Unconditional
Page 2
I swallow back the wave of nausea, unsteady. Alex gives me a sharp look, and I try to snap out of it. I don’t have time for messy emotions, not when I need to play hostess.
The housekeeper appears in the doorway and gives me a nod.
“I think it’s time for the first course,” I announce brightly. “Shall we go through?”
I usher everyone into the formal dining room, and make sure everybody is seated at the right place at the long mahogany table. Alexander at the head, of course, and then the hierarchy of partners down the table from most-important all the way to least. I sweated over the seating arrangement for days; the first time I hosted a dinner for Alex’s work, I accidentally put the CEO farther down the table than the CFO, and he wouldn’t let me hear the end of it. I get it: the little things matter, so this time I was sure not to screw up. I make sure everyone’s drinks are freshened, give a nod to the wait staff, and finally take my seat at Alex’s left hand.
“I just love what you’ve done with this room,” one of the partner’s wives coos. She’s the oldest, thirty-five and showing it, and gossip is, she won’t be around for long. They’ve all upgraded, Alex included. He has two ex-wives now, and although I always felt a smug kind of determination that I would succeed where they didn’t, now it strikes me with a new kind of clarity.
We’ve always been disposable to him.
“And red, so…daring.” The wife continues. Her tone is honeyed, but I can tell it’s an insult. Still, I give a breezy smile.
“Aren’t you sweet?” I coo right back. “Thank you.”
“Thank the decorator,” Alex laughs. “She sure charges enough.” The men all chuckle knowingly.
“Oh, but it’s worth it. You’ll have to give me her number.” Wife One sips her wine as the first course is served, a shrimp salad artfully arranged on bone china. “Now, remind me honey, what is it you do?”
“I was in PR,” I answer diplomatically. “But I’m taking a break for now. There’s so much to plan, with the wedding and all Alex’s events.”
“I know.” Wife Two nods sympathetically from across the table. “I can hardly find time to think; I don’t know how you would hold down a full-time job on top of all of this too!”
I smile and nod. The truth is, I was fired four months ago. Or, as they put it, downsized. I told myself I didn’t care; I’d only been working to pass the time until I got married, and with Alex doing so well at work, it wasn’t like we needed the money.
Now, the panic in me rises all over again.
How do you think you’ll get by on your own? The voice in my head taunts me. You’ve barely worked a real job in your life.
“I’m looking forward to getting into charity work.” I try to drown it out, turning to include Wife Three, down the table. “Melinda, Jacob, you must tell me about your foundation, you do such great work.”
As they launch into a description of their latest fundraiser, Alex reaches across and gives my hand a squeeze. His smile is approving, and I feel a glow of pride, despite the ugliness of the scene upstairs. The perfect hostess, that’s what I’m supposed to be, and tonight, everything is going smoothly, right down to the main course, a Moroccan lamb tagine served in a huge glazed pot.
There are oohs and aahs of approval as I ceremoniously lift the lid.
“You’re a lucky man,” one of the partners tells Alex.
He laughs. “Keeps her busy,” he agrees. “Hell, as long as she’s in the kitchen, she’s not out spending my money!”
There’s laughter. I play along, giggling obediently, but as they switch to small talk about office politics and new accounts, my thoughts are spinning on, to the impossible choice ahead of me.
I don’t know how to leave, but I know in my soul I can’t stay.
What did you expect? A cruel voice taunts me, relentless. This is the devil’s bargain you struck. You traded your body and beauty for a rich man with a short temper.
I look around, and I understand, a dull resignation settling in my stomach, the shame of my past reflecting in the princess-cut diamond sparkling on the ring finger of my left hand.
This is what I deserve.
At last, the dinner is over, and our guests depart with promises of lunch dates and golf games. Alex stands beside me in the doorway to wave them off, one hand squeezing my shoulder in a gesture you could almost believe was affectionate—if you looked from very far away.
The last Mercedes drives away, and he closes the door.
“Well?” I ask expectantly. I wait for some kind of thanks, a sign that he realizes how much work I put into tonight, or appreciates it, even, but Alex doesn’t even look at me. He yanks his tie off and opens the foyer closet to find his jacket.
“I’m heading back to the office,” he says, checking his phone again.
“Now?” I blink. “But it’s after eleven.”
“What are you, my mom?” Alex snaps. “I’ve got work to do, work that keeps you in high heels and designer handbags, don’t forget.” He strides past me to the door. “I’ll crash in the city. Don’t wait up.”
“But—”
My objection is lost under the sound of the slamming door. I don’t know why I protested. It’s not like I could stand to make halting conversation with him, pretending like the bruise wasn’t swelling on my face. Most weekends he spends at the apartment in the city. I’ve wondered if he has another woman he meets there, not with jealousy or hurt, but careful planning. If she’s a threat to me, if he would trade us, if I set a foot wrong…
The housekeeper appears in the doorway and gives me a nod.
