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Elizabeth throws another blouse into the pile growing higher and higher in the corner of the walk-in-robe.
Everything feels too sheer or doesn't button properly or makes her coloring look sallow and ill.
Watson checks in on her. "Are you all right?"
She yanks a different blouse off a different hanger. "Nothing fits, nothing is right. I just want everything today to go exactly as I plan it."
He doesn't quite mask the look of worry on his face. "It'll be fine, Liz. You look great."
She tucks the new blouse in, hating the way her skirt makes her waist look bigger than it is. She pulls her matching blazer on and turns her back on the mirror. "They asked me to clear my whole afternoon."
"Because they're going to sign early and take you out to celebrate afterwards," he says cheerfully, disappearing from view. "Come on, breakfast is ready!"
"Make up!" she calls after him. "Give me ten minutes." She looks around at the piles of clothes she's tossed aside. Her side of the wardrobe is still startlingly bare — Watson's side is all ironed shirts and dry cleaner bags, polished shoes and drawers full of rolled ties and shiny watches.
Her side is mostly the clothes she owned before she got married. Her wedding dress hangs in a bag at the end of the rail, opposite her faded summer dresses and her dirty trainers and her creased black pumps.
Logically, she knows that the skirt and the blouse and the blazer all look fine. Aside from her wedding dress, this is the most expensive outfit she owns — everything is tailored and sleek and, on a good day, when her mind feels less against her, she loves wearing this suit.
But some new client had called two weeks ago, specifically requesting a lunch meeting on this day, requesting her afternoon be cleared so that he might receive the proper attention to his potential contract. Her secretary had made it seem like a big deal ("He's very particular!") and her nerves about it had passed on to Elizabeth. Sarah had reminded her about it at every opportunity, putting sticky notes on her desk and noting it in her careful handwriting in Elizabeth's planner. NEW CLIENT! BIG CONTRACT! KEEP AFTERNOON CLEAR!
She's spent the last few days working herself up into a frenzy of nerves.
She's on a winning streak; she's signed every single client she's met with since taking her promotion, and she doesn't want some rich, fastidious clown to be the first one she fails on.
She does her makeup and twists her hair neatly back into a tortoiseshell clip before she makes her way downstairs, where breakfast is still in full swing.
Newspapers have been dismantled and passed about, spread from one end of the table to the other. David Michael is under the table with Shannon, calling back the answers to the spelling homework Charlie is quizzing him on. Kristy is spooning out scrambled eggs and arguing with Sam about some line-up decision on a team Elizabeth can't even be sure actually exists. Emily Michelle is in her highchair, eggs in her hair and squeezed between her fingers. Nannie watches all of it from a safe distance, sipping a steaming cup of coffee.
And Watson is at the counter, cleaning up the 'meal preparation' debris in readiness for the 'meal completed' debris.
"Here she is!" he says cheerfully. Overcompensating a little, Elizabeth thinks, but she appreciates the effort. She kisses the top of Emily's head, staying out of reach of her eggy fingers, and sits between Charlie and Kristy, helping herself to the pan of scrambled eggs Kristy has left in the middle of the table, cushioned on the folded foreign news pages.
"Hey, Mom, guess what!" David Michael calls from under the table.
"What?" she asks, pouring herself a glass of juice.
"I can spell believe."
"Oh yeah?"
"B-E-L…" He trails off for a second. "I," he says. "E-V-E!"
"Good job, buddy!"
"We're all winning today," Watson says, placing a cup of coffee by her plate.
"Okay," she says, laughing a little and looking up at him. "I've calmed down. Thank you."
He grins and kisses the top of her head.
"I believe," David Michael sings, "that you're going to have a great day!" He bursts into giggles.
"The sun's barely up and you've had too much sugar," Charlie says, tipping David Michael's abandoned cereal bowl towards him so he can glimpse whatever progress his brother had made through it. "Are you gonna finish your cereal?"
"No, I'm done."
"Come on then, let's go outside and throw the ball for Shannon before school."
David Michael scrambles out and Charlie grabs him and tips him upside down so he shrieks with delight. He carries him outside, Shannon galloping after them.
Sam and Kristy's good-natured argument is still in full swing.
