“You know what my favorite thing about these dinners is?” a woman with a Jamaican accent in a beautiful yellow gown asks, and we all turn to her. “Dressing up like a Barbie doll only to be ignored by Ken because he’s too busy talking to his buddies about overseas affairs.”
“Listen, I’d rather listen to them talk about faraway lands than golf,” another woman says, and a third woman agrees with her.
“Amen to that, sister. I have been married into this for fifty-four years. That is fifty-four years of overpriced, itchy dresses and bitter wine, all while listening to my husband huff about drivers and grass that’s too long.”
Everyone laughs, and to my surprise, the laughs are real. Apparently this is where the party is at—with wives who have been in the game for years.
“Who would have thought the Land of Milk and Money would be so boring?” the woman with the lovely accent asks.
“What’s that?” another asks.
“Just what my husband calls the oil field.”
Giggles erupt all around.
“Like the Real Housewives of O&G,” I whisper, and then realize they all heard me.
I stop mid-sip.
But when they all break out laughing, I take it that I haven’t offended them. Thank God.
“Which one is yours, dear?” one of them asks.
The one with the blonde leach latched onto his body.
Speaking of. He’s going to smell like her perfume now, no doubt. I make a mental note to have that suit sent through the cleaners twice.
“I’m not here with anyone,” I say. “I’m Mr. Rozanov’s assistant.”
Their eyes travel down to my belly. They don’t even have to say anything. I know what they’re wondering. Luckily, they’re ladylike enough not to ask.
“Well, you look stunning,” one of them says, and I smile.
“Thank you,” I say. “If I am being honest, I really just want to go home.”
“Is your boss really keeping you here?” one of them asks.
“Essential staff, unfortunately,” I say as my eyes slice over to Ransome again. “Assistants gotta assist.”
“Well, he doesn’t seem to need any assistance from the looks of it,” the woman in yellow says.
“You know,” the second one leans in. “I hear that Mr. Rozanov and his wife got married very hastily.”
“Is that so?” I ask, sipping the last of my drink.
She nods. “Some people even say they think it was arranged.”
“Arranged by who?” the third woman asks.
“His father,” she whispers.
“I mean, he doesn’t seem particularly affectionate towards her,” the second woman says, and I can’t help but smile.
“Maybe he’s holding a candle for someone else,” I say, and they all glance over to observe.
“Aren’t we all…” the woman in yellow’s voice trails off.
They finish their drinks and go back to their respectful seats, changing face and playing their parts as they must. In the meantime, my glass is dry and Navy Suit man is still here.
