100 Days of Happiness Read Online Free PDF Page B

fire, then let me do my best to explain the situation to their satisfaction.
    Signora Moroni.
    Thirty-six years old, four years younger than me. Measurements worthy of a pin-up queen from the fifties: 36-24-35 (I read them on her file at the gym and promptly memorized them).
    The face of a Raphael Madonna with surgically reconstructed lips.
    Fair complexion with a sprinkling of freckles.
    Funny as can be.
    She had been married for years, to a man who traveled frequently for business.
    When she chose me as her personal trainer, I immediately had one thought: “ouch!”
    Seductive married women with husbands who travel for business shouldn’t be allowed to go around on the loose, spending all the time they want in gymnasiums staffed by unfortunate trainers who have sex twice a month at most with their beloved wives of ten years plus. There ought to be a law against it. Buy an exercise bike and set it up in your living room,
per favore
!
    At first I remained on a strictly professional basis with Signora Moroni. Or maybe we should say a reasonably professional basis. For the first few lessons I limited myself at the very most to the occasional chance brush of the knuckles against her thigh, or a grab and a squeeze here and there to test the muscle tone: I know what you’re thinking, just like the classic dirty old man. Then one evening we stayed on after regular hours, alone, in the gym. I told the receptionist that I’d lock up after finishing a series of training exercises with Signora Moroni. And in point of fact, according to the Italian dictionary, an exercise is: “an act or series of acts performed or practiced in order to keep oneself physically and mentally fit and to develop, improve, or display a specific capability or skill.”
    Well, that night we developed and improved greatly the world’s oldest capability or skill.
    And we went on training and exercising for a number of weeks. Weeks of lies, stress, and the fear of leaving telltale evidence. Usually, we did our exercising at her house, while her husband the musician was on tour with some evergreen singer or other, but a couple of times we did a series of follow-up refresher exercises in the gym. Never at home. I couldn’t have done that. I know—that doesn’t let me off the hook.
    Â * * * 
    The serious thing is that Paola found out about it. Her investigation got started one night in February. I left my iPhone on the table duringdinner. I know, it’s the act of an absolute beginner, an amateur at cheating. But when it comes right down to it, I really was an absolute beginner. While we were enjoying an excellent dish of chicken curry, my phone rang. Large as life on the display: Dr. Moroni. An absolute beginner but not completely stupid.
    Â * * * 
    â€œAren’t you going to answer that?” Paola asks.
    â€œNo, it’s . . . it’s Moroni, the doctor at the gym,” I say, inventing freely with some embarrassment. “A tremendously tiresome guy; no doubt he just wants to talk my ear off.”
    â€œIf you want, I can answer and tell him you’re out . . .”
    â€œNo, it doesn’t matter—
grazie,
my love. I’ll call him back in the morning. This curry really is delicious.”
    Had she fallen for it?
    Was I sufficiently believable?
    Did she suspect?
    Just forty-eight hours later I would discover that the correct answers were, in order, no, no, and yes. And that right there and then my wife had been transformed into Columbo turning even a shred of doubt into a hunt that ends only when his prey’s been nailed for his crimes.
    The evening, however, passes without incident, which calms my worries. I watch
Beauty and the Beast
with the kids, and more important, I put my phone into airplane mode. So no more annoying phone calls. But that night I don’t sleep a wink, and in the bathroom, I delete all the compromising messages from the