A Woman's Survival Guide to Difficult Men: The Other Woman

Chapter 17: The Other Woman

Photo by Chris Murray on Unsplash

“When can you fly over to Oz?” Tom asked when I answered my cell phone from work. It was March of 1998 in Los Angeles, fourteen years before I’d meet Dean.

“We got the financing from the Australian Film Finance Corporation to start production!”

I looked around the office I shared with my commercial director, which I’d co-opted as my own: wall-to-wall desk unit so we could work in tandem, sliding glass door for faux privacy. His side of the desk was empty; mine ablaze with folders and to do lists. I used to love working here. Lately I’d found myself bringing sage and secretly smudging the entire production office to remove bad vibes.

“Any time,” I said.

Tom and I had met a couple years ago at my previous job, and we immediately clicked professionally. Nothing romantic. He was older and married, a fortyish Aussie with a full head of dark blond hair and earnest, joyful blue eyes. I was a twenty-six-year-old working as a feature film development executive. Tom liked my script notes. We gelled creatively. I felt significant and useful to him, helping to develop his script and later cast his movie long after I’d left that job.

“I’ll send you an airplane ticket,” he said.

I’d come to wear my job at the commercial production house like a favorite pair of jeans that were getting too tight. I knew it was time to move on, but it was going to take a force of nature to push me from my secure paycheck and 401K-entwined nest. A greenlit movie in Australia might just be my Deus Ex Machina. I had no boyfriend or any other commitments holding me back. Tom sent me a ticket. I told my boss I’d be back in two weeks. A trip Down Under was exactly what I needed. Besides, I rationalized, I’d been working non-stop since college. It was time for a bit of adventure.

Before my departure, Tom said his wife would like to have me over for dinner. I didn’t think much about it at the time, I just went.

Their Spanish-style house was a typical Hollywood Hills home, right down the street from the notorious Chateau Marmont where Brittany Spears once had a nervous breakdown over lunch. The house, formerly owned by Robert Altman, reflected the type of director Tom aspired to be.

Tom’s wife answered the door. She wouldn’t leave for Australia until a week after me to co-star in the film. She’d been a siren in her youth, and now she played weather-beaten moms. I’d seen her in a recent movie playing a mother on the verge of a nervous breakdown. She still looked the harried mom – short, dark shaggy hair. She wasn’t wearing any make-up. She’d let her figure go and didn’t seem to care. Her personality, though, was calm and together. She seemed friendly.

Tom’s dashing looks and youthful vigor made them an odd pair. He’d once, over coffee, told me that she was the mother of their beloved teenager, and they’d built a life together but were no longer lovers. They were more like housemates and best friends.

I followed her to the kitchen. Old movie posters hung on the walls, “After Glow,” “Gallipoli.” The tastefully mismatched furniture in the sitting room looked comfy. I imagined they spent hours reading scripts in here. Of course, they had the quintessential espresso maker, the kind that makes perfect coffee but requires an astrophysics degree to operate.

She served a simple meal, salad and chicken. After clearing the dishes, she spread several of Tom’s headshots on the table.

“These are for the movie’s publicity package,” she said. “Which ones do you like best?”

I studied them carefully then selected one. “He looks handsome in this one. Serious but friendly.”

When I arrived in Brisbane a couple weeks later, exhausted from the fifteen-hour flight, I found I had nowhere to stay. Tom said he’d set it up for me to stay in a local girl’s spare bedroom, but when I called her, she told me, “It’s no longer available.”

“She bailed,” I said to Tom over the phone. “What should I do?” I knew he had a second bedroom.

Tom didn’t say anything.

“I’m exhausted. And starving.”

After an even longer pause, he said, “You can stay here. I have a second bedroom.” I wondered why he hadn’t offered to let me stay there in the first place, but I said nothing.

My bedroom was painted a cheerful yellow – I’m guessing an effort to ward off the morose statistic of Brisbane’s unusually high suicide rate. The comforter on my twin bed was a pale floral pattern.

Each night as we retreated to our separate bedrooms, I felt the sexual tension mounting between us. One night, Tom lingered in the doorway to finish up a conversation we were having before saying goodnight. As he turned to leave, my body felt a tug. My conscious mind denied it.

