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The Horn Foundation is holding an event. A Black and White ball. Saturday night at the Grand Theater. As my wife, I expect you to be there.
It was another slap to the face. Rage, the likes of which I haven’t ever felt, blazed through me. I stared at the text in disbelief. No courtesy. No love. Not even any advance warning. Apparently I didn’t even warrant a phone call. I texted back.
What do I wear, my love?
Kill him with kindness, I repeated over and over to myself. Seconds later, I got my reply.
An evening dress. I opened accounts for you at all the stores in town.
So much for small talk. Any attempt I made was met with resistance. With only two days to come up with a dress, I wasted no time hitting every store on the Rue du Rhône until I found what I was looking for at Armani. On a whim, I decided to walk into La Perla––if all is fair in love and war then I needed every weapon in the arsenal. After trying on a number of different outfits, I settled on three. I was in the middle of taking off a champagne colored bustier and garter set I’d decided to buy, when I heard two women talking right outside my changing room.
“Are you going to the Black and White this weekend?” said the salesperson.
“Yes. I can’t wait!” Something about the voice of the woman that answered sounded vaguely familiar. I quickly slipped on my dark Helmut Lang jeans, my black sweater, and waited.
“I don’t know who this mystery man is but he’s a lucky guy. He’s going to go nuts when he sees you in all these outfits,” the sales girl continued excitedly.
“God, I hope so. He’s amazing. I’m crazy about him.”
It was the longing and desperation that struck a chord, that helped me put two and two together.
“Show him these and he won’t leave your bed for a month.”
“That’s the plan.”
I stepped out of the dressing room and stood there waiting for their inevitable embarrassment. The sales girl noticed me right away. Caroline Pruitt took a second longer.
“Will that be all, madam?” the sales girl asked after glancing at my wedding band.
“Yes.” I handed her the garments while holding Caroline’s arrested, bright blue gaze.
“Charge them to my husband’s account, please. Sebastian Horn.” The look on the sales girls face was irritating. She looked like someone just informed her she’d won the lottery. “Of course, madam,” she added in a super polite tone and hurried off to ring up the garments.
“Hello,” Caroline finally said, her tone insinuating she couldn’t recall where she’d seen me before. Her transparent eyes betrayed her words however.
“Vera––Sebastian’s wife,” I said with satisfaction––heavy emphasis on the word wife. “You’re Caroline, right?”
“I know who you are,” she answered, dropping the charade. She looked around nervously, fighting some internal battle. I knew which side won when she began speaking. “I also know that the two of you are separated.” The taunt lacked as much conviction as she lacked backbone.
“You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the tabloids.”
After a beat, her expression transformed from uncertainty to purpose. “I have money––a lot of it…I could give it to you.”
It took me a minute to grasp what she was proposing, the notion so ridiculous that I had to make sure I’d heard her correctly. “You can’t be serious?”
She lacked the courage to repeat the offer. A hint of guilt passed across her suntanned face. “He’s my husband. I love him more than life itself and you think you can ‘give me money’ for him like he’s a thoroughbred stud at auction.” I started to giggle at the lunacy of it. My amusement spurred her on.
“I’ve loved him since we were kids.” Shear desperation stared back at me. Whatever tentative control she had on her obsession had broken loose. “I’ve waited for him all my life,” she hissed, making her case with wide blue eyes and a ferocious determination. It would’ve been comical had it not been so sad. “I’m his equal. You two aren’t right for each other. I understand what a man like that needs.”
“This is the most…” I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to soothe the dull pain growing there. “You are out of you’re bloody mind. And you have no idea who he is, or what he needs.” With that, she buttoned everything up, her face once again a pretty, blank canvas. “You people and your money––” I chuckled humorlessly, my head shaking. “Let me give you some free medical advice, Caroline––see a therapist. My husband has never had, nor will ever have any interest in you outside of the investments he makes for you.”
“We’ll see about that,” she fired back, turned on her Jimmy Choo heels and walked out of the store.
