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Neil and I had taken full advantage of our isolation. More than one dinner had been postponed for a hasty fuck up against the refrigerator, and another memorable occasion had seen me lying across Neil’s lap in one of his oxford shirts and nothing else, masturbating myself to orgasm over and over while he calmly read the morning paper and gave the occasional, bored sounding instruction. His feigned disinterest had only ramped up my desire, and we’d ended up fucking on the wide art deco rug on the floor. It was a heady return to the weekends we’d spent together at the beginning of our relationship, and I didn’t want to leave it behind.
But obligation called us into the city, so we left for Manhattan in the Maybach, the only car we owned that had trunk space. Tony drove us, probably glad to finally earn his keep and feel secure in his job. We’d barely ventured out of the house at all, and his services hadn’t been needed for a while. When I’d asked Tony how he filled his time, he’d replied, “Knitting,” and left it at that.
He made me an afghan.
The apartment looked, more or less, exactly as it had when we’d left, though everything that remained was in the b-squad—our sheets, our dishes, whatever furnishings we hadn’t taken with us. In the kitchen, there were squares on the wall that hadn’t faded where pictures of Emma had previously hung. The place was weirdly empty without being empty.
“Home sweet home?” Neil asked, resigned, as we unpacked our clothes in the bedroom. “The closet looks so…bare.”
“Wanna see the dress I’m wearing to the wedding?” I asked to cheer him up. “Emma helped me pick it out.”
I unzipped the garment bag and pulled out the just slightly longer than cocktail length black taffeta with a deep cut, wide lapelled neckline. A sash of matching black taffeta wrapped the waist and tied in a bow at one hip. “Ta-da!”
He sat in the wing chair and dropped his head to his hands. “I can’t do this.”
“Well, you don’t have to wear it,” I joked. When he didn’t look up, I felt terrible for making light of his anxiety. Clearly, this was not about the dress. “I have a feeling you’re saying that you can’t ‘do’ your daughter’s wedding.”
“It’s not the wedding.” He looked up and drew his palms down his face. “It’s the marriage. I can’t watch Emma do this to her life.”
It took all the will power I had in me to keep my tone gentle, but this “Horrible Michael” shtick was getting tired. “What are you talking about? She loves Michael, and he treats her like she’s a priceless gem or something. You couldn’t have asked for a more perfect son-in-law.”
“It isn’t Michael.”
“Then what is it?” I’d been prepared for him to have a total meltdown this week. I wished it could have come slightly earlier, but at least he wasn’t losing his mind two minutes before the ceremony.
“I just don’t think it’s a good idea for Emma to get married,” he insisted. “Can we please leave it there?”
“No, we can’t. Your daughter is getting married on Saturday, whether you’re ready for it or not.” I threw my hands up. “Sometimes, I think you see Emma as six years old or something. Is there even one good reason for her to not marry Michael?”
“I told you, this isn’t about Michael.”
“Then why are you acting like this?”
“Because twenty-five is too young to get married, that’s why!” he snapped.
I stared in horror.
He looked away. “I didn’t mean… Oh, fuck me, yes, I did.”
“Shut up.” I leaned back against the full-length mirror and put my head in my hands. “Is that why you’ve been so reluctant to talk about setting a date, or anything to do with our wedding?”
He didn’t answer.
“You know what?” I took a deep breath through my nose. My head was spinning, and I was about two seconds from a sobbing, screaming meltdown. But the week was too damn busy. “Your daughter is getting married. Let’s just get through this weekend.”
“And then…what?” he asked, a tremor of hopelessness in his voice.
I straightened and pushed my hair back from my forehead. “I don’t know, Neil? Then what? You don’t want to marry me. Fine. But I don’t know what’s going on in your head, and it sounds like it could go either way. We can get an emergency appointment with Ashley for Monday or something, but I can’t do this right now. I don’t want us to come to any sort of final decision that will hurt Emma, especially not when this could all be the stress of the wedding.”
He went pale, and for an Englishman, that’s a pretty big feat. “You don’t think I meant—”
“I don’t know what you meant. But I don’t want to know until after this weekend.” I couldn’t sit there and do this. I turned toward the door and, on some mean, self-pitying impulse, said, “I’ll try not to get in too many of the pictures.”
“Damn it, Sophie!”
He stormed after me, out of the bedroom and into the foyer, but I didn’t stop. I felt like breaking dishes, so I veered off my course, away from the kitchen, down the hall past the bedrooms, to the storage room.
“Where are you going?” Neil demanded.
