The Good Girl's Guide to Bad Men Read online

  Then I looked at Mrs. Langley. Her hardened features hadn't revealed anything throughout this entire testimony. And they certainly weren't revealing anything now. Here was a woman who had fought her way to the top despite all the odds stacked against her. Despite all the tension her superior salary had caused at home. And now her soon-to-be ex-husband was trying to claim half of everything she had worked for. Even though it had been his actions that had put them in this courtroom in the first place. I didn't need to see pain scrawled across her face to know it was there. The woman who never breaks on the outside always feels it twice as hard on the inside.

  The judge finally responded to my declaration with a vague nod of her head. The kind that indicated only that she had heard me, not necessarily that she had listened. I searched her face for any sign of persuasion, but I might as well have been staring at an abstract painting hanging on the living room wall of some well-off art collector. A red canvas with a single black dot slightly off center. It was anyone's guess what that dot represented.

  Apparently, I would have to wait until tomorrow to find out if my emotional wager was on the right side of the table. Just like everyone else in this room. All I could do now was step off this witness stand, walk out that door, and hope that I had done enough.

  So I did.

  2

  the relationship virus

  The next morning, I was back in Los Angeles at my three-bedroom condo in Brentwood, trying to get my friend Sophie off the phone without hurting her feelings. A fairly typical task in my morning routine. Sophie's wedding was less than a month away, and staying true to her neurotic self, she had officially become a bridezilla. I'd even considered submitting a hidden camera recording of one of her meltdowns to one of those cable reality shows, but I was pretty sure that went against every unspoken agreement in my maid-of-honor contract.

  "So then the caterer goes, in this really snotty British accent, 'Perhaps we can just serve Van de kamp's fish sticks if you're so unhappy with the seafood selection.' And then I was like, 'Well . . .'"

  I attempted to zone out Sophie's voice as I tucked the phone between my ear and my shoulder and struggled to zip up the back of my skirt.

  "Jen, can you believe that?" her voice screeched through the speaker, and I instantly regretted pressing the phone that close to my ear. I dropped it into my hand and held it up to my other ear as I tried to massage my bruised eardrum.

  Then I proceeded to launch into the speech I had been giving for the past six months. "Soph," I began with intensity and a sprinkling of compassion, "I think you should just relax and let everyone do what you've hired them to do. If you keep trying to do everyone else's job, you won't have the time or the energy left to do your own. Which at this point is just one thing: transforming yourself into the beautiful blushing bride that all your friends and family are coming to see. Including myself."

  It was a good thing I already had the speech memorized, because after having just walked out of a room in which two people (and their lawyers) were arguing over how they were going to end their marriage, the last thing I felt like doing was coming up with motivational orations about joining two more people together for "all of eternity."

  Not that I was worried about my best friend ending up like that. I knew for a fact that Sophie's fiancé, Eric, was nothing like Todd Langley. Let's just say I had "proof."

  "I guess you're right," Sophie conceded after my little speech. It was probably the fifth time in the past two weeks she had done so. It baffled me how every time I recited the same exact words, she acted like she was hearing them for the first time. As if it were a breath of fresh air when in reality it reeked of a stale, mildewed basement, having been recycled over and over since the start of this wedding planning process. Not that I was complaining. Sophie's selective amnesia was thankfully keeping me from having to come up with any new and inspiring speeches off the top of my head.

  "I mean," she continued, "so what if the fish is tilapia instead of ahi tuna. Maybe she's right about it pairing better with the wine."

  I stole a quick glance at the clock on my nightstand. It was already 9:45 A.M.

  Shit! I'm late!

  I tucked the phone under my ear again and balanced on one foot as I made a hasty (and rather acrobatic) attempt to shove my left foot into my favorite pair of slingbacks. "She's absolutely right," I replied, pulling the strap around my heel. "And I happen to love tilapia." The emphasis I placed on the word love might have been a tad over the top. As soon as the sentence left my mouth, I marveled at how much it sounded like a fifteen-year-old gushing over the latest bad-boy heartthrob, not a twenty-nine-year-old woman talking about a fish.

  "You do?" Sophie asked, her tone clearly questioning my enthusiasm.

  "Absolutely. In fact, I just read in some food magazine that ahi tuna is so last season. Totally overdone. It's all about the tilapia now."

  "Oh," she replied with a satisfied realization, and I knew that it was time to execute my escape, before she had a chance to light another fire for me to put out.

  "Yep, well, I should probably get going. Late for work. Talk soon!"

  "Oh, okay. But are we still on for tomorrow night to finish the place cards for the tables? I told Zoë we could meet at your place and order pizza or something. Although, I'll probably just have salad, 'cause, you know, I don't want to have to let my dress out . . . yet again. That cheesecake I had last week at Eric's birthday was a huge mistake! I practically felt like—"

  "Yes, we're still on," I interrupted quickly, checking my reflection in the mirror and attempting to smooth down my long, chestnut brown hair. "How about eight?"

  "Yeah, that sounds good. Oh, and I invited John as well. Well, I less invited him and more surrendered to his begging. He says he knows calligraphy, but I highly doubt that. You know how he can be. Is that okay?"

