The Good Kind of Bad (7 page)

‘One drink,’ I warned. I was in no mood to carry him home.

He flung the Stetson to the floor, threw on a black shirt from the laundry basket and snaked an arm around my neck.

The sun had already set, the sky no longer bruised but stygian. With no sign of the stars in the city, at least the acres of fluorescent lights meant it’d never be dark.

Joe swaggered along the street like he owned every inch of it, clasping his hand in mine and wearing a lingering smile. He might’ve been a chain-smoking delivery driver who owned a nice line in sacred cowboy hats, but he was mine.

Inside the bar, Joe gathered his measure of Jack Daniels, rattled the ice and peered down into his crystal ball. We’d taken a seat by the front window of bustling Galvin’s, the wood-panelled tavern where our eyes had first met, all those days ago.

‘Joe?’ I asked above the jukebox with John Lee Hooker on repeat.

He lifted his head like the devil sat on his back. ‘Hmm?’

‘You’re sitting there trying to turn whisky into wine.’

He shuffled a little in his chair before necking the shot. ‘It’s that ass-hat by the bar. He’s been hassling me for months and no, I don’t want to talk about it.’

I looked across the sizeable room to the healthy crowd hugging the bar. A couple of college types sipped bottled beer at the far end, a pack of suits hit on two scantily clad girls about to get carded, but no Joe Pesci wannabe bothered the bartender. With no stereotypically shifty candidates, I didn’t know who Joe was referring to.

‘Hassling you? What about?’

But he didn’t answer. Instead he leaned into the chair, eager to keep his secrets and his silence.

‘I thought you wanted to come for a drink,’ I muttered, playing with my wine glass.

‘I did. I mean, I
do
.’

‘Then act like it.’ Ordering drinks in a bar usually came with a side of conversation, and this was prime opportunity to act on Nina’s suggestion and crank him for that family info. Nina had sparked my interest, not to mention my realisation. I knew practically zero about Joe’s life pre-April. How was I supposed to love someone I didn’t know? ‘Surely there’s more to your family than Uncle Tommy. Why don’t you talk about them?’ I eventually spat out. I was aiming for concerned but it came out all wrong.

He took a dramatic pause. ‘Because there’s nothing to say. The moment there is I’ll be sure to let you know.’ His block was followed by two fingers, pointed at me in the shape of a gun.

‘Sure to let me know? What, like your mother’s name? That kind of thing?’

‘Damn straight.’

‘I’ve told you all about my family and I don’t know the first thing about yours. About
you
.’

‘You won’t shut up about them, baby. That’s the reason I feel like we’ve had good ol’ Howie and Rosa over every holiday already. I’m not being rude but my family are my business, and I’m not talking, end of story.’

‘You’re
not
being rude? Funny, I could’ve sworn that’s what this was.’

It was like he’d caught sight of himself in a mirror. ‘Damn, I didn’t mean . . . look, I’ve had a crappy day, all right? They didn’t have any head wrenches at the hardware place and then my friend Buddy cancelled his poker night. I thought a drink would improve my mood.’

‘When does a drink ever improve your mood?’

Joe’s forehead sunk into a frown. ‘Do yourself a favour. Don’t push something you know bupkis about. You never know what you’ll find out.’

That may have been true, though I had to be honest with myself. What had started as a small irritation had become an issue, and a big one.
You don’t need to know, don’t worry about it; it doesn’t matter.
It did matter. That I knew only scant details about my husband was problem enough, but being shrugged off made me all the more determined to unearth his secrets.

Joe kept his frown, his expression initially one of defiance as he appeared to revel in the deception, though it soon changed. His perspiring palms rubbed together, like he was trying to rub them clean, while he wrestled to keep the words for himself until, reluctantly, they came.

