The Rumor, page 9
As I draw closer, I see who it is and instinctively want to avoid her. But it’s too late for that. She has turned her head to one side and registered my approach. If I turn back now or swerve inward, toward the seawall and the boardwalk, it will be obvious I’m avoiding her. Perhaps if she weren’t a client, I wouldn’t care so much, but then, if she weren’t a client, I wouldn’t know her in the first place.
“Good morning,” I say, not knowing how she’ll respond, or even if she will.
“Miss Critchley,” she says, inclining her head toward me, almost smiling. Away from her house, she seems less hostile.
Her gaze returns to the horizon. “It looks different every day, doesn’t it?” she says. “The ocean.”
I can’t believe she’s actually initiated a conversation. I’m about to say that, yes, it does, when she speaks again.
“I want to apologize,” she says.
“What for?” Of course, I know exactly what she wants to apologize for. Her coldness. Her distinct lack of courtesy. But professionalism dictates that I act surprised.
“It’s that house,” she says. “It holds so many bad memories.” She clears her throat. “Sometimes I think he’s still there.” She laughs then. A dry, dismissive sound. “Even though I know for a fact he’s dead and buried.”
“Are you talking about Mr. Marchant?” I ask, revising my theory from philandering ex-husband to philandering late husband.
Her head whips around. “Did you know him? My father?”
“Your father? No. No, I didn’t. Sorry, I assumed you were talking about your husband.”
“The house belonged to my father,” she says. “I inherited it when he died.”
“Oh, I see.”
We fall silent. I’m unsure whether the conversation has finished. I presume it has, and therefore I need to say goodbye and continue with my walk, but then I remember Anne Wilson’s request about viewing the house again with her contractor. I’ve been dreading the phone call with Mrs. Marchant, but maybe I can bring it up here. It might be easier now.
“Anne Wilson wants to bring a contractor to look at the house,” I say. How can I phrase this? “If it makes things any easier, you don’t have to be there. You could drop the keys off and I’ll accompany them.”
“She’s not going to change her mind, is she?” Her voice is sharp. Anxious.
“I don’t think so. At least, that wasn’t the impression she gave.”
“What does she want to do, then?”
“Just a few changes to the layout, I think.”
Susan Marchant tilts back her head and inhales deeply through her nose. “It wouldn’t bother me if she gutted it and started again. I have no emotional connection to that house. None whatsoever. Well, that’s not entirely true. I do have an emotional connection to it, but it’s not a healthy one, if you know what I mean.”
I don’t know what she means, but I’m guessing she had a difficult relationship with her father. An unhappy childhood, perhaps. I think of Sally McGowan’s early years. The awful things I’ve read.
“You’ve heard that poem by Philip Larkin, I suppose?” she says. “The one about your parents fucking you up?” She turns slightly, to gauge my reaction, to see if I’m one of those people who take offense at the F-word. Plenty of those around here, I should think.
I nod and wait for her to continue.
“My father abused me, sexually, for the best part of ten years. The worst part of ten years. And he did mean to.”
I’m shocked. Not at the bald facts of her confession, although of course all abuse is shocking. But I’m shocked at her coming out with it like that. To me, her real estate agent, of all people. Down here on the beach.
But then, why shouldn’t she tell me? Why should she keep such horrors to herself? Why should anyone?
“That’s horrible,” I say, cringing at the lameness of my response.
“I didn’t want the house in the first place,” she says. “It’s a millstone around my neck. I just want to be rid of it.” She sniffs. “I don’t want the money, either. I’m giving it all to a charity for victims of abuse.”
Her eyes slide toward me. She almost smiles. “He’d have hated that.”
She takes a woolen hat out of her coat pocket and pulls it down over her head, stuffing her hair in at the sides.
“I’ll drop the keys off later,” she says. Her voice is brisk again. Businesslike. It’s as if the last minute never happened. As if she hasn’t just disclosed the deepest part of herself.
“I’m heading out of town this afternoon. I doubt I’ll be back until a few days before closing.”
She holds out her hand—a stiff and formal gesture. “Goodbye, Miss Critchley.”
“Goodbye, Mrs. Marchant.”
We shake hands, then she strides off across the sand, head down, looking like a woman on a mission to get the hell out of this place as fast as humanly possible.
