I spend the morning doing little tasks for Jessica. I send responses to invitations to various events, I send out Evites for a fund-raiser Jessica is throwing for a politician her husband is fond of, and then I address engraved invitations for Mercedes’s third birthday party.

Jessica’s in and out. She has a manicure scheduled and then she stops by her dermatologist’s office for a Juvéderm touch-up. It’s tempting to post on the forums I’ve signed her up for while she’s out, but of course I can’t risk it. It’s important that she be near her computer when I’m using her identity to post things. Can’t have a time-stamp online contradict an alibi from someone else in real time. But now, when she’s home, she sits in the same room as me, tells me about the other women who are on the board for the symphony—all absolutely awful, according to her—and the woman who lives on the floor beneath them, who is always nice to Jessica when Travis is around, but rude to her when he’s not. I don’t mind. The forums and emails can wait. Right now I’m just grateful for her confidence.

She talks about how Travis is the one who picks up her pills at the pharmacy. She talks about how that’s the one kindness he still extends to her. Well, that and the fact that he gives her a big enough clothing allowance to buy out Bergdorf Goodman.

She talks about how she knows Travis isn’t faithful but that she’s learned to turn the other cheek . . . for the sake of the children.

Translation: She knows that if it comes down to a custody battle, she’ll lose. And, in addition to that, her access to the prescription meds she’s now addicted to might be cut off. So she sucks it up and tries to ignore the constant humiliations her marriage subjects her to.

I cluck my tongue, offer soothing words of comfort, and stock up the bits and pieces of information like so much ammunition.

It’s well into the afternoon when Travis calls and asks for me.

Jessica hands me the phone, her hand shaking, her eyes downcast, studying the ground. I press the receiver to my ear while trying to give Jessica an encouraging smile, if only she would look at me.

“Mr. Gable,” I say lightly, careful to keep any notes of flirtation out of my voice. “How can I help you?”

“Is my wife driving you crazy? Has she done anything stupid yet?”

“No, Mr. Gable.”

“Don’t lie to me. It’s almost four; she must have humiliated herself at least five times today.” He laughs as if he’s just told a particularly good joke. “Tomorrow I want you to come to my office at HGVB.”

“All right. Tomorrow morning Mrs. Gable requested I deliver—”