The Lie

This story is by Angela Fonner and was part of our 2024 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

Christine enters the 37th floor of the Metropolitan Building, a handbag resting on her left shoulder. Her Jimmy Choos echo against the marble-lined corridor. In the reception area, Jason, her smartly dressed assistant, greets her with enthusiasm.

“Good morning, Christine. You look amazing! Love that pink handbag. Is it new?”

“Prada,” she replies, admiring her reflection in the mirrored glass door. “This is the perfect shade of pink for me.”

Walking toward the corner office, Jason follows dutifully, reading off the two entries from the appointment book she insists he keeps for her. “There’s a conference call at 11:00 with the Holloways.”

“The Holloways?” The crease between her eyebrows deepens with concern.

“Not sure. They called this morning. Must be important, though. All hands on deck.”

“Really?” Christine says, lifting her right index finger to her chin.

“That’s what they said,” Jason shrugs. “And you have a massage at 3:00.”

“That’ll be a relief after that call. It’s not like we’re at their beck and call for every single little—” Christine stops abruptly, sending Jason into her back, knocking her off balance in her Jimmy Choos.

“Lamar! What are—I mean, what a nice surprise. I thought you and Sheryl were in Greece.”

Lamar leans back in Christine’s office chair, fingers laced behind his head, feet propped up on a thick manila envelope. The label reads: *Holloway File – CONFIDENTIAL His steely gaze locks onto Christine.

He shifts his attention to Jason. “Give us the room.” Jason scurries out, closing the door behind him.

Lamar gestures for Christine to take a seat.

“How was your trip?” Christine asks, feigning an attempt at casual conversation.

“Since before we were married, Sheryl has only ever insisted on one thing: Greece. I vowed I’d take her one day, but that day kept getting pushed farther off. First, we couldn’t afford it—just starting out and all, you know,” he pauses, hoping she might relate, though he knows it’s impossible. “Then came the kids and work. Before I knew it, I was climbing the corporate ladder. You know how it is.” He raises an eyebrow, trying to elicit a reaction.

Christine obliges with a half-smile. “Uh-huh.” Heat rises from under her Gucci suit jacket. He knows she can’t relate. She’s never had to work for a living, thanks to her trust fund. Her last name is the only launching pad she’s ever needed: Christine Carlsbad, Managing Partner of The Carlsbad Group. An obligatory title that comes with an obscenely large salary and a grotesque lack of responsibility.

She’s been to Greece a dozen times and, quite frankly, finds it boring. How many gyros can one person eat?

She’s never been married, although she was engaged once. His name was Joe. Whenever she thought of him, her mind always preceded his name with “Regular.” Still, Joe was a decent guy, and she wanted a family, so she said, “What the hell?” But the prenup was a deal-breaker for Regular Joe. He never intended to take her money—he had a strong moral compass. For him, it was a trust issue, or rather, the lack thereof. A month before the wedding, Regular Joe called it off.

As Lamar drones on about his syrupy-sweet life, Christine inserts “uh-huhs” and “reallys” at appropriate moments, her eyes drifting toward the manila envelope he’s using as a footrest.

“So, imagine her disappointment when our trip ended before it even began.” Lamar shifts to a properly seated position, feet flat on the floor, leaving the Holloway file in full view.

“Really? Why?” Christine places her index finger to her chin, scrambling for a plausible excuse for the question she knows is coming.

“I got a call from the board. Is there anything you’d like to say?” Lamar runs his hands over the envelope.

Christine’s lie churns in her stomach, bubbles rising toward her throat. Unable to hold it down, she leans to the right and vomits directly into her perfectly pink Prada.

“Must be last night’s sushi,” she jokes weakly.

Lamar is unmoved.

“I just needed a little extra to hold me over until my next trust fund distribution. I’ll pay it back. Think of it as a loan,” she pleads, finger still to her chin.

“You promised the last time would be the last. The lying has to stop. This company is not your personal piggy bank.” Lamar rubs his temples. “They want to press charges.”

“What? That’s absurd! It’s not like I’m stealing!” she snaps.

“Yes, it is! It’s exactly like you’re stealing!” Lamar fires back.

“My father would be so disappointed in you, Lamar.”

“I’ve known you for most of your life. Your father wouldn’t have approved of any of this.” His steely stare returns.

“This is what we’re—no, you. This is what *you’re* going to do. Come clean. Tell the Holloways the truth—*all* of it. Return the money, with interest. There’s no guarantee, but if you come clean, maybe I can keep you…” Lamar’s voice softens, offering a sliver of hope.

Christine taps her foot, trying to conjure a justification.

She starts to speak, but Lamar interrupts her. “We’ll have the money from your trust fund deposited into the Holloway account. One more thing… You’ll be removed from the firm, stripped of your endowment. It’s that, or…”

The two of them sit in silence, opposing forces, waiting each other out. Finally, Christine rises. Admitting defeat, she grabs her puke-filled Prada. “This is bullshit,” she mutters as she storms out of the office.

—

Lamar exits the building and turns the corner. He notices a small consignment shop, displaying designer handbags, jewelry, and other expensive baubles in the window.

Curiosity draws him inside. A man approaches him. “Hello,” the man says. Lamar glances at him. He wears wire-rimmed glasses and looks to be in his mid-50s. There’s an air of honesty about him, causing Lamar to linger a little too long.

“Can I help you find something?” the man asks.

“Uh, maybe,” Lamar says. “I’m looking for an anniversary gift for my wife.”

“Congratulations. My wife and I are about to celebrate our very first, but we’ve known each other for years. Which one is this for you?” Lamar doesn’t respond, instead glancing around the shop.

“Are you looking for something in particular?” the man presses.

“This place looks familiar. Didn’t this used to be a jewelry store?”

The man nods. “The owner retired. We opened here about a year ago. My wife’s idea. She insisted on a fresh start before the wedding. She used the word ‘purge’ a lot.” The man chuckles and shakes his head. “It was hard work, but I’ve got to hand it to her—she’s made a real success of this place. Let me get her. She’s great at helping people.”

Lamar follows the man to a glass display case, where a woman is organizing scarves. Although her back is turned, Lamar senses her modesty. She wears a simple navy-blue dress, white Keds sneakers, a singular gold bangle on her right wrist, and a plain gold band on her left hand.

“Hey, hon, a customer needs some assistance,” the man says.

“Thanks, Joe. Give me just a minute,” she replies.

“He’s right here. I brought him back to meet you. It’s their anniversary, too.” Joe turns to Lamar. “Sorry, I didn’t even get your name.”

“Lamar. My wife’s name is Sheryl.”

“Nice to meet you, Lamar. I’m Joe. This is my wife…”

Before Joe can finish, the woman turns, locking eyes with Lamar for the first time since she was escorted out of her old life. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Chris,” she says, graciously extending her hand.

Stunned but happy for her, Lamar shakes her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Chris. You and Joe have a lovely shop.” His kind smile reveals forgiveness. This time, the bubbles in her stomach are filled with gratitude—and happiness for second chances.

“Now,” Chris grins, touching her index finger to her chin, “about that gift. Does Sheryl like accessories? I have some gently used Pradas she might like.”