Another:
The fitting session changed everything.
Fitting?
Photographed?
I scrolled farther.
No details.
The page required a consultation request before providing the address.
I did something ridiculous.
I booked one.
I used my full name.
Claire Bennett.
I had kept my surname when Adrian and I married.
If he reviewed bookings personally, he would see me immediately.
Apparently he didn’t.
Ten minutes later, I received confirmation.
Wednesday, 10:00 a.m.
Cedarbrook District.
Suite 408.
The next morning, I called in late to work.
The building was not what I expected.
No hospital signs.
No medical center.
Just an old renovated brick building in Cedarbrook District with offices upstairs and a bakery downstairs.
The fourth floor smelled faintly of coffee and fresh paint.
A small brass plaque beside suite 408 read:
Second Beginning Studio.
I opened the door.
A receptionist looked up.
“Claire Bennett?”
“Yes.”
“You’re early. Adrian is finishing with someone. You can wait or I can show you into the consultation room.”
“Consultation room.”
She smiled.
“Of course.”
I followed her down a hallway.
Then she opened the wrong door.
At least I assumed it was wrong.
Because the room beyond looked nothing like an office.
There were racks of women’s clothing.
Dresses.
Blazers.
Skirts.
Trousers.
Shoes arranged by size.
Three wigs sat on stands near a mirror.
A professional camera stood on a tripod.
A makeup station occupied one wall.
There were fabric swatches.
A sewing machine.
And on the floor beside a chair was a measuring tape.
I stopped.
The receptionist frowned.
“Oh, sorry. This is the fitting room.”
My pulse accelerated.
“Fitting for what?”
She seemed confused.
“For clients.”
Before I could ask more, a door opened at the far end.
Adrian stepped out.
He was carrying a garment bag.
He saw me.
Stopped.
Everything left his face.
“Claire?”
The receptionist looked between us.
“You know each other?”
I almost laughed.
Adrian said quietly:
“She’s my wife.”
The receptionist’s eyes widened.
“I’ll… be at the front desk.”
She disappeared.
I folded my arms.
Adrian set down the garment bag.
“What are you doing here?”
“That is an interesting question considering I booked an appointment.”
“You booked?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to know where my husband disappears to.”
His expression changed.
“Claire.”
I pointed around the room.
“Start explaining.”
He closed the door.
“I can.”
“Good.”
I pointed at the wigs.
“Those.”
“Some clients have experienced medical hair loss.”
The answer came so simply that I felt foolish for one second.
Then I pointed at the camera.
“Professional headshots.”
“The clothes?”
“Interview wardrobe.”
“The measuring tape?”
“For tailoring.”
I stared at him.
“Why do women online write about you like they’re hiding an affair?”
His mouth tightened.
“They’re hiding appointments.”
“From husbands?”
“Sometimes.”
“Why?”
“Because some husbands think returning to work is unnecessary.”
I said nothing.
He continued.
“Some families think a fifty-eight-year-old woman who stayed home for thirty years should remain home.”
“Some women are leaving controlling marriages.”
“Some are cancer survivors trying to return after treatment.”
“Some spent fifteen years caring for parents.”
“Some raised children and suddenly discover nobody counts that as experience.”
His voice had changed.
He was no longer defensive.
He sounded like the Adrian I first fell in love with.
Passionate.
Certain.
I hated that I had apparently missed three years of this version of him.
