The Switch

OLIVIA GOLDSMITH

THE SWITCH

Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London W6 8JB

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 1998

First published in the USA by HarperCollinsPublishers 1998

Copyright © Olivia Goldsmith 1998

The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

Source ISBN: 9780007361663

Ebook Edition © MAY 2015 ISBN: 9780007440238

Version: 2015-12-15

Dedication

Amy Fine Collins for helping with the idea

Cindy Adams

Paul Mahon for not being there when I needed him the most

Linda Grady for her continued support and comments

Richard Saperstein for getting it and buying it for New Line Cinema

Lenny Gartner for the islands, the support and the earrings

Marjorie Braman for the great edit and ‘Marjorie Moments’

Beaver Hall for the gnawing, lodging and tail slapping

Leonida Karpik for knowing how to sell my books

Anthea Disney for laughing at my jokes

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Part 1: Bait

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

Part 2: Switch

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

Part 3: Which?

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

Keep Reading

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Praise

Also by the Author

About the Publisher

1

Sylvie stood for a moment in the cool, dark hallway. It was the only dim place in the house and, though Sylvie loved the light—in fact, had fallen in love with the house for its light—she always found the comparative darkness of the hall a welcome contrast. She told herself that she really had too much to do to stand still here, one hand on the simple carved mahogany of the banister. She put her thumb on the comforting place where the curve of the wood had been worn flat by years of other thumbs. You don’t have time to linger here, she told herself sternly. But despite her admonishment, just for a moment, she would enjoy this quiet. She listened to the tiny creaks the old house made and the comforting tick of the wall clock, then forced herself to pick up the cup of tea she’d left on the sideboard. The jasmine smell filled her head.

Sylvie began to walk down the hall but, as always, glanced first into the dining room, then the living room opposite before moving down the hall toward the music room. Oh, she loved her house. It wasn’t large by Shaker Heights standards—just a center-hall colonial with only three bedrooms. But visitors, once in it, were always surprised by the grand dimensions and dignity of the house. Each of the downstairs four rooms was exactly the same size: all of them were large, light, airy rooms with ten-foot ceilings and long, high windows. Bob, at one time, had suggested they sell the house and buy a bigger one, but Sylvie had been aghast and had steadfastly refused. She didn’t need a guest room—guests stayed next door at her mother’s or camped out on the music room sofa. She didn’t need a family room: all the rooms downstairs were for the family.

Sylvie knew how lucky she was, and she didn’t take her good fortune for granted. Bob sometimes laughed at her for her little habit of checking each room. “Do you think they’re going away?” he’d ask. Or “Are you looking for something?” he’d inquire. “Not for, at,” she’d tell him. She was looking at her home, a place she had created slowly, over time, with Bob and the children. And she never wanted to be complacent about it.

Now Sylvie knew more surely than ever that she’d been right to not even consider selling the house. Perhaps in the old days they’d been the smallest bit cramped, but what would they do now with a larger place? Without the twins at home, the two bedrooms upstairs did stand empty, yet the rest of the house seemed to enfold and protect her. It was not a house too big for a couple, and perhaps someday when Sylvie was used to the idea that the children were gone she could turn one of their rooms upstairs into a proper guest room. Maybe she’d make a den for Bob out of the other. Then he wouldn’t have to leave his paperwork all over the desk in the corner of the dining room, though lately he hadn’t used it much, or at least kept it much neater than usual.

Sylvie moved down the hall to the music room, carrying her cup of tea before her as if the luminous white china could light her way like a lamp. She had only a few minutes before her first lesson and turned into the music room to see the usual organized clutter of sheet music, Schirmer’s Piano for New Students piled beside A Hundred Simple Piano Tunes and Chopin’s Sonatas. Her gray sweater lay across the bench of the Steinway, but nothing—ever—sat on its beautiful ebony lacquered top. Sylvie felt a little shiver of pleasure as she walked into the room. There was a touch of fall in the air and she closed one of the long windows. It was too early for a fire but, with the approach of autumn, she knew that soon the time she liked best in this room, the time when she gave lessons and played while apple wood burned in the grate behind her, was just ahead. Though she certainly missed the twins, this season was always a good time for her; September, when the children had begun school and she’d gone back to her full routine of piano lessons. It felt as if the year was beginning. Students returned from their summer holidays. Sylvie remembered that Jewish people actually celebrated their New Year about now. It made sense to her.

No reason to be sad, she told herself. No empty nest syndrome here, just because the children were no longer at Shaker Heights Elementary or Grover Cleveland High. Her daughter, Irene—Reenie to the family—would settle in at Bennington, and her twin brother, Kenny, already seemed perfectly happy at Northwestern. So, Sylvie told herself, she should settle in and be happy too. She was about to celebrate her fortieth birthday and was planning a treat. Bob had asked what she wanted and she’d finally decided. After all, she wanted romance. She had everything else.

