Chapter 21 December 1995 Felicity Jenner—Fundraiser
Felicity Jenner—fundraiser
As I locked the flat behind me, Franklin exited the elevator.
“Where are you going?” he demanded.
“To the library.”
He looked me up and down. “Wearing that?”
I frowned.
“I mean, you’re very pretty all dressed up.” He lingered in front of the elevator door, blocking my way.
“Can you move aside? I need to set up for the silent auction.”
He regarded me dumbly.
“The gala,” I reminded him. The last three weeks, it had been all I’d talked about.
“That’s tonight?”
Did he even listen when I spoke?
“I took some time off work next week,” he continued. “Since Ellen will be home on winter break, I thought we could sightsee in Paris as a family.”
Even a year ago, I would have melted, grateful for his scraps of attention. But now I saw that I deserved more.
“The Louvre, the Champs-Elysées, Sacré Coeur,” he listed. “All the things we haven’t had time to do.”
“All the things you didn’t take time to do. I went to all those places when we first arrived. Mostly alone, because Ellen was at school, and you refused to leave work for an afternoon, even on a Saturday.”
He stared at me, perplexed, as if I were speaking French instead of plain English.
“How about a romantic getaway on the Riviera, just the two of us?” He tried to put his arm around me.
I stepped out of his way. “I’m busy.”
“But I’m here. I’m ready.”
“Why now?”
“What do you mean ‘Why now?’ ” He sounded churlish. It’s true no one ever asked him to explain himself. “I’m between projects. I finally have a week off.”
“A whole week?” I couldn’t keep the sarcasm from my voice.
“Don’t be cross.”
“You think I’m being cross?” I shook my head. He really didn’t understand. He would never understand. “I think we should separate.”
With Ellen thriving at Oxford, I’d questioned my own future. When she graduated, she would have her own job, her own life, and I’d be alone with Franklin. The thought filled me with dread.
In this Wives of Executives life, there was no “we,” only him and his needs.
Like Ellen, I was ready to spread my wings and had filled out an application of my own.
Jennifer had submitted the documents for French working papers for both David and me.
Somehow, she’d expedited the process, and now, we each possessed a carte de résident.
He’d remain the part-time custodian at the library, with a salary and a nearby studio.
Starting in January, he and Tolstoy would attend the Sorbonne.
It was wonderful to see their friendship blossom—a reminder that the library was made of more than books.
I proudly accepted the position of full-time fundraiser.
The pay was dismal, but I felt passionate about championing the ALP and promoting literacy.
I’d worked harder than I ever had in my life on the silent auction, calling in favors from all the corporate bigwigs and their wives I’d kept in touch with over the years.
Checks poured in. I was overwhelmed by their generosity.
The only firm that did not contribute was Franklin’s.
I’d mentioned the fundraising goal to him five times.
My mistake was broaching it with him, not his boss.
Wifely courtesy had cost the library a generous donation.
Last week over tea at Ladurée, Jennifer and I tallied the contributions.
Tactfully, she did not mention that my husband’s firm was nowhere to be found on the list.
I double-checked the spreadsheet. “We really raised this much?”
“You raised that much,” Jennifer corrected.
At the library, I’d found a role that I excelled in, found people who appreciated me.
I knew from the W.E.s—the Wives of Executives support group held in the library conference room—that other husbands did value their wives’ important projects, despite their busy work lives.
I was not expecting too much of Franklin.
“You think we should separate,” he scoffed.
“I think we should divorce.”
“You’re just angry.”
“I already found another apartment.”
His mouth hung open. For once, I’d rendered him speechless.
“When Ellen returns to Oxford in January,” I continued, “I’ll move out.”
“But—”
“No buts. I must run.”
My friendships with Meg and Jennifer as well as the W.E.s had taught me that there were people who would cherish me.
I joined the ranks of the E.W.E.s, Ex-Wives of Executives.
One member joked I’d upgraded. Another quipped that fortunately, both groups would soon be obsolete—the next generation of W.E.s would be Women Executives. Or A.W.E.s—Awesome Women in Europe.
My new flat was located near the ALP. Of course, with my meager budget, I’d no longer have a view of the Eiffel Tower.
However, I’d be the main character of my own life, instead of a “plus one” in Franklin’s.
For the first time in fifteen years, where I lived would be my choice, not his. This freedom was priceless.