“She’s taking him for half heowns,” Marcia whisper-spits out as I stab an innocent crouton and try to focus on my plate. “That little bitch thinks she’s going to get away with it, too.”
Catherine scoffs haughtily. “Not with your lawyers, she won’t. She’s out of her mind if she believes she’s going to win.”
“It’s all in the press, you know? All this invasion of privacy, and these reporters constantly call my phone for a comment. It’s exhausting and, frankly, uncivilized.”
“How quickly can you get rid of her?”
Oh, my God.
They sound as though they’re going to off her and dispose of the body.
Downing the rest of my wine, one of the waitresses immediately refills it before my glass hits the table.
“We’re gathering evidence,” Marcia explains in a hushed tone as if we’renotamongst other guests. “Of an alleged affair. She won’t get a dime.”
“You told Jordan to get a prenup?”
“Ugh, you know how men are when they see a pretty little thing all dressed up, batting their long eyelashes at someone.” I flick my focus to Marcia for the first time since she’s been speaking, and she’s already looking at me as if I was the one that told Jordan’s wife how to nail him down in marriage.
Message received.
I’ve felt it before in social gatherings like this. I don’t fit in here. I’m studied under a microscope on what’s so special about me that Bobby Harding would want to waste his time.
When our engagement went out, Ireallywas put under scrutiny. I’ve heard women talk about me in bathrooms. I’ve had snickers and unimpressed scowls thrown my way.
I wasn’t bred in millions of dollars and private schools.
I’m as normal as they come.
“Meirna knew the importance of security and financial stability,” Catherine chimes in as if she’s trying to save and protectmeinstead of the other way around. “She had zero problem signing a prenup for the good of their marriage.”
Marcia still doesn’t seem elated by the news. Since her son is going through a divorce, all women like me are condemned as pieces of shit.
I couldn’t care less what she thinks of me. I’d rather watch her choke on her wine while Frank Sinatra sings about mistletoe and holly.
“Well, aren’t you already the perfection of a soon-to-be wife?” Marcia drawls, picking up her fork, finally to eat her salad. “I can’t wait to see your dress tomorrow.”
“Ugh, it was a disaster,” Catherine moans. “They messed up her hem. Had to start all over.”
No, I had to buy a whole new dress and told the seamstress I’d pay her double if she said there was a mess up.
God knows Catherine would lose her shit if I said it was ripped and Bobby was theone who did it.
“It’s always something,” Marcia says with a click of her tongue. “Nothing is ever easy.”
I steal a look down the other side of the table, finding Bobby at the head of it, already looking in my direction.
Catherine made the seating arrangement for our rehearsal dinner, and I’m on theotherside of it with her and her stupid friends.
Alan is leaning over the table, scotch in hand, talking to Bobby, but I obviously can’t hear what he’s saying.
Bobby couldn’t appear less interested if he tried, not bothering to spare him a glance when our eyes meet and remain there.
“I’m just happy it’s almost over,” Catherine claims. “Next, we’ll be planning a baby shower.”
“Oh my God,” Marcia exclaims, a loud clank sounding right after and alluding that she dropped her fork. “Are you pregnant, Meirna?”
“No,” Catherine laughs. “Not yet. We have a two-year plan, and then she’ll have our first grandchild.”
