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I strain my ears, trying to determine if he’s heading in my direction or not, but after ten minutes, I feel foolish and try to refocus my attention on The Crown.
An hour later, the apartment door opens and he leaves again, making it clear that more often than not, he and I will operate like two ships passing in the night. I’m starting to wonder why he lives in such a large apartment since he rarely uses most of it. He’d probably be fine with an efficiency as long as it had room for his desk and his suits.
This idea becomes more apparent over the following week. Nothing changes. In fact, it gets worse. I only know he’s been in the apartment because one day, he leaves a note for me in the kitchen, asking me to have Rebecca take a few of his suits to be laundered. I don’t bother. He’s included the name of the high-end dry cleaners on the note so I take the clothes myself, happy to have an activity to do outside of the apartment.
The bell tings on the door, announcing my arrival, and a petite woman flashes a preprogrammed smile before her eyes widen in shock.
I glance behind me, wondering what or who she’s seen.
“Mrs. Jennings!” she says, drawing my attention again as she rushes around the counter to take the suits from me.
I furrow my brow, trying to determine if I recognize her or not.
“Um…hi. Have we met?” I ask, tilting my head as I continue to rack my brain.
She laughs and shakes her head as she moves quickly back behind the counter, passing off the suits to an assistant. “No, no. I saw you and Mr. Jennings in the paper!”
I must give her a blank look, still not quite connecting the dots, because she reaches for a pair of light pink reading glasses and positions them on the bridge of her nose before she shuffles papers around on the counter, rearranging things until she finds what she’s looking for.
“Front page.”
She passes me her Sunday edition of The New York Times and grins, tapping her finger over our photo.
Sure enough, there I am, blown up and splashed across the front page of The Times.
Two Great American Dynasties United in Secret Matrimony is the bold headline across the top of the page. Beneath that, there’s a photo of Walt and me standing by one another in the courtroom. In the black and white image, I’m glancing down at my hands, wringing them out, in fact. Walt is looking down at me, only his profile in view. To me, we look like exactly what we are: strangers, marrying for business. But the woman at the cleaners leans over and taps the paper.
“Look how sweet that is, him looking down at you like that.”
Like what? I want to ask.
His expression is as inscrutable as always. Tight jaw, sharp cheekbones, furrowed brow. I couldn’t for the life of me guess his thoughts, but she insists we make a striking couple.
“Look at you there,” she says, tapping my face on the newspaper. “Absolutely gorgeous. I’m not surprised he proposed.”
I stare down at the picture of myself in the cheetah print dress and Doc Martens. My hair hangs over one shoulder, brushing my cheek. My face is still flushed from the cold winter wind. I try to look at the two of us objectively, to determine if we really do make a handsome couple, but I can’t. All I see is a girl completely out of her depth.
At the time, I wasn’t aware that the picture was being taken. Mason must have done it at some point during the ceremony, likely under Walt’s orders so that it could be used in a wedding announcement like this. I’m glad he took it. Even if ours is a sham marriage, I’m happy to have a picture of myself on my wedding day.
There’re other photos in the article too: a professional headshot of Walt beside a smiling photo of me. I recognize it from my family’s Christmas card shoot from last year.
Unable to resist, I skim the start of the article.
Walter Jennings II and Elizabeth Brighton were married in a civil union on February 18th. Though the two have been friends for years due to their close family ties, they reunited just before Mrs. Jennings graduated from Rhode Island School of Design and moved to New York City.
I wonder who fed them that information. Mason, no doubt. I suppose it sounds better than The couple was forced to wed due to strategic trust fund management and disbursement. Ah, romance.
“Is this your first time seeing it?” the woman asks.
I nod sheepishly. I hadn’t even realized it was put out in the paper yesterday.
“Then here, take mine.”
“Thank you. I really appreciate it.”
She smiles and tells me she’ll have Walt’s suit ready to be picked up by tomorrow afternoon. I accept the receipt she passes over to me, slightly appalled at the expense and extremely grateful that Walt has an account with the dry cleaner.
