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Christopher chuckles. “Cooking is not a good idea. Not if you want to keep your hands. Ms. Evans will hack them off if you dare.”
“She makes the meals?” I’ve never eaten anything that I haven’t made myself. I’ve always done all the cooking.
“She cooks and cleans for my mother. She has for years. She’s like family around here.”
“Can I help?” I don’t like the idea of having some other woman do all the work. I had read about servants in books, but is Ms. Evans a servant? Shouldn’t we all pitch in to help?
“For right now, I think you need to just focus on getting settled in to this new way of life. You and I are going to be busy figuring everything out. Let Ms. Evans worry about the basics.”
I must have a look on my face revealing just how uncomfortable I am with the idea of not earning my keep.
“Don’t worry,” he adds. “When you and I have our own place again, you can make all your famous recipes that I grew to love.” He reaches over and pats my leg. “Come on. Get dressed. I’m hungry, and I can hear the thoughts of my mother now. She’s pacing the floor. I can bet anything on that right now.”
Not an easy woman, Christopher says.
Not an easy woman.
I guess Papa Rich wasn’t an easy man.
I’ve had practice.
6
Ember
It’s loud when we walk downstairs. I hear voices, and the first thing I see is the television on with both Christopher and me on the screen. I’m on television. My face is on television.
Christopher walks straight to the TV and stands in front of it. I stay near him, because I feel I need to in order to be defended against the storm about to hit, but I divert my eyes from the screen. I don’t want to see it. I don’t want to stare the devil that was our past straight in the eye.
“Fuck,” Christopher says under his breath.
“Oh good, you two are finally up,” Mrs. Davenport says as she enters the room followed by a man in a suit and tie, his hair slicked back, and black glasses that seem to barely balance on the edge of his nose. “Jason and I’ve been waiting. He’s come up with some good ideas for us to get ahead of this situation.”
“Looks like the situation is already moving along full force without us,” Christopher says, still watching the news on the television.
“As I was telling Louisa,” Jason says, “I’ve started to work on a statement for you to say. Right now, the media sees you both as victims, which means they are going to be sympathetic to your need for privacy during this difficult time. At least on the surface. Everyone will want to get the full scoop, so we need to decide who we’re giving the story to.”
Christopher turns away from the television and sighs. He then places a hand on my lower back and starts to lead me out of the room. “At least allow Ember and me to get some breakfast in us before we start planning for battle.”
Louisa chimes in, “We need to listen to Jason. He knows how to handle—”
“I get it, Mom,” Christopher snaps, and I suddenly see the man from last night that I don’t recognize. I instantly want the man I was just in bed with to return.
The phone rings as we both take our seats at a long wooden table. An elegant chandelier hangs above us, and the glass is reflecting beams of light around the room. I don’t feel comfortable. I don’t want to touch the table in fear of leaving fingerprints on the shiny surface.
Ms. Evans pokes her head out from a door. “Oh good, you are both here. I’ll have your breakfast out in a second. I hope you’re hungry.”
I start to get up to help her, but Christopher places his hand on my lap to signal for me to sit. Remembering the conversation from earlier about Ms. Evans not wanting help in the kitchen, I remain in place and… wait. I’ve never had someone bring me food before when all I do is sit at a table. I don’t like it. I like to feel useful. I like to serve the ones I love. I want to be Christopher’s wife and cook him a breakfast I know he’ll love. Ms. Evans isn’t his wife; I am. What would Papa Rich say if he knew I’m just sitting here doing nothing?
“Christopher,” Mrs. Davenport says from the threshold of the doorway. “The phone’s for you. It’s your editor at Rolling Stone.”
“I’ll be right back,” Christopher says to me as he gets up from the chair, takes the phone from his mother, then walks to the other room.
Mrs. Davenport then redirects her attention to me, walks up to the table, and stares down at my bare feet.
