THE BAGPIPES PLAYED THAT familiar tune. The choir joined in.
How sweet the sound.
Even amongst the sniffling, sobbing, and whimpering cries, the song was beautiful. I hoped it would provide peace to those who were in agony, like me.
She had mentioned this song to me before. I wondered if she could hear it.
My hands shook as I grasped the cool metal. We lifted her casket, and each note carried us out of the sanctuary and down the steps and towards the car that would take her to the cemetery. Her final place of rest.
The doors to the hearse closed.
The church bells rang out, as more people offered their condolences.
I climbed inside my limo. Just me alone.
I looked for a bottle of booze, but then I remembered that I’d asked them to dump every bottle. Every single one.
The car ride was short, and yet, I wished it were longer. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye, I needed more time. We should have had more time. Tears cascaded down my cheeks, and my heart faltered. The pain in my chest was unbearable, as if I was being torn apart from the inside out.
At her gravesite, my hand rested against the top of the casket. “Baby, I will always love you. Thank you for giving me the greatest gift I could ever receive; your love was everything to me.”
Ashes to ashes.
My hands shook, as I drew in a deep breath. “Your life was my life’s best part. Rest in peace, my love.”
Dust to dust.
My wife was dead, and so was my heart. Nothing could heal me now.
Except my wife wasn’t dead, presently she was bent over the kitchen island with her personal trainer, Nate’s dick pumping in and out of her. My marriage, on the other hand, was dead. Time of Death, 6:39 p.m., November 7th.
I’d just given the performance of a lifetime for my most recent film and I’d come home to find Heather giving Nate a performance of her own. Her black Lululemon leggings dangled from the leg she was standing on, while the other leg rested atop the silestone countertop. Nate’s left hand fisted her blonde hair, the right planted firmly on her hip as he slammed into her.
“I’m going to come, baby,” he growled and slapped her ass just as the crack of thunder boomed outside. Heather yelped and with a quick movement dropped to her knees. That’s when I involuntarily started a slow clap from the foyer.
“Wow, well done, Heather,” I chided, before depositing the bouquet of calla lilies into the trash.
“Mr. James, it’s not what you think, sir,” Nate choked out, as Heather popped off his dick. How could this guy engage in formalities when my wife’s mouth was wrapped around his dick? Definitely bleaching my eyes after this fucking experience.
“Things look crystal clear from my vantage point.”
“Grady, oh my God,” she shrieked stumbling to her feet.
I rolled my eyes watching Nate scramble to pick up his clothing that was scattered from the kitchen, to the dining room and outside onto the terrace. Heather struggled, unable to find her balance while attempting to slide her leggings up her slender legs. With her piss poor balance, I was definitely overpaying this guy for his yoga instruction. She wiggled her hips and finally got the material up over her ass. Not even going to lie, I would miss that ass.
Contemplating the situation at hand, I leaned against the wall. Heather attempted to pull herself together, while I kept an eye on Nate. I wasn’t going to be “kicking his ass,” the dude was stacked and I’ve learned that fighting with one’s fists usually doesn’t resolve matters of the heart. Case in point, my Indigo Row brawl with Ronan Connolly a few years ago that cost both of us some bad press.
On the other hand, the rage boiling inside me was probably all I needed to tackle the motherfucker and lay him out flat on his back, but I didn’t need that kind of trouble and he could sell his tale to the tabloids. He strutted back into the kitchen like he owned the place—that set me off.
“Nate, I suggest that you leave now, get the fuck off my property. Consider me not paying for this session.”
Nate hustled, scooping up his bag and mat and then making a beeline for the front door.
Heather took a deep breath. “I can explain Nate and me . . .”
Holding up my hands, I returned my gaze to my wife. “Save the explanation. Although I do have a question, how long have you been screwing him?”
“It was a onetime thing, I swear,” she replied, wringing her hands together. Her blue eyes welled with tears, stabbing at the pain that radiated in my chest. She staggered towards me grasping my forearms. “Please, Grady, we can work this out.”
