Chapter 1
Margot
The lamb is a corpse.
It sits on a bed of garlic and roasted fingerling potatoes, glazed in a red wine reduction that has long since lost its sheen. The entire meal has turned tacky and cold. Plating it anyway, I use the silver tongs we got for our wedding and place a chop onto Ross’s plate.
The candles are hunched over, weeping wax onto the linen runner. One of them flickers and dies, a tiny gray ghost of smoke rising from the wick.
I’m not a martyr. Martyrs die for a cause they believe in. I’m just a woman who spent forty dollars on a bottle of Barolo and three hours on a meal that is currently decaying at room temperature.
Outside, the street is calm. Our neighbor, Elias, saw me through the window an hour ago. As a retired contractor, he’s thinking of where to put the new doghouse for his dog, Sally, this spring. Elias doesn’t wear a tie. He doesn’t have a corneroffice. He has a wedding-ring tan line that refuses to fade, and sometimes I think he’s the luckiest man on the block, because at least he knows exactly what he’s lost.
I’m still trying to find where I went wrong in my own marriage.
It’s Valentine’s Day, and I’mstillfighting for my husband’s attention.
The front door lock clicks. It’s a sound I usually love, because it means my husband is finally home, but tonight, it sounds like a breach.
Ross enters the kitchen, his usual disciplined sweep of salt-and-pepper hair now a riot of static. His tie is yanked down, the knot hanging near his sternum, but the exhaustion haunting his eyes is far more telling.
He doesn’t even glance at the table. Not yet. Instead, his eyes stay glued to the glowing screen of his iPhone.
“I’m sorry,” he says, the words a reflex he repeats every night. “For being late.”
“By two hours, Ross.”
“The meeting with Arthur dragged. He’s a terror when it comes to the sustainability specs for the Dubai project. He wouldn’t let anyone leave. He’s convinced the current glass-to-steel ratio will tank the firm’s reputation if we don’t recalibrate by Monday.”
“Arthur Keane isn’t the one who has to eat cold lamb.”
“I know. I know. I tried to call, but my battery was at three percent, and Arthur was—well, you know how he is. He’s the CEO. You don’t interrupt the CEO to say you have a date.”
“It wasn’t a date,” I say. My voice is thin, sharp. “It was Valentine’s Day. Our anniversary—the first time you told me you loved me. Remember that? Or was that too many building codes ago?”
Wincing at my bluntness, he sets his briefcase on the counter, right next to the bowl of fruit I spent ten minutes arranging this morning.
“I remember.”
His phone chirps. Predictably, he looks down at it.
Annoyed, I ask, “How are you on your phone now if it’s dead?”
“Charged it in the car. The structural engineer wants to schedule a meeting.”
“I don’t care who it is, if you answer that, I’m going to throw this bottle of Barolo out the window.” I don’t have to raise my voice; my mood is already doing all the work.
Ross freezes. Then he stares in my general direction for the first time since he returned home. I’m wearing a silk slip dress I bought for tonight. He sees the pearls he gave me six years ago. Back when we were good. He sees the two plates of congealing meat and the way my hand trembles enough to make the wine ripple in the glass.
He looks like I’ve hit him with a beam.
“Margot,” he breathes.
“Don’t,” I say. “Don’t say my name like that.”
He swallows hard. I can see the pulse in his neck, the frantic beat of a man who has realized he’d ruined the night.
“You’re right.”