"Yeah, but his average —"
"It's not about averages, Sam."
"How can you say it's not about averages when averages are one of the major indicators of performance —"
"Because if you're going to make decisions on averages alone you can't —"
"Bacon?" Watson asks, placing a gentle hand on Elizabeth's shoulder.
"No, no bacon." She shovels up a forkful of eggs. She's not hungry. She eyes both the glass of juice and the mug of coffee and wonders which one will do better in her roiling stomach.
"Mom, eat your breakfast," Kristy says sternly.
Elizabeth forces herself to eat half a plate of eggs. The entire time, she's running through how she can showcase to her potential client that her firm is the best firm to sign with, she's the best potential manager he's ever going to meet, she'll put his needs first every time. She keeps thinking about her secretary speaking with such awe and excitement every time she laid Elizabeth's schedule out for her, the appointment drawing closer and closer, the words NEW CLIENT! BIG CONTRACT! KEEP AFTERNOON CLEAR! underlined in her planner.
Ten minutes before the kids are due to catch the bus, her nerves reach fever pitch. She pushes her seat back. "I'm going to get an early start," she says. "Does anyone want a ride to school?"
"Mom, relax," Sam says, halfway through his second (or third) plate of eggs. "Today is going to be fine."
"Totally fine," Kristy adds.
"Thanks, kids," she says. She kisses the top of Kristy's head and runs her hand over Sam's curls as she passes him. "I'll try not to be home too late."
Emily Michelle laughs and cries a cheerful "Bye-bye!" when Elizabeth kisses her egg-covered cheek.
Watson takes her hand and kisses her palm. "It's going to be fine," he says. "Please don't worry."
She laughs it off. "Worrying is in my nature." She waves through the back door to Charlie and David Michael.
"Have a good day!" Charlie calls.
"You too!"
"Bye, Mom! Have a believable day! And an unbelievable day!"
"I will! Good luck on your spelling test, superstar!"
Watson follows her do the door. He looks worried. "You're not completely out of your mind because of this appointment this afternoon, are you?"
"No, of course not," she says, fishing in the bottom of her purse to make sure her keys are there.
"It feels like you might be."
"I'm just glad it's Friday," she promises him. "It's been a long week."
This seems to relieve him a little. "All right," he says. He kisses her goodbye. "We'll make sure to spend this weekend relaxing, will we?"
"If we have time," she says with a laugh. "See you later! Love you!"
"Love you," he echoes back. He watches her leave.
Elizabeth has just finished furiously stuffing her laddered pantyhose into her wastepaper basket when Sarah buzzes the intercom. "Your one o'clock is here!" she chirps.
"Thank you, Sarah, please see him in." She stands nervously, smoothing out her blazer, trying to ignore the gnawing feeling in her stomach. You can do this.
Her door is swung open, and Watson stands in front of her with a wide smile on his face. "Surprise!" he says.
She stares at him, feeling off balance. "What are you doing here?" she asks, even as her stomach sinks, even as her brain starts to catch up with what has happened. She glances behind him, but the reception area is empty. She can't even see Sarah.
"Okay, I will fully admit this backfired a little," Watson says, coming into her office and closing the door. "I think Sarah oversold the sense of importance a little. I didn't mean to make you so nervous."
The door is closed but she's still standing there like someone else is about to come in — the big client, the important meeting, the incredible contract. She'd cleared her afternoon.
"It's you?" she asks.
"It's a belated anniversary weekend," he says. "We never got to celebrate the first one properly, what with Emily's adoption, and getting Nannie in — we've just been so busy, honey. I wanted to be able to take this weekend and make it special."
He seems to sense the exact words she's about to fire at him, because he starts tripping over himself to apologize before she can say them. "I didn't mean to make it look like your time isn't valuable," he says, holding one hand out like you would if you were trying to placate a wild horse. "Of course it is. But we've tried to book weekends away before, and something always comes up. Something else always takes priority. I thought if I could borrow you like this, today, it would… We could make it work."
"Watson…" She's breathless, but it doesn't feel like the dizzying, heartfelt effect he had been aiming for. She's furious, and she's hurt.
