"Matthew, can you slow down? Please, can't we enjoy our dinner
together tonight?"
"I'm sorry, honey. It's just that, you see, I've got more work to
do," he said, then tentatively added, "for the trip."
"What trip?"
"Tomorrow. New York. I told you I was meeting with Harrell on
Monday, didn't I?"
"No, Matthew, you did not."
"Hmm. Funny, I thought I said something. Sorry. See what I mean.
I'm so overwhelmed these days."
"Matthew, you're changing in unpleasant ways. And there's nothing
funny about it."
"I beg your pardon?"
"However selfish you were before getting rid of Peter Jones, you
were at least considerate and apologetic. Genuinely. Or so you
seemed."
"I said I was sorry about forgetting. You're upset, and you're
basing your criticism on that."
"No, Matthew. That's exactly what I'm talking about. This new way
you're behaving. You say you are meeting with 'Harrell' -
whatever happened to 'William,' your friend?"
"He's not my friend, Greta. He's a business partner."
"Oh, of course. Pardon me. And is that what we are too, Matthew?
Business partners?"
He shook his head as if to say he'd had enough. In fact, she
thought, that was what was wrong, that he'd had enough of them,
of the dead end that their marriage had turned into.
With an disgusted huff she poured herself more of the good French
wine, held the glass beneath her nose and she gazed out the
window at the reflecting pond beyond the foot of their estate.
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