I never thought to have an affair with a married man. I’m a good girl who knows right from wrong. My parents modeled the perfect marriage and expected nothing less from their offspring. But at twenty-eight, I discovered how much gray exists in life, when most everyone wants it black and white. I didn’t want to wreck his marriage. Nor did I want to ruin our working relationship. There was too much at stake. My career was just beginning, and he was a filmmaker who respected my creative input. I could grow to produce for him, maybe run his company one day. This had to stay professional.

Over a bowl of Weetabix and black tea the next morning, we discussed the script, a romantic comedy, and got onto the subject of relationships and marriage.

“I’d like to get married one day,” I said, “but I’m worried about my ability to be monogamous. Have you ever been unfaithful?” I asked. Tom was in the kitchen making tea and bustled about without answering. “Milk and sugar?” he inquired.

“Have you?” I pressed.

He reluctantly admitted that he had. His marriage had been sexless for so long, but he loved his wife and his daughter. It would destroy him to pull his family apart.

“Tell me, what was it like? How did it feel?” I prodded and he told me.

We talked about marriage, sex – things we’d never really discussed in L.A. I noticed a slight gasp in my breath at the sight of his bare skin as he tucked in a shirt. Had he intended it? I found myself wearing flowing, feminine dresses when jeans would do just fine. I wasn’t consciously trying to tempt him. Or was I? We were both a river in Egypt at this point. Deep De-Nile. I was terrified to allow this attraction to take its course but, of course, tantalized by the idea. I had dreamt a premonition of this scenario months earlier. When I mentioned it to him, it turned out that he too had had a similar dream. Probably why he was reluctant to share a roof with me. In mine I resisted for fear of losing the creative partnership. I awoke blushing and uncomfortable, like when you have a sex dream about a boss or a relative. I brushed it off as random.

I later learned that Tom’s wife had said to him, regarding their sexless marriage, “You may as well have an affair. It’s only a matter of time before you do anyway.” Planting seeds. Perhaps she genuinely wanted someone else to do the heavy lifting. According to him, they weren’t having sex anymore.

The revelation of our mutually shared dream, of course, stirred the pot further.

“Let’s get some fresh air and shake the tension loose,” he suggested.

But the evening ended with a kiss, as we both knew it would. What now? We slipped away to our separate bedrooms and lay awake.

The following Sunday we ventured to the mountains, sipping tea and posing as a couple for the day. We glided along the innocence of our affection, enjoying the moments for what they were, each of us secretly wondering about the other. I wondered what he looked like; he wondered how I would feel. We knew we should not think of it so we pushed it aside.

Back at the apartment, the conversation resumed and curiosity got the better of me.

“Are you circumcised?” I ask.

“Do you want to see?” he answered softly. “I want you to see.” Sitting up on his knees, he pulled down his pants, staring deeply into my eyes.

The air thickened. My breathing labored in and out, slowly as if sucking down a milkshake. “I want to see you,” he whispered. I nodded, and he removed my skirt without touching my bare skin.

“You’re beautiful,” he said. “I knew you would be.” We fell backwards onto the bed with the weight of the moment, appreciating its gravity. Still not touching, we closed our eyes and fell sleep.

The next day we went down to the pool in an effort to cool off. But like little aquatic magnets, we drifted together until my legs wrapped around his waist. We pushed gently against one another, bobbing in the water, tempting fate with our eyes. Sexy AF. It was becoming impossible to deny. This was happening.

The forbidden act is oftentimes the most sensual, the most intense – the most memorable. A stolen weekend spent in a Sydney hotel, never leaving the room. We lived inside a dream – eating, sleeping, making love, not caring that I had my period. The room looked like a crime scene when we checked out. It was both animalistic and so acutely human. He was in the middle of making a movie. Who knows how he had the energy to carry on an affair, but we spoke in some form every day even as I traveled the Australian countryside.

And then, the fall out from having an affair with the film’s married director: I was banned from the set. The producer claimed the film might lose funding if the AFFC showed up to find an American on crew. But there was more to it than that. Somehow the producer, and maybe the entire production office, became wise to our transgressions. It was the producer’s job to protect the actress, and that was Tom’s wife. It was the merciful thing to do, for her.

