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The best word to describe it is ... light. Walking inside the showroom feels almost the same as walking into a diamond lit from within. Everything is full of light. The windows span the entire front wall. They’re tall, beautifully arched, and fill the space with abundant light. The ceilings are a high, beautifully carved plaster, with opulent crystal chandeliers throwing strands of light through the showroom. The marble floors are pure snowflake-white and reflect light off their pristine surface.
The entire effect of the windows, the chandeliers, the tall ceilings, the white walls, and the white marble floors is that when you step into the showroom, you’re in a great glittering ball of light.
It reminds me of the absence of light in my bedroom, and then the vast amount of sunlight that rained over me in Max’s bed.
The air is cool, with the brisk, clean scent you’d find at the top of a snowy mountain. Classical piano music tinkles softly through the showroom, lending an aura of sophistication and elegance. There are beautifully dressed staff waiting to help. Three women who are all so neatly tucked and ironed I can’t tell them apart. Two men in precisely ironed suits, both formal and wearing gold-rimmed glasses. There are plenty of customers, all being helped. Yet everyone speaks in quiet murmurs, with smoothly choreographed movements. It’s as if I’ve entered another world where people all speak softly, drink champagne while browsing, and no one ever has a single hair out of place.
One of the neatly tucked women sails toward me when I come in. I’m certain she’s about to politely ask me to leave, or forcibly shove me out the door, but instead she says, “Madame Barone, what has happened? You must see your husband, yes?” And then she ushers me through the showroom, past security, and toward the winding spiral stairs at the back.
As the cool marble soothes my raw feet, half a dozen people nod to me, lift a hand in greeting, or murmur a quick, sympathetic hello.
I may never have entered this building before today, but apparently, in this reality, I’m a frequent flier.
Max’s assistant—an older woman who looks like she drinks acid for breakfast and tortures biker gangs for giggles—melts as soon as I step into his outer office.
“You poor dear,” she says, thrusting Max’s black overcoat at me.
“You’re quite distraught!” she cries, pushing a cup of tea into my hands.
“What has happened?” she asks, holding out tissues.
“I’m here to see Max,” I say hesitantly, watching the closed door of his office.
“But of course!” she says.
And that is how I find myself about to come face-to-face with the man I’ve been married to for seven years.
I wonder what kind of memories he has of our time together. I wonder what sort of things we’ve done. I wonder if he’ll try to kiss me when he sees me.
I flush, then I grip the fabric of his black overcoat, pulling it tight around my dress shirt. The coat is an expensive trench that smells just like the sheets on the bed this morning—clean, with an exhilarating hint of fresh air and the subtle scent of the soap Max uses.
“Just a moment, Mrs. Barone,” Max’s assistant says. She punches numbers into the black desk phone and clamps the receiver to her ear. “Your wife is here to see you,” she says into the phone.
I watch the door, waiting for it to swing wide-open. Waiting to see what Max will do.
Her voice lowers, then she hisses something into the phone. I glance back. A red flush is slowly crawling over her cheeks.
I can hear Max’s clipped response through the door. His deep voice is brisk and impatient, and although I can’t make out his words, I gather their meaning.
He doesn’t want to see me.
I glance back at his assistant. Her nostrils flare and she looks as though she’s about to knock some heads together.
“Yourwife,” she says to another of Max’s objections.
I frown at the gleaming walnut door barring the way to his office.
Standing on the other side of his door, only feet away from him, I wonder,whyis he objecting?
Does he have a rule that his wife shouldn’t visit him at work?
Did we fight last night?
Do we dislike each other in this life? Not married and in love, but married and in hate?
Did all the photographs in the house lie? Were our smiling faces hiding the reality that our marriage is in tatters?
Is that why he doesn’t want to see me?
