Page 31 of Executive Decision
11JUST TEXTING
Daphne
Millions gatheredto watch me cry on command the day my marriage ended. They settled before TVs and live streams for a voyeuristic view of a great loss. That didn’t include the thousands lining the street to catch a glimpse of the cars carrying us or the media speculation about how we would “move on” as a family. As if my day would not be emotionally difficult or painful enough, I suffered through indignities I couldn’t foresee—all to save face politically across an ocean.
“Daphne! I need to come in!”
I stared at my watch, then the door—one more minute.
“Just a minute. I’m using the loo!” I shouted.
Chandler paced outside.
A phone buzzed next to me. Chandler left his phone on the vanity, so I assumed that was why he was panicked. I picked it up, about to say I had found his phone for the third time that day when I spied a message.
Natasha
Is it over yet?
Natasha. The name didn’t ring a bell. I assumed it was a coworker. I knew he wasn’t keen on a public funeral—neither was I—but I resented the fact that he was complaining about it to his coworkers.
20 seconds.
Another message appeared. A picture flashed before I could even set the phone down. An image of a woman standing in a bathroom—a bathroom I knew—in a lacy bra flashed across the screen. That was the home of a friend. And while I couldn’t see her face, I recognized those breasts. It was over already.
I checked my watch again. It was time. My hands shook for more reasons than before. I lifted the pregnancy test—hostile as ever with only one line. I expected to cry but felt relief. If I were pregnant, I’d have to figure it out. Now, I had options.
I washed my hands, tossed the test, and left, throwing his phone onto my childhood bed. Chandler adjusted his cufflinks, annoyed. I controlled my emotions, not letting him see what I knew.
“There you are,” Chandler picked it up. “And?”
“I’m not pregnant,” I answered.
He let out a long groan and paced. “Darling, what will we do? Nothing is working.”
Unable to help myself, I piled on. “I think it’s kismet, Chandler.”
“Kismet? Are you mad!?”
“Chandler, I am done. This is a sign from wherever—God, the universe, a goat floating around in space—that we’ve reached the end of the road.”
“How can you say that? We must have children! One cannot be PM without children in this day and age. My star will rise, Daphne, and we have a leadership contest looming?—”
“I know,” I laughed. “I know. Sucks to be you.”
I didn’t know why I laughed. It was to keep from crying more tears and to distract from the brutal pain I felt. I should have been able to cry my tears of sorrow for my father’s death. CNN said, “The world is in mourning.” So why couldn’t I? It was because, on top of those genuine feelings, I now knew my marriage was dead.
“Have you gone mad, Daph?”
“No,” I answered. “I see now. You. This. It’s all a damn lie.”
“What do you think you see, Daphne?”
“Check your phone.” I gestured.
He looked at it, then looked at me, then looked at it. “Did you…”
“That’s Natasha. Paul’s daughter?”
