A woman approaches us. She smiles at me and touches Marcus’s shoulder to get his attention. When he turns toward her, his brilliant lit face goes cold, as if a storm cloud had passed over his head. I didn’t recognize his ex-wife, Miranda, at first. Her hair is long and curly, cascading around her shoulders. In photos she always has it up. She’s in her early thirties, though she could easily pass for younger.
Marcus’s lips tighten and there’s a wrinkle between his brows that I haven’t seen from him before. It’s an expression I don’t like at all. I hope the day he looks at me like that never comes.
He looks at her with disdain, but she looks at him like he’s hung the moon. I don’t like that look on her face either. I want to be the only woman who looks at him like that. Suddenly I’m feeling very possessive and I cling to his arm. When she looks at me, her eyebrows rise.
“You must be what all the gossip is about.” She reaches her hand out. Her nails are perfectly manicured. Bracelets jingle as she moves. It never occurred to me to get a manicure. I’m not sure why. Again, the self-consciousness catches up with me. I try to swallow it down, remembering that I’m the one on his arm and not her. He doesn’t look at me with the grimace he seems to save just for her.
I smile and introduce myself. She gives a little snort at the sound of my name.
“So you’re the girl of the hour,” she says, then gives Marcus a bit of a nudge on his arm and leans in. “But I’m guessing more like a minute.”
Marcus glares at her, unamused. “She’s my wife.”
Miranda takes a subtle step back. Had she not heard that part in all the gossip going around? She glances down at my hand, seeming to notice the ring for the first time. Then she notices the companion ring on Marcus’s finger and her hand goes to her chest where she fiddles with a diamond necklace that looks like it cost a fortune.
“I’ve heard rumors, but I didn’t believe it.” She seems to swallow something stuck in her throat. “I guess congratulations are in order.”
Marcus’s face softens a little. “Thank you, Miranda. I appreciate it.”
Someone calls Miranda’s name. She looks relieved. “Please, excuse me for a moment. It’s a busy night.” Marcus nods and Miranda looks like she couldn’t get away fast enough.
He then leans into me and talks just under his breath. “I think maybe the plan worked.”
I look up at him. “Really? How can you tell?”
“She’s acting different. The moment she saw you, she looked … detached. Like she finally realizes it’s over between us. I could be wrong. She might not be willing to sell her shares to me, but … maybe. It’s been a long time since I even thought there was a maybe in the future.”
I squeeze his hand reassuringly.
Miranda never comes back and Marcus doesn’t wait around for her. We go to several fashion shows. I’m still his personal assistant, so I’m busy taking notes and writing down all the different designers he likes and the styles he might want to see in his stores. I’m glad for the work. It gives me something to think about other than the turmoil I feel right now.
Later, at an after party, he’s pulled away to look at someone’s look-book, and my feet are killing me in these shoes, so I find a quiet place to settle into and clean up my notes so they’re legible enough to read before I forget what I’d scribbled.
While I’m alone, I’m approached by Miranda. My back instantly goes rigid. Marcus is nowhere around. I see the top of his head in the corner, but his nose is in a book and I’m on my own with the she-devil. She sits beside me without being invited and I pull in a breath and hold it until my lungs hurt.
“Marcus has always been a terrible liar,” she says.
She reminds me of Meryl Streep’s character in the Devil wears Prada, just a younger version. She reaches for my hand and toys with the diamond on my finger. I want to pull away from her, but can’t seem to move.
“I know you’re not married. I have eyes and ears all over that store.”
I should deny it, stand up for Marcus, but it wouldn’t take much for her to check the facts and find that there’s no marriage certificate. Continuing the lie will only make him look foolish and I want to protect him in any way I can.
“He’s just using you, you know. He likes his shiny new toys.” She glances at the swell of my breasts pointedly to let me know exactly what she’s talking about. “But he always comes back to me in the end. We’ve been playing this little game from the beginning. There’s always some excuse to come to these events. What is it this time? Do I owe him money? Let me guess, he told you I’m holding the shares of his company hostage. That’s classic.”
My heart thunders in my ears. She has to be lying. This is some kind of game she’s playing. Marcus wouldn’t use me just to have an excuse to be here … unless he’s been using me to make her jealous this whole time.
My breathing sharpens even though I will my lungs to slow down.
“Every time we meet at one of these events, we fuck and he begs me to come back to him.”
I stand abruptly. I can’t listen to this anymore. I start to walk away, but she grabs my arm. “Let go of me,” I demand, but she doesn’t. When I try to pull out of her grip she rips my mother’s sweater. I push her and she falls back into her seat, looking at me, startled.
We’ve attracted quite the audience by now. People have their phones out, recording and snapping pictures. My blood boils over. If I don’t leave now, I’m going to punch her right in the face.
“You’re nothing,” she says as I flee, venom spewing from her lips. “You’re trash. He’ll never love you the way he loves me. It will be me in his bed tonight. Not you.”
I glance over at where Marcus was standing. He sees the gathering crowd and heads toward us. I can’t be near him right now. I have to get out of here. There’s no way I’ll be able to run in these shoes, so I kick them off and I leave as fast as I can.
7
I walk the streets of Paris alone and barefoot. It’s a beautiful city but I’m struggling to take it all in. All I can think about are the horrible words Miranda said to me. I look down at my ripped sweater and my heart breaks. The one thing I had of my mother’s is ruined. It wasn’t worth it. None it was. The car, the promise of the house, the job, none of it is worth the heartbreak I feel right now.
I flag down a taxi and head back to the hotel. I take off my clothes once I’m in the room and get in the shower, crying and letting the warm water run over me. I don’t want to be here when Marcus gets back. I just want to be alone, so I make it quick. I put on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and head downstairs. I walk the streets some more to clear my head and find a pastry shop around the corner. That’s exactly what I need. I’m going to drown my sorrows in sugar and eat my feeling until there’s nothing left.
Sitting in the bakery, eating flaky pastries, I know what I have to do. I have to leave Marcus’s home and my job at his store and find a way to make it on my own. I’ll ask Alba for help. Her family is always swamped at the diner. I’m sure they would give me job as a waitress until I can find something else. My love for fashion will have to go on the back burner for now. There will always be a fear of running into Marcus, and worse, Miranda. Maybe I can go back to school. I love books and reading. Maybe I can learn to be an editor. English was always my best subject.
Either way, whatever Marcus and I had, it’s over. As heartbreaking as it is to admit it, that’s the reality.
It’s late by the time I get back to the hotel. I take my time walking down the halls, wondering exactly what I’m going to say to him. When I’m standing in front of the door, I hear two people inside. Is that a woman’s voice? Someone is giggling. It’s two in the morning. If Miranda is in there with him, there’s only one thing they could be doing.
My stomach tightens and my hands shake as I reach for the handle. I don’t want to see what I’m afraid is happening in there.
I open the door, ready to go off on them, but when I get inside,
Miranda isn’t in the room. The TV is on. Marcus is on the bed, alone, still in his clothes, watching a French version of The Bachelor. He jumps up when he sees me, my sweater falling off his lap.
“There you are, I was afraid you got lost,” he says, his voice full of worry.
I pick the sweater up off the floor. There’s no trace of the rip. He sewed it up so that it looks like new. I hug it to my chest. It smells like him.
Tears start to stream down my cheeks. “Thank you for fixing it.”