"I definitely oversold the client angle," he says, nodding. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Even Kristy, this morning, said I was going to have to apologize for it because she could see how worried you were. Very quick to tell me I'd absolutely put my foot in it."
She wants to argue with him, but he's stolen all the arguments she wanted to throw at him before she could even voice them. How dare you use my professional time like this; how dare you cause me such stress and worry; how dare you, how dare you…
But she looks at him, and he looks so sorry and so worried, a traitorous little voice at the back of her head speaks up in his favor: He only wanted to do something nice for you.
She feels herself deflating like a balloon.
"I'm sorry," he says again.
"No," she says. She feels tearful and she swallows past the lump in her throat. "I'm sorry too. Why can't I just enjoy this sweet thing you did?" She shakes her head and presses her palms over her eyes, feeling her mascara smear onto her skin. "Why can't I just let it be romantic? Why do I have to get like this?" She drops her hands and gestures at her own head, like he can see her mind and the lights and sirens signaling her frustration.
"I should have just told you the truth."
She shakes her head. "I would have made excuses." She stares down at her feet, thinking through the scenario — Watson asking her to take a half day, to extend her weekend, to just relax. And the anxiety that it builds in her, just at the thought of it. "I think there's something wrong with me," she says.
"There's nothing wrong with you, honey," he says gently. "Remember who you're talking to, here."
She looks up at him. "You're not — you've cut back. A lot."
"Well, Lisa and I got divorced for a lot of reasons," he says. "And all of them were the right reasons. But a big one was me being at work too much. And I'm trying very hard here to make sure you don't ever have that same problem with me."
"I know," she says miserably.
He reaches for her, and she takes his hand. "It's hard."
"I know." She leans against his shoulder.
"I feel like sometimes you're going in the other direction," he admits. "Since we got married, you only seem to be working harder. It's not how I thought things would be."
She feels the ice chill of real fear pass down her spine. Is this the moment where he tells her she's no longer what he wants; that she's changed too much; that they're too unsuited? This isn't the life I want rings in her ears like she'd only heard it yesterday.
"I guess I thought by now you'd be used to the money," Watson says.
She leans away from him — not angrily, not hastily, just… away. "I can't get used to the money," she says. "I can't have you standing there telling me it's not a big deal, Watson. I know it shouldn't matter, but it does."
"I'm not trying to say it isn't a big deal," he says patiently. "But I thought you might have relaxed a little. You don't have to work this hard, Elizabeth. Trying to organize this anniversary has been difficult only because of the minefield of your work schedule."
She feels her temper flare again. She tries to keep her cool; tries to keep her voice level and quiet. She doesn't know if Sarah is listening on the other side of the door. "My job is really important to me, Watson," she says.
"I know."
"I dropped out of college when I got pregnant with Charlie. I was a stay-at-home mom for ten years after that. I mean, when the kids were little, and I started thinking about my own life again — maybe college again, or a job — I got pregnant with David Michael. And I wouldn't trade my kids for anything. I wouldn't take back one single decision I made. But now I'm finally…" Her throat closes up.
"Liz…"
"I mean, we've talked about this," she reminds him, hating herself for getting tearful. Crying seems to make all of this less about her point and more about her emotions. "When we first met, I told you I didn't want to date anyone. Because I wanted to work. Because I was still trying to climb the ladder, and I'd only gotten my foot in the door in the first place because of a favor, and a friend of a friend of a friend, and everyone hated me for coming in like that because they didn't think I'd come in 'the right way'." She makes finger quotes. "And I was so, so broke, and the kids were all devastated by everything that had happened, and I was trying to keep everything together, and I was just… I was so messed up."
"I know." He gives her a small smile. "And now here you are! You have your own office and your own secretary, and your own giant book of clients, and they'd all be totally lost without you."
Her traitorous mind thinks for a minute he's being sarcastic — because Patrick would have said all of that, too, but he wouldn't have meant it sincerely.
Watson, of course, has been nothing but sincere since she met him.
"Fuck!" she says, holding her hands over her eyes again, shutting out the world and trying to smother the dumb little voice in her head. "Why is this all so hard?"
"What is it, exactly?" he asks. "Is it what other people think?"
