Two by Two(7)

Fortunately, for more than a decade I'd been relatively spared the  savage rounds of office politics that had caused more than one nervous  breakdown among the executive staff; early on because I was too  subordinate to care about, and later on because I brought in clients who  appreciated my work and paid the firm accordingly. Over time, I suppose  I convinced myself that because I made Peters a lot of money, he  considered me too valuable to torment. After all, Peters wasn't nearly  as hard on me as he'd been on others in the agency. While he'd chat with  me in the hallway, other executives-some with more experience than  I-would often emerge from Peters's office appearing shell-shocked. When  I'd see them, I couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief-and maybe  even feel a little smug-that such a thing had never happened to me.

But assumptions are only as accurate as the person who makes them, and I  was wrong about virtually everything. My first major promotion had  somewhat coincided with my marriage to Vivian; my second promotion had  occurred two weeks after Vivian had come to the office to drop off my  car after it had been in the shop, one of those drop-ins that could go  catastrophically wrong but in this case had caused the boss to join us  in my office before eventually taking us to lunch. The third promotion  came less than a week after Peters and Vivian spent three hours talking  at a client's dinner party. Only in retrospect did it become clear that  Peters was less interested in my work performance than he was in Vivian,  and it was that simple truth that had kept him from zeroing in on me  all along. Vivian, I should note, bore a striking resemblance to both of  Peters's former wives, and Peters, I suspected, wanted nothing more  than to keep her happy …  or if possible, marry wife number three, even if  it cost me my own marriage.

I'm not kidding. Nor am I exaggerating. Whenever Peters spoke to me, he  never failed to ask me how Vivian was doing, or comment on what a  beautiful woman she was, or ask how we were doing. At client  dinners-three or four times a year-Peters always found a way to sit  beside my wife, and every Christmas party included the sight of them,  heads together in a corner. I probably could have ignored all of this,  if not for Vivian's response to his obvious attraction. Though she  didn't do anything to encourage Peters, she didn't do anything to  discourage his attention either. As terrible as he was as a boss, Peters  could be quite charming around women, especially beautiful ones like  Vivian. He would listen and laugh and offer just the right compliment at  exactly the right time, and because he was also as rich as Midas, it  struck me as possible-even likely-that Vivian was flattered by his  interest. His attraction toward her was, for her, par for the course.  Guys had been vying for her attention ever since she'd been in  elementary school and she'd come to expect it; what she didn't like,  however, was the fact that it sometimes made me jealous.

In December 2014-the month before the most fateful year of my life-we  were getting ready for the agency's annual office Christmas party. When I  expressed my concerns about the situation, she heaved an aggravated  sigh.

"Get over it," she said and I turned away, wondering why it was my wife seemed so dismissive of my feelings.





To rewind a bit on Vivian and me:

As rewarding as motherhood had been for Vivian, marriage to me seemed to  have dimmed in its appeal. I can remember thinking that Vivian had  changed in the years we'd been married, but lately, I've come to believe  that Vivian didn't change so much as simply evolve, becoming more of  the person she'd always been-a person who gradually felt to me like a  stranger.         

     



 

The shift was so subtle as to barely be noticeable. In the first year of  London's life, I accepted Vivian's occasional moodiness and irritation  as something normal and expected, a phase that would pass. I can't say I  enjoyed it, but I grew used to it, even when it seemed to border on  contempt. But the phase never seemed to end. Over the next few years,  Vivian seemed to grow more angry, more disappointed, and more dismissive  of my concerns. She frequently grew angry over even minor things,  hurling insults I could never imagine even whispering aloud. Her  aggression was swift and pointed, usually aimed at getting me to  apologize and back down. As someone who disliked conflict, I eventually  reached the point where I nearly always retreated as soon as she raised  her voice, no matter what grievances I might have held.

The aftermath of her anger was often worse than the attack itself.  Forgiveness seemed unobtainable, and instead of continuing to discuss  things or simply putting them behind her, Vivian would withdraw. She  would say little or nothing to me at all, sometimes for days, answering  questions with one or two words. Instead, she would focus her attention  on London, and retreat to the bedroom as soon as our daughter was tucked  in, leaving me alone in the family room. On those days she radiated  contempt, leaving me to wonder whether my wife still loved me at all.

And yet there was an unpredictability to all of these things, rules  suddenly changing and then changing again. Vivian would be in her anger  forthright, then passive-aggressive, whichever seemed to fit her mood.  Her expectations of me became increasingly fuzzy and half the time, I  wasn't sure what to do or not to do, rehashing events in the wake of a  blowout, trying to figure out what I might have done to upset her. Nor  would she tell me; instead, she'd deny that anything was wrong or accuse  me of overreacting. I often felt as if I were walking through a  minefield, with both my emotional state and the marriage on the line …   and then suddenly, for reasons that were equally mysterious to me, our  relationship would revert to something approaching normal. She'd ask  about my day or whether there was anything special I wanted for dinner;  and after London went to bed, we would make love-the ultimate signal  that I'd been forgiven. Afterward, I'd breathe a sigh of relief, hopeful  that things were finally returning to the way they used to be.

Vivian would deny my version of these events, or at least my  interpretation of them. Angrily. Or she'd cast her actions and behaviors  as responses to things I'd done. She would say that I had an  unrealistic view of marriage, and that I'd somehow expected the  honeymoon to last forever, which just wasn't possible. She claimed that I  brought work stress home, and that I was the one who was moody, not  her; that I resented the fact that she'd been able to stay at home and  that I often took my resentment out on her.

Whatever version of events was objectively true, in my heart what I  wanted more than anything was for Vivian to be happy. Or, more  specifically, happy with me. I still loved Vivian, after all, and I  missed how she used to smile and laugh when we were together; I missed  our rambling conversations and the way we used to hold hands. I missed  the Vivian who'd made me believe that I was a man worthy of her love.

Yet, with the exception of our Friday evening date nights, our  relationship continued its gradual evolution into something I didn't  always recognize, or even want. Vivian's contempt began to hurt me. I  spent most of those years being disappointed in myself for constantly  letting her down, and vowing to try even harder to please her.





Now, fast-forward back to the night of the Christmas party again.

"Get over it," she'd said to me, and the words continued to play in my  mind, even as I dressed. They were sharp, dismissive of my concern and  devoid of empathy, but even so, what I remember most about that evening  was that Vivian looked even more stunning than usual. She was wearing a  black cocktail dress, pumps, and the diamond pendant necklace I'd given  her on her last birthday. Her hair fell loose over her shoulders, and  when she emerged from the bathroom, all I could do was stare.

"You look beautiful," I said.

"Thank you," she said, clutching her handbag.

In the car, things were still tense between us. We stumbled through some  small talk, and when she discerned I wasn't going to bring up Peters  again, her mood began to thaw. By the time we arrived at the party, it  was almost as though she and I had come to an unspoken agreement to  pretend that my comment and her response had never been uttered at all.

Yet, she'd heard me. As annoyed as she'd been, Vivian stayed by my side  virtually the entire evening. Peters chatted with us on three separate  occasions and twice asked Vivian if she wanted to get something to  drink-it was clear he wanted her to join him at the bar-and on both  occasions, she shook her head, telling him that she'd already ordered  from one of the waiters. She was polite and friendly as she said it, and  I found myself wondering whether I'd been making too much of the whole  Peters situation after all. He could flirt with her all he wanted, but  at the end of the night she would head home with me, and that was all  that really mattered, right?