Except Gina called him to say she couldn’t make it. Calan wasn’t doing well. She’d promised to cook him his favorite meal (spaghetti and meatballs) and watch his favorite movie (Batman, the Tim Burton version). Bobby begged her to reconsider. He remembered using that verb, too—beg. As in: I’m begging you, we need this night. But she’d been adamant. I want to work on our marriage, too, but our son comes first. Besides, tomorrow is a school night. It was a Wednesday.
Bobby had been crying when Zofia came in to remind him that he had to get going or he’d be late for dinner. She always did that: knock softly on his door to offer reminders. She seldom used the phone—she was old-school like that. Bobby admired Zofia. She had an impeccable work ethic: in six years, she’d never taken a single day off. She was also odd—in a good way. She spoke in an accentless English that was not quite British but decisively not American—which made no sense since she was born and raised in Florida. She didn’t socialize with anyone from the office. She had two cats, Margot and Punch (their pictures were the only personal items on her desk) whom she referred to as Baby One and Baby Two. She was quiet—the quietest person he’d ever met. Gentle, kind.
She was also in love with him. This he only found out after.
That night, he asked her out to dinner as friends. To celebrate the company’s success. It was highly unusual: the CEO taking his assistant out to dinner, one-on-one. But the reservation was already made. They had a good—no, great—reason to celebrate. And Bobby needed a night out. It was just a work dinner. If Zofia had been a man, he wouldn’t have thought twice about how it would look. And so Bobby convinced himself that it would be sexist not to go.
She had been thrilled with the invitation. This, too, buoyed his ego. It had been ages since he had impressed Gina. It was something he’d always loved about his wife: she was unimpressed by material things. But sometimes it felt nice to be around someone who got excited about what influence and money could buy.
They did not kiss that night. Or the following week, when he told Gina he was working late. They hadn’t gone out to dinner again. Instead, they sent out for takeout from The Lobster Club and ate at the office. The setting had made Bobby feel slightly less guilty—it was a work meeting, just not a staff meeting.
It became their ritual. Every Wednesday, they’d order from a different restaurant. Bobby made it his mission to help Zofia develop a palate—it was with him that she tried oysters, caviar, and octopus for the first time. He had his favorite bottles of wine delivered to the office—Brunello di Montalcino and Chateau Margaux. He discovered new favorites—Stag’s Leap and Marchesi di Barolo. It was fun to have someone to drink with, to discuss what vintage paired best with what dish.
But the best part was their conversations. Zofia was the best listener he’d ever met. She seemed utterly absorbed by everything he had to say. Bobby was very much aware of his privilege. He was a multi-millionaire heading a billion-dollar company. The 1% of the 1%. And there was very little empathy for the wealthy. No one wanted to hear him complain—especially not about sibling rivalry or about a less-than-loving mother. Bobby understood this, he really did. But he still had grievances. He was hurting. Being wealthy did not make him unfeeling.
And Zofia picked up on that. She seemed to feel for him. She hung on to his every word. Remembered every bit of information he shared, no matter how small. Asked him sensitive, perceptive questions. She seemed fascinated by him. She never checked her phone. Never had other plans. Never said they had to cut their evenings short. And when he did have to leave, she never complained. He had so many undigested emotions inside of him—he’d hadn’t realized just how much he’d been bottling up until she came along. She gave him exactly what he needed: a steady stream of support and encouragement. In her presence, he felt like the favored twin. The favored human.
Zofia shared stories of her own. Her mother had been Polish, raised in the UK. She had abandoned Zofia when she was only five years old. She left without an explanation, Zofia had said. My aunt took me in. Zofia’s only real memory of her mother was her voice: melodical and lilting. It’s why she spent so much time listening to British accents—in TV shows, podcasts, the news. It made her feel close to her mom. She got him into Downton Abbey—they binged the first season on her computer. Gina had enjoyed the show, too, but they’d never watched it together.
When Gina decided to take Calan to the Hamptons summer house during a freak heatwave that hit New York in the fall, Bobby surprised everyone—including himself—by staying behind. Why should he drive for hours only to be ignored by Gina, who would surely be focused only on Calan? He’d much rather spend time with Zofia, who seemed drawn to him as if the earth’s gravitational pull compelled her.
When Bobby kissed Zofia, two months into their emotional affair (Bobby was not in denial of the nature of their relationship), he knew she wouldn’t rebuff him. They’d had a lot of wine, but he wasn’t drunk. He knew what he was doing. And it had felt good. So good. He stopped before they went any further. Zofia didn’t press him.
When he got home, he thought for sure Gina would be able to sense his betrayal. To sniff it out like a bloodhound. But, instead, she surprised him with a late-night snack and a glass of whiskey. You seem to be doing much better, she’d
