Chapter 9
I push the diary away like I’ve been burnt.
IT’S HIM DOING IT
That’s what it says. That’s what she wrote, or tried to write, because it didn’t look like her normal handwriting.
But doing what? I’m scared, Jo. He scares me.
Well, he doesn’t scare me. I close the appointment book and push it deep under the mattress alongside my notebook.
Then I pull out the small square of paper from my pocket. Allen & Boyd – 3PM, Priv Conf Rm. Fri 6th flr.
I grab my phone, and it takes me no time at all to find what I’m looking for. Allen & Boyd are divorce lawyers. Roy has an appointment with them at 3:00 p.m. on Friday.
Closing my eyes, I press my fingers against my temples. No. He can’t divorce me already. It’s too soon. I finally found something that proves what I always knew: that he did something to her, something to scare her.
I force myself to breathe. I picture the inside of my linen cupboard, the perfectly aligned towels, all fluffy and soft. I picture my rose garden. I can see myself on my knees on my special gardening pad, with my secateurs and my gardening apron, gathering roses for my table, but it’s still no use.
I bite down on my own teeth so hard they’re in danger of pushing through my gums. Honestly, after only one month of marriage, you’d think the author of Fixing Us: How to Heal Together When You’re Both Hurt would have a couple of tricks up his sleeve or, at the very least, that he would try a little harder.
I take a slow breath. I think of the next issue of House Beautiful, which will arrive on Tuesday, waiting for me along with the rest of the mail on the console table.
I picture myself picking it up, smelling it, then taking it to the window seat in the blue room, tucking my legs under me, flicking through its pages, and folding the corners of the spreads that inspire me.
There. I feel calmer, calm enough to call Allen & Boyd. I introduce myself as Dr. Davies’s assistant and cancel the appointment. And no, Dr. Davies won’t be rescheduling, I say.
I spend the rest of the day reading cookbooks and watching reruns of the Martha Stewart Show and planning an amazing dinner. Because after all, as everyone knows, the way to your husband’s heart is through his stomach.
Then, Meredith calls.
“Jodie! Darling, we’re having a small gathering here on Friday for my charity.
It’s to help young, ambitious women rise above their circumstances.
You know, scholarships and mentorships, that sort of thing.
It’s us girls only, no men allowed, and we’ll be planning all sorts of fabulous fundraisers.
We need your help, Jodie. It’s a wonderful volunteering opportunity for someone like you.
Right up your alley. Can I count on you? ”
I am astonished, I won’t lie, but also delighted.
Firstly, maybe Deb confided in the harpies what she was afraid of, and this will be my chance to ask them, but also, I didn’t think they liked me.
Which just goes to show, you cannot jump to conclusions.
Everyone has their own personality quirks and those can be hard to read.
I suddenly feel a lot better. “I would love to, Meredith,” I say. “Thank you.”
“Fab. 10:30 a.m. all right? We’ll just do light finger food and drinks. You know what we’re like, no need to put on airs. I’ll see you then.”
I spend the rest of the afternoon preparing the most amazing dinner. I feel light and buoyed that I’ve been invited to one of Meredith’s special luncheons. Also, I can’t wait to tell Roy.
I set the table with great care. I am making a statement, and the statement is: Love Is All You Need.
I hum to myself as I decorate the table with a low arrangement of spring flowers I got from the market and put in small ceramic jugs, with a larger centerpiece of roses in the center.
I bring out votive candles in yellow glasses that smell of ginger and cinnamon (ginger being an aphrodisiac) and turn on soft background music.
I’ve also scattered flower petals everywhere, including on our bed.
And then Marie walks in. She stares at the crystal glasses I’ve set on the table like they’re undetonated grenades. “You are using the Steuben?”
“Yes,” I say, adjusting the centerpiece.
She drums her fingers at the base of her throat. “Mrs. Deborah never put the Steuben out when it was just her and Dr. Davies.”
“Well, Mrs. Deborah’s dead, so…”
She makes a strangled sound, like I’ve personally wrapped my hands around her throat and squeezed it.
“Look, Marie, I’m sorry, but that’s the truth. I mean, it’s not like I killed her myself, is it? But meanwhile, I’m here now, and so is the Steuben.”
Marie looks like she swallowed a trout whole. Her lips open and close, and two little red dots grow on her cheeks.
“Also, you’re wrong about me and Roy,” I say, straightening the cutlery.
“He adores me. He told me so last night. And again, this morning, he said he can’t live without me.
So I don’t know where you got the idea that I won’t be here long, but you can banish that thought right out of your head because I’m not going anywhere. ”