Clearly, I hadn’t thought this part through. My primary focus had been to try my hand as a production executive, but I’d gotten sidetracked by my chemistry with Tom and our seduction. It wound up costing me everything. I could no longer participate on a movie that Tom had, at one point, felt I was such an intrinsic part of that he’d flown me over for it. Maybe Tom let the producer play the heavy to avoid potential complications. But I had made my bed, and now I had to live with the consequences. I had two choices: go home and cut my Allan’s meat into tiny pieces or stay in Australia and have myself an adventure.

At the time, the U.S. dollar was strong. It was cheap to travel Oz. The most expensive part was the plane ticket, and I hadn’t paid for that. I called my boss and told him I wasn’t coming back, then set off to stay with one of the production assistants I’d befriended at her home on the Gold Coast, where she lived with her son and boyfriend. She helped me heal from the disappointment of getting kicked off the set and to reframe this experience with my new lover as an unexpected turn in the road. Life has its own compass.

I wanted to pursue writing, and I needed something to write about. I went on walkabout for three months, staying with friends of the film crew. I waded into tea tree pools on the Gold Coast, toured Lightning Ridge, an opal mining town, then traveled to Melbourne and Sydney where I developed a taste for Vegemite on toast with tea. Tom left messages on my international phone almost daily, and when he didn’t, I suffered.

I journeyed alone much of the time, forcing myself to learn to love it. I never truly did. I’m not afraid to travel alone – I’ve done it many times since. I’ve come to realize, though, that for me it’s a richer experience when I can share it with someone. Nonetheless, it was an opportunity to do some soul searching. I discovered that it takes me twenty-four hours to get used to a new place. I felt desperately lonely with each new move. Luckily, I connected with the assistant director’s girlfriend in Sydney and we became fast friends. I based myself out of her apartment. Solo expeditions were followed by tea and toast at her kitchen table.

“I’m running out of money,” I finally told Tom over the phone, our only source of contact over the previous six weeks. “I need to go home.”

“Don’t go. Please. I have a day off two weeks from now. I want to see you. I’ll send you a wire transfer so you can stay.”

I used his money to embark on a two-week character-building expedition, doing all the things that scared me. I journeyed to Cairns where I abseiled (rappelled) down a sixty-meter cliff.

“Turn around and take in the view!” yelled my instructor. “You’ll regret it if you don’t!”

“I’ll regret it if I do!” I screamed back watching my feet slide down the rock face of the mountain wall. Landing safely on the ground, adrenaline pumping, I raced back to the top to do it again.

Next, I signed myself up for a horse trek. I’d been on a horse maybe twice in my life and both times someone was leading me slowly around a ring. Suffice it to say, sitting atop a horse is not the same as knowing how to ride one. This trip took us through woods, down narrow paths and across ravines. My horse started galloping when the others did as I clung to the reins so tightly my hands were ripped and bleeding by the end. It was exhilarating. I felt stronger, more intrepid.

I’d always been terrified to scuba dive. I remember my parents learning to dive at our house. Outfitted in black wetsuits with heavy, metal oxygen tanks strapped to their backs, they fell backwards into the pool. For some reason that scared the crap out of eight-year-old me. I made a mental note to never, ever try that – at home or anywhere else. Naturally, because this was my “Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway Tour,” I had to do it. I signed myself up for a scuba certification course that spent two days on dry land and three at sea. With each dive my ears felt more pressure, then eventually started to bleed. I went one dive more than I probably should have, but I was determined to get my certification. Turns out I nearly punctured my eardrum and was advised not to fly. Tom’s day off was the next day – the whole reason I’d extended my stay in Australia. I was damned if I was going to miss this reunion. I dosed myself up on antihistamines so my eardrums wouldn’t burst and flew back to Brisbane. Groggy when I landed, I also felt nervous since we hadn’t seen each other in a while. He held me in bed while I warmed to him again. “I don’t know what to make of this relationship,” I said. “Or where it’s going.”