“I think it’s time for the first course,” I announce brightly. “Shall we go through?”
I usher everyone into the formal dining room, and make sure everybody is seated at the right place at the long mahogany table. Alexander at the head, of course, and then the hierarchy of partners down the table from most-important all the way to least. I sweated over the seating arrangement for days; the first time I hosted a dinner for Alex’s work, I accidentally put the CEO farther down the table than the CFO, and he wouldn’t let me hear the end of it. I get it: the little things matter, so this time I was sure not to screw up. I make sure everyone’s drinks are freshened, give a nod to the wait staff, and finally take my seat at Alex’s left hand.
“I just love what you’ve done with this room,” one of the partner’s wives coos. She’s the oldest, thirty-five and showing it, and gossip is, she won’t be around for long. They’ve all upgraded, Alex included. He has two ex-wives now, and although I always felt a smug kind of determination that I would succeed where they didn’t, now it strikes me with a new kind of clarity.
We’ve always been disposable to him.
“And red, so…daring.” The wife continues. Her tone is honeyed, but I can tell it’s an insult. Still, I give a breezy smile.
“Aren’t you sweet?” I coo right back. “Thank you.”
“Thank the decorator,” Alex laughs. “She sure charges enough.” The men all chuckle knowingly.
“Oh, but it’s worth it. You’ll have to give me her number.” Wife One sips her wine as the first course is served, a shrimp salad artfully arranged on bone china. “Now, remind me honey, what is it you do?”
“I was in PR,” I answer diplomatically. “But I’m taking a break for now. There’s so much to plan, with the wedding and all Alex’s events.”
“I know.” Wife Two nods sympathetically from across the table. “I can hardly find time to think; I don’t know how you would hold down a full-time job on top of all of this too!”
I smile and nod. The truth is, I was fired four months ago. Or, as they put it, downsized. I told myself I didn’t care; I’d only been working to pass the time until I got married, and with Alex doing so well at work, it wasn’t like we needed the money.
Now, the panic in me rises all over again.
How do you think you’ll get by on your own? The voice in my head taunts me. You’ve barely worked a real job in your life.
“I’m looking forward to getting into charity work.” I try to drown it out, turning to include Wife Three, down the table. “Melinda, Jacob, you must tell me about your foundation, you do such great work.”
As they launch into a description of their latest fundraiser, Alex reaches across and gives my hand a squeeze. His smile is approving, and I feel a glow of pride, despite the ugliness of the scene upstairs. The perfect hostess, that’s what I’m supposed to be, and tonight, everything is going smoothly, right down to the main course, a Moroccan lamb tagine served in a huge glazed pot.
There are oohs and aahs of approval as I ceremoniously lift the lid.
“You’re a lucky man,” one of the partners tells Alex.
He laughs. “Keeps her busy,” he agrees. “Hell, as long as she’s in the kitchen, she’s not out spending my money!”
There’s laughter. I play along, giggling obediently, but as they switch to small talk about office politics and new accounts, my thoughts are spinning on, to the impossible choice ahead of me.
I don’t know how to leave, but I know in my soul I can’t stay.
What did you expect? A cruel voice taunts me, relentless. This is the devil’s bargain you struck. You traded your body and beauty for a rich man with a short temper.
I look around, and I understand, a dull resignation settling in my stomach, the shame of my past reflecting in the princess-cut diamond sparkling on the ring finger of my left hand.
This is what I deserve.
At last, the dinner is over, and our guests depart with promises of lunch dates and golf games. Alex stands beside me in the doorway to wave them off, one hand squeezing my shoulder in a gesture you could almost believe was affectionate—if you looked from very far away.
The last Mercedes drives away, and he closes the door.
“Well?” I ask expectantly. I wait for some kind of thanks, a sign that he realizes how much work I put into tonight, or appreciates it, even, but Alex doesn’t even look at me. He yanks his tie off and opens the foyer closet to find his jacket.
“I’m heading back to the office,” he says, checking his phone again.
“Now?” I blink. “But it’s after eleven.”
“What are you, my mom?” Alex snaps. “I’ve got work to do, work that keeps you in high heels and designer handbags, don’t forget.” He strides past me to the door. “I’ll crash in the city. Don’t wait up.”
“But—”
My objection is lost under the sound of the slamming door. I don’t know why I protested. It’s not like I could stand to make halting conversation with him, pretending like the bruise wasn’t swelling on my face. Most weekends he spends at the apartment in the city. I’ve wondered if he has another woman he meets there, not with jealousy or hurt, but careful planning. If she’s a threat to me, if he would trade us, if I set a foot wrong…
