Elizabeth's Story

by Jessica Knoll

There was one more person I needed to see before I dropped the following bomb on my father: Peter and I were getting divorced, it was a mutual decision, and if he even so much as considered cutting me off I would go straight to Constance and tell her all about his affair with Izzy. Oh, and while you're at it, dear Daddy, you're going to place a call to your former fraternity brother, Judge Erik Jacobsen, and have him throw out Campbell's sentence. You don't think you can make that happen? I'll be sure to remind Constance that Izzy is young enough to be your daughter. Oh, what's that? You'll do your best? Well, that's all I ask for, father. That you do your best. 

I imagine I was feeling something akin to what a medical student would feel just a few months shy of graduation. How long does it take to become a doctor? Ten years? Twelve? Fifteen? I was thirty-three when I set the divorce into motion, thirty-four by the time all was said and done. That would make it twelve years since Campbell and I were forced apart. Twelve years I'd been trying to find my way back to him. Clandestine trysts on the side didn't count. I wanted to be with this man, and I didn't want to have to hide it.

I was giddy as I walked into Dorrian's, which was where I had told Biz to meet me. We used to go there all the time when we first graduated, but now we were far too old for the place. Still, I felt there was something poetic about holding our first tête-à-tête since I'd fucked her husband in a place so bloated with memories of the good old days.

Biz wasn't there when I arrived, even though I made sure to show up eleven minutes late, trying to avoid this very power imbalance. The person who arrives last always holds the cards. I found a seat at one of the tables, preternaturally covered in red checkered tablecloths, trying not to let Biz's tardiness take the wind out of my sails. She's obviously demolished, I reminded myself. Maybe it just took her some extra time to drag herself out of her bed, no doubt strewn with dirty tissues, and make herself look presentable.

So imagine my surprise when the door swung open and in walked Biz, looking thinner than she had on her wedding day, wearing her highest, most painful shoes. I pinched my shoulder blades together as she approached. What was this all about?

"Hello, Elizabeth," Biz said, perfectly pleasant. "I'll take an Absolut on the rocks," she said, dismissing the waiter before he could even put a glass of water in front of her. Biz clucked at my drink. "Club soda bloats, Elizabeth." She patted her suspiciously flat tummy.

"For you mere mortals yes, it does, Biz." I took a big gulp of my drink and winked at her.

Biz's smug expression wavered, ever so slightly. "So what am I doing here, Elizabeth?"

"Well, I thought we should talk."

"About the fact that you fucked my husband three weeks after our wedding? Nice touch leaving those handcuffs in my underwear drawer, by the way." Biz narrowed her eyes and gave me the A-okay sign.

Now the smug expression on my face wavered. This was not the Biz I had been expecting. The Biz I had been expecting was a puddle of tears, swollen from trying to eat away the pain of this betrayal, demanding to know why. Why I would do this to her when she had been the one to out Izzy to me, and to help me exact my revenge on her? She had been nothing but a good and loyal friend to me all these years. How could I do this to her?

Then I would ask her calmly to drop the wide eyed dumpy sidekick act and finally admit, after all these years, that she had been the one to orchestrate the events that led to Bridget's death, in retaliation for my fucking Pat Denson, then tried to pin it all on Izzy. Maybe we'd even have a moment of understanding, she and I, now that we were finally being honest with each other. In some musty back corner of my mind, I'd even cordoned off an atom of hope that this, right here, could be the start of a beautiful, real friendship. We were a pair of stone cold psychos, the two of us. We belonged together.

But this Biz, this magnificently thin, eerily calm and cool creature before me, I didn't recognize at all. And it was unnerving as hell.

"Yes, I thought we should maybe talk about the fact that I fucked your husband," I said. "And also about the fact that you were the one, not Izzy, who spearheaded my abduction."

Biz snorted. "Oh, don't be so dramatic, Elizabeth." She pointed at her impossibly forehead, smooth as the butt of a baby I could not conceive, and whispered, "Gives you wrinkles."

"I completely agree," I said. "So glad to see you finally made an appointment with my dermatologist. I could have written my memoir on the lines in your forehead." I gestured at her. "This is a good look for you. The scorned wife. You really wear it well. You should be thanking me."

"That's exactly what I came here to do, Elizabeth," Biz said. "I wanted to thank you."

I shifted in my seat. I did not like where this was heading. "I'm not sure what I'm being thanked for."

