Chapter Two
Chapter Two
Through my windshield, I watch Oliver drive away, growing smaller and smaller. When he’s completely out of sight, I flip open the paper.
Who Is Dirty Diana?
Dirty Diana, the artist behind an erotic website made for women by women, prefers to stay anonymous. Scan the site for any one of the hand-painted stunners and listen to a spicy, unfiltered story.
I toss the paper onto the passenger seat.
I think about calling L’Wren, my only true friend in Rockgate, and telling her everything about this morning so we can laugh together until it all starts to feel like it’s happening to someone else.
I would describe the way Oliver and I kissed and how I wish he had kissed me like that our entire marriage.
And how minutes later I was almost outed by The New York Times.
How I’m still too much of a wimp to tell him about the site because I believe it would lead him to pull away, right when things finally feel so good.
Whenever I picture telling him everything, I flash back to the night, months ago, when I played one of the fantasies for him.
His confused look. The argument we fell into.
I didn’t explain the site then. How could I?
I tell myself now. Moments later, he walked out the door.
But that’s not why I keep stalling. If I share the site with him, and he still doesn’t understand, neither of us would get over it.
His disappointment in me would make me hate him, I think, so instead I’ve stayed quiet.
I imagine L’Wren’s immediate response: “I cannot believe you haven’t told him yet.
This isn’t something you fudge a little, like blaming a nose job on a deviated septum.
” Then once she’d gotten over the shock that he and I had made out, she’d tell me, “Honestly? You should write to all the women Oliver dated while you were separated. Send them a thank-you card for boosting his self-esteem. This is Texas. They’ll appreciate it. ”
But what if she doesn’t joke with me? Not being forthcoming about Dirty Diana with L’Wren is exactly what made her so angry with me.
It caused the worst fight we’ve ever had.
I’m trying to give her space while also needing her to forgive me.
I dial her number, then, nervous she’ll send me straight to voicemail, I hang up.
Instead I call in sick to work at the wealth management firm and drive straight to the Dirty Diana offices.
—
Our space is in a state of constant construction.
In the last few months, Petra has built out a soundproofed studio and walled offices, plenty of room for Liam, L’Wren’s stepson who helped me build the site, and Kirby, the intern he hired to work on the sound design.
My good friend Alicia occasionally beams in from Santa Fe to help with editing the fantasies, and I come in on the evenings and weekends that Emmy is with Oliver.
We have a nice rhythm going, with the goal of posting three new interviews a week, but my paintings are coming much slower.
As of a couple weeks ago, we no longer have to find women to share their stories, they’ve been coming to us.
We now have a fifty-person waiting list and a very sweet office manager, Lou, a retired librarian, to vet the fantasies first. “This was a really nasty batch,” she’ll tell me, tapping her hot pink nail on a stack of papers.
And I’ll gently remind her that there are no nasty fantasies.
“Fine. At least let me spell-check them first.”
Petra spends about a quarter of her time in Dallas and the rest of her time between Paris and everywhere else. When she is in town, she drops by and checks on us and feeds us helpful suggestions. She doesn’t push too hard—except around marketing. “It’s why I’m here,” she reminds us.
When I arrive, Liam and Kirby are hanging around Lou’s desk, reading The New York Times and wearing matching grins.
“They might not know who Dirty Diana is but we sure do,” Liam says.
“Did you know about this?” I ask.
“I don’t even think Petra knew about this.”
“I’d love to take credit, but it wasn’t me!” Petra calls from down the hall.
I follow the sound of her voice to her office. She feigns alarm at the sight of bedraggled me in her doorway. “Seriously, how hard is it raining?”
“Petra…” I sit across from her. “Something to tell me?”
“Yes, of course it was me. Please. Isn’t it great? You are officially part of the zeitgeist, Diana.”
I eye the desk between us, strewn with photos of me from the one and only photo shoot I’ve ever done.
I try not to pick apart my crooked smile or the way my right eye always looks like it’s at half-mast. I dislike the photos for looking both too much like me and not enough like me.
And then feel annoyed at myself for caring so much.
I pick up one of me overeagerly smiling into the camera and looking slightly deranged and slip it to the bottom of the pile.
“Maybe we send this one to the Times and solve the mystery for them?” Petra holds up a picture of me in our offices, painting near the window, and even though it was candid, to me it looks too posed.
