The Wife Between Us(90)

“How could you—?” Richard choked back the rest of his sentence. He exhaled slowly. But the tightness in his face didn’t relax.

I felt nausea rise in my throat and knew I couldn’t sustain my performance much longer, so I hurried to the powder room. I splashed cold water on my wrists and counted my breaths until my heartbeat finally evened out.

Then I exited the bathroom and surveyed our gathered guests.

I hadn’t quite accomplished all I needed to yet.

Richard was chatting with one of his partners and a golf buddy from the club, but my tingling skin alerted me that his eyes kept returning to me. My hair, my drinking, my reaction to the caterers—I was acting like a very different woman from the one who’d scrupulously reviewed every detail of the party with him during the preceding weeks. We’d spent hours going over our guest list, with Richard reminding me of personal details about his associates so I could more easily mingle and introduce people. We’d discussed flower choices for our arrangements. Richard had instructed me to avoid ordering shrimp because one of our guests was allergic, and I’d told him I’d double-check that we had enough hangers so no one’s coat would have to be splayed across a bed.

Now it was time to check off another item on my private list, the one I kept only in my head and reviewed when Richard left for work: Talk to Emma.

A server passed by and offered me a warm Parmesan crostini from his tray. I forced myself to smile and take one, but I folded it into a napkin.

I paused for a moment, until the same server reached the group that contained Emma, then I approached.

“You have to try these,” I gushed. I forced a laugh. “You’ve got to keep up your strength if you’re working for Richard.”

Emma briefly frowned, then her face cleared. “He does work long hours. But I don’t mind.”

She took a crostini and bit into it. I could see Richard begin to approach us from across the room, but George intercepted him.

“Oh, it’s not just the hours,” I said. “He’s very particular, isn’t he?”

She nodded and quickly popped the rest of her appetizer into her mouth.

“Well, I’m glad everyone finally has something to eat. You’d think the caterers would at least show up on time with what they charge.” I spoke loudly enough so that the middle-aged man holding the platter of food could hear, and more important, so Emma would think I’d lobbed the harsh comment at him. I could feel my cheeks burn, but I hoped Emma assumed it was from too much wine. When I met her eyes, I saw disdain in them for my rudeness.

Richard extracted himself from George, walking directly toward us. Right before he arrived, I pivoted and headed in the opposite direction.

Give them one more reason. I knew I had to do it now or I’d lose my nerve.

Every step was a struggle as I slowly crossed the room. My pulse throbbed in my ears. I could feel a thin film of cold sweat gathering on my top lip.

All of my instincts were screaming at me to stop, to turn around. I forced myself forward, weaving through the clusters of smiling people. Someone touched my arm, but I pulled away without a glance.

Only the thought of Emma and Richard watching propelled me forward.

I knew I wouldn’t have another chance to be near her anytime soon.

I reached the iPod that was attached to our speakers. Richard had carefully arranged a playlist, alternating jazz with some of his favorite classical compositions. The elegant music soared through the room.

I clicked to the Spotify app and selected seventies disco music, as I’d practiced doing. Then I cranked up the volume.

“Let’s get this party started!” I shouted, raising my arms into the air. My voice cracked, but I continued, “Who wants to dance?”

The murmured conversations halted. Faces turned toward me in unison, as if they’d been choreographed.

“Come on, Richard!” I called.

Even the caterers were staring at me now. I caught a glimpse of Hillary averting her eyes, then of Emma gaping at me before quickly turning to look at Richard. He strode toward me quickly and my insides clenched.

“You forgot our house rule, honey,” he called, his voice filled with a forced merriment. He turned down the volume. “No Bee Gees until after eleven!”

Relieved laughter cut through the room as Richard flipped the music back to Bach and reached for my arm and led me into the hallway. “What is wrong with you? How much have you had to drink?” His eyes narrowed and I didn’t have to conjure the panicked note of apology in my voice.

“I can’t—just a couple glasses, but—I’m sorry. I’ll switch to water right now.”

He reached for my half-full goblet of Chardonnay and I quickly relinquished it.

For the rest of the night, I felt my husband’s glare. I saw his fingers clenching his glass of Scotch. I tried to remember the sympathy mixed with admiration on Emma’s face when he’d smoothed over the scene I’d created; that was what got me through the rest of the party.

I’d accomplished everything I’d set out to do.

It was worth it, even though my bruises didn’t heal for two weeks.

Richard never sent me a new piece of jewelry to make amends for that misunderstanding. This was confirmation he was no longer as invested in us; his focus was shifting.


“I’m in love with Richard,” I say a final time as I peer into the empty hallway. “I am supposed to be here.”