2. Beatrice
— ? —
Beatrice
The Next Morning
Josephine moves through my house like a health inspector.
I should be sleeping. I was at work until four in the morning, and my body aches with the particular exhaustion of a night shift, that bone-deep tiredness that no amount of coffee can touch.
But Josephine appeared at my bedroom door at eight, already dressed, already judging, and suggested we have breakfast together.
Suggested. As if there was any world in which I could say no.
So now I’m following her through rooms I theoretically own, watching her find fault with every surface.
A finger across the mantle, coming away with imaginary dust. “When did you last have the cleaners in?”
“Last week,” I say. “Thursday.”
“Hmm.” She moves on to the living room, where the orchid Kenneth sent last month sits on the side table. A peace offering, I’d thought when it arrived. An apology in flowers for another missed anniversary. “This needs more light. It’s dying.”
It’s not dying. It’s blooming beautifully, actually, purple and white and thriving despite my amateur care. But I don’t argue. I’ve learned that arguing with Josephine only makes things worse.
She pauses at the kitchen sink, where my coffee cup from yesterday morning sits waiting to be washed. I’d meant to get to it before my shift, but then I got called in early and forgot.
“I see standards have…” She trails off, letting the silence fill in what she won’t say. “Relaxed.”
I grip my own coffee mug and remind myself that murder is illegal.
“I was at work until four in the morning, Josephine. I haven’t had time to-”
“Yes. Work.” She says it like it’s a disease. Something chronic and embarrassing. “Kenneth mentioned you’re still… doing that.”
“Practicing medicine. Yes.” I keep my voice even. Measured. The voice I use with difficult parents who think they know more about pediatric care than I do. “I’m a doctor.”
“You’re a Sinclair now.” She turns to face me fully, her gaze sharp as a scalpel. “You don’t need to work.”
“I want to work. I love my job.”
“Do you?” She tilts her head, studying me. “Or do you love having something that’s yours? Something separate from my son?”
The question lands too close to truth. I do love having something separate. Something that belongs to me, that I built before Kenneth, that has nothing to do with his money or his name or his endless, consuming empire. But admitting that feels like admitting defeat.
“I love helping children,” I say instead. “I love being a doctor. Those things aren’t mutually exclusive with being married to your son.”
“Hmm.” Josephine’s smile tightens. “How… modern of you.”
After Josephine finally leaves for some appointment she refuses to elaborate on, I call Kenneth.
The phone rings. And rings. And goes to voicemail.
My husband’s voice, smooth and professional: “You’ve reached Kenneth Sinclair. Leave a message.”
I don’t leave a message. I text instead: Call me when you can. Your mother showed up.
His response comes twenty minutes later: Sorry, important meeting, but will call you tomorrow.
Tomorrow. Another day without even hearing the voice of my husband. Again.
I suppose I’ve gotten used to it. Used to being alone in this marriage. Used to having a husband who exists primarily in text messages and the occasional photograph in a business magazine. Used to sleeping in a bed that feels too big, in a house that echoes with emptiness.
I should be used to it by now. We’ve been married for two years. But somehow, every time I expect it to hurt less and it doesn’t.
The next day, Kenneth calls at noon. Five minutes between meetings, his voice crackling through a bad connection that makes him sound like he’s speaking from underwater.
“How’s my favorite wife?”
“Your only wife. I hope.” I try to joke, but it falls flat. Neither of us laughs. “Your mother was here yesterday.”
A pause. “I know. She mentioned she might stop by. I should have warned you.”
“She has a key, Kenneth. She let herself in while I was at work.”
“She’s family, Bea.” His voice carries that particular patience he uses when he thinks I’m being unreasonable. “She is my mom.”
“I’m family too. And I’d like some warning before I find her rearranging my kitchen at six in the morning.”
“Was she rearranging your kitchen?”
“No, but-”
“Then what’s the problem?”
The problem is that she looked at me like I was an intruder in my own home. The problem is that she walked through every room counting my failures. The problem is that I don’t feel like a Sinclair, I feel like a visitor, and your mother makes sure I never forget it.
But I don’t say any of that. Because Kenneth won’t understand. Because he loves his mother, despite everything. Because the woman who looks at me like I’m something she found on her shoe is, apparently, warm and wonderful with her only son.
“I just want a heads up,” I say instead. “That’s all.”
Another pause. Voices in the background, someone calling his name. “Look, I have to go. This deal is-”
“Really important. I know.” I try to keep the edge out of my voice. Mostly succeed. “When are you coming home?”
“Friday. Maybe Saturday. I’ll call you tonight, okay?”
“Okay.”
“I love you, Bea.”
“I love you too.”
He hangs up. I stare at my phone for a long moment, at the call duration: four minutes and thirty-two seconds. That’s what my marriage has become. Four and a half minutes between meetings.
He doesn’t call that night. He texts at midnight: Meetings ran late. Love you.
I stare at the message for a long time, watching the screen dim and then go dark.
In the afternoon, Josephine returns.
