My Husband Forced Me to Serve His Mistress at Dinner

Estrella didn't fight like a wife. She fought like a guest.

On Saturday, Camille Winthrop came for tea. Not for me. For Julien. Word was out that he was back, and Camille never missed a homecoming.

I came downstairs at 3:55 to say hello. Then I saw the coffee table.

My brochures were spread across the glass. *Bradley Funeral Services. Pre-Need Planning. Grief Support.* Under them, fanned out like playing cards, sat two supply catalogs. Cavity fluid. Trocars. Restorative wax. The spines were bent. The pages were open.

I kept those catalogs in the bottom drawer of my desk. In my study.

The doorbell rang.

Estrella floated in from the kitchen in lilac cashmere. "Oh," she said softly. "I was tidying. I didn't know where those went."

Camille swept in, all pearls and perfume. Her eyes landed on the table and stayed there. She picked up a catalog with two fingers, like it was wet.

"Restorative wax," she read aloud. "Diana. How very hands-on."

Estrella touched her handkerchief to her cheek. "Please don't tease her, Camille. It's honest work. Somebody has to do it."

From the doorway, Julien laughed. Too loud. Too fast.

I took the catalog from Camille's fingers. I gathered the others. I squared the corners against my palm.

"Most people meet me eventually," I said.

Camille's smile thinned. Nobody laughed after that.

I went back to my study and opened a blank page in my notebook. I wrote it the way I write intake notes.

*Item one. Subject entered private room without permission. Timing: four minutes before guest arrival. Audience selected with care.*

* * *

Monday night, I was in the laundry room steaming my white silk blouse. I had a meeting with a hospice director in the morning.

Estrella appeared in the doorway with a glass of red wine. She never drank red. She said it gave her headaches.

"Diana, can I talk to you? Woman to woman?"

She stepped closer. Her heel caught on nothing at all. The glass tipped. Cabernet splashed across the silk like a gunshot wound.

"Oh my God." Her hand flew to her mouth. "I'm so clumsy. I'm such a burden."

Her right index finger tapped the stem of the glass. Fast. Fast. Fast.

I ran cold water. I pressed salt into the stain. I didn't look at her.

"Red comes out," I said. "If you don't panic."

She waited for more. I gave her nothing. After a while, she left.

*Item two. Staged accident. Prop brought in from another room. Subject waited for a reaction. Did not receive one.*

* * *

Tuesday dinner. Julien insisted we eat together. "Like a family," he said.

Estrella came down late. Her eyes were swollen and pink. Her lip trembled. She sat down, then stood up again, like she didn't know if she was allowed to sit.

"I have to say something." Her voice broke in the right place. "I ruined Diana's blouse. By accident. And she hasn't said one word to me since. I just... I can't do anything right in this house."

Then came the tears. Real ones this time. Or close enough.

Julien was out of his chair in a second. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders. She folded into him like she was made for it.

He glared at me over her head. "Was that necessary? She apologized."

I cut my chicken. Small, even pieces.

I remembered a different dinner, years ago. Our first apartment. Julien kissed my forehead and said, "I'll always be home by six. You'll never eat alone."

I ate alone for five years.

"Diana. I'm talking to you."

I looked at Estrella's face. The swelling sat on the outer lids. Not under the eyes. Friction, not crying. Her lashes were dry at the roots. I see faces up close every day. The dead don't lie to me. The living try.

I said nothing. I finished my plate, rinsed it, and went upstairs.

*Item three. Swelling consistent with rubbing. Target audience: husband. Result: successful.*

I closed the notebook. Three entries in four days. She was in a hurry.

People only hurry when something is about to go wrong.

* * *

At 11:40, my private line rang. Only a few people had that number. This wasn't one of them.

"Mrs. Griffin. This is Dr. Marcus Bennett." His voice was dry and careful. "I'm Eleanor's physician. We met once, at Lenox Hill. Five years ago. You won't remember."

I did remember. He was the only person who asked where my husband was.

"How did you get this number?"

"I've had it a long time. I hoped I'd never use it." Paper rustled on his end. "Eleanor's bloodwork is wrong. Her heart rate, her pressure, her fluid levels. They look like a woman who stopped taking her medication. She swears she hasn't missed a dose."

"Then audit the pills."

"I tried. The estate lawyers blocked it. Twice. They say I'm overstepping." He paused. "She named you in her directive. And I don't trust anyone else in that house."

I sat very still on the edge of my bed.

"When did her numbers change?" I asked.

"About six weeks ago. Around the time her household changed."

"Who handles her pills now?"

"I was told that's no longer my concern."

"Do you still have the original prescriptions? And her lab samples?"

"Every one."

"Keep them," I said. "Every record. Every vial. Make copies. Store them somewhere the Griffins don't own."

He was quiet. Then he said, "You think something is—"

"I think you should keep every record, Doctor."

Another pause. Longer. I heard him breathe out, slow, like a man setting down something heavy.

"Understood," he said.

The line went dead.

Down the hall, a door opened an inch. Soft footsteps. Then the faint rattle of something small and hard, shaken in a plastic bottle.

I turned off my lamp. I opened my notebook in the dark.

I didn't write anything. I didn't need to.