CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
Friday, December 7
She leans forward in her black dress and touches his hand. Her dark hair tumbles forward, nearly obscuring her profile.
A smile spreads across his face.
At what moment does a flirtation become a betrayal?
Is the demarcation line drawn when physical contact occurs? Or is it something more ephemeral, such as when possibilities begin to infuse the air?
Tonight’s setting, the bar at the Sussex Hotel, is where it all began.
But the cast was different.
Thomas stopped by for a drink during that evening, back when our marriage was still pure. He met an old friend from college who was in town for the night and staying at this very hotel. After a few cocktails, the friend explained that he was suffering from jet lag. Thomas insisted he go up to his room while Thomas paid the check. My husband’s generosity has always been one of his many appealing qualities.
The bar was busy, and the service was slow. But Thomas was seated at a comfortable table for two, and he was in no rush. He knew that even though it was barely ten o’clock, the blackout shades would be down in our bedroom and the temperature set to a cool sixty-four degrees.
It was not always this way. In the beginning of our marriage, Thomas’s arrival home was met with a kiss and a glass of wine, followed by engaging conversation on the couch about a recent class lecture, an intriguing client, a weekend getaway we were considering.
But something had shifted during the course of our marriage. It happens in every relationship, when the first heady months yield to a more serene cohabitation. As work exerted more and more demands, the pull of a silk nightgown and crisp, 1,000-thread count Egyptian cotton sheets proved more irresistible than Thomas on some nights. Perhaps this rendered him . . . vulnerable.
The dark-haired woman reached my husband before the server delivered the check. She claimed the empty seat across from him. Their encounter did not end when they left the restaurant; instead, they went to her apartment.
Thomas never said a word about his indiscretion.
Then the errant text landed on my phone: See you tonight, Gorgeous.
Freud postulated that there are no accidents. Indeed, the argument could be made that Thomas wanted to get caught.
I didn’t go looking for this. But she threw herself at me. What guy in my situation could resist? Thomas pleaded during one of our therapy sessions.
It would be so comforting to believe this, that his response wasn’t a referendum on our marriage, but rather a yielding to the hardwired fragility of males.
Tonight the booth in a far corner provides a satisfactory vantage point. The man with the platinum wedding band appears to be falling under your spell, Jessica; his body language has grown more alert since your arrival.
He is not nearly as alluring as Thomas, but he fits the basic profile. In his late thirties, alone, and married.
Was this how Thomas first responded?
The temptation to move closer to the scene now unfolding just two dozen yards away is almost unendurable, but this deviation could invalidate the results.
Although you know that you are being observed, the true subject, the man in the blue shirt, must remain unaware that he is being scrutinized.
Subjects typically modify their behavior when they recognize that they are part of an experiment. This is known as the Hawthorne effect, named after the place where this result was first encountered, the Western Electric’s Hawthorne Works. A basic study to determine how the level of light in their building affected the productivity of laborers revealed that the amount of luminosity made no difference in the employees’ productivity. The workers increased output whenever the light was manipulated, whether from low to high or vice versa. In fact, a change in productivity occurred when any variable was manipulated, which made the researchers postulate that the staff altered their behavior simply because they were aware that they were under observation.
Since subjects have this predisposition, all researchers can do is attempt to factor this effect into the research design.
Your flirtations appear convincing, Jessica. It seems impossible that the target would know he is part of an experiment.
The test must proceed to the next stage.
It is difficult to type the instruction—a wave of nausea briefly delays its transmission—but it is a vitally necessary one.
Touch his arm, Jessica.
The scene with Thomas also followed this progression: a brief caressing of the arm, another round of drinks, an invitation to continue the conversation at the woman’s apartment.
An abrupt movement from the table by the wall and the memory of Thomas’s duplicity glitches. The man in the blue shirt stands up. You rise as well. Then you head toward the lobby with him trailing a few feet behind you.
It took less than forty minutes from the time you entered the bar for you to seduce him.
Thomas’s defense was sound; it appears that men are incapable of steeling themselves against blatant offers of temptation. Even married ones.
The flood of relief that accompanies this realization is so profound it has a weakening effect on the body.
It was all her fault. Not his.
Bits of shredded cocktail napkin, evidence of the contained anxiety, litter the table. They are scooped into a pile. The untouched glass of sparkling water on the table is finally tasted.
Several moments later, the bell of an incoming text peals.
It is reviewed.
And immediately, it is as though the busy, welcoming bar is plunged into ice and silence.
There is nothing save for the three lines from you.
They are read once.
Then again.
Dr. Shields, I flirted but he rejected me. He said he happily married. He went up to his room and I’m in the hotel lobby.