‘No. It must have slipped his mind.’
He makes a noise that’s not quite a surprise. ‘Beckett never forgets anything. No matter. I have the pre-marital agreement paperwork here. I believe you’ve had your own counsel look at this?’
‘Yes.’ I nod. Professor Google helped me with my copy.
‘As I’ve said to Beckett, I’d have preferred at least a month’s notice, but I understand this has been a bit of a whirlwind courtship.’
‘Some would call it that.’ I applaud him for playing his part in what he undoubtably knows is a charade.After all, he’s holding the paperwork.His smile confirms this, pushing a nondescript folder across the table. When I open it, the terms of our agreement sit on top of the files again.
Money. Monogamy. Cohabitation. Consummation.My cheeks heat as I read through the now familiar terms. I try not to think of the man across from me having read this stuff as I give it a cursory look. Underneath is our prenup. I scan through it once again, this time without my online legal counsel.
Except as otherwise provided below,both parties waive the following rights:
To share in each other’s estates upon their death.
To spousal maintenance, both temporary and permanent.
To share in the increase in value during the marriage of the separate property of the parties.
To share in the pension, profit sharing, or other retirement accounts of the other.
Same as before. I keep what’s mine, including what he’s giving me, and he retains his assets once we divorce.
‘Where do I sign?’
And just like that, I’m one step closer to selling myself.
Everyone has a price, but my price is not my worth.
As the elevator spirits me upwards, I try not to think of the journey but the destination, and I don’t mean which floor I’ll be exiting on.
A viable business. Food other than ramen. No disgrace. Actually, scratch that last one. I might not ever need to tell Gran I lost my money, but I think I’ll always look back on this experience and feel a little shame. But the honest addendum is that I’ve chosen this outcome. I may have all kinds of conflicting feelings, and I may end up spending thousands in therapy, but the choice is mine. I need to remember that.
The elevator doors open, and I step out, not into a hall, but a small lobby with grey tiles and tactile wall coverings. A padded bench sits against the wall along with a mirror and an Art Deco-esque looking sideboard. And only one door.
I swipe my key card and step into a suite that is the epitome of another world. In fact, I think I just found the actual place where “the other half lives”.
Standing on the threshold of a lounge that’s so stylish, I almost don’t want to step inside for fear of making it less so. My gaze is immediately drawn to a set of French doors leading to a stonewall terrace with an expansive view of Central Park beyond—and from above tree height! So much blue and green, the city beyond shimmering on the horizon. Sumptuous drapes hang from original ornate coving, falling to the parquet floor in pristine pleats, and soft furnishings that look so inviting. The effect is just dazzling.
This place is more like an apartment, a home away from home, if our home is worth millions, I suppose. There’s a formal dining room with seating for a dozen, a small kitchen, and two bedrooms, each on opposite corners of the suite. As I discover my case set in the smaller of the two, I don’t know whether this makes me feel more nervous or less. Sure, he’s giving me the illusion of space, but as I stand in the master bedroom staring at the snowy-white bed, trepidation washes through my stomach. Will I be sleeping here? Or only ...
Something that resembles a thrill very quickly follows the trepidation.
I back out of the larger room, feeling like an intruder, and make my way to the other. Equally sumptuous, there’s something haven-like about the calm space. But maybe I’m projecting. White linens cover the bed, a velvet sofa is tucked into the corner, and pale peonies placed in a vase sit on an end table, lushly blooming yet so delicate.
I unfasten the clasps on my suitcase, open it wide, and pull out the outfit I’ve packed for today. No wedding dress for me. No veil or flowers. My something old is a dress from my closet from what Reggie liked to tease was myGreat Gatsbystage. Following the release of the remake with Leo D and Carey Mulligan, I became a little obsessed with clothing from that period. It was short-lived as there are only so many cloche hats and drop-waist dresses you can wear before people start staring.
This dress is glorious. I think I wore it once for a wedding, ironically. Peach silk overlaid with intricate beadwork and a ruffled hem. It’s more fancy than fancy-dress, and it cost me almost a week’s rent when I bought it in a little boutique in Camden.
I have a shiny barrette for my hair and a purse that’s definitely of the period, the treasure “borrowed” from my gran for prom what seems like a lifetime ago. I make a mental note to take off my phone cover to be sure I can fit it inside. Then I hang up my dress, throw my cardigan across the back of the sofa, and chastise myself for a ridiculous thought.
Something old and something borrowed.
This isn’t that kind of wedding. There’s no need for sentimentality.
But as I drop my cardigan, I notice a box placed on the velvet bench at the end of the bed, wrapped in blue ribbon.
My bedroom, my box, right?