Sylvie stopped for a moment, sipped her tea, and reflected on how many marriages in their neighborhood had failed. She and Bob were one of the lucky couples. They were happy. They loved each other. But she had to admit that sometimes she felt … well, Bob was always so busy. She’d expected he’d have more time once the kids were gone, but it was only she who had more time. He had filled up his agenda with campaigning, men’s club meetings, and business. But now Sylvie would help him take the time so they could discover themselves as a couple once again. She herself could focus a little more on Bob. Men liked that, even men as evolved as Bob. She’d already ordered some nice nightgowns from Victoria’s Secret. She’d make romantic dinners. She’d bought three bottles of champagne and had them hidden in the old refrigerator in the garage, waiting for a spontaneous moment to reveal one with a flourish and let Bob pop the cork.

Sylvie smiled to herself. She wanted to lie in bed with Bob in the morning and talk and giggle instead of letting him jump up, shower, and shave by half past seven. She wanted to sit out in the backyard in the coolness of the October evenings, wrapped in a blanket with him beside her, gazing up at the stars. She wanted to spend a Sunday morning poking around a flea market, sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup held in one hand with Bob holding the other. She looked around at her lovely room and smiled with anticipation.

Sylvie had always felt sorry for women who had to work outside their homes. She had been so very lucky. Lucky to meet Bob as early as she had, lucky that he had come back to Shaker Heights and had seamlessly become part of her family. She was lucky that the twins were both so healthy, so smart, and had never been in any real trouble. There were no financial problems. Bob had given up his music to become a partner in her father’s car dealership, and that had provided well for them. Bob seemed to have done it willingly, though it always caused Sylvie some regret. There was no doubt in her mind that he had been the more talented musician. Perhaps his talent had actually made it easier for him to give up music as a profession; Sylvie didn’t mind teaching and wasn’t troubled by the knowledge that she was almost—but not quite—good enough to tour. Her talents had been exaggerated by a loving family. Juilliard, at first a startling comeuppance, had been a pleasure—once she realized that she didn’t really have the stuff it took to be a concert pianist.

But she had become a good teacher, and she enjoyed teaching. For her it was not a fallback, the boring trap that serious musicians were so reluctantly forced into. She loved bringing music into people’s lives and found that she also liked the glimpses into their lives that the lessons afforded her. Sylvie was a woman who enjoyed the process, and for that she was grateful. She actually enjoyed teaching scales, just as she enjoyed playing them. She liked the orderliness of building one week’s lessons upon the next, and the slow construction of a musician, week by week, as a student mastered fingering, timing, and sight-reading until the thrilling moment came when music burst out in apparent effortlessness. Sylvie treasured those moments when, almost invariably, students looked up from the Steinway keyboard dazzled by their own ability to bring forth a waterfall of sound, to recreate the ordered noise that Handel, Chopin, or Beethoven had first composed.

Oh, she was lucky all right. Lucky with her material possessions, with her family, and with her ability to be satisfied. She had, thank goodness, none of her brother’s constant dissatisfaction, or Bob’s restlessness, which Reenie seemed to have inherited. Sylvie and Kenny were more alike. But then, she had never had to give anything up, to sacrifice anything as Bob had. She had gotten to keep her music and her family. She’d gotten to have it all—a good marriage, good kids, a house she loved, a career she cared about. And if Bob sometimes seemed a bit absent, if he ignored her just a little or took her for granted, they could fix that now—now that they had the luxury of this time together.

She looked at her watch. Honey Blank, her next student, was late. Typical. Sylvie heard a noise in the hall and stepped out there again. The mail came sliding through the post slot in the front door. Maybe there was a letter from one of the children. Kenny would be bad about writing, but Reenie might take the time to send a note. Sylvie knelt to pick up the pile. The usual bills, some catalogues (soon the pre-Christmas deluge would begin), and a card from her sister. Ellen was always early with her birthday greetings. Sylvie opened it. “Forty but still fabulous” it said on the front, with a photo of a wizened old woman in frightening makeup. Thank you, Ellen, Sylvie thought. Older but still passive aggressive, I see. Sylvie shrugged. There was a postcard from Reenie. Sylvie read it quickly. Good. It seemed as if Reenie was settling in. She had signed it “your daughter, Irene,” the formality of which made Sylvie smile.

But it was the Sun Holidays brochure that lit up her face. This was what she’d been waiting for. She felt as if she and Bob needed to rekindle the lamp, the light that had always been at the center of their relationship. And now, with the children gone, there would be time. Here, in her hand, was a ticket to romance. It was up to her. She had always been the spontaneous one, the one who created their adventures.

