2. Lucille #2
“I take it you knew about Ginny,” I say carefully.
“Oh, I knew.” Florence’s tone turns cutting.
“I never liked that girl, Lucille. Not for a single moment. She looked at my son like a stepping stone, like he was a means to an end rather than a person. Every time she came to dinner, I could practically see her calculating his net worth behind those big innocent eyes.”
“She seemed… talented. In the song.”
“She’s perfectly competent.” The dismissal is elegant and brutal. “But talent without integrity is just ambition in a prettier package. That girl wanted fame, and she thought Hugo was her ticket to it. When he didn’t deliver fast enough, she moved on to someone else’s coattails.”
I process this information, trying to reconcile it with the image in my head, the laughing girl in the photograph, the voice that harmonized so perfectly with Hugo’s.
“He said they only dated for a semester.”
“He’s being generous. It was barely three months before she was flirting with his roommate.
” Florence sighs. “But don’t picture some grand heartbreak, darling.
Hugo was never in love with that girl. They made music together and mistook it for something more, and he figured out the difference faster than she did.
What stung was the humiliation, not the loss. ”
The tightness in my chest unknots further.
It’s petty, maybe, to feel relieved that Hugo’s college romance ended in betrayal rather than amicable parting.
But I’m petty. I’m human. And I’ve spent the last twelve hours convinced that the great love of my husband’s life was a woman I’d never heard of.
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask.
“Because I know how the internet works, darling. I know they’re going to spin this into some tragic love story, and I know you’re going to see things that hurt.
But I want you to understand this.” Florence’s voice softens.
“The way you look at my son is different from how she ever did. She looked at him like a stepping stone. You look at him like a person.”
My throat tightens. I want to tell her the truth, that Hugo doesn’t look at me at all. That I spend most of my marriage feeling invisible, like a ghost haunting my own house. That last night felt like a miracle precisely because it was so rare.
But Florence loves her son, and she loves me, and I don’t want to burden her with the failures of our marriage.
“Thank you,” I say instead. “That means a lot.”
“Wilfred thinks the whole thing will blow over in a week. I think he’s being optimistic, but what do I know.” She pauses. “How is Hugo handling it?”
“He refused to re-record the song. The label wanted him to do a duet with Ginny, ride the viral wave, and he said no.”
“Did he?” Florence sounds pleased. “Well. Perhaps my son isn’t as hopeless as I thought.”
We talk for a few more minutes, about her garden, about my work, about the dinner party she’s planning for next month, and by the time I hang up, I feel almost normal. Almost steady.
Hugo emerges from the bedroom in fresh clothes, his hair still damp, and finds me on the couch with my phone in my lap.
“Who was that?”
“Your mother.” I set the phone aside. “She wanted to check in about the Ginny situation.”
Hugo groans. “What did she say?”
“That she never liked her. That she looked at you like a stepping stone.”
“That sounds like my mother.” He sits down beside me, close enough that our shoulders brush. “She’s not wrong, though. Ginny was always more interested in my connections than in me. I was too young to see it at the time.”
“What made you realize?”
“She started seeing my roommate before we’d even officially ended things.” His voice is flat, matter-of-fact. “Told me she needed to explore her options. Honestly, by then I’d already checked out. We were better as collaborators than anything else, and we both knew it.”
“Hugo…”
“It was a long time ago.” He shrugs, and this time there’s no wound under it, just a kind of dry amusement.
“There wasn’t much to get over. I wrote a couple of songs about it, aced my exams out of spite, and moved on.
The duet was already written by then, already submitted for the grade.
I forgot it existed until this morning.”
I reach over and take his hand, threading my fingers through his.
“I’m sorry that happened to you.”
“Don’t be. It taught me a valuable lesson.” He squeezes my hand. “It taught me to recognize when someone wants me versus when they want what I can give them.”
I wonder, not for the first time, which category I fall into. I married him for duty, for my father’s alliance, for the security of a name that wasn’t my own. I didn’t know him well enough to want him for himself.
But I know him now. And I want him anyway, even when he’s distant, even when he disappears, even when loving him feels like loving a closed door.
“I should call Derek,” Hugo says, standing. “Make sure he understands that no means no.”
“Okay.”
He bends down and kisses my forehead, a quick, distracted brush of lips, and then he’s gone again, disappearing into his study with his phone already in hand.
