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He began by apologizing for the stuffy side office we were occupying.
“Oh, don’t worry. It’s still larger than my flat.” I giggled. Asher raised his eyebrows, flipping through the pages on his desk.
“That small, huh? I’m surprised, with your husband’s net worth.”
He referred to Riggs’s tax return, which I hadn’t seen at the time we filled out the petition form. Guess we were diving straight into it. All righty, then.
“My husband is not a materialistic person,” I said with confidence, knowing each word spoken was the God-honest truth. “In fact, if you get to know him, you’ll see that he is the least money-oriented person you’d ever meet. The first few times we hung out, I bought him socks because his were holey and I was worried about him come winter.”
Asher listened intently, a small smile on his face. I felt myself blushing.
“Sorry, should I ... stop talking? Wait for you to take the lead?”
He shook his head. “No. This was perfect. Okay.” He clapped. “Ready?”
“Yes.”
“Please state your spouse’s full name, date of birth, and place of birth.”
“Riggs Carson Bates, born February eighth, in San Francisco.”
That was an easy one.
“How did you meet?”
“Mutual friend.”Who screwed him while I was watching.
“What are his hobbies?”
“He loves mountain climbing, passionate about nature, food, friends. He is actually quite the cook. Makes great waffles ... oh, and watermelon margaritas! And he is naturally fit, so even though he’d tell you he doesn’t do sports, he is rather athletic.”
I could go on about him forever. I blushed again, feeling like I’d given too much away. Surely he thought I was overdoing it to prove the authenticity of my marriage.
Asher jotted something on a document in front of him with a frown and continued.
“Tell me a little about his social life outside your marriage.”
Omitting Riggs’s endless list of sexual conquests, I told him about Christian and Arsène, about Riggs’s upbringing at Andrew Dexter Academy, and about his family background. The more I spoke, the more confidence I gained. It occurred to me that I knew everything there was to know about my husband. Sadly, that only made room for me to doubt the fakeness of my marriage. If I felt so deeply connected to the man—how could our marriage be a sham?
The interview lasted twenty minutes, even though Felicity had told us to expect something more substantial. This meant it had gone either terribly bad or exceptionally well. I tended to lean toward the latter.
“Well, thank you very much, Mrs. Bates. I’m confident that you will hear from us very soon.” Asher stood up and winked.
Oh, bloody hell. We did it. We actually did it. A wink is the international “You passed the test” sign.Everyone knows that.
“Cheers. I mean ... thank you!”
“Best of luck with your future.”
Yeah, I’ll need it.
When I got out, Riggs was there, on the stairway leading up to the building, smoking a spliff. He was pacing, looking genuinely concerned. Hecared.
I stopped and watched him for a bit, taking him in. A pang of pain pierced through my chest. This was quite possibly the last time I was going to see him. All the other things we needed to do—namely get a divorce—could be done via emails. We would liaise by text messages and the occasional phone call, like strangers. I would no longer be able to kiss him silly. He would no longer chase me around our small flat. No one was going to walk around naked anymore to make the other feel comfortable. There would be no waffle sampling, no sex on the floor, no apple-picking laced with kisses ...
I felt myself hyperventilating.
I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t say goodbye. But I had to.
