Liv Constantine - The Last Mrs. Parrish

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not interested in other women.”

But I knew that look. The determination in his eyes. No one told Jackson Parrish what he could and couldn’t have.

Duplicity suited me. All the years of living with Jackson had taught me a thing or two. It was hard at times, knowing that Amber believed herself so clever and me so stupid, but it would be worth it in the end. It had been tortuous that weekend she was at the lake house with the girls and me. I hated going to that house, period. My mother was really only an hour away, and he wouldn’t let me invite her. He chose it specifically for that purpose — to make my mother believe that I was so self-absorbed that I didn’t think to include her. She had too much pride to ever ask to come. But inviting Amber to the lake had been necessary for moving my plan along. That was the weekend I gave her the vital tidbit that I hoped she would pounce upon — the fact that Jackson desperately wanted a son, and I couldn’t give him one. I also gave her a key to the New York apartment, knowing it wouldn’t be long before she found an excuse to use it.

When I got her text Friday morning asking if it was okay to use the New York apartment for the weekend, I came up with a plan. Jackson had been working from the lake house all week, making life miserable for the girls and me. He didn’t believe in letting schedules slide, even on vacation. When he wasn’t there, we’d lounge by the lake all day, eat when we wanted, stay up late and watch movies. But when he was around, it was lunch at noon, dinner at seven, girls in bed by eight. No junk food, only organic and healthy. I’d have to hide the books on my nightstand and replace them with his selection of the week.

That week, though, I did little things to irritate him. I came in from swimming with smeared makeup under my eyes, left my hair a mess, left crumbs on the counter. By Friday, I could tell he was reaching the breaking point. We’d just finished lunch, and I’d made sure that a piece of spinach was lodged between my front teeth.

He looked at me with disgust. “You’re a pig. You have a big green thing in your teeth.”

I pulled my lips back and leaned close to him. “Where?”

“Ugh. Go look in a mirror.” He shook his head.

As I got up, I purposely bumped my hip into the table, and my plate went clanging to the floor.

“Look where you’re going!” His eyes traveled up and down my body. “Have you put on weight?”

I had actually — ten pounds. I shrugged. “I don’t know. There’s no scale here.”

“I’ll bring one next week. For the love of… What the hell do you do when I’m not here? Stuff yourself with junk?”

I picked up the plate and walked to the sink, deliberately leaving a piece of cucumber on the floor.

“Daphne!” He pointed.

“Oops, sorry.”

I ran the dish under the water and put it in the dishwasher — facing the wrong way.

“Oh, Jackson. The Lanes are coming over for dinner tonight.” I knew that would be the final straw. Our neighbors at the lake lived in Woodstock the rest of the year, and their politics were to the left of Marx. Jackson couldn’t bear to be in the same room as them.

“Are you serious?” He came up behind me, grabbed my shoulders, and turned me around. His face was inches from mine. “I’ve been very patient with you this week, put up with your slovenly appearance, your ineptitude around the house. This is too much.”

I looked at the floor. “Stupid me! I thought this was a week you’d be away. I got the dates confused. I’m so sorry.”

He sighed loudly. “In that case, it will be. I’m heading home today.”

“I’ve arranged to have all the carpets cleaned over the weekend. You really shouldn’t be there, with all the chemicals.”

“Shit. I’ll go to the apartment then. I should go into the office anyhow. Thanks for screwing everything up once again.”

He stormed off to the bedroom to pack.

I would text Amber in the morning with the text I’d “meant” to send today — informing her that Jackson was coming to the apartment, and she couldn’t use it after all. I’d tell her that I’d forgotten to hit send, and hoped that she hadn’t been startled when Jackson showed up.

Walking into the bedroom, I tossed Ulysses to the floor and replaced it with the latest Jack Reacher. I stretched out on the bed and took a deep breath. We’d have pizza for dinner. The Lanes were enjoying the concert they were attending; they’d told me about it when they were over for dinner the week before.

Hours later, my phone rang.

“What the hell are you up to?” Jackson said.

“What do you mean?”

“Amber’s here. What kind of game are you playing, Daphne?”

I feigned surprise. “I texted her and told her you were using the apartment. Wait. Let me look at my phone.” I waited a few seconds. “I’m such an idiot. I never hit send. I’m so sorry.”

He cursed. “You are intent on ruining my weekend. I just want some peace and quiet. I don’t feel like making small talk with the help.”

“Tell her to leave, then. Do you want me to call her?”

He sighed. “No, I’ll handle it. Thanks for nothing!”

I hit send and typed another message to Amber. Sorry. Meant to let you know Jackson was headed to the apartment. May want to stay out of his way. He’s not in the best mood, thanks to me.

That should be enough to have her lending him a sympathetic ear. After that, it would just be a hop, skip, and a jump before they were in bed together.

He’s got it bad. Amber must be really good. Most nights he claimed to be working too late to come all the way home, so he decided to stay at the apartment. Just to test my theory after the third night in a row, I offered to come in and keep him company, but he demurred, saying he would be at the office until all hours. It was also apparent in Amber’s demeanor. She thought she was so clever and that I couldn’t tell, but I noticed the looks that passed between the two of them when she was at the house, and the way she was beginning to finish his sentences.

During our trip to London, her perfume lingered on his clothes and in his hair every time he came back from a meeting. Apparently the infidelity turned him on, because he wanted sex even more than usual. I never knew when he would grab me. The sex was different too — faster and rougher, like a dog staking his claim. I pretended to Amber that he hadn’t touched me in weeks. I needed her to believe he had eyes only for her — except for the one time I let my pride get the better of me and told her that we’d just slept together. The look of shock and anger on her face was delicious. I was worried, though, that it might be only a matter of time before he would tire of her and return to me, more obsessed than ever. My only hope was for Amber to elicit in him the same feelings I had evoked when we first met. He had to become focused on possessing her. She was already doing her part — trying to make herself into a younger version of me. I’d noticed her copying my perfume, wearing her hair the same as mine; she’d even copied my lipstick color. And I continued to feed her the ammunition. But would it be enough? What was taking her so long to get pregnant? Of course, unless it was a boy, it would do no good. We’d been down that road before. He had no use for another daughter.

I made myself look even more pitiful to him. I wanted him to see Amber as my perfect replacement. I wore long underwear under my clothes so I would sweat and blamed it on hot flashes. I started dropping hints that I was going through early menopause, so he would know that if he stayed with me, his dream of a son would go unfulfilled. I was placing all my hope on her getting pregnant with a boy. But if that didn’t work, I was hoping she was clever enough to find another way to hook him.