The Secret Sister M. DeLuca (read 50 shades of grey .txt) 📖

couple of skewers of spicy satay chicken. Gradually the dizziness receded and my head cleared enough to take another glass of chilled champagne, then follow Guy around the room to be introduced to friends and family.

I made passable small talk, mostly chatting about my job and dodging any questions about family or the past. In return I got the usual tilted head and simpering smile together with stock comments like teaching must be such rewarding work or how wonderful to actually make a difference. All of which really meant, I wouldn’t be caught dead working for peanuts with reprobates, lowlifes and dropouts but someone has to do it and I’m glad it’s you. I put my hand to my heart, Oprah style, and pasted on a glowing smile. My career was a guaranteed conversation stopper so they invariably moved on. Eventually, I receded into the background, content to let Guy do the talking.

At one point we ended up near Gord who was holding court with a bunch of friends and colleagues. Impeccable in an expensive navy suit and sharp white shirt, he was talking up his latest app designed for struggling readers. I gazed in awe. He had the gall of a Wild West snake oil salesman. Gord’s heart didn’t just bleed when he talked about his work, it gushed a stream of saccharin platitudes and stale clichés. Words like differentiation, rigorous core standards, data-driven instruction, action-oriented, forward driven, relentless pursuit of excellence, stakeholder involvement, enhanced observation guidelines, synergistically accountable, raise the bar, close the gap and reap the benefits poured from his mouth.

His audience stood, glassy-eyed. I couldn’t tell whether they were awestruck or bored. My face must have reflected that thought because he glanced at me and the stream of words faltered for a minute. He looked like a kid caught with his hand down his pants. Under the tan, his face flushed and he threw back his drink, then shot a quizzical look my way. I didn’t want to cause any waves at this early stage of our relationship and lowered my gaze.

“Bathroom,” I said, patting Guy’s arm.

“You okay?” he said, kissing my forehead.

I handed him my glass. “Great.”

Gord started up again after I’d left the circle and all I could think of was how much I wanted to snoop around the beautiful bathroom.

A section of the massive mirror turned out to be a medicine cabinet containing a large collection of pills. Vicodin, Valium, Percocet, Xanax, Klonopin. And all for Mrs. Nancy Franzen. Seemed life with Gord wasn’t exactly a picnic. I’d suspected as much. I tipped a few from each container into a Kleenex and stuffed them into my underwear. If the dreams about Birdie got too real I’d drop a couple to get past the pain.

The bathroom led into a walk-in closet as large as a bedroom. Lit by three crystal chandeliers, its walls were lined with ribbed aqua-blue silk. A long row of tailored suits, plastic-wrapped shirts and sweaters took up one side and on the other, Nancy’s monochromatic wardrobe of well-cut jackets, silky shirts, pants and sheath dresses. Two towering shelves were filled with designer shoes – Gucci, Comme Des Garcons, Saint Laurent, Prada. I pulled a few drawers open. Perfectly folded scarves, gloves, neutral underwear. Then I lifted up the stack of beige and gray undies and found a fat cache of frilly, lacy panties. Red, pink, cream, leopard print. So Gord and Nancy did have a little fling every now and again.

Someone tried the door handle so I slipped out of the closet, flushed the toilet and opened the door. I was just about to paste on a smile again when I came face to face with the SUV man from the riverfront. He stepped back smiling.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Have we met?”

I stepped aside. “Don’t think so.”

He stroked the silver goatee. “I’m sure we have. Wait. It’ll come to me.”

“You must be thinking of someone else,” I said, pushing past him.

He held up both hands. “Sorry, could be mistaken, but I swear I thought – anyway – congratulations,” he said, pushing the washroom door open. I stood in the hallway, my heart slamming against my chest. I needed to know why he was here tracking in sludge from that other secret world of mine.

Guy appeared from around the corner.

“You get lost in there?” he asked, holding out his arms. I ran up and caught him around the waist.

“Who’s that guy?” I said, as the man left the washroom and swished by, patting Guy on the shoulder.

“Why – you got the hots for him?”

I shook my head. “I’ve seen him somewhere but I can’t place him.”

Guy led me back into the packed living room. “That’s Peter Karrass. He’s some kind of social worker. Works on Dad’s projects a lot.”

I remember thinking that might explain why he might have been hanging around the riverfront, but it didn’t totally satisfy me. I decided to keep him on my radar and follow him next time I saw him cruising the dark side. But Sabrina had just arrived all decked out in a figure-hugging orange dress that clashed with Nancy’s carefully placed hydrangea posies. And she was talking loud enough to drown out the rest of the guests. I swept across the room to rescue her from my mother-in-law’s purse-lipped platitudes.

17

After the wedding party Sabrina treated me in a whole different way. The pushy, ballsy woman morphed into a humble devotee who stared at me awestruck.

When she finally pounced on me in the staffroom at lunchtime, she couldn’t restrain herself another minute. She leaned towards me, her fork hovering in the air above her kale and quinoa salad, and spoke in a confidential whisper, as if we were members of an exclusive club.

“That place was to die for. Right out of a soap opera,” she said, checking that Daphne and her crew hadn’t heard. “And the bathroom. Like a luxury spa. I was afraid to pee in their fricking toilet.”

When I told her Nancy had