“It’s done, sweetheart, there is nothing to work out aside from the division of assets. Starting with this place, it’s definitely going on the market.”
Tears streamed down her face. “No, please don’t do this,” she pleaded as she stalked toward me.
I’d skipped post-production cocktails with the cast and crew to come home and celebrate with my wife. This film could potentially be the blockbuster that catapulted my acting career into the spotlight. I’d spent the last few years teetering between movies, television, and modeling. Modeling paid the bills, and I was very lucky that in my early thirties I was still able to book as many gigs as I did, but I wanted more—more translated into building a life with Heather, sharing our successes, and our setbacks. Over the years, I’d had my fair share of both, but this was a devastating blow. No pun intended.
Disgust sank into the pit of my stomach as I trekked up the stairs and down the hallway to our bedroom. Heather jogged behind me, trying to keep up with my rapid pace. My hands shook as I jerked the suitcase from the walk-in closet.
“Grady, what are you doing?” she asked, eyeing the suitcase.
Brushing past her, I tossed it onto the bench at the foot of the bed. Her eyes went wide with fear. “You can’t leave!” she shouted, her voice was laced with panic.
“I’m not leaving, sweetheart, you are,” I growled, turning back towards the closet.
Sobbing, she moved to stand in front of me, blocking my path. “I’m standing my ground. We have to talk about this.”
“I can’t look at you. The mere sight of you makes me nauseous.”
She whimpered, running her hands through her hair. “You want to throw away our life? Our marriage? Over this?”
“I didn’t throw it away, you did.” I snapped my fingers and pointed at her, again, my involuntary reflexes taking over. I went into the closet and grabbed a stack of her shorts and tops.
Tears rolled down her face, and she wrapped her arms around her body. “It was a mistake, it was one time.”
“And you think that makes it all right?” I asked, tossing her clothes into the suitcase. “I suppose I should be grateful that it wasn’t an emotional affair of the heart.”
“I don’t know why this happened, I’m sorry. It meant nothing to me.”
Heather slumped on the edge of the bed, burying her face in her hands, as her sobs turned to wails. It physically hurt to see her upset and crying, but none of that erased what happened, she’d been unfaithful. Not even therapy could heal the fact that she’d broken our marriage vows. I believed in second chances. I did. I just didn’t believe that everyone deserved them.
“You have twenty minutes to pack your shit and leave. I don’t care where you go, but you’re not staying here.”
She pushed to her feet, swiping away the tears. “So, this is really over.”
I nodded and pointed to the closet. Despite the fact that my heart was crumbling under a hammer of pain, I wasn’t faltering. Muffled sobs came from the closet, along with the sounds of drawers opening and slamming shut.
I scrubbed my hands down my face, counting to ten as I inhaled a deep breath. Walking to the window, I leaned against the glass, overlooking the canyon stretched before me. Fuck. I loved this house. It made California tolerable. At heart though, I was an East Coast guy.
East Coasters said what they meant, even if they could be rude at times. West Coasters, especially Hollywood types, they lie, they all told you what you wanted to hear.
“How . . . when would you like to announce our separation to the media?” she asked, smoothing her ponytail.
Turning to face Heather, my arms folded over my chest. “I think we should let our publicists decide.”
“Fine. Can I ask a favor?”
“Not that you’re in any fucking position to ask me for any favors, but let’s hear it because I could use a good laugh.”
“Can we agree to keep this incident out of it? I don’t want the cheating leaked to the media.”
“Do you think I want it broadcast to the world that you fucked your personal trainer? It’s a fucking cliché, even for Hollywood.” I shoved my hands into my pockets. “I swear to God, Heather, if you strike first on social media you will live to regret it. We have a prenup and it’s ironclad,” I reminded.
Expelling a deep sigh, she tugged a jacket over her shoulders. “I forgot about the prenup.”
“Yeah,” I huffed. “It seems that you did or the free porn show I viewed wouldn’t have happened in our home.”
“When I get settled, I’ll send for the rest of my things.”
I followed her through the study and the den as she gathered up her purse and a few miscellaneous items—her laptop and the chargers for all her electronics. Her fingers drifted over every piece of furniture, frame of artwork and surface as we made our way to the entry.
