The Match

Chapter Seventeen

“It’s so nice to meet you,” Jenn Cassidy said to Hester. “I really love watching you analyze a court case on TV.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ve been a fan for years.”

Jenn’s voice was a little breathy. Hester was usually good at reading people, but it was hard to tell if the reality star was being authentic here or not. Jenn Cassidy was beautiful in a classic all-American way — blond hair, toothy smile, bright blue eyes. Her makeup, as was the wont these days, was a tad too heavy for Hester’s taste. Jenn had those overtly fake eyelashes that looked like two tarantulas baking on their backs on hot asphalt. Still, she gave off a friendly, approachable, even trustworthy air, and Hester could see why she’d be cast as the perfect good-girl reality star. Nothing about her beauty felt intimidating.

The doorman held the door for them. Jenn led Hester across the lobby of the giant glass tower of the Sky building. Once inside, she pressed the button for the second floor.

“We used to be higher up,” Jenn explained.

“I’m sorry?”

“I still say ‘we’ — meaning Peter and I. I have to stop doing that. Anyway, when we — there I go again — when Peter and I were a couple, they had us up on the seventy-eighth floor in a four-bedroom duplex. Now I’m in apartment two. It’s maybe a third of the size.”

“You downgraded after the breakup?”

“Not me. They. In this case, the owners of the building. See, buildings like this always have unsold apartments. Since they’re sitting empty anyway, they give them to influencers for free under the condition we post photographs.”

“I see,” Hester said. “You advertise the building?”

“Yes.”

“Like a celebrity endorsement?”

“Exactly.”

“And that’s how you make your living,” Hester continued. “Via endorsements. You wear a certain designer dress or you visit a new nightclub — and millions of people see you and so those businesses pay you.”

“Yes. Or like in this case, we barter. When Peter and I were at our most popular, Sky gave us a two-year lease on suite seventy-eight, under the condition we put it on our social media accounts at least once a week. When it was time to re-up, they moved us — well, just me now — down here.”

“Smaller celebrity, smaller room,” Hester said bluntly.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Jenn said, putting her hand on Hester’s arm. “I’m not complaining. It’s still wonderful that I’m here.” The elevator door dinged open. “I understand how this business works. Being an influencer has a short shelf life. You have to use it as a jumping-off point.”

“So what are your future plans, Jenn?”

The apartment door opened with a fob-wave rather than a key.

“Oh,” Jenn said, sounding somewhat crestfallen. “I thought that was why you wanted to see me. I was in the legal profession before Love Is a Battlefield.”

“In what capacity?”

“A paralegal, but I’d been accepted to law school.”

“Impressive.”

Jenn’s smile was both cute and endearingly shy. “Thank you.”

“Do you plan to matriculate now that the show is over?”

“Actually, I was thinking of trying to be a television analyst who specialized in the law.”

“Ah,” Hester said. “I would love to discuss that with you at another time, but that’s not why I’m here.”

Jenn gestured for them to sit on an off-white couch. Mirrors and generic artwork hung on the walls. There were no photographs, nothing personal, the whole thing looking more like a tasteful, if not warm, chain hotel than a true home. Hester wondered whether this was a model unit.

“I’m here about Peter Bennett,” Hester said.

Jenn blinked in surprise. “Peter?”

“Yes. I’m trying to locate him.”

It took her a second or two to absorb that. “May I ask why?”

Hester debated how to play this. “It’s for a client.”

“One of your clients is looking for Peter?”

“Yes.”

“Then it’s a legal matter?”

“I can’t really say more,” Hester said. “As a trained legal professional, I’m sure you understand.”

“I do, yes.” Jenn still looked stunned. “I haven’t heard from Peter in months.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“I don’t know where he is, Ms. Crimstein. I’m sorry.”

“Call me Hester,” she said, throwing up her most disarming smile. “You two were married.”

Her voice was soft. “Yes.”

“For real? Not just, like, a TV marriage?”

“Yes. Legally and in every way.”

“Okay, and then, of course, we all know what happened on that Reality Ralph podcast. Was that what ended it with you guys?”

“This is all...” Jenn’s eyes stayed on the blond hardwood floor. “I feel a little blindsided here.”

“Why? You said you don’t know where Peter is—”

“I don’t.”

“—but I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors about his fate, right?”

Jenn said nothing. Hester pushed through it.

“I’m talking about the ones where Peter was so distraught from the onslaught of hate that he killed himself.”

Jenn’s eyes closed.

“You’ve heard those rumors?”

Her voice grew even softer. “Of course.”

“Do you think they’re true?”

“That Peter killed himself?”

“Yes.”

She swallowed hard. “I don’t know.”

“You were married. You knew him well.”

“No, Ms. Crimstein, I thought I knew him well.” There was steel in Jenn’s voice now. She raised her gaze. “It made me realize something.”

“What’s that?”

“Maybe I never knew Peter,” Jenn said. “Maybe we never know anyone.”

Hester decided not to react to this dramatic albeit understandable declaration. “So I listened to the podcast, the one where your sister outed your husband.”

“Ms. Crimstein?”

“Hester.”

“Hester, I think I’ve said enough.”

“But you haven’t said anything yet. Were you angry with her?”

“Her?”

“With your sister. Were you angry with her?”

“What? No, why would I be angry with her? She was a victim too.”