"A little bit," she admits, dropping her hands to look at him. "And I hate that it is, I hate that. I'm forever telling my kids not to care about what other people think, so long as they're happy and so long as they're doing what they feel is right. And I'm — how am I so bad at taking my own advice?"
"I'm bad at that too," Watson says. "Another reason Lisa and I got divorced."
She laughs. "I just… There's always this voice at the back of my head, you know? Like I'm — like I've worked so hard for so long now and I've put everyone and everything before myself, because I had to, and now if I stop or I slow down, or I let myself be selfish for one second, everything is going to collapse."
"It won't," he says.
"I know." She gazes at him, unsure how to make him see. Because she doesn't know, not really. She never saw the collapse of her life coming the first time it happened. The problem with knowing what it's like to be blindsided is knowing you can't predict it.
"Listen," he says suddenly, "even if the worst were to happen, and I had a secret personality transplant and I left you — for reasons unimaginable — and I disappeared off the face of the planet tomorrow, your kids would not let you despair for long."
She blinks back another wave of tears. "I know."
"I really think Charlie would turn into that Terminator fellow and hunt me down."
She snorts a laugh at the combination of words Terminator fellow.
"Sam and Kristy too," Watson adds. "And David Michael might be kinder about it, but he'd still side with them. With you. They'd all look after you." He puts his hand up to stop her next sentence. "Of course they shouldn't have to," he says. "But sweetheart, for as long as you have your doubts, I'll have to speak my reassurance. That's the trade off."
She nods, a lump in her throat. "Okay," she says.
"Okay." He looks at her worriedly. "I really am sorry about this whole thing," he says. "I should know better by now. I think there's some stupid part of me that thinks I can sweep you off your feet and you'll let yourself just get carried away. I'm not sure why I think one day you’ll actually change your mind and enjoy one of my surprises."
"No," she says with a small smile. "I've never been very good at letting myself get carried away."
"And despite my love of surprises, and your hatred of them, we’ll survive," he says. He reaches for her hand and she lets him pull her close. He kisses her cheek. "I'm sorry I made today so stressful for you."
"I'm sorry I ruined your romantic surprise." She leans her head on his shoulder again. "I wish I could just let myself enjoy things sometimes."
"Do you think perhaps we should see somebody about this?" he asks. "We seem to have this conversation over and over, Liz. And it never seems to really resolve."
Her heart flips in her chest. "See someone? Like a marriage therapist?"
"It might be a good idea to get some outside perspective. Some balance." He rubs a hand over her back.
She's tired and heartsore. "I think you're right. I think it's a good idea if we see someone."
"Not a sign of defeat," he reminds her.
"No, I know."
"Just help when we need it. And I know you hate accepting help, but I think we've exhausted our own capacities with this."
She nods. She does hate accepting help. Richard Spier is the only person she doesn't have guilt assigned to, and that's only because over the years they hit a pretty even trade-off.
Watson's hand travels up and down her back, running in one long, slow circle. "So even if I messed up the execution, will you take this afternoon off with me? It's a beautiful day outside and I have big plans to spoil you."
She smiles into the dark charcoal of his suit jacket. "Big plans?"
"I'll tell you absolutely everything, if you want me to," he says earnestly. "Given that the surprise angle appears not to have worked out."
"There's no surprise party or anything with a huge crowd of people, is there?"
"Absolutely not."
"Okay then." She kisses his cheek. "I'll allow myself to be surprised by the rest of it."
"Ah!" he says in delight. "Deal struck. I told you it would all be arranged by lunch time."
She laughs, and he smiles and kisses her. "Okay?" he asks.
She nods. "I'm okay."
He cups her face in his hand and kisses her again, and she lets the wave of relief wash over her — tucks the fearful little voice away with a promise the conversation is going to be revisited, and lets blessed silence sweep in.
Silence which threatens to break when Watson pushes her against her office door, suddenly kissing her with an urgency that makes her heart thunder in her chest, his hands dragging her expensive tailored skirt up to her hips. This is an apology, and she feels herself surging back at him, wanting to make up for the mess she'd made of his romantic gesture.