“It’s a nice piece, thank you. But is anyone actually curious who I am?”
“Now they are! First we create the mystery…and then we out you. It’ll be a kick.”
“Or”—I race to buy myself more time—“I out myself? At the perfect moment? Maybe tease things out a little longer?”
“No. I think Vogue should announce you.”
“Sure.” I laugh. “ Vogue. Even better.”
“I’m serious. They want a three-quarter shot.” Her hand hovers over one of me unsmiling, my dark hair falling across my face. “They’re going to be the first to use the image. Alongside a fun, getting-to-know-you Q&A. They already sent the questions.”
“ Vogue? ”
“I’m good at my job, Diana. It’s why I’m here.”
“They want to feature me?”
“Well. Maybe not feature. More like intro. The Times piece was a bit of a favor and now Vogue is all in. It’s perfect.
” Petra swivels her screen to show me an email.
“They barely do in-person interviews anymore, and they certainly don’t have a journalist at the ready in Rockgate.
But these things are better in writing anyway.
This way you can really think through all your answers.
” And then run them by me, I know she wants to add but doesn’t, even though I’d be thrilled to have her edit my answers. Or even write them.
I skim the email, reading the first question aloud. “Where’s your favorite place to wake up?” And then skipping the next several questions, all the way to the last one: “Tell us, what’s your fantasy?”
“Don’t worry too much about the actual answers. Just getting our name out there is a massive jump start.”
“And when does all this really start? That people will know it’s me?”
“When the piece runs, I guess. A couple months from now…” She studies my expression. “Diana. We talked about this. You were on board with moving ahead.”
“I am. I’m so grateful. It’s just starting to feel…”
“Quick? It’s not.”
“Petra.”
“Tell me why it feels fast. And saying you’re scared isn’t an option.”
“Because I still haven’t told Oliver.”
“Oh.” An abrupt, single syllable, dripping in disappointment. But she kindly marches on, waving a hand. “The piece won’t run for another couple months. But really, Diana, why wait?”
Alone in my office, I find a stack of notecards submitted by fans of the site, each one with a “micro-fantasy”—Petra’s latest idea—to share online. I read the first one:
I don’t know the man massaging me. He’s a total stranger in an unfamiliar but upscale spa.
Crisp sheets beneath me, and the bed warmer is set to five.
I’ve given my masseuse three easy-to-follow rules: 1.
No talking. I don’t care who he is or where he’s from 2.
He cannot fuck me. He can touch me anywhere he likes but only for my pleasure, never his.
And 3. The massage must have a very happy ending. For me.
I smile and tape the card to the wall. I read the next one, then the next. I pore over them with a familiar feeling of gratitude, admiring the collage and trying to focus while I hear Petra in my head. Why wait?
—
Saturday is my birthday, so I give myself the gift of sleeping in. Emmy and Oliver already FaceTimed me at 6 a.m. to sing happy birthday, and my head hit the pillow again as soon as we hung up. By eleven, I’m finally dressed and out the door.
I buy sunflowers to spruce up the guest room for Alicia. At the liquor store, I pick up a festive-looking bottle of vodka for us. And the entire time, I can’t keep Petra’s voice out of my head. She’s right. I have to quit stalling and tell Oliver.
When I get home, I unlock the front door and enter the house in a fog, the whole time trying to decide if there’s a version where Oliver doesn’t get upset I’ve kept this secret from him.
“Surprise!” Alicia pops up from behind the couch, and my heart leaps into my throat.
“Alicia.” In a split second, I go from scared to angry to delighted by the sight of her in my house, wearing a hat shaped like a wilted blue birthday cake with six floppy red candles.
“Happy birthday!” She wraps her arms around me and pulls me close.
“I thought I was picking you up at your dad’s?”
“I drove up early so I could surprise you.”
She studies a spot just over my right shoulder like she always does when she’s lying.
“His new girlfriend is that awful?”
“She might be the worst one yet.”
“Older or younger than you?” I take her by the hand and into the kitchen.
I grab us two glasses—the crystal Tom Collins glasses that were an anniversary gift from Oliver’s mom—and rinse the dust off them.
“Her name is Cherry but it used to be Heather. There are some parts of her that seem older than me, but lots of new parts, too. It’s a real pastiche.”
I mix Alicia a drink while she retrieves a felt birthday hat for me, too, from her suitcase. Then she slices us both some lemon.