Escaping Mr. Grayson [UN-EDITED]

Chapter Twenty-One.

There is no right or wrong, it all just depends on what perspective you look at things from.

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The internet quite possibly is the greatest creation to ever grace mankind's presence. I say this with great faith and confidence in Googles never disappointing ability to find everything and everyone that has ever existed. Even a travel journalist like Mrs. Anitta Grayson who has a mentally unstable husband.

          She's a breathtaking career woman with a seemingly perfect and organized life. At least that much is portrayed by her picture and article I found online in a local newspapers website titled, The Early Eagle. The headline reads, "Boss Babes Under Fifty"

          It's pretentious, yes, but its also prestigious and it says a lot. Not just about the newspaper, but about Anitta as well. It says she's the kind of woman that sees any publicity as good publicity. It says that she's fought for the life that she has and she gets a kick out of it when people acknowledge her success, understandably so. She stays humble and hardworking and her relationship is the least of her priorities. That's what I gather from her interview responses anyway.

No mention of her family at all. Strange.

          Another thing that I was able to find out on google is her work address. And how convenient, it's only an hour away in the western part of town. So of course, I had to change into a knee length pencil skirt with a cream blouse and tie my hair up neatly. No makeup, only Chapstick. It's one of those kinds of areas. Very quintessential and ridiculously corporate.

           And then, I drive. The nervousness and anxiety cause me to gnaw so deeply into my lip that as my teeth tear a cut into my flesh, I soon taste the sting of blood. My hands are drenched in sweat, as though I spent all morning in a sauna. And my mind? Oh, my poor old mind is doing more summersaults than that time when I had my first kiss with little Frankie Figglehorn at the town pool and got so excited afterwards that I threw up the tuna sandwich I had for lunch in the swimming pool.

          The office building, when I enter, is quiet. Only the tapping of keyboards and the ringing of landlines can be heard over the severely heavy and pervasive work tension that filled the icy cold atmosphere. I walk over to the receptionist desk and I hear my heart beating out of my ear sockets.

         "Uh...good morning", I stutter

          The receptionist is curvy with short cornrows that are tied into a low ponytail. She stops typing at the computer and tilts her head up. "Yes, good morning and welcome to Howard and Bailey. How may I help you?"

          "I'm...urgh. I'm here to see Mrs. Grayson", I swallow

          "Pardon?"

          "Mrs. Grayson", I repeat, wrinkling my nose. "I'm here to see Mrs. Anitta Grayson"

          "Oh", she turns back to her computer. "...You mean Mrs. Bailey. Do you have an appointment?"

          Mrs. Bailey? She must be one of those women who keeps their last name. She seems strangely independent for someone married to such a possessive man. "Uhm...no", I reply, "It's somewhat of a... more personal meeting"

          She cocks her head. She's unsure of whether or not I'm telling the truth. "It involves her husband", I say quickly and she complies.

          "Alright. I'll tell her you're coming up."—she points towards the elevator—"...the last floor"

           The elevator opened directly into her private office. It was a huge room with only three walls. The last was replaced luxuriously with a floor-to-ceiling window, giving a wide view of half the town. The two remaining walls contained a tall oak door, a low bookshelf, and a large oil painting of dogs...playing poker.

          She stood facing the window with her hands behind her back. She has on a crisp black aristocratic business suit that emphasized her curves in all the right places.

          "Good morning", I squeak, feeling nauseous. Oh boy, this is Frankie Figglehorn all over again

          "Good morning", she says confidently and marches towards her chair. "...And you are?"

          "Uh"—she gestures for me to take a seat—"...My uh...my name is Nailea. Nailea Tembo"

         "Okay", she says plainly.

         I feel my nose wrinkle. "I uh...I'm not sure how to say this. It's a terribly strange and uncomfortable situation...and well, I just...I don't wish to upset you even though I know that I will"

           "Please. Get on with it. What is this about?"

           "It's... well, it's about your husband", I squeak

           "Excuse me?"

           "I... I made a horrible mistake and, I regret every moment of it...", I try. "I truly do apologize. I'll never be able to live with myself again knowing that I caused your family such pain"

          "Wait. Stop. Please", she interrupts. "...what are you saying?"

           A pause. "Mrs. Bailey...I... Ive been having an affair.", I hiccup. "With...your husband"

          Her face drops. She looks startled, as though she's just seen a ghost. "Is this a joke? Because it isn't funny"

          "No. It's...it's not meant to be funny", I reply quickly

          "Get out! Before I call security!", she seethes

          "I understand that I'm the last person you would want to see right now. But I need your help. Please", I beg quickly. "Your husband...he's—"

          "Shut up!" She screams, making me jump in my seat. The room turns deadly quiet and we stare at one another, breathing deeply

          "I'm so so sorry", I whisper

          "Who sent you here?", she snaps

           I shake my head. "No—nobody. I promise."

          "Then why are you doing this? Why are you here?"

          "...well because, your husband...he's. Well, we've been seeing one another and, it's recently gotten...out of hand"

          She breathes deeply. "That's not possible"

          "I know, it probably seems that way, but—"

          "No", she interrupts. "You don't understand. There's no way you could have been sleeping with my husband. My husband died almost seven years ago"

          I sit up straight and look at her with borrowed eyes. I can feel my expression giving away all of my thoughts as usual. "...what?"