“My name is Emma,” I say into the mirror. I smile—a wide, confident grin.
Anyone who knows her well wouldn’t be fooled. But all I need to do is get past the cleaning crew at Richard’s office.
If one of his colleagues is working late tonight, it will be over. And if Richard happens to still be here—but no, I can’t even let myself think about that or I won’t have the courage to go through with this.
“My name is Emma,” I repeat again and again, until I am satisfied with the throaty timbre of my voice.
I walk to the door of the bathroom and crack it, peeking out. The hallway is empty and the lights are dim; I can’t see around the corner to the double-glass doors that lead to Richard’s firm. I know they will be locked, as they are every evening. Few people have the keys. The financial information of hundreds of clients is contained on the company’s computers. They are all protected by passwords, plus I’m certain the company’s cyber-security experts would be alerted if anyone tried to hack the system.
What I’m after isn’t an electronic record, though. I need a simple document from Richard’s office, one that would have no importance to anyone else at the firm.
Even if Emma had the chance to read my letter, and even if a few fleeting doubts have begun to form in her mind, I know she is a savvy, logical young woman. Who will she believe in the end—her accomplished, perfect fiancé or his crazy ex-wife?
I need proof to sway her. And Emma is the person who revealed to me how to obtain it.
When I confronted her outside her apartment building, I told Emma to ask Richard about the missing Raveneau that he sent me to retrieve from our wine cellar the night of our cocktail party. Who do you think placed the order? she asked just before dismissing me and leaving in a cab.
It was a brilliant move on Richard’s part to have Emma, as his assistant, order that wine for our party.
He hadn’t needed to punish me in a long time. I’d been on my best behavior for months, rising early with him and exercising every morning, and cooking us healthy dinners at night. These acts of service made Richard feel benevolent toward me. By this point in my marriage, I was under no illusions about how dangerous my husband could be when he feared my love was slipping away.
So I anticipated that I would pay severely when I altered my hair a few days before our cocktail party. First I asked my stylist to dye it caramel brown. She’d protested, saying that women paid her hundreds of dollars to re-create my natural hue, but I was resolute. When she finished darkening it, I instructed her to lop off five inches, resulting in a shoulder-length bob.
On the day we met, Richard had told me to never cut my hair. That was the first rule, masked as a compliment, that he’d set down.
I’d obeyed it throughout our marriage.
But by then I’d met Emma. I knew I had to give my husband reasons to get rid of me, no matter what the repercussions.
When Richard saw my hair, he’d paused for a moment, then told me it was a nice change for the winter. I understood he wanted my old style back by summertime. After that brief exchange, he worked late every night until our party.
Richard had asked Emma to order the wine so he could build his case against me.
And now I can use it to build my case against him.
Hillary was standing at the makeshift bar with Richard in our living room at the Westchester house that night. The caterers were late, and I’d been murmuring apologies for the wheel of Brie and wedge of cheddar I’d set out.
“Honey? Can you grab a few bottles of the ’09 Raveneau from the cellar?” Richard called to me from across the room. “I ordered a case last week. They’re on the middle shelf of the wine fridge.”
I moved in what felt like slow motion toward the basement, delaying the moment when I’d have to tell Richard, in front of all of his friends and business associates, what I already knew: There was no Raveneau in our cellar.
But not because I drank it.
Everyone thought I did, of course. That had been Richard’s intention. This was our pattern: I challenged Richard by trying to assert my independence, and he made me pay for my transgression. My punishments were always proportional to my perceived crimes. On the night of the Alvin Ailey gala, for example, I knew Richard had told his partner Paul that he needed to get me home because I was drunk. But that wasn’t true; Richard was angry that Paul had offered to help me find a job. And more than that, my husband already knew I’d snuck into the city for a secret meeting, one that I eventually explained away as a visit to a therapist.
Making me look bad in public—having other people view me as unstable and, worse, causing me to question myself—was one of Richard’s default ways to discipline me. It was especially effective given my mother’s struggles.
“Honey, there isn’t any Raveneau,” I said when I returned from the cellar.
“But I just put a case down there—” Richard cut himself off. Confusion swept across his face and was quickly replaced by obvious embarrassment.
He was such an adroit actor.
“Oh, I’m happy with any old white wine!” Hillary said too brightly.
Emma was across the room. She wore a simple black dress, belted to show off her hourglass figure. Her luxuriant blond hair curled loosely at the ends. She was as perfect as I’d remembered.
I needed to accomplish three things that night: Convince everyone at the party that Richard’s wife was a bit of a mess. Convince Emma that Richard deserved better. And most important, convince Richard of the same.
I felt dizzy from anxiety. I looked at Emma for courage. Then I did some acting of my own.
I linked my arm through Hillary’s. “I’ll join you in that,” I said gaily, hoping Hillary couldn’t feel my ice-cold fingers through her sleeve. “Who says blonds have more fun? I love being a brunette. Come on, Richard, open us up a bottle.”
I dumped my first glass down the kitchen sink when I went to get more cocktail napkins, making sure Richard was within earshot when I asked Hillary if she needed a refill. Her glass was still half full. I saw her eyes drift to my empty one before she shook her head.
A moment later, Richard handed me a glass of water. “Shouldn’t you call the caterers again, sweetheart?”
I looked up their number and dialed the first six digits, moving far enough away from Richard so he wouldn’t pick up on the unnatural cadence of a one-sided conversation. I nodded to him after the call and said, “They should be here any second now.” Then I put down my water.
I was on my pretend third glass of wine when the caterers arrived.
While servers began setting up a buffet, Richard motioned the head caterer into the kitchen. I followed them.
“What’s going on?” I asked before Richard could say a word. I didn’t make any effort to keep my voice down. “You guys were supposed to be here an hour ago.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Thompson.” The man looked down at his clipboard. “But we showed up when you instructed us to.”
“That can’t be. Our party started at seven-thirty. I’m sure I told you we wanted you here at seven.”
Richard was by my side, ready to unleash his complaints about the company’s error.
The head caterer wordlessly turned around his clipboard and pointed at the time—8 p.m.—then my signature on the bottom of the page.
“But . . .” Richard cleared his throat. “What happened?”
My response had to be perfectly delivered. I needed to convey both my ineffectualness, and my lack of concern about the agitation I’d caused him.
“Oh, I guess it’s my fault,” I said easily. “Well, at least they’re here now.”
“How could you—?” Richard choked back the rest of his sentence. He exhaled slowly. But the tightness in his face didn’t relax.
I felt nausea rise in my throat and knew I couldn’t sustain my performance much longer, so I hurried to the powder room. I splashed cold water on my wrists and counted my breaths until my heartbeat finally evened out.
Then I exited the bathroom and surveyed our gathered guests.