Chapter 5
The house settled into silence after Brett left for work, like a held breath finally being released.
I poured myself a second cup of coffee and opened my laptop at the kitchen island, telling myself I was just curious.
Just doing the kind of innocent internet searching that anyone might do when they heard an unfamiliar name mentioned by their spouse in that particular tone of voice.
Eastmark Pharmaceutical had one of those corporate websites designed to inspire confidence in shareholders and intimidate competitors.
All clean lines and professional headshots and mission statements about improving global health outcomes.
I'd looked at it before during Brett's various promotions and acquisitions, but never with the intensity of someone hunting for evidence.
I clicked through the leadership team, past faces I recognized from company Christmas parties and charity galas.
Roger Whitaker, Chief Financial Officer, whose wife collected vintage teacups and talked endlessly about her grandson's violin recitals.
Sandra Kimmel, Vice President of Operations, who'd cornered me at last year's holiday party to discuss her daughter's wedding planning nightmare.
Normal corporate executives with normal corporate lives that didn't threaten anyone's marriage.
Until I found her.
Alison Crawford, Director of Legal Affairs.
The photo was professional but stunning, one of those headshots that managed to look corporate and glamorous at the same time.
She had the kind of bone structure that showed good genetics and expensive skincare, blonde hair that fell in smooth waves past her shoulders, and a smile that was confident without being aggressive.
The expression of someone who'd never doubted her place in the world or worried about whether she was attractive enough to hold someone's attention.
I stared at the screen, studying her face like I was memorizing evidence for a trial I hoped would never happen.
This was the woman my husband talked to with affection in his voice.
The woman who was probably fifteen years younger than me and had never carried anyone's children or organized anyone's life or forgotten her own dreams in service of someone else's ambitions.
The biography was brief but impressive in that effortless way that made me feel inadequate about my own abandoned ambitions.
Harvard Law School, summa cum laude. Five years at Morrison, Clinton & Associates, one of Manhattan's most prestigious firms, before joining Eastmark Pharmaceutical two years ago.
Specialized in international business law with particular expertise in European Union regulations, which would make her invaluable for the expansion Brett talked about constantly.
She probably spoke three languages fluently and had never worried about crow's feet or whether her husband still found her attractive after twenty-three years of marriage.
She probably had opinions about wine pairings and contemporary art and could discuss the geopolitical implications of pharmaceutical patents over dinner without making anyone's eyes glaze over.
I scrolled down to find more information, looking for some flaw that would make her less threatening. A bad photo, an unimpressive credential, anything that would suggest she wasn't the ideal woman for my imperfect husband.
But there was nothing.
Just professional achievements and tasteful corporate photography that made her look like someone who belonged in Brett's successful, sophisticated world.
I closed the laptop before I could start comparing our resumes more thoroughly.
This wasn't helpful. Researching the other woman wasn't going to fix what was broken in my marriage or make Brett want me again or turn back time to when we were happy together and the idea of him with someone else would have been laughable.
But I couldn't stop thinking about the tone in his voice when he'd said her name.
The disappointment about rescheduling whatever, like his day had been ruined by the change in plans.
The promise to make it up to her, spoken with the kind of intimate consideration he used to reserve for me.
Nobody talked to their colleagues that way, not unless colleague wasn't really what they were anymore.
By Wednesday, I'd moved on to credit card statements.
Brett handled most of our finances, managing our investments and paying the bills with the expertise of someone who understood money better than emotion.
But I had access to everything through our online banking, a courtesy extended to wives who were trusted not to question their husbands' spending habits.
I told myself I was just being responsible, making sure we weren't overspending, keeping track of our budget like any competent wife would do. The kind of financial oversight that marriage counselors probably recommended for couples trying to maintain transparency in their relationship.
The restaurant charges were what caught my attention first, a pattern of expensive dining.
Mamma Lucia's, where Kimberly had seen him with the blonde woman who was no longer nameless but had become Alison Crawford, Harvard-educated home wrecker.
Three hundred and thirty-seven dollars for dinner on a Tuesday night in March, when Brett had claimed to be working late on quarterly reports.
Giovanni's, a romantic Italian place downtown that I'd been wanting to try for years but never suggested because Brett always complained about the downtown parking situation.
Two hundred and sixty dollars for pasta and wine, charged on a Thursday evening when he'd told me he was having drinks with potential investors.
The kind of intimate dinner that required reservations weeks in advance and lasted hours instead of the quick business meals Brett usually described.
The Hearth & Kettle, that farm-to-table restaurant everyone raved about but we'd never been to because Brett said it was overpriced and pretentious.
Three hundred and ninety dollars for what the credit card description called "dinner service," followed twenty minutes later by a hundred and forty-five dollar charge at Murphy's Pub for what was probably drinks and dessert somewhere more conducive to intimate conversation.
None of these were places Brett would go alone.
He wasn't the kind of man who treated himself to solo fine dining experiences, and who lingered over wine and appreciated artisanal cheese plates.
He grabbed sandwiches at his desk and complained about business lunches that went too long and kept him away from more important work.
But here were charges for elaborate meals, wine that cost more per bottle than I spent on groceries in a week, desserts, and after-dinner drinks that suggested leisurely evenings with someone worth impressing.
I scrolled through more statements, finding a pattern that made my blood boil and my hands shake slightly as I took notes.
Two charges at the same restaurant on the same night, usually separated by a few minutes.
Dinner for two at an expensive place, then drinks somewhere else with better ambiance for romance.
The behavior of a man courting someone new, trying to show her the best the city had to offer while his wife ate reheated leftovers and watched Netflix alone.
There were other charges too, scattered throughout the past six months like breadcrumbs leading to the obvious conclusion I kept trying not to reach.
Flowers from Feather & Flora, an expensive florist that charged three hundred dollars for arrangements I'd never received.
Lingerie from a boutique that sold the kind of silk and lace, charged to our joint account but never appearing in my dresser drawers.
A weekend at the Silverwillow Inn in the Berkshires, that bed and breakfast famous for its romantic packages and couples' spa treatments.
The charge was dated during the same weekend Brett claimed to be at a pharmaceutical conference in Boston, bringing back a hotel key card from the Marriott, and a story about boring seminars on regulatory compliance.
I printed everything out, creating a file of evidence I wasn't sure I wanted to use but couldn't stop collecting. Twenty-three years of marriage, and I was building a case against my own husband like a private investigator documenting an affair for some other betrayed wife. I couldn’t ignore the irony that I was paying for his infidelity with our joint credit card, funding his romance with another woman using money we'd earned together.
The charges painted a picture of romance and excitement, expensive dates and thoughtful gifts, and weekend getaways that looked like the early stages of a relationship when everything felt possible and every gesture mattered.
Everything Brett had stopped doing for me years ago, he was apparently doing for someone else with renewed enthusiasm and bottomless financial resources.
Alison Crawford was getting the version of my husband I remembered from when we were young and crazy about each other, when he'd surprise me with flowers for no reason and plan elaborate dates that made me feel like the most fascinating woman in the world.
She was experiencing the Brett who used to write me love notes and remember my favorite wine and look at me like I was the answer to questions he hadn't known he was asking.
I put the papers in a manila folder and hid it in my desk drawer, underneath old photo albums and forgotten birthday cards from when our family had been happy and intact. Evidence of my marriage's ending, filed away next to memories of when it had been something worth saving.