“I don’t know either, love,” he replied, “but I’m happy you’re in my arms again.”

We went out for lunch. In the middle of devouring grilled branzino, he looked at his phone, then back at me. “I’m so sorry about this,” he said, “I have to go watch rushes of the film this afternoon. It’ll just be a couple hours. You rest and we’ll have a nice dinner when I get back.” The producer showed up to cart him off before we’d even finished our meal.

“I’ll see you soon, my love,” he said as he slipped out of the restaurant, my heart aching for him to stay. I was left alone with a looming pile of French fries staring me down with their judgmental little potato eyes, reminding me I was alone again. “This is what you deserve,” they seemed to say.

I tried to be understanding. Urged myself to be patient. This movie was the culmination of seven years of prolonged labor and dogged determination, I reminded myself. His dream was finally within view, and I’d been cheerleading it long enough to know that. It didn’t register with me that had we not slept together and started up this illicit affair, I’d be in that screening room with him.

I napped, watched some TV and tried to relax. As the sun slipped beneath the horizon, agitation set in. We’d agreed I would answer the phone only if it rang once and then stopped, then rang again. Our code so I wouldn’t answer the phone to find someone else at the other end of it. Later he would tell me that he tried to call but for some fucked up reason, his phone registered one ring while the apartment line did not. By 9 p.m., rage was setting in. In a moment of fury, I bolted the front door. Shortly thereafter, I heard the key in the door and Tom beginning a speech he’d rehearsed on the way home. “Now I know...” Ka-chunk. The bolt did its job. He could only open the door half an inch. I’d made my statement but hadn’t thought through what came next. I swiftly unbolted the door then turned on my heels and stormed away, my sarong swinging to and fro with each angry pace. I disappeared into the bedroom where he found me staring icily at the television screen, refusing to meet his eye. “You said it would only be a couple hours,” I said, my eyes red, smoke leaking invisibly from my ears.

“Listen, darling,” he pleaded, “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it. There were hours of dailies to look at. I didn’t realize. I tried to call you.”

At which I exploded. “I flew here at 6 o’clock in the fucking morning, nearly burst my eardrum to be with you. It was supposed to be your day off!” I resumed looking through the television set. My face was stone, my quivering cheeks betrayed me.

Gently but firmly he replied, “I’m trying to make a movie here, darling. Give me a break.” No response. He left the room to make himself a cup of tea, something Aussies do when they’re feeling defeated.

He came back with his cup of tea and seated himself on the floor at my feet, a subject of her Majesty, awaiting his sentence. Would he be beheaded or get just the stocks today?

“I know you couldn’t help it,” I finally said. “I’m not mad at you, I’m angry with the situation. We were supposed to have the day together. One fucking day. Is that so much to ask?” I exclaimed more to the Universe than to him. “And I can’t even pick up the goddamn phone. I hate this. I don’t want to be your mistress. I don’t know what I want.”

A moment of silence as he tried to assess what to do or say next.

“Come hold me,” I said, “I just need to be upset right now.” He complied, relieved to be thrown this bone. I cried, which triggered tears in his eyes as well. My body began to relax in his arms. I needed to feel heard, without my anger getting batted back at me. Tom instinctively knew this and eventually my body responded.

I’ve heard of people making love in the heat of anger. Make-up sex. I’d always thought it was an invention of cinema, having never experienced it myself. How someone could hate you one minute and lovingly consume you the next is a mystery and a miracle to me. But it’s real. The mood was urgent, the energy in the room warm and pulsing. We made love desperately, as if our lives depended on it.

This was what it was like to be with a man for whom life was art and art was life. When I played the furious lover, he’d break into a huge grin and clapped his hands. “How wonderful!” he would exclaim. “What a beautiful, dramatic scene.” Then he’d file it away for future use in a film someday. It was impossible to stay angry at someone like that because he didn’t get hooked into the drama. He took nothing personally. It wasn’t narcissism so much as the maturity to know that my reaction was not necessarily his responsibility. He was doing his best and apologized that it hurt my feelings. How can you stay mad at that? How could you not fall in love with that? And why can’t more men be like this?

**This is a work of fiction loosely based on true events. Names and details have been changed.