All too often, Haley felt the hate burn within her. A fire that could be extinguished only with alcohol, of all things. And then only temporarily.
All of her and James’s friends had long ago chosen sides. Some took longer than others, pledging pious promises to keep loving them both, but it was only a matter of time before loyalties were tested and battle lines inalterably drawn.
Even though lunch invitations and movie nights with James’s social set were now a thing of the past for Haley, his friends still cared enough about their friend and follower counts on Facebook and Instagram that they had not blocked Haley on social media.
Mandy’s feed had been especially helpful. Tonight’s entry captured her in a full-length shot wearing a little black dress and posed to show that she barely had a rib cage. In the caption she wrote: Anniversary Party at James and Jessica Sommers’ Loft. #truelove.
James and Jessica’s first anniversary had actually been last week. Haley had commemorated the occasion with a series of thinly veiled tweets about how certain people were destined to burn in hell. As the evening had worn on and her alcohol intake had increased, she’d upped the ante—calling James and hanging up, just so he knew she was thinking of him. Then, around midnight, when she was well past drunk, she left him a voice mail. In the morning she could no longer recall the exact words she’d used, but the gist of it had been that she was looking forward to his death and sincerely hoped it was preceded by immense suffering.
Her admittedly juvenile shenanigans violated the restraining order that prohibited Haley from engaging in any direct contact with James or Jessica. It also required that she stay fifty yards away from Owen. Haley knew the restraining order had been Jessica’s idea. And, sure, showing up at Jessica’s son’s school for the sole purpose of telling him that his mother was a gold-digging whore might have been over the line, but that didn’t make Haley’s comment any less true. Besides, she’d been drunk . . . though that excuse was running a bit thin at this point.
The thing about restraining orders, Haley had learned, was that they really weren’t worth the paper they were written on. For James to complain about any violation, he’d have to file something in court. So far, he hadn’t. Nonetheless, Haley’s divorce lawyer had repeatedly warned her that if she kept flouting the injunction, James’s patience with her would end.
Staring at the Instagram photo of Mandy’s bony arms, Haley poured herself another glass of wine and began to contemplate what offensive she could launch to ruin James and Jessica’s celebration of their love. Calling in a bomb threat required minimal effort, but James would know it was her, and her efforts would be for naught.
That didn’t mean that she couldn’t report, anonymously of course, some other type of suspicious activity that the police would be required to investigate. Yes, Officer, I’m seeing some very shady-looking characters entering the building. I think one of them is carrying a gun.
But even assuming that was enough to warrant a police drop-in, it still wouldn’t dampen the festivities. With Haley’s luck, it would only add to the merriment. She could imagine Jessica laughing in her Jessica way. We were having such an amazing time that the police thought something illegal was going down!
Back to the drawing board, then . . .
The more she thought about it, the more it seemed that this occasion required her personal intervention. James’s loft had a crap security system: a buzzer alerting the residents that their guests had arrived and enabling them to unlock the door remotely. Haley could wait behind some other invitee and follow them in. It would have to be someone who didn’t know her . . . but most of Jessica’s friends only knew of her—James’s batshit psycho of an ex-wife—and wouldn’t recognize her on sight.
Once she got inside, Haley would be behind enemy lines, which meant that she needed backup for this mission. She mentally scrolled through a list of potential accomplices before realizing Malik would be perfect. He was ridiculously handsome, and big too: six three, with a basketball player’s biceps. Even an armed security guard would think twice about forcibly removing Malik from the premises.
He’d come with her too, even though it was late notice. She’d make Malik an offer he couldn’t resist: hang there with her for fifteen minutes, after which they would go back to her place, and he could do whatever he wanted to her for as long as he desired.
2
James glanced at his watch. He was one of the last people he knew who still wore a timepiece rather than check their phone every thirty seconds. It was all part of the persona he’d meticulously cultivated. If you were in the business of selling people million-dollar pieces of art, you needed to establish that you were a person of impeccable taste. In this case, James did so with a Patek Philippe chronograph.
That horological symbol of Swiss precision told him it was still nearly thirty minutes before the first guests were slated to arrive. He stepped out into the living room. The calm before the storm, as it were.
Few of tonight’s attendees had ever been to his home before. Those who had were mainly Jessica’s friends. James’s contributions to the guest list were by and large work colleagues and clients. The loft would undoubtedly impress them, so different from the limestone town houses, Upper East Side classic sixes and sevens, and new-construction penthouses they called home.
He still could not fathom what he’d been thinking back then, but he distinctly recalled that when he’d first set foot in this place, he’d known he’d live in it with Jessica someday. The fact that he was married to Haley at the time somehow hadn’t entered into the equation, even though it had been her idea for them to find a new place rather than continue to live
