Chương 5
Comments multiplied beneath it.
QUEEN MOM.
Run, girl.
Rich people showing who they are.
This is fake.
She probably knew.
Imagine spending that much on a wedding and having no sense of humor.
Emily refreshed the page. The numbers increased.
Claire reached across the table and covered the screen.
“Stop.”
“People think they know me.”
“They don’t.”
“They’re deciding anyway.”
“Yes.”
Emily looked at her mother’s hand. Claire’s nails were still painted the soft pink chosen for the wedding.
“Did you know you were going to say that?”
“No.”
“It sounded rehearsed.”
“I’ve had practice being angry at men in suits.”
Despite herself, Emily made a small sound that was almost a laugh.
Claire removed her hand. “I should not have announced the wedding was over for you.”
Emily looked up.
“I meant it,” Claire said. “I would say it again. But it was your wedding. Your marriage. I took the decision out of your mouth.”
“You said what I couldn’t.”
“That doesn’t mean you wanted it said.”
Emily stared at the blank dark window over the sink.
“I don’t know what I wanted.”
“That’s allowed.”
“Not anymore.”
“No,” Claire said. “Probably not for a while.”
At seven thirteen, Daniel sent an email.
Emily,
I have been calling because we need to deal with this together before it becomes something neither of us can control. I am deeply sorry the gift upset you. I should have anticipated how it might look, especially given your family’s sensitivity about class. I was not trying to humiliate you. Neither was my mother.
I love you. I married you because I want a life with you, not because I expect you to serve me. I hope you know that.
The video is spreading. Ryan acted irresponsibly, and we are addressing it. Our family’s communications adviser recommends that we release a brief joint statement saying the moment has been taken out of context and that we are handling a private misunderstanding. This protects both of us.
Please call me before noon.
D.
Emily read the phrase your family’s sensitivity about class three times.
Claire stood at the stove scrambling eggs.
“What does he say?” she asked.
“He’s sorry the gift upset me.”
Claire turned off the burner.
“He wants a joint statement.”
“Of course.”
“He says it protects us.”
“Us.”
Emily looked at her mother. “You say it like he does.”
Claire’s expression softened. “I’m sorry.”
Emily pushed the laptop away.
By nine, a local television station had embedded the clip in an online article. By ten, a national gossip account posted still images. At eleven fifteen, the communications director from Emily’s firm called.
Emily worked for Marrow & Finch, a Boston architecture company known for expensive civic projects and offices with exposed brick. She was an associate project manager, six months from consideration for promotion. Her boss, Alan Brooks, usually communicated in three-word messages and calendar invitations. The communications director had never called her before.
“I’m sorry to bother you today,” the woman said. “I want to start there.”
Emily stood in Claire’s laundry room because it was the only place where she could close a door.
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not. But I wanted you to know we’ve received press inquiries.”
“About me?”
“About whether the man in the video is connected to Whitmore Development.”
Daniel was vice president of strategic partnerships at his family’s real estate company, a title that involved lunches, charity boards, and presentations prepared by other people.
“Yes,” Emily said. “He is.”
“And because our firm is bidding on the South Quay project with them…”
Emily closed her eyes.
Marrow & Finch had been developing its proposal for Whitmore Development’s waterfront redevelopment for eight months. Emily had brought Daniel to a company holiday dinner. Six weeks later, Alan placed her on the early planning team, calling her perspective valuable.
At the time, Emily had insisted she would not discuss the bid with Daniel.
Now she wondered whether her presence had been considered a credential.
“We are not asking you for a statement,” the communications director said. “I want to be clear. We are also not asking you to come in Monday. Take whatever time you need.”
“Am I being removed from South Quay?”
A pause.
“Temporarily, we think that’s best.”
“For who?”
“For the integrity of the process.”
Emily gripped the dryer door.
“I haven’t shared confidential information.”
“No one is suggesting you did.”
“But you’re removing me.”
“Temporarily.”
“How long?”
“We should talk after the situation settles.”
Emily looked through the laundry room window at Claire’s backyard. Her father’s old shed leaned slightly to the right. He had promised to level it for years.
“Thank you for telling me,” she said.
After the call, she sat on a basket of clean towels.
A wedding joke had reached into her office before she had eaten breakfast.
Claire found her there twenty minutes later.
Emily told her what happened.
Claire’s face changed with each sentence: anger, calculation, alarm.
“Can they do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“You should speak to an employment lawyer.”
“I don’t want a lawyer.”
“You may need one.”
“I don’t want my whole life to become evidence.”
Claire sat on the floor opposite her, bathrobe gathered around her knees.
“Then don’t decide today.”
“Everyone keeps saying that while things keep being decided.”
The doorbell rang.
Claire stood.
“Don’t answer it.”
“I won’t.”
The bell rang again. Then Daniel’s voice came through the front door.
“Claire, I know she’s here.”
Emily rose so quickly the towels slid to the floor.
Claire reached the hallway first.
“You need to leave,” she called through the door.
“I need five minutes with my wife.”
“No.”
“Claire, this is not your decision.”
Emily stepped beside her mother.
May you like
Through the narrow pane of glass, she could see Daniel on the porch in yesterday’s tuxedo pants and a dark overcoat. His hair was uncombed. He looked exhausted enough to seem vulnerable, which frightened her more than anger would have.
“Emily,” he said when he saw her. “Please.”
