A Chilling Friendship - Part III

Now that she’s dead, I can write about her without fear of lawsuits or reprisals. We were best friends, almost sisters, until we weren’t. Jealousy overtook her, and as a result she intentionally and maliciously tried to sabotage my career. Revenge is a dish best served cold, they say. But my revenge was hot hot hot.  

THIS IS PART 3 of a TEN-PART FICTION STORY

with new episodes published on Tuesdays and Thursdays

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10

 

Ray

In the years before the break-up of my marriage, while I was still living in London, Caroline had often spoken to me about her good friend, Ray Davis, an architect whom she adored and would have had a romantic relationship with if he hadn’t been gay. Whenever we saw one another or spoke on the phone, she sang Ray’s praises – how great he was, how she would have lived with him the rest of her life if he’d had any interest in women. Her voice, as she rhapsodized about this person, was such a monotone that I didn’t really take in what she said and formed no mental image of the man she was describing. For me, Ray was a cipher and when I finally met him, it was a shock. 

First, there was the way he looked. Caroline’s parents had a country house at the end of Long Island, near the Hamptons. It was a place I loved, tucked away in farm country, a stone’s throw from the ocean. On my first weekend back from England I went out there in a state of utter confusion due to my abrupt decision to leave a longish marriage. I was in a fog, everything unreal and hazy, underlaid with a dark current of grief. My first glimpse of Ray caused me to freeze in my tracks. He was extremely good-looking, an energetic young man in his early thirties with arrestingly blue eyes the color of cornflowers and bright red wavy hair closer to flame than fire engine in shade. There was nothing effeminate about him, and if Caroline hadn’t told me I wouldn’t have known he was gay. Instead, he exuded a kind of vigor and purposefulness I associated with cis-gendered males – the guy you would call to check out a stalled car or inspect the premises if you thought someone had broken in. I think my mouth must’ve dropped open in surprise as we were introduced.

I stared at him and he stared at me, an almost palpable sizzle of electricity running back and forth between us as we stood in Caroline’s mother’s kitchen, warm yellow sunshine pouring over the room..  

I don’t think Caroline noticed. I myself didn’t understand what was going on. All I knew was that this man radiated an exuberance and power that was a little overwhelming. “What are you going to do for work if you move to Cambridge?” he asked me.

I had no idea. I was a writer early in her career who’d published a few poems and a story or two in obscure literary journals. As for work, I’d helped my art photographer husband with book proposals and synopses, but that was about it. I was very green.

“Well,” said Ray Davis, looking me up and down. I noticed a mischievous glint in his lively blue eyes. “I think I have a job for you.”