But it's one o'clock on a Friday afternoon, and they're in her office and surrounded by fluorescent lights and the sounds of fax machines and telephones.
"We can't do this here," she gasps, even as she's lifting herself against him, trying to get her legs around his waist. She thinks of Sarah sitting just a few feet away at her desk on the other side of the wall.
Watson makes a noise against her throat, his mouth grazing over the pulse jumping below her skin.
Her stupid tailored skirt is too tight around her thighs and her hips, and she's stupidly chosen a blouse with no buttons, which means she can't open it at the front to let Watson's mouth and tongue go where she wants him to go. The only benefit she can see in this entire outfit at this point is the fact she laddered her pantyhose twenty minutes ago and frantically took them off at her desk in a panic.
Watson sinks to his knees.
"No, no, wait," she gasps, the door rattling traitorously as her weight shifts against it. She stifles her next noise as best as she can, which is not at all a noise of protest. She arches her head back, the clip in her hair digging into the back of her head, Watson's fingers slowly sliding up inside her and curling just so, making her thighs tremble and shake.
She can hear the wet sounds of his mouth against her, and the door will not stop rattling when she moves, and she can keep her voice tamped down but her breath is ragged and loud, each gasp tinged with a slight note. She can feel heat expanding out and away from his touch, flooding through to her fingers and toes, her blood hot under her skin. She's up on her toes, her head thrown back and one hand twined into his hair, the other reaching out to the filing cabinet beside the door, trying to lift herself higher; trying to brace herself so she can open herself wider to him.
Watson's hands are both between her legs, and he cups one hand against her thigh and steers it up over his shoulder, bracing her weight.
Elizabeth sobs a noise and bites down on her lip. The pressure of Watson's fingers replaces the lighter touch of his tongue, and he's looking up at her when she comes, her back arching and her breath raw and loud in her throat.
"God," she gasps, shivering. "Oh my god, oh my god."
Watson lifts himself on his knees to meet her for a kiss. She bends over him, cups his face in her hands and kisses him deeply, her lungs aching, her legs still trembling.
They pull themselves together slowly, straightening their clothing. Elizabeth half wonders if maybe he's going to bend her over her desk, but he doesn't appear to be in any hurry for his own ends.
"I can't walk out there," she whispers, gesturing at the door between her office and the reception area where Sarah sits. Her face feels red hot. "She'll have heard all of that."
"She's gone to lunch," Watson says. "When you have a big important client come and visit, they can set the rules and send your secretary off on an early lunch hour." He kisses her with a smile. "But I agree we should go and find somewhere more private."
It's not a terribly long drive into the city, but it's long enough for Elizabeth to worry and think up a number of questions — all of which Watson has calm and reasonable answers to:
Yes, the kids all know they'll both be away this weekend — why did you think David Michael was so excited this morning? Not because of his spelling. Because he had a secret, and he was about to spill the beans until Charlie took him outside.
Yes, I've brought your clothes. Nannie packed your bag for you. There are numerous outfits. Shoes too. And make up, yes. Toothbrush, yes. The book on your nightstand too.
Sarah only knew about the fake client excuse, she's had nothing to do with any of the rest of it and quite frankly it's none of her business, no matter how excited she was about the ruse this afternoon.
We have two nights booked in the hotel but we can head home tomorrow if you don't like it or if you're worried about something at home. I just want you to relax.
And she tries. She tries so hard to relax. She tries all the way into the city, and through the lobby of the hotel where other people open doors for them and take their bags for them and trip over themselves to make sure they don't have to lift a finger. She tries to relax in the elevator as it climbs to an impossible height and opens in a private foyer outside a door labelled Presidential Suite.
She tries so hard to enjoy this big, sweeping gesture of love and romance, because she wants so desperately to disconnect the part of her brain which always seems to be waiting for her life to fall apart again.
She feels newly devastated every time she realizes her trust in anyone but herself appears irretrievably broken.
She looks around the room — the big, empty space, the huge expanse of plush white carpet. She thinks her entire house on Bradford Court could fit in this one room easily.
Just enjoy it, her brain says, exasperated.
