Page 10 of The Husband I Left

“I’m sorry,” I whispered for what felt like the tenth time. Oliver finally turned towards me, and I braced myself, certain I was about to hear how disappointed he was in me. Instead, he pulled me against him and gently kissed me.

“You did well,” he whispered against my lips. “And you’ll do even better next time.”

I was grateful he wasn’t upset, but for the life of me, I couldn’t understand why.

* * *

Nancy showed up the next morning, before I’d even finished breakfast. I was sitting at the kitchen island wearing one of Oliver’s old college t-shirts and attempting to eat the plate of scrambled eggs that Mrs. Stewart had prepared for me.

Oliver had already left for the day. He’d slipped out before I even woke up, but that wasn’t unusual. If I were lucky, he’d be home in time for dinner. He quite often wasn’t; I was already beginning to learn.

Nancy, of course, looked as perfectly put together as always. She set her handbag on the counter and removed her sunglasses. Then she turned towards me and studied me for a moment. I reached up self-consciously to try to smooth my hair, which was still sticky with hairspray and was standing up in tufts around my head like octopus tentacles.

Finally, she sighed and took a seat across from me. “Good morning, Genevieve.”

“Nancy. Hi, um…” I attempted to tug the t-shirt further down my legs, which accomplished nothing. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Well, you should have been. After yesterday’s disaster, we needed to speak in person. Is there coffee?”

While I poured her a cup, she opened her handbag and removed a folded newspaper. When I set the cup down in front of her, the newspaper was lying face up on the counter between us.

Right there in front of me was the picture from last night. Thomas is smiling serenely. Nancy is looking in my direction, her expression concerned. And there I am, my mouth open in a perfect O, my hands flung out, Oliver’s arm outstretched to save me.

“Oh God,” I whispered. I could feel the blush creeping up my face.

“Last night did not go well, Genevieve.” Nancy said, setting the paper aside. “And it cannot happen again.”

I opened my mouth. She raised an eyebrow, and I closed it again.

“Your dress was inappropriate for the occasion. You were wearing shoes you could barely walk in. And your behavior…” She broke off and took a deep breath.

“My family has a public face, Genevieve.” She eventually continued. “It’s something we’ve built very carefully over a hundred years. The way you present yourself, the way you speak, the way you move through a room; all of it reflects on Oliver, on the company, on this family. Every action, every word, every gesture is noted. It’s repeated. People talk. They will talk about you whether you want them to or not. The only question is what they’ll say.”

The memory of those voices in the hallway suddenly came back to me.

How long do you think she’ll last?

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I know it was bad. I’m sorry. I really did try.”

Nancy’s expression softened slightly, but her voice remained firm. “I know you did. And we can’t go back; we can only do better in the future. So here’s what’s going to happen.” She took a small notebook out of her handbag and flipped it open. She had already made a list.

“My stylist can see you tomorrow. She will take inventory of your wardrobe and help you obtain appropriate pieces for upcoming events. Moving forward, keep what Oliver has purchased for you for more private occasions.” She paused and looked at me again, her eyes fixed on my hair. “I’ve also called the woman who does my hair. She’ll come see you next week.”

“Oh,” I said faintly, reaching up to touch my hair.

“And beyond your appearance,” Nancy continued, as if I hadn’t spoken, “I would like you to spend time with me before the next event. Forms of address. Table settings. Who to greet and how. Which topics are appropriate and which are best avoided. All of this can be learned, Genevieve. And you will learn it.”

I looked down at the newspaper. At my own face, frozen mid-fall.

I wanted my marriage to work. I wanted more than anything for my marriage to work. I wanted to feel I belonged at Oliver’s side, to walk into a room on his arm and not feel that everyone is holding their breath, waiting for me to do something catastrophic. I wanted my husband to be proud of me.

“Okay,” I said. “Yes, to the stylist and the hair and all of it.”

Nancy smiled and flipped her notebook shut. Then she finally picked up her coffee, took a single sip, and set it down again. “Good,” she says. She stands and gathers her handbag. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Genevieve.”

“It’s Genny,” I start out of habit. “Just—”

Nancy raised a brow. I stopped talking.