“For what it’s worth,”—she pivoted to face me, her palms settling on my chest—“I’m sorry, and maybe we should sleep on this before making any rash decisions.”
Oh, she was good. I wasn’t totally blind to Heather and her ways of persuasion. I had opted to push through all that and just see Heather Young, the woman and now all I saw was Heather Young, actress—manipulative, ladder climbing, man-eater.
“Save the act for your next husband, sweetheart. You nearly ruined me once, and stupidly, I forgave you.” I sidestepped her, clutching the door handle. “You fooled me twice, shame on me.”
I gave her a loving nudge out the door and she rewarded me with a middle finger kiss off. As I watched her climb into her white Range Rover, I mentally cataloged a list of all the things I needed to get in order.
Pulling my cell from my pocket, my fingers hovered over the screen contemplating which call to make first. After grabbing the key from my hiding place, I walked to the bar in the den and then poured a glass of scotch. With Heather in and out of rehab, I decided to never keep booze in our home. Over time Heather got sober, and focused her energy on therapy, clean eating, and daily exercise. Those became her coping mechanisms, instead of booze or drugs.
One night she came home and presented me with a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label and told me to drink up and then lock it up. Ten minutes later, a custom crafted bar cabinet was delivered. That was Heather, always full of surprises. Today was most certainly a surprise. I swiped the number and then pressed the speaker feature.
“Hello, Grady, what can I do for you?” My publicist’s melodic southern accent sang out through the Bluetooth.
“Haven, I’m getting a divorce,” I stated matter of fact.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she replied, her fingers flying over the keyboard. “Are you okay?”
“As okay as I can be after walking in on my wife fucking her fitness instructor at the kitchen island.”
“Oh, ouch, so sorry, but if I may say. . .”
“I know how much you love being right, so is this the part where you say ‘I told you so’?” I asked, before downing the final remnants of my drink.
“While, I do love being right, this is something I don’t take any pleasure in,” she replied, tapping against the keyboard. “Except for the fact that I won . . . fifteen hundred dollars.”
I choked out a laugh. “You bet on my divorce with Heather? Who else was in the pool?”
“You don’t really want to know that, do you?”
“Along with being correct, I know that you love being direct.”
“That I do.”
“Giving it to me straight, that is why I pay you the big bucks,” I reminded, and poured another drink.
“We bet on how long the marriage would last. Your friend Ronan had ten months.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” I grumbled.
Ronan Connolly would be getting a call from me soon. It wouldn’t be to harass him about the bet, I didn’t care about that, I needed him put this place on the market.
“Okay, getting back to the matter at hand, my divorce. First, I want the best lawyer.”
“You don’t need the best,” she interrupted. “You caught her cheating and you have a prenup, you’ll get everything. But, since you are seeking my advice, go with Hersh, he’s repped Denise Richards and Camille Grammer, or go with the DissoQueen. I’ll schedule a lunch with Donna and the two of us will work out a joint statement for the press.”
I dropped to the sofa in the den. “I’d like to leave the cheating out of this because the public doesn’t need to know that, and I’m sure she’ll agree to irreconcilable differences. However, because we are dealing with Heather, draft a few social media posts for me in the event that she decides to spin her story first. I need to be prepared. If she tries to imply that I was the one cheating, I have no qualms with resorting to petty tactics.”
“You don’t need to stoop to her level. You’re the bigger star.”
“Save the morality speech for another day.”
“Consider it done.”
I ended the call, and tossed my phone on the cushion beside me. This wasn’t how I saw my day ending—alone and on my way to being good and drunk.
During filming earlier in the day, I channeled all my emotions; pulling from somewhere deep inside thinking about living in a world, existing in a space where my wife wasn’t there. It sucked balls. Poor choice of phrasing given the situation at hand.
I’d felt the stress melt away once I’d showered and changed after filming, because I had been on my way home to see my loving wife to celebrate. Now there was nothing to celebrate. Everything had changed, everything around me was cold, dark and hollow.