“You promised everything we discussed was confidential.”
I lifted the folder slightly.
“It took me almost three months to put together. Though in truth, you wrote most of it yourself, Graham. I just kept the receipts.”
Graham took an involuntary step toward me. “Eleanor.”
I placed the folder on the table in front of me.
“For thirteen years, you’ve texted me about our guests. Before every dinner. During every party. After every toast. Little notes mocking them, complaining about them, telling me whom to flatter, whom to tolerate, whom to use. You never hid it from me, Graham. You shared it with me, the way husbands share a private joke with a wife. I kept a folder on my phone. I called it ‘Us.’ I saved every message. And while we were planning tonight, you wrote dozens more. You sent one ten minutes ago.”
“I kept a folder on my phone. I called it ‘Us.’ I saved every message.”
“Seriously?” Graham asked.
I opened the folder. Inside were stacks of neatly laminated cards.
Graham exhaled. “What is this supposed to be?”
“Your words. To me. One quote for every guest you ever had something to say about.”
I picked up the first stack and handed it to the nearest waiter. “Would you help me? Not every plate, just the ones with names matching the cards.”
I handed another stack to a waitress standing nearby.