  "Yes, that's fine. Look, I'm really late. I'll see you tomorrow and we'll chat more."

  "Right. Sorry. Well, have a good day at work! Catch lots of cheaters!"

  I laughed and pressed "End" on my cell phone. I still hadn't completely gotten used to my friends knowing what I really did for a living. Until about a year ago, they all thought that I worked for an investment bank. It wasn't until an unfortunate website popped up with my picture on it, warning men of my real motivations, that the lies slowly started to unravel.

  I used to do this job all on my own. I met with the clients, I took on the assignments, and I executed them. Meaning I personally tested the fidelity of these women's husbands and fiancés. And no one in my life had any idea. My friends, my family, even random people I met on airplanes thought I sat in a cubicle for fourteen hours a day staring at thousands of rows of numbers on a screen. Which wasn't that much of a stretch since it was exactly what I did do prior to becoming a fidelity inspector.

  But after the whole website fiasco, which I found out was sponsored by a very disgruntled ex-husband of a former client, I eventually had to come clean. I told them everything. My friends, not my family. Can you imagine telling your mother that you almost sleep with married men for a living? I don't think so.

  Now that I run the agency and have five full-time associates hired to conduct the fidelity inspections for me, life has become a little easier. Although I still haven't told my family about it. They now think I run a domestic services agency that specializes in placing housekeepers, nannies, and private tutors with affluent Southern California families. Well, at least the "domestic services" part is somewhat true.

  After hanging up with Sophie, I immediately opened up the e-mail application on my iPhone and began frantically typing a message to my assistant to tell her that I was running late and could she please inform everyone. While I typed with one hand, my other hand was helping my right foot slide into my second shoe. Unfortunately, I wasn't as skillful at the shoe administering as I was at the typing, and by the time I secured the strap of the slingback around my heel, I had completely lost my balance.

  I reached o
ut for something to break my fall, and my hand landed on skin. The soft skin of a well-formed upper arm.

  It was Jamie. My boyfriend.

  And he was standing just inside the doorway, his arm extended around my back as he effortlessly broke my fall. "Whoa there, Turbo. Multitasking again?" he asked with his usual irresistible smirk. Sometimes I wondered if he really loved me for me or just because I was entertaining to watch sometimes.

  Jamie and I had been together for over a year, and now we practically lived together. He still had his own place in Century City near his office, but he spent most of his time at my condo. I think he liked coming here to get away from the whole corporate landscape of Century City. He could literally see his firm's building from the window of his loft, and ever since he'd been promoted to partner a few months ago, he'd become more and more desperate for an escape at the end of the day. And trust me, never in a million years did I ever think I'd end up here. In a near-cohabitation situation with a member of the opposite sex.

  Before I met Jamie, love had never been in the agenda for me. I kind of always thought that I would just casually skip over that part of my life and continue on as though nothing had happened. You know how some people don't go to college or some people find dogs more fulfilling than children? Well, I was going to be the person who didn't fall in love.

  Honestly, I didn't see the point. And you can't exactly blame me for that. As a fidelity inspector, the only relationships I ever encountered were ones that were falling apart. And my parents weren't much good in the role model department, either. So it's pretty safe to say that Jamie came as a bit of a surprise. He wasn't exactly part of the game plan. I had always thought that I was immune to love and all that mushy relationship stuff. Blessed with the impenetrable antibodies that protected someone from falling head over heels, from trusting another human being wholeheartedly, from ever feeling vulnerable.

  But I guess those antibodies don't really exist. Or scientists just haven't managed to perfect them yet.

  So I caught the flu. I contracted the virus. The one that makes you start sentences with the word we and end them with the words isn't that right, honey? The one that makes you sick with anxiety when the phone doesn't ring exactly when it's supposed to. It's a disease that makes you dizzy, feverish, nauseated, clammy, and from time to time even delusional.

  Yet once I had caught it, I never wanted to be cured. I only wanted to be with Jamie.

  And that's one of the main reasons I no longer take on assignments myself anymore. In fact, I had made a promise to Jamie that I never would. Clearly, you can't be in a trustworthy, committed relationship and be a fidelity inspector. It's kind of one of those either/or situations. So when I came up with the idea for the agency, I convinced Jamie that I would be able to manage the entire process from behind a desk. Or more specifically, from my office on the top floor of a midrise building overlooking the ocean in Santa Monica.

  It was the perfect desk job for a retired field agent.

  After I steadied myself and managed to get my other shoe on my foot, Jamie reached out and handed me a steel, lidded travel mug with a teabag string dangling over the side. "English Breakfast with milk and sugar, as usual."

  I flashed him a grateful smile as I took the tea. "Thanks, babe." I slid open the small slit on the top of the mug and took a sip. "What are you still doing here?" I asked, eyeing his ensemble of boxer shorts, undershirt, and wet hair.

  "I have a conference call with the London office in ten minutes. I thought I'd just take it here."

  I raised my eyebrows playfully. "So you're gonna sit around my house and run up my international phone bill, huh? Typical."