The phone rang and Sylvie took the mail to the hall table.

“Are you in the middle of a lesson?” Mildred, Sylvie’s mother, began almost every phone conversation that way.

“No, but Harriet Blank is due over any minute.”

“Lucky you. The only woman in the greater Shaker Heights-Cleveland area with no social boundaries whatsoever. After her, do you and Bob want to come over for dinner?”

“No thanks. I’ve defrosted chicken.” Bob loved Mildred, but he got enough of Jim, Sylvie’s father, on the car lot most days. As she listened to her mother. Sylvie finished sorting through the mail.

“Your father is barbecuing,” Mildred told her.

“Well, that is an inducement. I haven’t eaten charcoal since July Fourth. You know, Kenny says Grandpa’s burgers are carcinogens. Something about free radicals.”

“The only free radical I know about is Patty Hearst,” Mildred snapped. Sylvie giggled while she opened the Sun Holidays envelope. It was the glossy brochure she’d written away for. She unfolded it, her heart beating a little faster. The photos were like gems, glowing deep sapphire and emerald in the dimness of the hallway.

“I thought I’d do your birthday dinner on Thursday,” Mildred continued, “in case Bob was taking you out someplace fancy on Friday.”

The only place she wanted him to take her was Hawaii, Sylvie thought. “He hasn’t mentioned it. I’ll ask him.”

“Maybe it’s a surprise.”

Oh no! “No surprise parties, Mom. I mean it,” Sylvie warned. “It’s bad enough being forty. I don’t need the whole cul-de-sac gloating. Not to mention Rosalie.” Just the thought of her ex-sister-in-law made Sylvie shiver. She held up the brochure. There was a picture of a guest room showing a canopy bed hung with white. She and Bob, tanned, lying under the canopy…. Well, she couldn’t tan but she could turn pink and put her arms around him and …

“Sylvie, are you moping? Not that I’d blame you, with the twins gone. It’s hard that both children had to leave at once. For me, I had six years to get used to Ellen, Phil, and then you leaving….”

“I’m not moping. I’m happy.” Sylvie clutched the brochure and dropped the other mail into the basket. “I’ve got to get ready for my lesson.”

“All right, dear. Call if you change your mind.”

There was a tapping on the glass of the French door. Mrs. Harriet Blank—Honey to her friends, if she had any—was standing at the back entrance. “You have a lot of leaves in the pool,” she said as she stepped into the room. “You should get one of those automatic pool sweepers.”

“Nice to see you too,” Sylvie said mildly. “It’s been a long summer.”

“I practiced every day,” Honey assured her, as defensive as Sylvie expected her to be. The lazy students always were. Honey took off her sweater and laid her bag on the armchair. She moved toward the bench, but paused and looked intently at Sylvie. “I saw you at L’Étoile, out by the lake, last week with Bob. You did something great to your face …” Honey took an even closer look at Sylvie, “… that night, anyway. I thought maybe you had a face-lift over the summer. You know, Carol Meyers did. She looks awful. Stretched. I hear she went all the way to Los Angeles for it. Waste of mileage. Anyway, you looked great—at L’Étoile—”

“Bob and I haven’t been out to dinner for months,” Sylvie said mildly. “Not since Bob started campaigning for the Masons’ grand vizier or whatever the boss is called.”

Honey made a face of disbelief. “Are you lying or did you forget?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t lie about being with my husband,” Sylvie said, laughing, “or about a face-lift.” She touched the part of her neck that had just begun to go a little crepey. Lately, when she glanced in a mirror, she sometimes saw a shadow of her mother’s face. God. She pushed the thought from her mind. She was letting this woman get to her. And Honey was such a ditz. She was too vain to wear her glasses most of the time, even when she drove. But … “When was it?” Sylvie couldn’t help but ask.

“Last Tuesday.”

“We were home,” Sylvie said. Then she remembered that Bob had been late on Tuesday. But not very late. “We were both home,” she emphasized.

“Come on. You were there,” Honey insisted. “The two of you were flirting like crazy. That’s why I didn’t even say hello.” Her voice drifted off. “You guys looked so romantic,” she murmured.

“That proves I wasn’t there,” Sylvie said, relieved. “In Shaker Heights, husbands don’t flirt with wives—at least not with their own.”

“It was you.” Honey paused. “Only your face was somehow … up. And you had only one chin.” Honey examined Sylvie’s face again. “You didn’t seem to have a wrinkle. And you were tan.”

“Honey, I never tan. Not since I was born. I turn red, crack, and peel. My mother can verify that.” Honey was a pain. “Shall we?” Sylvie asked, gesturing to the keyboard.

