If only the walls had eyes: Confessions of a Trophy Wife

It was on glum and gloomy, thunderous nights like this that I sat by the grand marble fireplace and reflected on my life to the rhythm of the rain. The chandeliers, the glare of the grand piano and ivory centrepieces of the penthouse dimly glistened in the room as I had requested, being the first lady of the Sapphire Hotel sure had its perks. I lit a few more chandeliers so I could look at the people on the sidewalk of the busy yet opulent left wing of the city.

Some were businessmen, stockbrokers and private bankers in suits; others were valets tending to their rich (or posing) masters. Despite their varying positions, they all looked up at me with similar reactions, some envious, a little resentful and always a wistful longing. At times, I felt akin to the posers on the street because unbeknownst to anybody; my life was teetering on the edge of a knife….

The smell of firewood and hot cocoa wafted into my nostrils, these days sharp smells like garlic and aged cheese just would not do. I could not bring myself to stomach them, much to my relief; the penthouse was always filled with clean, natural smells. The wood burning in the fireplace, the mahogany from the ever polished hardwood floors and fresh flowers from our florist.

I walked to the large, antique, gilt-framed mirror, sashaying this way and that way, I could be vain, like a peacock preening its feathers for all to see, not that I cared what any onlooker would think. With my dark thick hair, my green-brown eyes, naturally full, pouty lips, high cheekbones and Spanish heritage, my late mother had often joked that I was a mash up of Salma Hayek and the Kardashians. Even the slightly thicker curves of my Spanish flair seemed to make any male jaw drop. There was never really much to be said about modesty when women wanted to be you like a pampered pooch and men wanted to be with you at you every beck and call to appease their fancies, even if only to stare. Despite having a “husband” of my own, I can’t begin to tally the number of women who didn’t want me around theirs, merely as a precaution.

I had married two years into my law degree, forsaking a life of deadlines and stress for one of wealthy and refinement. I had married a hotel tycoon, who tended to my every financial need and desire. No one seemed to care about my smarts (just my exotic beauty), as long as my skin was supple, polished and perfumed and my bosom curved in all the right places, no one gave a hoot what the Supreme Court ruling should be on anything from a cushioned trophy wife.

 I barely saw my ‘husband’, except in the festive season where he hosted wholesome family-style office parties for his executives, or charity balls for whatever orphanage was in need. I had to make appearances with him, so that together we graced the covers of the Business Daily   and he remained a firm front runner in the hotel industry. Whenever we stood together, Charles and I, some would say we looked more like father and daughter rather than husband and wife. There was never any real affection in my marriage, everything was rather cold and transactional, he bought me anything I wanted and I gave him “one over on the boys” in his midlife crisis. My life was glamorous and flashy, but also loveless and lonely. That was until I met Henry…

Henry added depth to my life; he listened to me, played chess with me and cured my aching loneliness by staying up with me to talk about everything and absolutely nothing as I doodled circles on his coffee coloured skin with my bare hands. I oftentimes felt guilty for keeping him up late with my whining when he had to wake up early and tend to his duties as my driver. 

During the summer, he’d drive me to Tiffany’s, so we could pretend the 20-carat rings were from him and not the American Express card from my husband. We’d have picnics in secluded parks, go on long walks and sometimes skip town in places where nobody knew us for a few weeks at a time, so we could just be lovers and I would sit in passenger seat so he wouldn’t feel like” the help”.  

He often stressed about how little he had to offer financially, I was not having it, he was the best thing I had going on in my life, and I actually preferred that he was the pauper yet my own Prince Charming, as though he stepped right out of a soppy novel. Henry represented what my life would have been had I not been too keen to chase the money and having spent time around the elite, I knew money made them shallow, superficial and even a little underhanded.

For months now there had been talk of my husband’s shady business dealings and further whispers of the police being hot on his trail. Words like fraud and racketeering were up in the air and even with his overpriced legal team, I wasn’t waiting for the entire White Collar crimes unit to bust down my door before I made a plan.

I was selling all of my jewelry, in cold, hard cash. I wasn’t leaving this god-forsaken marriage with nothing but I was also not taking the fall. Henry and I would buy a quaint, secluded farm somewhere and raise our child in peace. I just needed the puzzle pieces to fall into place…

I had to think hard and fast, as much as I resented my pretentious husband, deceiving him would be no easy feat; he had not gotten rich by being foolish, so I had to plan carefully. My timing had to be right on the money. In between the business dinners, galas and soirees of the festive season, I needed an escape plan that would guarantee my husband never caught wind of my pregnancy or my affair with Henry or we would surely be goners.  

In this town, it was not going to be easy, the money he had afforded him many privileges that were denied to ordinary civilians, business deals among his rivals and stock tips often came faster than he could grab them. Simply put, he owned this town and all those he didn’t own, he could do so with the flash of his cheque book.

Mine and Henry’s plan was about to come to fruition, we had enough to live off for a very long time. As Charles was in town we had been talking only in the car when we needed to speak as a matter of urgency. Lately, we had been sloppy, meeting even in the sauna when he missed talking to his ‘little one’ through the veil of my stomach.

I was tired of walking on eggshells in this place, big as it was, filled to the brim with all the best money could buy and yet, a cold, empty house, even with the fireplace in the corner. I would not miss this place, it had too many bad memories, I wanted this new life with Henry so bad, I could taste it.

Tonight was the night, come hell or high water, my love and I were making a break for it. It would be do or die given the circumstances, but the promise of our emancipation was well worth the risk…