‘What do you want to know, huh? The part about my parents taking a wrong turn when I was fourteen and them ending up at the bottom of a lake?’ He paused. ‘There’s no point getting weepy-eyed now, baby. I gave that up a long time ago.’ Sinking further into the chair, the whisky was sufficiently emboldening as the leather enveloped him.

When I outstretched my hand, he didn’t take it.

‘You happy now? Satisfied my parents are dead?’

‘Joe, don’t.’

‘Don’t what? Don’t talk about it? You asked.’

‘I know I did, but . . .’

‘I was a kid. I didn’t deserve that. I wasn’t ready to do it on my own. This is what you wanted? To know my secrets? Congratulations.’ There was another dramatic pause. ‘You know something else? I don’t need this.’

As he stood to leave, slapping the glass aside, I grabbed for his arm.

‘Oh, you want more?’ he snarled, reclaiming his arm and his chair.

I was startled, but relieved he’d not bolted out the barn door. ‘Joe . . .’

‘How about this; I was fourteen when they crashed to their deaths. Fourteen. I had to raise my brother by myself. No one cared. And as for Frankie? I couldn’t tell him what to do, I couldn’t control him. After a while, I didn’t care my brother was running around with a loaded piece, shooting at anything that moved.’

My lips tried to form the words, though they felt numb and alien, like a nerve had severed in my chin. I’d been consumed with Project Joe, with re-modelling his wardrobe, researching a good barber and refining his parlance. Back in the real world, it looked like Joe’s brother was dead. His parents
were
dead. Way to feel overwhelmingly guilty.

After a time, I enquired over the brother who’d materialised into existence and vanished just as quickly. ‘So . . . Frankie?’

Joe sniffed, his hands in prayer and a gaze trained on the window. ‘Take one guess what happened to him. And in case you’re wondering? Yeah, he’s dead.’

After that conversation killer I looked around, realising the bar had hushed. A myriad of eyes lay on us, waiting for one to break the silence.

‘For everything you have to tell me and all the things you want to hide, I’m here. I’m your wife. Don’t keep secrets, Joe. The truth will only haunt you if you do.’

Waking alone didn’t trouble me.

After last night’s session on the shrink’s couch it appeared Joe was opening up, though hardly with the revelations I’d expected. Behind all that bravado he was grieving, and although I felt honoured he’d trusted me enough to run my fingers over the scars, I realised I’d become part of it ‒ the provoking, compelling, tragic history of Joe.

I was now in the throes of a solitary morning before work. Joe’s irregular hours meant he came and went at all hours and although his destination wasn’t always UPS, I knew better than to ask. After the Frankie revelation I’d slept like an insomniac, with Joe disappearing at some ungodly hour to ferry parcels around Chicago in his little brown truck. At least the uniform was sexy, especially those knee-length shorts.

Sipping coffee in the hushed apartment was my Zen time, before work’s endless lists and sense of obligation. It was time set aside for me, white noise and nothing else in between.

As for the drama? The less said about that, the better.

Though if I
could
relive my ten thousand mornings and give it all another shot, would I do anything differently? Would I go back, change my life and erase the most cringe-worthy moments of my existence? Not even.

I’d never proclaimed to be an expert at life, at avoiding the opportunely placed banana skin, and that was the point; those that did were doomed to failure. Besides, who would I be if I wasn’t true to myself? I’d be someone else, someone who didn’t take risks. Joe was by far my biggest gamble but staying with Will would’ve left me peering into the past and spending my life wondering
what if
.

Good job I wouldn’t spend my life wondering.

‘Nina!’ I called an hour later.

She was hovering around Faith’s workspace, networking, deliberating and strutting like she was walking for Ashley Williams at London Fashion Week.

As I perched myself by a hot desk, Nina acknowledged me with a mini wave. Looking down, I checked my jacquard blazer and pant combo against her towering Louboutins and leather mini dress.

I wasn’t sitting for long. Nina managed to sprint across the room before dragging me through the hubbub to the sea-green oasis of comfy chairs by the windows.

