“What?”
“I don’t know, Zoe, this guy, whatshisname?”
“Cash.” I square my shoulders.
“He seems very interested in you.”
I snatch the paper from his hand. “What are you talking about? This was my event. Of course I’m featured heavily.”
“A lot of quotes from you, that’s all. I have a feeling you were a big influence in the entire write-up. Maybe he talked to other people, but all of this about the scholarships and the schoolbooks? These are things I’ve heard you mention.”
“Well, he did talk to me. That should be fine. The story is what’s important.” I can feel my hackles rising, my chin jutting out.
“And this picture? It’s practically a seventies smoking ad. You’re all curves and seduction.”
“You can’t even see my face.”
“Exactly. Just your bare back, a glimmer of shoulder, long sexy hair, and a hint of a smile in profile.”
I can feel my mood plummeting. “It’s not like that, Henry. This is what I wanted.” I shake the paper at him. “This is a good thing. Why is it always like this with you? You’re so afraid to be happy, you automatically jump to the negative. Just be happy for me.”
“I’m happy for you. It’s a decent article, as far as newspapers these days go. Reporting isn’t what it used to be.” He shrugs. The oven timer goes off and I toss the newspaper back onto the countertop and stalk to the kitchen. I hear him snap the pages back open.
In the kitchen, I remove the lamb, prep the plates, the china clattering off marble, the silverware tinny, making as big a racket as I can. Henry hates plate clanging.
We’ll sit in the dining room with our lamb and salad and pesto orzo, prepared by Penny but served by me. I’ve complained a few times that I can’t handle being served dinner, Penny hovering like a skitzy bird over our chairs, ostensibly to see if we need anything but, to my mind, just plain old-fashioned eavesdropping. I can’t handle her light feather touches to Henry’s shoulder, and yet her eyes dart around when I speak to her, as though she’s channeling an apparition. She squints in my direction, though not so much at me. Though she is never outright rude, I need to feel comfortable dining in my own home.
I carry the plates to the dining room, where Henry has brought the paper with him. He jangles ice in a whiskey glass as he studies the print over the top of his reading glasses. I can’t help but think that he looks sexy, even when I’m exasperated with him.
“Who did you argue with today?” I set his plate in front of him, lightly scratching his neck, expecting him to do what he usually does when he’s unreasonable or childish, which is offer me an impish smile and some vague overreaching flattery, but he does none of those things.
“How many times did you meet with this man, Zoe?”
I sit carefully, in the chair to Henry’s right, concentrating on unfolding the napkin in my lap. Half of me flares up: how dare he ask, how dare he care? I’m free to talk to whomever I’d like, this is hardly the fifties.
“Three.” I spear a piece of lamb, the tender meat falls apart, a perfect doneness. Sometimes I’d like her to, just once, burn a meal. Overestimate the cooking time. It hasn’t happened yet.
“Yet, you’ve said nothing. I ask you about your daily activities. You’ve remained vague. Why?”
I tip my wineglass and swallow it all down at once, like a nervous freshman at a fraternity party. “Not purposefully. They’ve all been brief. I’m sure whatever else I did that day was more interesting.”
“Your entire day is interesting to me, Zoe. You know that. Why would you lie? Why would you cover it up?”
“I’m not covering it up, Henry. This whole conversation is ridiculous. We met three times in public places, discussed the charity, my involvement, that’s it. Enough of this.”
I stand, planning to get another glass of wine.
“Sit,” he commands in his boardroom voice, the one no one dares defy. I ease myself back down in my chair.
As you are woman, so be lovely. And obedient?
“I can’t tolerate the lying. Even by omission. If it was no big deal, then why not tell me?” He scans the paper, pointing one buffed, manicured nail to a sentence. Zoe Whittaker is personally attached to the cause of helping orphans and those left to fend for themselves, because she relates to the isolation. “You’ve been personal with this man. This is an intimate conversation.” Stab at the paper again, this time at the picture. “This is an intimate photograph.”
I see the picture through Henry’s eyes, the long curve of my spine, a sly, sexy smile, one delicately arched eyebrow, my hand floats near my ear, where I have just tucked a lock of hair. I sigh heavily. Stupid is what it is. “Henry, I will not have this conversation—”
“This man has feelings for you. If you were not aware of it, you wouldn’t have lied to me.”