“I did,” a new voice offers. A waitress points to the screen. “She showed up at the same time as Mrs. Winthrop. They had words. Mrs. Winthrop went to set up the table, and this girl left.”
“Left where?”
The new waitress shrugs. I give her a hundred-dollar bill. “If you see her, call me.” I reel off my number and then take off for the elevator. I’m about to ask the valet to get my car when I spy a familiar figure sitting on a bench across the street, feeding bread to pigeons.
I run across. “Belle!”
Her head jerks up. “Charlie? What are you doing here?”
“I got invited to a luncheon. What about you?” She’s all dressed up in a blue dress that poufs around her hips as she sits. Dainty socks and shoes with straps finish off the outfit. She looks like a confectionary delight, and I could eat her up in one bite.
“I…” She makes a little face, scrunching her nose and twisting her lips to the side. “I had an invite to a luncheon too but didn’t go.”
“Why not? Was it the one up there?” I jerk my thumb toward the museum behind me. “Because that’s the one I was invited to. We should go since we were both invited.” She’s all dressed up. She wanted to go. I can slip in an invite to the dinner tomorrow night, too. A follow-up date.
She thinks about this for a moment and then stands up, brushing her hands across her skirt. “Why not?”
I don’t offer her my arm, sensing she’d turn me down. She’s married, after all. Although there’s no ring on her finger today. I don’t say anything about it, though. Maybe she thought it was a no jewelry type of day. What do I know about married couples?
As she steps off the elevator, Belle’s spine straightens as if she’s going into battle. What happened here? She marchesstraight up to the table and with a lifted chin points to a white name card on the table, “Belle Wickham.”
The woman behind the table inhales. “I told you before that staff is over there.” The blonde with the diamond in her hair points a long fingernail in the direction of the glass doors that the waiter and waitress I had paid off were standing.
“I have an invitation.” Belle offers the print out of the email invite she’d received. The woman frowns but doesn’t take it. “And you—” The woman peers down her nose at me, which is an impressive feat since I’m standing and she’s sitting. “Who are you?”
“I’m here for the luncheon.”
The woman sniffs. “You’re a man. This is a ladies’ luncheon. The invite would not cover you.”
“I’m here to support—” I glance toward Belle for help. She mouthsart“—the arts. How big of a donation do you want?” I hold out my black card.
“Who are you, even?” A crowd is forming.
“Trash, of course,” someone says. “Look at her outfit. That dress with those socks? Is she a Broadway reject?”
“I haven’t seen such a fashion disaster outside of Nell Rain’s embarrassment at the Black and White Ball.”
“Even Nell would have better taste than this—thing.”
Next to me, Belle is trembling. I suddenly realize why she was sitting outside, and I feel like a piece of shit for exposing her to this. I had no idea these women acted this way. Why would they send her an invitation only to mock her? What’s the point? These women are actually evil. “Belle is C Wickham’s wife. You know that because it says so on the invitation
Only I am greeted by a chorus of sneers and laughs. “C. Wickham’s wife? Since when? I know he’s single because my husband was working on closing a deal with him last month, and when we sent him a gift of wine, he returned it sayingthat as a single man he did not need it. Besides, a man of that stature would never be caught dead with someone like her.” The blonde’s nostrils flare in disgust.
Furious, I place my fist on the table. “Look here, woman, I know who I’m married to.”
Belle jerks around and tries to signal me to stop. I’m in big shit now because I either admit to who I am or contribute to Belle’s humiliation. I suck it up. “I’m Charles Wickham. Belle’s husband.”
The woman scoffs. “C. Wickham is a notorious recluse. He never leaves his home for anything.”
“You literally sent an invite to my wife. My name is right here.” I stab my finger on the paper.
“It was obviously a joke. No one actually believes this woman is Wickham’s wife. And no one here believes your little charade. Wickham is an ugly troll with a large nose. You rented the wrong type of fake boyfriend,” the woman sneers at Belle.
“Don’t forget the warts,” someone calls out. “He has warts all over his body.”
Belle’s eyes grow wide. I slam my card on the table. “Look. It saysC. Wickham.”
“Of course this fake would bring another fake with her,” the blonde scoffs. “We run your credit card and then the charge is magically declined after lunch. Someone call security.”
