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the industrial ceiling vents. “I’m not supposed to tell you.” She looked
down, drinking her wine.
“Well, in that case—” I said.
“Renaldo’s getting a divorce.”
“Really?” Ella exclaimed.
“He get caught?” I asked.
“No! Don’t look so shocked.”
Who could blame me for being surprised? I managed to stay
monogamous even though I wasn’t fucking my wife. Renaldo had a
gorgeous wife he could fuck and he still couldn’t keep it in his pants. Guys
like that weren’t motivated to leave their wives unless they’re pushed out.
“I’m shocked and happy for you.”
“Me too!” Ella said, grabbing her friend’s hand over the table in a touch
so sincere, I envied her for it.
“He’s coming to Paris with me for the fabric show,” Mandy said.
“God… travelling with him? Not having to hide? It’s going to be
orgasmic.” Her eyes rolled as if the orgasm was actually happening in front
of me, over lunch, then she went rod straight as if her idea woke her from a
trance. “You should come! Both you guys! You”—she pointed at me
—“never took her on a honeymoon, and you can finally meet Rennie.”
I tried to meet Ella’s gaze so she could read my mind. Us, in Paris, on a
romantic holiday, smiling for the cameras, kissing for show, sleeping in
separate rooms.
Instead of looking back at me, she pushed out her chair. “Excuse me, I
have to go to the ladies’.”
She walked away without another word.
“What?” Mandy asked. “Bad idea?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “I’ll check our calendars.”
“What’s going on?” she asked, pushing away her salad. “Everything
okay?”
Was everything okay?
Sure. Everything was fan-fucking-tastic. Ella was doing exactly what I
wanted a wife to do. Socially, she was at my disposal. She was devoted
even when no one was around, making sure I had everything I needed,
asking me about my day without nagging about my hours, never having a
single trouble or concern of her own. Exactly what I always wanted,