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She folds a cashmere sweater into a neat square. “Obviously breaking his heart would be less than ideal—which is why I cannot stress enough that you need to be as dull yet likable as humanly possible.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Of course it is,” she says. “I figure it’s only a matter of time before I really start to show—and once I land my promotion, I can announce my pregnancy. Roman and Theodora should completely understand. Extenuating circumstances and all of that.”
“Why don’t you just announce the pregnancy now? And put an end to this ridiculous dating madness?”
I lift the bag of peas and check my ankle, where the skin has gone from its beige-crayon color to a wintry bright red. She still hasn’t asked if I’m okay or apologized for forcing me to wear her heels—not that Margaux would do either of those things, but it’d be nice to be appreciated every once in a while.
“I have a plan,” she says, her tone matter of fact as she straightens her shoulders.
“I signed on for one date,” I say.
“I know. I thought Theodora would have her mind made up by now. I’m sorry. I have no control over that.”
I imagine it pains her to have no control over any of this—which is why she’s obsessed with controlling every minute detail. This has always been Margaux’s MO. Control Freak Sheridan. If I were the type to psychoanalyze, maybe I’d blame it on our parents’ divorce, our mother’s extreme anxiety, and Margaux’s naturally perfectionistic ways. Her obsession with her body issues I could easily peg on her high school drill team days. It was a toxic group of women helmed by an even more toxic coach. All Margaux’s foundational years were a perfect storm of dysfunction that crafted her into the type A person she is now. Sometimes, when I’m particularly frustrated with her, I remind myself that she didn’t always have it easy.
Where I’ve always been able to roll with the punches, Margaux has struggled. Relinquishing control, in any amount, is pure torture to her. A death sentence to her ego. She would never. But it doesn’t stop me from planting the thought in her head anyway.
“What would happen if you told Theodora about the pregnancy now instead of waiting?” I ask. “Just get it over with. Save yourself this balancing act. Besides, it’s illegal to discriminate against pregnant people in the workplace.”
“It’s illegal, yes,” she says. “But very difficult to prove.”
“Maybe you should tell her that you don’t want to date anyone right now?” I suggest. “Just be honest.”
“And risk giving that position to Franklin?” Her jaw nearly hits the floor as she reaches for another sweater, this one a lavender cardigan with mother-of-pearl buttons. “Never. I’ve worked too hard for some fresh-off-the-intern-boat brownnoser to steal that out from under me.”
Margaux rambles on, going on yet another tired tirade against Franklin. I’m not sure if it’s ever occurred to her that some people work just as hard as she does.
“I don’t want to hurt him,” I cut her off. “Roman, I mean. He’s a good man.”
She chuffs. “Obviously no one wants to hurt anyone. That’s not the goal here. But need I remind you, he had you fired? He’s not exactly a saint.”
“His wife died.” I adjust the peas once more. “I think Halcyon was his wife.”
“Halcyon?”
Of course she doesn’t remember. She’s never listening. She’s never paying attention to anything that doesn’t directly involve her these days.
“That artist I told you about a while back,” I remind my sister. It’s been years, though, now that I think about it. She can barely remember what she had for breakfast most days. “Anyway, when he had me fired, it was because I sold a painting out from under him . . . but not on purpose. There was a mix-up at the gallery between me and another salesperson. I think he was trying to buy his wife’s painting back, and it went to someone else who refused to let it go.”
“Still not a valid reason to have someone fired.”
“I’m guessing he wasn’t his best self at that time . . . he’d just lost the love of his life . . . and he was raising their two little girls alone . . .” I think back to that day, when I walked into my boss’s office to find him on the phone with a man all but screaming into his ear. I couldn’t make out the entirety of what he was saying, only bits and pieces.
. . . unprofessional . . .
. . . joke of a gallery . . .
. . . never doing business with you people again . . .
My boss—who was typically lacking a spine even on his best days—told me I had to fix it or I was done. I called my buyer and did my best groveling to get her to change her mind and cancel the sale of the painting, but she refused, hanging up on me before I could explain the situation or that my job was on the line (not that she’d have cared).