Settling into an oversized bucket seat, Nina’s giraffe-like legs folded underneath her like a concertina. ‘What were you doing? There’s no time for work. It’s
time
to spill.’

I laughed a little hesitantly. ‘What about?’

‘You know, you, your husband and the whole confronting thing? You asked him, right? About his family?’

Reluctantly I went ahead and told her, though I omitted a few of the more
lurid
details; however much Nina had helped me, I wasn’t her source of amusement. My sole focus at Faith was breaking through the barrier that’d eluded me in London: that shiny glass ceiling. Paired with Will’s predictable apathy on the subject, it was like feminism had never happened:
what do you need a job for
?
You’d be perfect on one of those reality shows
.
Why don’t you audition
?
Gaining a trophy wife slash personal assistant had been Will’s main goal in life, but I’d craved more than elevating his ego and serving as a distraction from that aquiline nose.

‘I thought Joe had an ex-wife or kids and instead I find out his family are dead.’
Note to self: want to feel guilty? Confess your failings to others
.

Placing a hand on mine, Nina was brimming with empathy. ‘Don’t beat yourself up; what were you supposed to do, guess?’

Joe’s confession had been more than difficult to deal with and now I was sharing it with a girl I hardly knew. Saying yes to everything did have its downsides.

I was more interested in Nina’s story, anyway. I’d tried to coax it from her at Jodi’s but she was more interested in discussing Joe’s workout regime. I’d have to watch her (second note to self), not that
I
was jealous of a stick-thin, almost six-foot ex-model who’d spent her teenage years plastered over the pages of
Vogue
. That was before an eating disorder almost killed her and she was considered too skeletal for even the top fashion magnates. Nina liked to talk about herself, continuously, but barely said a word about Mickey, her mysterious cop fiancé.

‘You must be sick of listening to
my
problems,’ I prompted. ‘Let’s talk about you. Mickey and you.’ That ought to do it. Besides, being engaged to a toxic cop was far more fascinating than Joe’s hidden past.

‘You want to know about
my
boring life?’ She gave me a whimsical smile, like she was about to break into song and drag the rest of the room into some flash mob of musical theatre. ‘I’d been in Chicago for three months before I met him. I’d set myself up with this cute Oak Park studio, but it was hard. No one mentioned the lonely part to me. Imagine moving to a place where only the mailman says hello. I wanted to run home to St. Louis crying, to pig out at Mom’s Deli, to walk down the street and actually recognise somebody, and instead I was stuck in a city where I didn’t know where to start. It was soul destroying, and I do mean really: no friends, no money, crying into a tub of Häagen-Dazs mint chip every night because I was manless, apart from River North B.O. guy I was telling you about at Jodi’s . . .’

‘Nina!’ I gave her arm a gentle push. ‘Get on with it.’

Settling further into the chair with her palms on her lap, she continued. ‘So then I go to play pool in a lakeside dive bar. Yes, by myself, I am that tragic. Lo and behold, this super-hot guy saunters over and picks up the other cue and every time I win a game, a drink is waiting on my table. From the first glance I was hooked. We went on a couple of dates, he met my mother, I got a key to his place, and that’s how I met Mickey.’

Nina was the antithesis of a cop’s wife. Aside from her exquisite and refined exterior, a tortured bearded-but-hot artist showing at the MCA was much more Nina’s style. But Mickey? He was a doughnut-munching trigger-happy cop. In my head at least.

‘Girl, are you still listening to me? So Mickey and I got engaged and we lived happily ever after.’

Looking up, I was met with the less-than-impressed gaze of Quentin Renaud, King of the Sweater Vests, purposefully checking his watch from beside the coffee machine. As far as bosses went, I’d soon discovered he was the slimiest known to man, not to mention the most lenient, especially toward Nina. Besides, I wasn’t buying Nina’s fairy tale ending, especially with a smile that deceptive. ‘Happily ever after?’