“Probably not.” I reach for my wineglass, watching the deep red swirl. “How were the mushrooms?”
“Earthy,” she says, “and delicious.”
“You dressed up for tonight.” My eyes drift down, to where the tight skirt curves around her form in a way the straight pencil skirts never do at work.
She smoothes a hand down her blouse. “Oh. I’m going out after.”
“You’re going out. Where?”
“To a bar.” Her cheeks are flushed with life again, eyes alight. “My best friend insisted on a bachelorette party.”
I stare back at her, at this woman I’ve only ever seen as my assistant, with plump lips and long, wavy hair.
She’d accused us of being strangers.
Maybe we are.
5
Cecilia
One year after I started working for Victor St. Clair, I hand in my official letter of resignation. I also marry him.
So it doesn’t feel quite like a victory when I reset the timer on my computer desktop to zero, starting the count for another year with him.
“You can still back out,” Nadine murmurs by my side. She’s been a rock over the past week, steady with advice and jokes and zaniness.
She thinks I’ve lost my mind.
She’s also promised to be there with me every step of the way.
“I’m not planning to,” I say. I’m wearing a dove-gray dress. White had felt wrong. Jeans had felt wronger still. So I’m in my gray office dress and my black work pumps at City Hall.
I’d always wanted to get married outdoors. Close to where I grew up, in the park. Next to the lake. When I was a child my mother and I often sat there and watched the swans, me reading and her meditating.
Somehow the contrast to today steadies me.
This isn’t a wedding. It’s a contract signing and a way to get what I need.
Nadine will put on her art show. I’ll start my own company.
“If it’s what you want, then you can do this. I know you can.” Nadine stands on her tiptoes and rearranges my headband. “He’s just a man, and he can’t fire you anymore. Remember, he’s the one who needs you.”
“For a house,” I say, and we both smile. The idea of Victor St. Clair subjecting himself to marriage to inherit a house feels ludicrous.
And steadying. It means that beneath his sharp words, he’s human. Surely a true sociopath wouldn’t care about a house, right?
Then again, I haven’t seen it. Maybe it’s the actual house F. Scott Fitzgerald lived in and he wants to convert it into a multi-million-dollar museum.
I shake my head. “Let’s get out there. He’s waiting.”
My hands are sweating as Nadine and I leave the ladies’ room. We walk down the empty and impersonal hallway to the room where they’re waiting.
St. Clair turns at the sound of the door. He’s in the same suit as always, and thick, dark-blond hair rises over his forehead.
He frowns when he sees me.
Had he been expecting white? Or that I’d magically transformed into one of the models he regularly dated?