"We had a prenup, Brad and I. If the marriage dissolves on account of any extracurricular activities, I'm entitled to 32% of his monthly income, plus I get stock in his father's firm." Biz leaned forward. "And did you know that next month his father is taking his company public?" Biz rubbed her fingers together and smiled the way she used to smile when she had an economy sized bag of Cool Ranch Doritos nestled in her lap. "I'm never going to have to work again. Which I sucked at anyway. On top of that, I don't have to be married to fucking Brad anymore. He's a total dead fish in bed, am I right?" She laughed and polished off the rest of her drink.

"Oh!" she added. "And one more thing. If you are planning on blackmailing your own father—you know, tell him if he cuts you off for being the one to ruin your marriage with Peter that you'll tell Constance about his affair with Izzy. Or maybe," Biz gasped, "you're even thinking you can convince him to free Campbell in exchange for you keeping his affair a secret from Constance. Why does Campbell get a pass anyway? Why do you still love him after all this? He helped us, as you say, 'abduct' you."

I pinched my lips together and said nothing.

Biz laughed. "Whatever. That's your issue. The point is, I wouldn't bother proposing that to your father."

I felt my face go hot. "And why is that?"

Biz reached into her purse and extracted her wallet. "Because I already got to her."

"What do you mean you already got to her?" I asked through my teeth.

Biz tapped her temple. "I know how your sick little mind works. I went to see Peter a few days ago. You know, check in on him. See how he's doing." I had given Peter the apartment while we worked out how to tell our friends and family we were getting a divorce. I was staying at The Ritz-Carlton, in Battery Park, where I had taken Campbell all those years ago. I'd even requested the same room. "He is really not doing well, Elizabeth." Biz tsked. "He looked like he hadn't showered or gotten out of bed in days. Anyway. I may have said something along the lines of you being a total cunt face, and he actually defended you." She laughed her disbelief. "The guy has to be suffering from Stockholm Syndrome or something. Anyway, he said that yes what you did was detestable but that what I had done to you was far worse. He went after Izzy too. How on top of everything, she had had an affair with your father and that he could tell you were really destroyed by hearing that."

I thought I might grind my back molars into sand I was working my jaw so hard. "So Constance knows."

Biz nodded, sadly. "Oh yes, I told her. Poor thing. She took it pretty hard too. I always liked her. A shame she got caught up with your fucked up family."

I wanted to reach across the table, wrap my hands around Biz's chicken neck, and slam it into the checkerboard tablecloth again and again until I saw brain matter. Izzy's affair with my father was my leverage. Without it, my father had no incentive not to cut me off or pull the strings I needed him to pull to get Campbell out of jail.

Biz dropped a fifty on the table. Our order, combined, couldn't have been more than twelve dollars. "I've got to get going. Dinner with the girls. I don't think I've ever been this popular before! People are so nice to you when your husband cheats on you with your best friend."

Biz pushed her chair out and stood. "It's been real, Elizabeth." She thought for a second. "It really has, actually. I wouldn't be the woman I am without you."

I gave her a sad smile. "I hope you find whatever it is you're looking for that you think will make you happy."

Biz tilted her head. "Same to you."

I waited until I couldn't hear Biz any longer, clicking her way out of the bar in her new Choos. Then I found my phone in my purse and placed a call.

"I need to see you," I said. "Right this moment." I waited a beat. "Great. Twenty minutes?"

- -

There was a faded crease etched into the side of Bart's face when he sat down across from me in the hotel bar. Had he been sleeping? It was not even 10pm. God, he was old.

"I brought them," Bart said, pulling a thick pile of papers out of his cracked leather briefcase. I ripped the stack of documents, detailing the terms of my trust, from his hands.

"Elizabeth, what in heaven's name are you looking for?"

I scanned page one and flipped it. "A loophole."

"A loophole for what?"

I paused for a second. "Remember you told me that if the marriage dissolves on my account the financials of the trust no longer apply?"

"Yes, those are your father's terms."

"Well, what happens if a third party is involved?"

"That's precisely the point," Bart said. "If you were to have extramarital relations with a"—

"No, no," I shook my head. "I mean a third party like a child."

Bart's eyes widened. "Are you pregnant?"

I thrust the papers at him. It was like reading Greek. "I'm not. But what if I was?"

Bart held up a finger, like inspiration had just struck. Then he licked the pad of that same finger and flipped through several pages. "I believe what you are looking for can be found here."

He slid page 9 across the bar top. I picked it up, gingerly, as though it could dissolve in my hands at any moment if I wasn't careful. I held the fine print up to the soft overhead lights, and there, under term 7, paragraph C, was exactly what I was looking for. It was a long shot, but if I ever wanted to see Campbell again, it was also my only hope.

- -

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