Chapter 4 - Texts I Was Never Meant To Read
Vanessa stood in one smooth motion and scooped the white handbag off the table. She didn't look at me. She looked at Mark.
"I'll be right back," she said, her voice suddenly light again, like nothing had happened.
Mark nodded once, his hands still clasped on the white tablecloth. The silver cloche was still between us, untouched. I should have lifted it. That was my job.
Vanessa's heels clicked toward the back hallway where the restrooms were, past the cream curtains and the small stand with the hostess's reservation book. The handbag swung against her hip with each step. I watched the strap cut into her white blazer.
Mark's eyes stayed on me for a second longer, then dropped to his water glass. I felt the shift in the air, that twenty-second window closing.
I set the tray down on the side station and said, "Excuse me," like I was going to get more bread.
The hallway was narrow and warmer than the dining room, lined with framed black and white photos of the Manhattan skyline. The women's restroom door was closed. A few feet before it, there was a small alcove with a gilt mirror and a marble shelf where women left to check their lipstick. I heard Vanessa before I saw her.
She wasn't in the restroom. She was standing in that alcove with her back half-turned, the handbag open on the shelf, her real phone pressed to her ear. Not the second phone. She was whispering fast.
"Ethan, stop calling the other one," she hissed. "He's right here. I'm at dinner with him."
My breath caught and I stopped behind the corner where the hallway bent. The soft carpet muffled my shoes. My hands went cold.
She laughed, but it was tight and low. "No, she doesn't know anything. Some waitress tried to get cute at the table. Just handle your wife, okay? Text me later on this one."
She slipped the second phone — a smaller black phone with a plain case — back into the inner pocket of the handbag and zipped it half-closed. Then she uncapped a lipstick and leaned toward the mirror, dabbing at the corner of her mouth.
She set the handbag down on the marble shelf to use both hands. For a second her eyes were entirely on her own reflection.
I moved.
I didn't think about it. I stepped into the alcove like I was passing through to the kitchen hall, my phone already in my apron pocket. The notification light on her second phone pulsed through the thin fabric of the pocket.
Vanessa turned her head slightly toward the mirror to check her earrings, her diamond teardrops catching the warm light. The handbag was right there, the zipper half open, the screen face-up.
I slid my phone out and held it low, angled over the bag, and tapped the button to wake the screen with my thumb. I didn't touch her bag. I just took the picture.
The lock screen lit up. A banner preview at the top. Ethan Quinn — I saw my husband's name in plain white text, and under it, two lines of gray text and a time stamp: 8:42 PM.
The camera shutter made a soft click I hadn't muted.
Vanessa's eyes flicked to me in the mirror. Her hand froze with the lipstick still at her lip.
"What are you doing?" she said.
Before I could answer, a voice came from behind me.
"Vanessa?"
Mark was standing at the mouth of the hallway, his dark suit sharp against the cream wall. He wasn't looking at Vanessa. He was looking at me, at my phone still hovering inches above her open handbag, at my other hand still gripping the edge of my apron.
The hallway suddenly felt too small for three people. The air conditioner hummed overhead. I could smell Vanessa's perfume, something powdery and expensive, and the faint lemon cleaner from the restroom.
I lowered my phone slowly and slipped it back into my apron pocket. My heart was beating so hard I thought he could hear it.
Vanessa snapped the handbag shut and pulled it to her chest. She looked from me to Mark and back, her sharp expression rearranging itself into something wounded.
"She was going through my bag," she said to Mark. Her voice shook just enough.
Mark didn't move. His gaze stayed on me, serious and focused, that sharpening stare from the table now pointed directly at me. He took one step closer.
"Is that true?" he asked me. Not loud. Quiet enough that the diners at the nearest tables wouldn't hear.
I swallowed. The photo was on my phone, burning a hole through the fabric. I knew without looking it would be blurred — my hand had been shaking, the angle wrong, the light dim — maybe just a smear of his name and the time.
May you like
"No," I said. It was the only word I could get out.
Vanessa let out a short, cold laugh. Mark kept looking at me, and I realized he didn't believe either of us.
