts to flee instead.
When Ian lifts his face, his eyes are wet. I can’t tell if that’s a good or bad sign.
“I blame myself. I think I’ve really failed you.”
I tilt my head. Is he apologizing? He’s usually much easier to read than this.
“I never should’ve agreed to go to that dinner with you. I knew we were crossing a line, and I still let it happen. I should’ve seen that you were struggling and stepped in.”
Okay, so these are bad tears, then. I need to course-correct.
I smile and rest my hand on his. “Ian, I’m fine. I am not struggling. Forget I said anything. Let’s just enjoy our dinner.”
He takes my hand in both of his and kisses it. I feel myself flush. Public affection has never been easy for me.
“I just want you to be happy. I want us to be happy.” Another line of dampness threatens to breach his lower lids. “Let’s hit pause on the house hunt, okay? We need a break. I need my wife back.”
He needs his wife back? I didn’t realize I was a thing he could loan out.
I force myself to keep smiling.
“I get it, I really do. This has been a lot. I know it has. But now I’m just worried about interest rates. They only seem to be getting higher, and we might get totally priced out if we don’t make a move pretty soon here.”
There. A perfectly reasonable point, made by a person who is not struggling.
“That’s a risk I’m willing to take.” He lets go of my hand and picks up his burger. “I’m sorry, babe, even if we could, I wouldn’t make an offer on that house with you. We need a breather, just for a little while.”
He takes a hulking bite. A blob of orange cheese sauce plops onto his plate, gleaming and fatty.
Is he really chewing that audibly? Or am I so disgusted by him that I’m imagining the most unflattering soundtrack possible?
Something vicious stirs within me. The space behind my eyes begins to throb.
The scattered twinkling of the string lights overhead fuses into a single, searing beam.
I want to scream in his face. To grab him by the collar and shake until he understands that we can’t go on like this.
How is it fucking possible that he doesn’t grasp the urgency?
But instead, I keep the smile fixed in place.
I blink slowly a couple of times to clear the spots dappling my vision.
Pushing this idea any more will only hurt me. Blackmail it is.
“Okay, fine, enough house talk,” I say, as I swipe a fry off his plate. “You can have your wife back now.”