I sit on the couch and try to convince myself that this is progress. That refusing the duet matters. That the wall between us is finally starting to crack.
I almost succeed.
***
Derek shows up at seven o’clock without warning.
I hear the doorbell from upstairs, where I’ve retreated to my sewing room to work on Diane’s rehearsal dinner dress. The burgundy silk is finally cooperating, draping the way I envisioned, and I’ve been so absorbed in the work that I almost forgot about the chaos brewing downstairs.
Then I hear voices, Hugo’s, tight and controlled, and Derek’s, higher and more frantic, and a chill settles in my stomach.
I set down my scissors and make my way to the landing, stopping at the top of the stairs where I can see into the foyer without being seen.
Derek is pacing, his usual slick composure completely shattered. He’s sweating through his expensive shirt, gesturing wildly as he talks.
“They’re not asking anymore, Hugo. I tried to tell you this morning, but you wouldn’t listen. The label isn’t requesting the duet. They’re demanding it.”
Hugo stands with his arms crossed, his expression carved from stone.
“They can demand all they want. I’m not doing it.”
“You don’t have a choice.” Derek stops pacing and faces him, desperation visible in his eyes. “I just got off a three-hour call with their legal team. They’re invoking the morality clause in your contract.”
“On what grounds?”
“On the grounds that your continued refusal to capitalize on legitimate promotional opportunities constitutes a breach of good faith collaboration.” Derek runs a hand through his hair, leaving it disheveled.
“It’s bullshit, Hugo. We both know it’s bullshit.
But they’ve got lawyers who get paid to make bullshit sound like gospel, and if you don’t play ball, they’re threatening to shelve your next album indefinitely. ”
The words land hard. I watch Hugo’s face go blank, watch the color drain from his cheeks, and I understand suddenly how high the stakes really are.
Hugo’s music is everything to him. It’s his identity, his purpose, the only thing that makes him feel real. Taking it away would be like cutting off his oxygen supply.
And the label knows it.
“They can’t do that,” Hugo says, but his voice lacks conviction.
“They absolutely can. Your contract gives them final say on release schedules, and if they decide your album doesn’t align with their promotional strategy, they can sit on it forever.
” Derek’s laugh is bitter. “Welcome to the music industry, kid. You thought you had power? You don’t. None of us do.”
Hugo is silent for a long moment, his jaw working.
“What exactly are they asking for?”
“Re-record the duet with Ginny. Official release with full promotional support. A music video, they’re already talking concepts, romantic, nostalgic.” Derek winces. “And a press tour. Interviews, talk shows, the whole circus. They want to sell the reunion narrative.”
“The reunion narrative.” Hugo’s voice is deadly quiet. “You mean they want me to pretend I’m still in love with my college girlfriend while my actual wife watches from the sidelines.”
“They want you to be strategic. There’s a difference.”
“There’s really not.”
I should go back to my sewing room. I should give them privacy, let Hugo handle this without feeling observed. But my feet won’t move. I’m frozen at the top of the stairs, watching my husband’s face as he processes the trap that’s closing around him.
“How long?” Hugo asks finally.
“How long what?”
“How long do I have to decide?”
Derek checks his phone. “They want an answer by Friday. If you say no, they start the shelving process immediately. If you say yes, Ginny flies in next week and you start recording.”
“Ginny’s already agreed?”
“Ginny’s been pushing for this since the song leaked.” Derek’s smile is thin. “Funny how that works, isn’t it?”
The implication hangs between them, that maybe the leak wasn’t an accident, that maybe Ginny engineered this whole situation, but neither man says it out loud.
Hugo turns away, staring out the window at the darkening sky.
“I need to think.”
“Hugo…”
“I said I need to think, Derek.” His voice cracks on the last word. “Just… give me until Friday. Let me figure out what I’m willing to sacrifice.”
Derek nods, gathering his things with the air of a man who knows he’s delivered a killing blow.
“I’m sorry,” he says at the door. “I really am. I tried to fight for you, but they’re not budging. This is the hand we’ve been dealt.”
He leaves, and the house falls silent.
I should go to Hugo. I should wrap my arms around him and tell him we’ll figure this out together, that I support whatever decision he makes, that his music isn’t worth his integrity.
But I can’t move. Because I already know what he’s going to choose.