Page 9 of The Husband I Left

Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore and excused myself with a plea that I needed to find the ladies room. I slipped down a side corridor that led away from the ballroom. The noise of the party faded behind me, and finally I stopped and leaned against a wall and just let myself breathe. My feet ached in my heels. My head ached. I’d been publicly acting the part of Mrs Oliver Sinclair for less than an hour, and I was already exhausted by it.

Voices drifted to me from around the corner. I wasn’t sure who it was, but I could hear them clearly.

“Did you see her? The new wife?”

“Hard to miss her. Like a deer in headlights out there.”

“Nancy does not look happy.”

“She’s pretty enough, I’ll give her that, but—”

“How long do you think she’ll last?”

“Six months, tops.”

“Care to make it a bet? I say four.”

It slowly dawned on me that they were talking about me. It was me they were laughing about and betting on how long my marriage would last. And the worst part was, I couldn’t blame them. I couldn’t blame any of them. I knew I was a mess out there. I’d been a mess all evening. I didn’t belong here, and it was painfully obvious to every person present.

I eventually forced myself to walk back into the ballroom. I found Oliver and slipped my hand back into the crook of his arm.

“There you are,” he said, smiling down at me.

I smiled back up at him. I didn’t mention what I’d overheard.

* * *

Dinner was eventually announced, and Oliver led me to the main table, which was positioned on a raised platform at the front of the ballroom. My stomach clenched as I examined the place settings. Multiple forks of various sizes. Multiple glasses. A napkin folded into what might be a swan or might be a hat; I wasn’t sure. What I was sure of was that I wasn’t ready for this.

I watched Oliver out of the corner of my eye. He picked up the outermost fork. I picked up the outermost fork. The first course arrived, and I ate carefully, doing my best to mimic Oliver’s movements.

It mostly worked.

The wine glasses were the problem. There were three of them at my place setting, arranged in a neat row. I wasn’t sure which was which, and I wasn’t sure when I was supposed to drink out of them. Oliver’s white wine glass was filled, and he took a sip from it, so I felt safe in reaching for what I thought was my white wine glass. I took a generous swallow.

There was a board member seated to my left. I can still remember the dawning feeling of horror when he cleared his throat delicately and said, “I believe that’s mine.” He smiled at me, but it wasn’t particularly friendly.

I looked down. The glass I held was on his side of the place setting. My own glass, untouched and full, sat on the other side of my bread plate.

“Oh, God,” I say. “I’m so sorry. I — I didn’t —“

“Not to worry,” he said in a tone of voice that made me worry even more. He signaled to a server, who materialized silently and quickly replaced the glass.

I wanted to crawl under the table and die. I settled for sitting very still for the rest of the dinner, eating when Oliver ate, drinking only from glasses that I was absolutely certain were my own. I didn’t speak unless spoken to. When Thomas asked me about my studies, I gave a short, safe answer and retreated back into silence. From further up the table, Nancy caught my eye. She gave me a look.

I would have rather been yelled at.

Dinner ended. Speeches were made. Thomas stood at the podium and talked about the company’s history, about his father’s vision, about the legacy of Sinclair Pharmaceuticals. Oliver followed. He talked about the work the company was doing today, about the bright future ahead of them. I sat at the head table and listened and tried to act like I belonged there, and I don’t think I convinced anyone.

After the speeches, the press wanted a photograph of the Sinclair family. Nancy and Thomas arranged themselves in front of a backdrop with the Sinclair Foundation logo. Oliver joined them. I was still sitting in my chair, staring into the distance when I noticed Nancy gesturing at me and realized I was supposed to be with them.

I had almost reached Oliver’s side when my shoes betrayed me. My heel caught in the hem of my gown. The floor was rushing up at me and I had just enough time to beg God or anyone who might be listening, not here, not now, please, please, please when Oliver’s arm locked around my waist and he hauled me upright against his chest.

It was at that moment that the camera flash went off.

* * *

I spent the entire car ride home trying not to cry.