I hear the front door open while I’m trying to catch a few hours of sleep before my next shift. For one wild, hopeful moment, I think it might be Kenneth. Maybe he flew back early. Maybe he missed me. Maybe-
But the voices that drift up the stairs aren’t Kenneth’s. They’re Josephine’s, giving brisk instructions, and another voice, professional and deferential, taking notes.
I pull on a robe and go downstairs to find my mother-in-law directing a woman with a clipboard through my kitchen.
“The curtains need to go,” Josephine is saying. “Something lighter. These make the room feel like a cave.”
“I chose those curtains,” I say from the doorway. Both women turn. Josephine’s expression doesn’t flicker. “I like those curtains.”
“They’re dated, dear.” Josephine gestures at the windows as if I’ve personally offended her aesthetic sensibilities. “This is Margot. She’s a professional decorator. I’ve hired her to help refresh things.”
“Refresh things.” I repeat the words flatly. “In my home. Without asking me.”
“I’m trying to help.” Josephine’s smile could freeze wine. “You’re clearly too busy with your job to attend to domestic matters. I thought I’d take it off your plate.”
I want to scream. I want to tell her to get out of my house, take her decorator and her opinions and her barely veiled contempt and leave me alone. But I can hear Kenneth’s voice in my head, patient and tired: She’s family, Bea.
“Thank you for thinking of me.” The words taste like ash. “But I’d prefer to make decorating decisions myself.”
“Of course.” Josephine waves Margot toward the door. “We’ll come back another time. When you’re feeling more… receptive.”
When I’m feeling more receptive. As if my objection to having my home rearranged without my consent is some kind of mood issue.
I don’t say anything. I just watch them leave, and then I stand in my kitchen with its apparently offensive curtains and try to remember what it felt like to be happy here.
At dinner, Josephine is still here. Because of course she is.
She sits across the table from me, picking at salmon that I didn’t cook because she had it delivered from some restaurant that costs more per plate than I make in an hour. The silence stretches between us, broken only by the clink of silverware against porcelain.
“You seem tired, Beatrice.”
“I work night shifts.” I move food around my plate. I’m not hungry. I haven’t been hungry in days. “It takes a toll.”
“At your age, you should be thinking about children.” Josephine sets down her fork, fixes me with that look. “Not running around a hospital at all hours.”
“I’m thirty-two.”
“Exactly.” She says it like I’ve proven her point. “My son needs an heir. The Sinclair name-”
“We’re working on it.” My jaw aches from clenching. “When Kenneth has time.”
“He makes time for what matters.”
The implication hangs between us like smoke. I am, apparently, something that doesn’t matter. Something Kenneth doesn’t make time for. Something less important than meetings and deals and the endless expansion of an empire I never asked to be part of.
I don’t respond. There’s nothing to say that won’t make things worse.
Josephine smiles and goes back to her salmon. “This fish is overcooked,” she observes. “I’ll speak to the restaurant.”
I push my plate away and pretend I’m not falling apart.
Later that night, I lock myself in the bathroom with the shower running for cover.
The steam fogs the mirror, erasing my reflection. I sit on the closed toilet lid and pull out my phone, opening the group chat I’ve been neglecting for weeks.
Bea: Ralphie’s back.
The responses come immediately, one after another, a cascade of familiar voices.
Priya: WHAT Priya: BACK BACK??? Jenna: OMG!
We need a party. Who’s hosting? Morgan: FINALLY.
I’ve missed that man. Priya: MY PLACE. Saturday.
I’ll handle everything. Bring wine. Bring gossip and face masks.
Morgan: I’ll bring cheese. The fancy kind.
This calls for brie. Jenna: Face masks and brie and Ralphie. The perfect Saturday.
I’m grinning at my phone like an idiot, the steam swirling around me.
These women, these friends I’ve neglected because it’s hard to explain why I’m always tired and always alone and always making excuses for a husband who’s never here.
They don’t ask hard questions. They just show up with wine and cheese and the promise of laughter.
I type a message to Ralphie: Saturday at 7. Priya’s place. The girls are thrilled.
His response is immediate: Perfect. I’ve missed everyone. Even Jenna’s terrible matchmaking.
Another message follows: You okay, Bea? You seemed off last night.
I stare at the words. The shower runs on behind me, pointless now. I could tell him the truth. I could tell him about my mother-in-law’s attitude and Kenneth calling for five minutes and the crushing loneliness of a marriage that’s supposed to be the happiest time of my life.
I type: Just tired. Long shifts. You know how it is.
He probably knows I’m lying. He usually does. But he doesn’t push.
Can’t wait for Saturday, he sends. Get some sleep, Busy Bea.
I turn off the shower and go to bed.
The house is quiet around me, Josephine finally gone to wherever she’s staying while she’s in town. The sheets are cold. The other side of the bed is empty, smooth and undisturbed.
I lie in the dark, in a house that doesn’t feel like mine, married to a man who exists only in five-minute phone calls, with a mother-in-law who watches me like prey.
Saturday, I tell myself. Saturday I’ll see my friends. I’ll laugh with Ralphie. I’ll remember who I was before I became Mrs. Kenneth Sinclair.
I fall asleep counting the days.