  He reached his arm back around me and pulled me close to him. I could smell the fresh scent of his aftershave as my nose brushed up against his smooth, freshly razored chin. "They're calling me," he clarified before kissing me and giving my left butt cheek a squeeze. "Hmm, I like this skirt."

  I rolled my eyes and pushed him away. "I have to go."

  His shoulders slouched as he watched me walk past him into the hallway. "But I still have ten minutes," he pouted behind me.

  I laughed and grabbed my Louis Vuitton briefcase from the dining room chair. "But I don't," I reminded him. "And we both know it would take longer." I dropped my cell phone into the front pocket of the bag. "Much longer," I added with a flirtatious grin.

  Jamie was tall and beautiful, with this distinguished, mature look about him that drove me crazy. What is it about worldly-looking men? They're so enticing. To me, Jamie was like George Clooney in Ocean's Eleven. Slightly older, with that coy smirk of his and those soft yet powerful eyes. His dark hair had just started to reveal the slightest shades of gray around the temples, and honestly, it was one of the sexiest things I'd ever seen.

  But gray temples or not, I was still ridiculously late.

  I clasped the pocket of my briefcase and headed for the front door. But I only got halfway there before my phone started ringing. I groaned, thinking that maybe it was Sophie again, and I immediately regretted the day that I gave up my two separate cell phones in exchange for one single iPhone. I used to carry one cell phone for personal use and one for business. And at least back then, I always knew what kind of call it would be based on which cell phone was ringing. But ever since I opened the agency, there just didn't seem to be a reason for me to have two. Most clients only had the number to the office, and my assistant handled all those calls. Which worked really well in keeping my home life and my work life as separate as possible.

  I set the briefcase on the edge of the couch and fished the phone back out of the bag. The number on the caller ID wasn't one that I recognized. "Where's area code 914?"

  Jamie appeared from the hallway behind me and shrugged. "No clue."

  Curiosity got the better of me, and I answered. "Hello?"

  "Hello, Ashlyn?" replied the slightly familiar female voice on the other end.

  Well, at least I could tell the call was work related from the name she used. If she had called me "Jennifer," I would have known it was personal in nature. I never used my real name for matters of business.

  "Yes, this is she."

  Jamie approached and kissed me silently on the cheek. "Don't forget about our plans tonight," he whispered before heading into the kitchen.

  I held up one finger and nodded.

  "This is Paula Porter, Mrs. Langley's attorney."

  I could feel my body stiffen immediately. Of course—914 area code was Westchester County. Where I had been less than twenty-four hours ago.

  This was it. The phone call I had been dreading since I left that courtroom yesterday. Part of me didn't even want to know what the outcome had been. Part of me just wanted to move on with my life and forget all about it. Maybe this was one of those things better left to fade away in the back of your memory. A burning question that, after a few weeks' time, eventually sizzles out until it's just a faintly glowing ember that's hardly worth talking about.

  But the other part of me knew I would never be able to let it go. As much as I hated to admit it, I had made some kind of emotional investment in this outcome. Ever since I quit the fieldwork and began my "desk job," these courtroom testimonies were the only way I could be directly involved in my clients' lives. Sure, I greeted them at the agency, took their case, prepared their assignment, and reported back to them when it was all said and done. But there was something inherently lacking in that. Being the bookends of the process but never the book. On the surface, I knew I was still helping people, but I always felt one step removed from it. I was never personally involved anymore. And I'll admit, sometimes I missed it. The personal involvement. Not the almost sleeping with married men, obviously.

  Becoming an expert witness seemed like a good solution. It was a way that I could make an impact on people's lives while at the same time keeping my promise to Jamie that I would never actually be the one to conduct the fidelity inspections. Unfortunately, the last five testimonies I had gi
ven hadn't made much of an impact at all. Every single one of them had ended in a ruling that favored the cheater and not the cheated on. I was hoping Mrs. Langley's case would put an end to my losing streak and reestablish some kind of faith that I actually was making a difference.

  I realized it was a lot of weight to place on one phone call.

  "Yes, hello, Ms. Porter," I replied softly, sliding into one of the dining room chairs.

  "I just wanted to thank you again for flying all that way to testify on Joy's behalf yesterday. I realize it's a long flight, and we both really appreciate it."

  "It's no problem."

  "And I also thought you might want to know what the judge's decision was."

  I tried hard to detect any traces of emotion in her voice. Did she sound happy? Sad? Disappointed? Elated? But I was left with no clues whatsoever. I guess that's what made her a good lawyer.

  "Oh," I replied casually, as if the thought of this phone conversation hadn't even crossed my mind. "Sure, you can tell me if you like . . . since you already have me on the phone."

  "Right," she began. "Well, as you said in the courtroom, cheating is a very subjective concept. It's difficult to determine what really constitutes it."

  I could feel my hand start to wind in slow circles in front of my body, urging her to skip the fluff and just tell me what the decision was. "Uh-huh."

  I looked over at Jamie, who had moved into the kitchen and was now searching my cabinets for something to eat for breakfast.

  "So in order to get around issues of subjectivity, the legal system usually relies heavily on language."