Fifteen Days to Divorce novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Soup With No Salt

At Frances's house Margo brings soup and a printed statement calling Portia unwell, and Portia writes her own instead. At eleven a studio courier delivers a breach notice that would take her one point two million dollars.

Frances Doyle opened her front door in a quilted vest, with a spatula in one hand.

"You're on Channel 7," she said. "They have your green dress."

Portia stood on the porch with her shoes in her hand.

"I know."

"They're calling you the Wedding Wife. I think it's catchy."

"Frances."

"Come in. There's a pie."

There was always a pie. Frances had been Portia's wardrobe supervisor for six years and her landlady for three, and in all that time the oven had never once been empty.

Portia sat at the kitchen table and Frances put a slice in front of her.

"Nine weddings," Frances said. "Tell me you at least took home the centerpieces."

"I took nothing."

"Amateur."

Portia laughed, and it turned into something else halfway through, and Frances sat down and let her.

"Is he a good man or a bad one?" Frances asked, when it was over. "I can't tell from a television."

"I don't know," Portia said. "Tonight he told two hundred people I'm his wife for fifteen more days."

Frances took her glasses off and let them hang on their beaded chain.

"Well, that's a bad man or a very stupid one."

The doorbell rang.

Margo Preminger stood on the porch in a cream blazer with a thermos under her arm and a folder in her hand.

"Hon," she said, and she wrapped Portia up in a hug that smelled like expensive hand cream.

She had come straight from the city. Her car was at the curb with the engine still ticking.

"I brought soup," Margo said. "And a plan. Eat first."

She poured the soup into one of Frances's bowls. It was chicken and rice, and it was hot.

Frances tasted a spoonful from the pot lid and said nothing.

Margo opened the folder.

"Here's where we are. Four million people have seen that video. The studio is panicking. Malachi is sitting in his car at the end of this street, and I told him not to come in."

"He's here?" Portia asked.

"He's not coming in. Look at this."

She slid over a printed sheet. At the top it said, "Statement of Portia Branigan."

"It says you're under severe strain," Margo said. "It says you're resting and the family asks for privacy. It says you've been unwell."

Portia read it twice.

"I'm not unwell."

"Hon, it's a kindness. People forgive a breakdown. Nobody forgives a stalker."

"I wasn't stalking anyone."

"I know that." Margo put her hand over Portia's. "I know. But this is what the world needs to hear tonight."

The sheet had a print time in the corner: 4:10 p.m.

The video had gone up at four, and at ten past, Portia had still been at the wedding, eating cake.

She did not think about it long. It was a printed page from a woman who had brought her soup.

"I'm not signing it," Portia said.

"Then what do I tell them?"

Frances pushed a pen and a napkin across the table.

Portia wrote four lines. She read them out loud.

"I went to those weddings because I wanted to. Nobody asked me to leave until today. I'm fine. Thank you for caring."

Frances said, "It's got a nice rhythm."

Margo smiled. It was a very small pause, shorter than a breath.

"I'll hold it till morning," she said, and tucked the napkin into the folder. "Did Malachi say anything to you tonight?"

"He said I sold our contract to a tabloid for forty thousand dollars."

"Oh, hon." Margo closed her eyes. "That email. I should have told you first. I was trying to protect you both."

"I didn't send it."

"I know you didn't." She squeezed Portia's hand. "I know."

She kissed the top of Portia's head. She told her to sleep and to leave her phone off, and she took her thermos and left.

Frances watched the taillights down the street.

"That soup had no salt in it," she said.

"She's been up all day."

"Mm."

Frances got up and shook salt into the pot, and ate a whole bowl standing at the stove.

Portia sat very still.

At the end of the street, a dark car had its lights off.

She watched it for a while. It did not move, and nobody got out.

At eleven there was a knock at the door, hard and quick.

A courier in a studio jacket handed Frances a thick envelope. "For Portia Branigan. She has to sign for it."

Portia signed. She tore it open under the porch light.

The letter was on the studio's paper. Frances read it over her shoulder, and her lips moved on the last line.

"Notice of breach. The nine weddings violate the good-conduct clause. Forfeiture of the full settlement."

She stopped.

"One point two million dollars," Frances said. "Unless you walk the premiere carpet on his arm in two weeks and sign a public apology."

Portia looked up the street.

The dark car was gone.

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