She crosses to the sofa which is pointed at one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. They are so high — there are no windows she can see that are above theirs. The sun is slanting between the buildings and everything is golden and hazy in late afternoon light. She sinks into the sofa and toes her shoes off.
Watson comes up behind her. She feels his weight on the sofa as he leans his hands along the back of it. "Do you like the view?"
She looks up at him and takes his tie in her hand so that she can pull him down to kiss her. "I'd be happy anywhere with you."
He smiles with delight. "Is there anything special you'd like to do? We can go out to dinner, or window shopping, or actual shopping. Or we can stay here." He gives in to the pressure she's putting on his tie again and kisses her mouth.
She feels drained. The day suddenly feels very long — breakfast seems forever ago; the underlined words in her planner seem forever ago; her tearful argument with Watson seems forever ago and yet still so heavy on her heart. "I'm exhausted," she admits.
"Staying in, then," he says. He gently unclasps the tortoiseshell clip holding her hair back. "The day is still young," he says. "Plenty of time to fit in a nap before dinner."
Elizabeth almost groans aloud. "Don't tease me."
He laughs. "Why not? We've no schedule to keep. I just want you to enjoy yourself and relax. Getting a few hours sleep will probably help with that." He kisses the tip of her nose. "I could even give you a massage."
"Now you're really laying it on thick," she says, turning and clambering up on her knees so she can reach for him properly, her arms around his shoulders. He kisses her, and leans his weight down on her, his head tucked against her shoulder.
"Just a nap, then," he says. "I think I could use one as well."
They strip, and climb into bed together, leaving their expensive clothes crumpled on the floor, the golden squares of sunlight shining in through the windows. Elizabeth can only hear the gentle rumble of the air conditioning — the world outside cannot intrude here.
The sheets are crisp and cool and clean. The bed is enormous, but they gravitate to one another, hands clasped between them, facing one another on pillows piled close together.
She thinks back to Watson pinning her against her office door, and she wonders suddenly if he was joking about the whole sleeping thing — surely the point of a dirty weekend away is to fuck as much as possible.
But even as she's preparing to ask him if he wants something, as she's reaching for him, he's kissing her knuckles and whispering for her to close her eyes, sweet dreams, we have all the time in the world, sweetheart.
She sleeps, and then she wakes, and then she dozes a little. The sun has moved lower in the sky, lights are coming on across the skyline. The corners of their enormous room are dim and shadowy.
Watson is on his side and she's spooned up against his back. When she takes his hand he squeezes her fingers gently.
"Did you sleep?" she asks, pressing a kiss between his shoulder blades.
"You didn't hear me snoring?"
She laughs. "No, I must have been out of it."
"Indeed you must have been. I woke myself up."
She laughs again and moves back a little so he can roll over. He lifts his arm and she curls into his side, her head on his chest.
"Relaxed yet?" he asks. His fingers trace lazy patterns up and down her arm.
Elizabeth nods. "I'm sorry, Watson. I don't know why I find all of this so hard."
"Don't apologize," he says gently. "I know exactly who you are, Liz. And I love you. Everything about you. I'm just not perfect when it comes to completely understanding it sometimes."
"You're close enough to perfect," she says.
He laughs. "I keep making mistakes I should know not to make by now. I don't know why I keep pushing the same button, expecting a different outcome."
"Maybe it's for the same reason I keep expecting every outcome to be the same as what I've already had," Elizabeth says. "I keep bracing myself for a hit I know is never going to come."
Watson's arm curls around her shoulder. "We knew we'd have to work at this," he reminds her. "We're coming together from a lot of big differences."
She nods. It's an old conversation; worn out ground between them. Neither of them seems able to find sure footing, but she knows it's only a matter of time. Counselling might help, but her biggest relief is Watson's willingness to tread that same ground again and again. To share the conversation with her — it's not accusatory or inflammatory. More puzzled, and curious, like they're trying to solve a mystery they will laugh about later.
The clues were right there all along.
She'll let herself get swept away for a weekend. But she doesn't really think there is such a thing as fairy-tale romance. And if there was, she wouldn't allow herself to enjoy it. Her brain is simply not wired that way.
But this — a partnership, with two people who are imperfect, but willing to listen to one another, and learn, and grow — this is something she can believe in.