The restaurant, Dal Fiume, was just a block from the River Thames. The hostess took us to a small table at one corner of the restaurant, away from the other patrons; she probably assumed James and I were on a first date given the obvious distance we kept from one another. As though it were late in the evening, several vintage lanterns glowed throughout the dining area, and heavy scarlet curtains wrapped around the room like a cocoon. I would have found it intimate on any other day, but today it was stifling. Maybe this choice had been a bit too discreet, but we were both hungry and exhausted, and we let out a collective sigh as we sank into the leather armchairs on either side of the table.

The large menus offered a welcome distraction, and for a while neither of us spoke, except to the waitress who brought us water and, soon after, two glasses of Chianti. But as soon as she placed the glass in front of me, I remembered: my period. Still late. Alcohol. Pregnancy.

I ran my finger along the base of the glass, considering what, if anything, to do. I couldn’t send the wine back—James would suspect something, and I would not share this with him. Not here, not in this godforsaken red room that threatened to suffocate us both.

I thought of Rose. Hadn’t she had alcohol in the first few weeks of her pregnancy, before taking a test? Her doctor had had no concerns at that very early stage.

Good enough for me. I sucked down a gulp of the wine, then proceeded to skim the menu, seeing but reading none of it.

A few minutes later the waitress took our orders and left with the menus, and I instantly missed the protective barrier between James and me; there was nothing left to focus on except one another. We sat so close together, I could hear him breathing.

I looked directly at my husband, his face even more sunken in this light than earlier. I tried not to wonder when he last ate, as he seemed to have lost a few pounds. Taking a fortifying sip of wine, I began, “I’m so angry—”

“Listen, Caroline,” he interrupted, intertwining his fingers like I’d seen him do on the phone with disappointed clients. “It’s done. We’re having her transferred to another department, and I let her know that if she contacts me again, I’ll inform Human Resources.”

“So it’s her fault, then? Her problem? You’re the one on partner track, James. Seems to me that Human Resources might be more interested in your involvement.” I shook my head, already frustrated. “And why is this even about your work? What about our marriage?”