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Perla’s voice dropped to a murmur. “Do you know what it feels like to sit and watch the man who is supposed to love you act like you’re an afterthought? To feel like no matter what you do, you’ll never be enough? Like every other woman in the room is more interesting, more worthy of attention, more desirable?”
Because she didn’t know the circumstances of our marriage, she was forgiven for thinking that Elysa loved me.
We didn’t love each other.
Perla now downed her wine and set her empty glass on the table. A server would soon be rushing over to refill it for her.
“I used to think I wasn’t good enough forhim,” she continued, her gaze distant now, and I doubted she was even talking to me. “That if I were thinner, prettier, wittier, more…something, then maybe he’d look at me the way he looks atthem. But it’s not about me. It’s abouthim. Men like you”—she gestured vaguely at me—“you think love is something that waits around for you, no matter how little you nurture it. But love doesn’t work like that. Not forever.”
“Signora, I think?—”
“My husband doesn’t love me anymore,” she muttered bitterly.
Right then, her husband laughed loudly, his face too close to the woman who was ignoring Perla’s presence.
A server, as expected, refilled Perla’s glass.
“Maybe he never did,” Perla said after a short silence.
“Did what?” I asked, startled.
“Never loved me.” She looked at me with pity. “You don’t love your wife either, do you?”
I was about to say something to change the topic when her question caught me off guard. Did I not love Elysa? No, I didn’t. Right? But the words felt bitter inside my mouth. I cared for her. A lot. I knew that much.
Perla drank some more. “Your wife adores you.”
“Signora—” I tried again, and she cut me off again.
“She changed the seating cards,” she added as if she were thrilled that Elysa had done that, though Icouldn’t imagine her doing something so petty. That wasn’t like her. Or was it?
Thankfully, Cristina Carrera stepped on the stage then. She smiled warmly as she tapped the microphone, and the chatter of the room quieted. I had a lot of respect for Cristina. She was a force of nature. In her sixties, she was as regal as a queen, and today was no exception. She stood tall in a floor-length, sapphire-colored gown that complemented her silver hair.
“Buonasera,” Cristina began, and the murmurs across the ballroom quieted. “First, I want to thank all of you for being here tonight to support this cause. Your generosity will directly impact the lives of women and children who need it most.”
She spoke in Italian, and my gaze drifted to Elysa, wondering how much she understood. The way she nodded her head and smiled told me nothing—she could be faking it, ormaybeshe did understand. And that took me back to Patrizia and the fat cow remark.
Cristina thanked a lot of people, naming names, and everyone applauded each time.
“And now,” she continued, “I have a very special woman to thank who made this evening and so many others possible.”
Everyone waited to hear who that special woman was. My phone buzzed, and I glanced at it. It had a message from Lucia: “I am so bored. I wish I were sitting with you.”
I set the phone face down on the table.
"I want to ask you all what you think of the wine?" Cristina raised her glass.
The room responded with murmurs of approval, a few heads nodding in agreement, before someone called out, "È eccellente!"
Another chimed in, “Perfetto, Cristina! Davvero un’ottima scelta!"
Cristina smiled, clearly pleased. “We have one woman to thank for the menu tonight and the event. She helped plan it and has been helping me ever since I met her a year ago. She has fundraised. She has catered some of our events for free. She has helped raise nearly a hundred thousand euros for the women’s shelter.”
I saw Elysa stiffen. She clasped her napkin tightly. I didn’t know what had upset her, but something had. I put a hand on her fist, and she looked at me uneasily and gave me a pathetic smile.
“All okay?” I asked.
She shook her head.