Rebecca smiled inwardly. And, three, two, one…
Daphne stood, manicured hands pressed flat against the table and a dark lock of hair slipping out of her French knot. “You will not take my house from me, you worthless piece of shit. I just spent two years remodeling it.”
“And screwing the contractor.”
“Mr. and Mrs.—”
“It’s mine!” Her palm slapped the table, which earned a bark from Prince Hairy. “And I slept with Eric because you neglected me and were never home and you…you…” Her gaze zeroed in on him as she found her weapon. “You were bad in bed!”
Anthony bristled but Rebecca gripped his arm tighter, praying he’d weather the low blow. When well-prepped, people could deal with a lot of insults in mediation or court, but she’d learnedmen had a figurative and literal soft spot when their manhood was called into question.
“Mrs. Ames,” the mediator admonished.
“Excuse me,” Rebecca said, her tone utterly calm, which would only make Daphne look more out of order. “Can we have a minute? I’d like a private word with my client, and I think everyone could use a break.”
The mediator’s shoulders sagged and she adjusted her glasses. “Five minute break. Everyone needs to come back ready to be civil or we’re going to have to end the mediation and let this go to court.”
Daphne huffed and Raul soothed her with gentle words as he offered her a bottle of sparkling water. She took a long sip, her gaze still shooting daggers at Anthony. Raul nodded at Rebecca. “We’re going to take a little walk and bring Prince Hairy out for a bathroom break. We’ll be back in five.”
“Thanks,” Rebecca said, knowing that taking the dog with was their own version of posturing—acting like the dog was Daphne’s already—but Rebecca wasn’t worried. This was all going exactly as she’d planned.
Once the door to the conference room shut, Anthony turned to her, his perfectly styled brown hair a mess from him raking his fingers through it. “I’m not bad in bed. She’s lying.”
“Anthony.”
“Women always, you know, have a good time, and Daphne always, you know…” A hurt look filled his eyes as he let the sentence trail off.
A pang of sympathy went through Rebecca even though her patience for hand-holding was low on a good day and nearly nonexistent after a court battle this morning and this mediation this afternoon. Anthony’s head was no doubt whirling. Was he bad in bed? Had his wife faked her enjoyment? Was that why she’d strayed?
Rebecca reached out and gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Anthony, you know she’s just throwing out words to rile you up. I told you she’d say the ugliest things to get you off your game. This is a standard emasculation tactic.”
He blinked. “What?”
She blew out a breath. “The easiest way to knock a guy off his game is to insult his penis size or his ability in bed. Men seem to have some inborn need to defend against that type of insult.” In her head she called it the Dick Kick, but she couldn’t bring herself to say it to a client. “On the other side, men insult the woman by saying she was frigid or ugly, getting fat or old. When cornered, people strike right at the clichéd insecurities. It’s completely unoriginal and the tactic of someone who knows she’s losing the fight. It means we’re winning.”
He gave her a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me look. “Winning? She’s going to get her therapist to label Prince a therapy dog. Watch. Then, I’ll lose Prince, too.”
His voice caught and he glanced away, hiding the tears that jumped to his eyes at the thought of losing his dog.
Rebecca frowned. She’d never had a pet because her father had deemed them unsanitary and high maintenance, but she was regularly amazed at how people would throw away everything to keep a pet or some sentimental item. She always preferred to have the client who was less attached to those things. Sentimentality made people irrational. You can take the eighty-thousand dollar car as long as I can keep my mother’s china.
Rebecca didn’t get it. But, of course, when the mother you worship leaves your family without warning when you’re in fourth grade to go start a new family, you learn not to get attached to much.
But Anthony was her client, and he’d told her in no uncertain terms that the dog was the number one priority. He was paying her to get what he wanted, so she would do that because she was good at her job and not there to judge whether a crotch-sniffer trumped a million-dollar home.
Rebecca patted his arm. “I promise. This is going exactly how we want it to. As long as they don’t have any curveballs we didn’t prepare for, what we discussed will work.”
He looked up. “Curveballs?”
“Yes, any items you didn’t tell me about that could make you fold.” Rebecca glanced at the door, making sure they were still alone, and casually rose from her chair and leaned over the table to flip open Raul’s folder. She read the neat handwriting upside down. There was a jotted list of notes and talking points. She recognized and expected most of them. House. 401(k). Cars. Timeshare. Antique furniture. Jewelry. All things she’d gone over with Anthony. But one buried near the bottom caught her eye.
She quickly flipped the folder closed and settled back into her seat. She pinned Anthony with a look. “Tell me about the record collection.”
His eyes widened. “What?”
“They have it on their list to discuss.”
“They have what?” A bright flush of anger filled Anthony’s face. “Those are my goddamned records. I’ve been collecting them since I was fourteen.”