“How’s that?”

“Peter may have roofied her.”

“May have? Yeah, but even before that, your sister — what’s her name again? I keep forgetting.”

“Marnie.”

“Thank you. Marnie. So here is what I find odd, Jenn, and maybe, as two legal minds, we can help each other out. Marnie said that your husband sent her nude pics before this may-have-been-roofied incident. Why didn’t she say something to you right away?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It is to me,” Hester said. “Enlighten me.”

“Marnie was a victim. You’re victim shaming.”

“No, sweetie, you’ll know when I’m victim shaming. There will be no couching of language here. Here’s what I don’t get, so maybe you can explain: Let’s say your name is Marnie Cassidy. You love your older, super-successful sister Jenn. She has this super-great new husband, Peter. One day, husband Peter sends you — may I be crude? — a dick pic. Do you, Marnie, say nothing to your beloved sister Jenn? Do you not warn her that she’s married to a destructive, cheating pervert?” Hester shook her head. “Do you see my issue? Turn it around. Suppose Marnie had fallen in love and married some guy she met on a TV program. That guy sends you Schlong Selfies. Would you not tell Marnie?”

“I would tell,” Jenn said slowly. “But again it’s not that simple.”

“Okay, make it complicated for me. Tell me what I’m missing.”

“Marnie is not strong. She can be easily manipulated.”

“Right, but how could she be manipulated into not telling her own loving sister?”

Jenn started to wring her hands. “I’ve wondered that myself.”

“And?”

“I don’t really want to talk about this.”

“Tough. Tell me anyway.”

“I think Marnie felt — or maybe Peter convinced her — that if she told me about the pics, I would blame her.”

“Blame your sister?”

“Yes.”

“Instead of your husband?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, that’s interesting,” Hester said. “Like, for some reason, you’d think maybe Marnie had made the first move.”

“Or, I don’t know, encouraged it or asked for it or whatever.”

“Between us girls, do you think that’s what happened?”

“What?”

“Do you think Marnie made the first move?”

“What? No. That’s not what I’m saying—”

“Sounds like it to me. And maybe not intentionally. Maybe your sister just flirted with Peter, and he took it the wrong way.”

“That’s an awful thing to say.”

“Well, it was your theory, not mine. Either way, Marnie never told you about the dick pics. She never told you she’d had any illicit contact with your husband, isn’t that correct?”

Jenn said nothing.

“In fact,” Hester continued, “the first time you heard these terrible truths about your husband was when your sister Marnie made it public on that podcast. She didn’t tell you first. She told the whole world. Didn’t you find that odd?”

“What exactly are you insinuating?” Jenn asked.

“I think it’s pretty obvious. Marnie is what we used to call — it’s probably politically incorrect now — a ‘fame whore.’”

“Now just wait—”

“Stop acting like you have no idea what I mean. It’s insulting to both of us. Your sister auditioned for all kinds of reality shows, but she never got cast. No one noticed, no one cared. She did manage to get cast on a tiny network spinoff — only because she was the sister of Jenn Cassidy — and she was eliminated in week one. Her fame, whatever there was of it, plummeted. But lo and behold, ever since Marnie outed your husband and destroyed your marriage, well, now Marnie is a big star. She’s got that judging gig on RuPaul and—”

“What is the point of all this?”

“Maybe Marnie lied. Maybe she made the whole thing up.”

Jenn closed her eyes and shook her head. “No. Marnie didn’t lie about Peter.”

“How can you be so sure?”

She opened her eyes. “You don’t think I was skeptical too?”

“Of your sister?”

“Of everything. Do you know how reality TV works?”

“No.”

“It’s all an illusion. It’s a theater, sure, but it’s more like a magic trick. You can’t trust anything you see. I live with that every day. So yes, I trusted my sister. I still do and always will. But I wasn’t about to throw away my marriage based on a podcast drama.”

“You said your sister was easily manipulated. You thought that maybe—”

“I didn’t think maybe anything,” Jenn half snapped. “I wanted corroboration.”

“And you got it?”

“Yes.”

“From?”

Jenn took a deep breath. “Peter isn’t a very good liar.”

Hester usually kept the questions coming rat-tat-tat style, but she paused here to let Jenn elaborate.

“Peter admitted it. Right here. Right on this very couch.”

“When?”

“An hour after the podcast.”

Hester’s voice was soft. “What did he say?”

“At first, he insisted that none of it was true. I just sat here and stared at him and stared at him and I tried to make eye contact and he couldn’t. Oh, I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe him so badly. But I could see it in his face. That’s how stupid and naïve I was.”

“Did he try to explain?”

“He said it wasn’t what I thought. He said I wouldn’t understand.”

“What did he mean by that?”

Jenn threw her hands up in the air. “Isn’t that what all men say in these situations? Maybe it was the stress of being on the show and living in the public eye. Then you add in our infertility issues. With Peter’s background, that part was especially tricky, I think. He really wanted to have children of his own.”

“What background?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said because of Peter’s background, the infertility issues were trickier. What do you mean?”

“You don’t know?”

Hester shrugged a no-idea at her.

“Well, of course,” Jenn said. “How would you know? Peter kept it a secret. I didn’t even know until we were married.”

“Know what?”

“Peter was adopted. He has no idea who his birth parents were.”