Marnie #2
I resisted the urge to apologize for leaving him alone. Ben knew I’d be working all the time. This trip had been in the works for months, and he’d only decided to join me a few days ago.
If Cannes was pretty in the early evening glow, I wouldn’t have known.
On the way from the airport earlier I’d been too tired to look out the window, and now I was too busy running the plans for tonight through my head.
Odetta Olson had decided to throw a “Welcome to Cannes” party for her cast and crew on Don’t Be Sad!
, and my little clipboard and I were on our way to work the door, checking attendees against the guest list. Carmen expected me to text her as soon as anyone important arrived, so she could come over to greet them and make sure they had a glass in their hand as they stepped in.
I closed my eyes for a second, but they immediately popped back open. Shit. I’d printed the final list at the hotel, but I’d forgotten to grab it on my way out of the room.
“Wait!” I said too loudly.
The driver gave me a confused look in the mirror.
“Pardon, je suis désolée. I have to go back.”
He grunted, like it was the worst imposition ever, then put his blinker on. At least my meager French got through. Five minutes later, I was tumbling out of the car after making him promise he’d wait for me. I could not arrive after Carmen.
I power walked through the lobby. A group had just arrived, and there was a stack of suitcases by the front desk.
About a dozen people were waiting for one of the two elevators.
I looked around for a staircase to go faster when I spotted a familiar silhouette at the bar: curly brown hair, plaid shirt, white Converse sneakers. Ben. I didn’t have time to say hi.
In the room, it took me a moment to locate the list. It was partly tucked under Ben’s laptop, which was still lit up.
He must have just gone downstairs. On the screen was a cute portrait Ben had taken of us at Christmas when we visited his family.
I wore a velvet bow in my hair, and Ben had on the striped shirt I’d just given him.
We looked so cute together that I’d made a mental note to add this picture to the slideshow at our future wedding. And yes, I knew how corny that sounded.
How lucky I was, to have a boyfriend like him.
The first time I introduced Ben to my mother, she made a snarky comment about how well I’d done for myself.
She didn’t say it quite like that, but it was true that I was punching above my weight.
Ben was from a well-to-do family, with his lawyer dad and Realtor mom who still loved each other.
Ben was the second of four children, and they all got along like a happy little gang.
The family group chat—which I’d been added to six months into the relationship—lit up all day long with cute pictures of dogs, children, bike rides, pretty sunsets, and delicious food.
That first Thanksgiving, I became fast friends with Jessie, Ben’s older sister.
Jessie worked with her mother and was a master of home staging and cake baking.
She and her fiancé had two golden retrievers and a lavish wedding at the Santa Barbara Zoo in the works.
Right before we left for Cannes, Jessie had taken me out to lunch to ask me to be one of her bridesmaids. I’d said yes through teary eyes.
This was my dream life, the kind I’d never allowed myself to wish for during my miserable childhood in a sad, broken home. But it was mine now. The great boyfriend, the great family, the great job. All mine.
Do you hate me yet?
I guess we’re not at the part where I tell you what a liar and a cheater I was.
I checked my watch, but I hadn’t set it to French time yet. I grabbed my phone. A text from Ben popped up at the same time.
So you’re gone all night, right?
Yeah, I typed back.
He probably thought I was at the venue by now.
Okay well, have fun. The jet lag is getting to me.
Thanks, I wrote back.
I might tuck in early.
I looked at the bed, still made. A funny feeling tugged at my insides, but there was nothing technically dishonest in what Ben was saying.
Good night! I sent back.
On the way down to the lobby, the guest list safely tucked away in my bag, I reread Ben’s last message.
It made my skin prickle, like the feeling of imminent danger.
Ben had been working especially hard lately, sometimes coming home long past dinnertime, with little warning.
I was used to him being lost in a new screenplay most evenings and weekends, outside of his day job.
But this was beyond that. He was disappearing off to coffee shops to write at ungodly hours.
Last weekend, he’d bailed out of attending a friend’s birthday party at the last minute, claiming inspiration had struck yet again.
I had refused to read anything into that. It was the guilt talking, I convinced myself. He wasn’t hiding anything from me. I was. I was the one jeopardizing everything we’d built together.
I shouldn’t have glanced toward the bar.
I’d be a terrible spy. But Ben wouldn’t have known.
He was turned to the side, talking to a pretty blond.
Okay, I couldn’t tell if she was pretty from here, but her hair was nice and wavy, her dress looked expensive—and short—and her nails were painted in the kind of bright red you have to thoroughly maintain or risk looking sloppy.
How could I see her nail color from a distance? Well, that part was easy, since her hand was resting on my boyfriend’s thigh as she hinged forward, laughing at something he’d just said.
I don’t know what another girl would have done. Stormed toward them, demanding to know who this bitch was? Immediately jumped to the conclusion that a passionate affair was the reason for all these late work nights? Ran away in tears, already picturing the devastating breakup?
Maybe I gave you the impression that I’m just like other girls.
The truth was, Ben could laugh at the blonde’s dumb jokes all night long. He could let her rub his thigh and sneak subtle glances at her stupid boobs.
It would still pale compared to what I’d done to him, what I’d been doing behind his back for weeks.
Right before I turned to leave, another option occurred to me. Ben might follow her up to her room and be back into our own bed long before I returned from the party.
And then maybe, just maybe, Ben and I would be even.
And then maybe, just maybe, we could get back to living that perfect life I wouldn’t give up for anything.