Honey leaned closer to Sylvie, still examining her face. “Well, you were tan two weeks ago. Did you buy that thing on QVC with the tape and the rubber bands? That temporary face-lift thing?”

“No, but I once did get the thigh master. It’s still under my bed. Want it?” Sylvie smacked her right leg and gestured for Honey to sit at the bench. “Obviously, I never used it.”

Honey seemed miffed by Sylvie’s response. They settled down to some finger exercises. It was clear that Honey hadn’t been practicing. Slowly they moved through the lesson. Somewhere near the end of the tiresome hour Sylvie thought she heard Bob’s car. She wanted to finish up quickly with Honey and present her new plan to her husband, but she was too professional to do it. She merely glanced over at the Hawaii brochure, propped at the edge of the music holder, and smiled.

At last the session was over. Sylvie gave Honey a new assignment and walked her to the French doors. What a day! The autumn air refreshed her, the crisp underscent of apples combining with that of drying leaves. Sylvie took a deep breath, then patted the sheet music she had handed Honey and raised her eyebrows, the strictest she ever got with an adult student. But subtlety was wasted on Honey. They said good-bye. Honey took the sheet music, looked up at her, and moved her hand to her own eyebrow, lifting the skin into a wrinkle-free arch. “If a person is going to look that good, even for one night, I think it’s really mean not to share how you did it with a friend,” Honey sniped.

“I share all my musical tips with you, Honey,” Sylvie said. “Here’s my best one: practice.” Gently she pushed the door closed and turned to join her husband.

2

Bob wasn’t at his desk or in the living room. Sylvie checked the kitchen, flipped over the chicken that was sitting in its marinade, and sighed. Bob must have already slipped upstairs.

Sylvie was halfway up the stairs herself before she realized that she had left the travel brochure down in the music room. Honey, Sylvie admitted reluctantly, had flustered her. She turned around, bounded down the stairs, got the brochure, and doubled back. Now she could hear the sound of the shower in the master bath. That was what she’d been afraid of! It meant that Bob was probably going out again this evening. The chicken would be wasted. Damn it! Sylvie didn’t want to have to put off this conversation, but she didn’t want to be forced to sandwich it in between Bob’s ablutions and his departure.

Since Bob had begun to talk about becoming the grand panjandrum of the very secret Masons he’d been so busy. Why did he even want the position? It didn’t pay anything and it couldn’t really be any fun. Walking around in aprons, or whatever they wore, and singing secret songs seemed so unlike Bob. And why he needed to shave, change, and dress up for a smoke-filled room was also beyond her. He’d become more vain lately—she didn’t remember him ever bothering to shower and shave before Rotary, even when he was the president of that. Well, for all she knew, it was a Masonic rule or something. Sylvie got to the bedroom door, paused, and nervously smoothed her hair and then smoothed the brochure in her hand. It was time for a change. She’d just have to make Bob see that. Charm and quirkiness worked with her husband. She stopped for a moment at her bedside table and took out a roll of adhesive tape. She smiled to herself as she walked through the bedroom. She’d get his attention.

Sylvie marched aggressively into the bathroom. The steam pushed up against the door, then up against her body with a wet force. She couldn’t stop herself from looking at the place on the wall where, months ago, the paint had begun to peel. She wished, for the hundredth time, that Bob would remember not to turn the hot water up quite so high—but he never did. Acceptance was just a part of marriage. Sylvie shrugged and walked over to the glass shower wall.

Through the mottled texture of the glass she could see Bob’s body, but the glass seemed to turn him into what looked like animated blots of color—kind of like the way technicians electronically scrambled guilty people’s faces on television when they were being interviewed against their will. Sylvie stared. Pointillistic Bob. Then she picked up a hand towel and wiped down the glass. She’d be cute and quirky. Jauntily, Sylvie pushed the brochure up against the shower wall and, despite the moisture, used the adhesive tape to secure it there.

“Hi, honey. I have a surprise.”

“Your lesson over?”

Sylvie could see that the white dots topping the pink dots of Bob’s head had just about been washed off the animated figure that was her husband. Which meant that the shampooing was over and that he could safely open his eyes. She tapped the glass. “See what I brought you,” she said. She watched as he moved closer to the glass. He bent, suddenly, almost against the textured partition and his face clearly emerged. Very wet, but recognizably Bob’s nice-looking face. Close to the glass the wavering images didn’t blur. Sylvie knew he was close enough to see the brochure.

“Show and tell?” he asked casually.

“Show and go,” she responded, trying to be cute.

But then, to her disappointment, cuteness failed. His head disappeared again. He became a Seurat painting: Tuesday in the Shower with Bob.