Chương 8
“Mom?”
“I’m here.”
“Can you make it stop?”
The question broke something small inside me.
“I can ask Margaret what options we have.”
“Dad said his communications people are handling it.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course Adrian’s first instinct was communications.
Not truth.
Not consequence.
Positioning.
“I’ll call Margaret.”
“Okay.”
He sounded twelve years old.
Then he cleared his throat and became twenty-one again.
“I’m sorry I asked if you were trying to ruin him.”
“You’re allowed to be angry.”
“I don’t know who I’m angry at.”
“You don’t have to know tonight.”
He was quiet.
“Are you okay?”
The question nearly undid me because nobody had asked it that day without wanting something attached.
“That’s not what I asked.”
I looked at the open suitcase on the guest-room floor.
“No.”
The word felt clean.
“I’m not okay.”
Noah breathed out.
“Okay.”
It was not comfort exactly.
It was better.
It was permission.
After we hung up, Margaret answered on the second ring.
I heard restaurant noise behind her.
“You saw it.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t respond publicly.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Good.”
“Can it be removed?”
“Depends on the source and whether any law or platform rule was violated.”
“So probably not.”
“Probably not quickly.”
I sat by the window.
Below, headlights moved along Lake Shore Drive in long white lines.
“Could this affect the review?”
“The photograph itself?”
“The publicity.”
“Possibly.”
“How?”
“If the board believes the personal relationship is creating reputational risk, that becomes relevant under the agreement.”
“That sounds convenient.”
“It isn’t.”
“Margaret.”
“I mean legally convenient is still legally inconvenient if everyone thinks you engineered it.”
I frowned.
“You think people will blame me.”
“I think Adrian’s lawyers may argue that.”
“His lawyers?”
“He has counsel now.”
“Already?”
“Claire, he runs a private-equity firm.”
She sounded tired.
“Lawyers are practically a food group.”
I rubbed my forehead.
“What should I do?”
“Nothing tonight.”
“That feels irresponsible.”
“It is often the most responsible thing available.”
“Margaret.”
“Sleep.”
“I won’t.”
“Then lie horizontally and disappoint me.”
She hung up before I could object.
At midnight, Vanessa called.
I stared at her name until the phone nearly stopped ringing.
Then I answered.
“What?”
“You posted that picture.”
Her voice was sharp enough to cut.
“No.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m hanging up.”
“Wait.”
I did.
I hated myself a little for it.
“You’re the only person who benefits.”
“That’s not true.”
“You get public sympathy and an excuse to keep digging into the company.”
“Vanessa, I didn’t post the photograph.”
“Your daughter hates me.”
“Do not involve Sophie.”
“She took pictures at dinner.”
“So did half the table.”
“You expect me to believe this just happened?”
“I expect nothing from you.”
Silence.
Then her voice dropped.
“You have no idea what you’re doing.”
That made me sit straighter.
“I know exactly what I’m doing.”
“No, you know exactly what you want people to think you’re doing.”
The words sounded like Adrian.
Not in phrasing.
In rhythm.
Confidence sharpened by fear.
“What are you afraid they’ll find?”
She laughed.
“You think this is about me.”
“It partly is.”
“You want it to be.”
“Northline.”
The silence changed.
It became complete.
Not surprise.
Calculation.
“You know about that.”
“Yes.”
“My brother did real work.”
“Then he should be able to document it.”
“He can.”
“Good.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“No.”
“You are.”
I looked toward the hallway.
My mother had gone to bed, but a thin strip of light showed beneath her door.
“I would rather my husband had not cheated on me or approved a contract involving his girlfriend’s brother.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“What would you prefer?”
“You know what.”
“No, Vanessa, I really don’t.”
She breathed out hard.
“He was leaving you.”
The sentence entered the room quietly.
I said nothing.
“He told me he was.”
“When?”
“Months ago.”
“How many?”
“Four.”
Four months ago, Adrian had taken me to dinner for our anniversary.
We had eaten oysters at a restaurant in River North because he remembered I liked them.
He had given me a bracelet.
We had gone home together.
I remembered him standing in the bathroom afterward, brushing his teeth while I complained about the restaurant playing music too loudly.
The memory did not break my heart.
It rearranged it.
“What exactly did he tell you?”
“That the marriage was over.”
“Did he tell Noah?”
“No.”
“Sophie?”
“No.”
“His lawyer?”
“Why would he tell them?”
“Because people who are actually leaving usually begin doing things that resemble leaving.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m practical.”
“He said he was waiting until after Noah’s birthday.”
I almost laughed.
“Noah’s birthday was three days ago.”
“I know.”
“And he still came home with me.”
“He came home because you were making a scene.”
“I didn’t make a scene.”
“That’s not what he said.”
There it was again.
The strange parallel marriage.
Adrian had apparently been living one version with me and narrating another to Vanessa.
“Did he tell you I was unstable?”
She went silent.
I closed my eyes.
“Vanessa.”
“He said you were having trouble accepting things.”
I laughed then.
I could not help it.
The sound came out ugly.
“You thought I was the obstacle.”
“You were still married.”
“So yes.”
“I’m not doing this with you.”
“You called me.”
“To tell you I didn’t post the picture.”
Her anger stumbled.
“You think I posted it?”
“I think somebody did.”
“Why would I humiliate myself?”
“You’ve spent months helping Adrian humiliate me.”
“That’s different.”
The stupidity of the sentence seemed to reach her a second after she said it.
Neither of us spoke.
Finally she said, “Northline is legitimate.”
“Then stop worrying.”
“You don’t understand what this review could do.”
“To Adrian?”
“To everyone.”
Her voice cracked slightly.
“My brother has employees.”
“How many?”
She hesitated.
“Six.”
“Full-time?”
Another pause.
“Some contractors.”
I sat up straighter.
“How many full-time employees, Vanessa?”
“Why does that matter?”
“Because you said employees.”
“You’re interrogating me.”
“No, I’m listening.”
May you like
She exhaled.
“Daniel had a small team.”