18
ABOUT HALF AN HOUR AFTER I get to work, Michael sends me a text message asking if I’m still okay to meet him for lunch at one. He’s about to leave the city.
I check with Dave and he says he’ll be back in time.
“I’m off to do a couple of appraisals first,” he says, pulling on his jacket and grabbing his iPad from his desk. “The office is all yours.” He winks at me. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
When his hand is on the door handle, he stops and turns around. “I meant to tell you,” he says. “Susan Marchant dropped her keys off about five minutes before you got here. She actually smiled at me.” He shakes his head. “People always surprise you, don’t they?” And with that he is gone, striding off toward his car.
I’ve taken several calls, chased two escrow agents who have been dragging their feet, and commiserated with a client whose sale has just fallen through when I get an email notification on my phone.
It’s from Liz Blackthorne with “Apologies to All” as the subject line.
Dear Book Club Friends,
I’m really sorry but I won’t be able to make our next meeting, or indeed the one after that. Is it possible that someone else could host this time? I will be in touch about future arrangements.
Regards
Liz x
PS Enjoy your Frankenstein.
That’s odd. Liz’s emails are usually much chattier. This sounds far too formal, and what does she mean, she’ll be in touch about future arrangements? It’s almost as if she’s preparing the ground for leaving the group altogether, but surely not.
Everyone knows it’s Liz’s group. She’s always at pains to say we don’t need a leader, that ours is a collaborative book club, but Liz is our leader. If it weren’t for her keeping us all on track, it would turn into a free-for-all, with everyone going off on tangents and Barbara dominating every discussion, not to mention Maddie and her endless anecdotes, and Karen and her insatiable curiosity about everyone’s love life, or lack of one.
I tap out a quick reply.
Sorry to hear that, Liz. Hope everything’s okay? Maybe we can meet for coffee soon?
Love Jo xx
Maybe I should give her a call and see what’s up. I’ve been meaning to, ever since seeing her in the street the other day. She looked so distracted and, what with this email, now I’m wondering whether something bad has happened. A family emergency, perhaps.
But her phone rings unanswered. Oh well, I don’t have time to worry about it right now. If she doesn’t respond to my email, I’ll drop by later. See if she’s all right.
* * *
—
MICHAEL IS ALREADY seated when I arrive. It doesn’t surprise me in the least that he suggested Leonard’s. It’s the latest addition to Flinstead’s culinary venues—one of those stylish hipster restaurants that’s more suited to Tribeca or LA than a small seaside town past its best. He looks good against all the exposed brickwork and steel. Edgy and urban and impossibly attractive.
There’s a bottle of sparkling wine in a bucket on the table. He isn’t normally one for romantic gestures, although Joanna the Brave and Beautiful was pretty cool. But then, ours isn’t your typical romance. At least it hasn’t been, till now.
I raise my eyebrows. “A quick lunch, you said. I won’t be able to drink much of that. Some of us have to go to work, you know.”
He leans forward to kiss me. This feels like a date and I’m awkward in a way I wouldn’t be normally, aware of the dark circles under my eyes and my bitten nails. I’ve been gnawing away at them even more since Sally Mac decided to follow me on Twitter. Which I have to tell him about. But not yet. He looks so happy and relaxed. I don’t want to spoil things.
I tell myself his good mood is because of us. Because of me. That working on the Sally McGowan book is entirely coincidental.
“You look tired,” he says.
Okay, so maybe he needs to work on the romance thing.
“Still beautiful, though,” he adds, and pours me half a glass of Prosecco.
We chink glasses and Michael hooks his foot around my ankle, works it up my calf. If I didn’t have to go back to work this afternoon, I know exactly where this celebration would end. Is that why I’m so eager to agree to this latest plan of his? Because of something as basic and animal as sex? It says something that I know more about the geography of his face and body than I do about his mind, but then we’ve always skated around the edges of our inner lives. Letting each other in just as far as was needed and no farther. Why is that? How have we let that happen?
While we’re eating, we discuss the practicalities of him moving in. What he’s going to do about his apartment. How much stuff he’ll bring over. I can’t quite believe this is happening.
“I thought I’d rent it out on Airbnb,” he says. “That way, I only have to bring my clothes and personal bits and pieces. Leave all the bigger stuff there.”
It’s a good idea, I know it is. It’ll be quicker than subletting it and there’s no room for any of Michael’s furniture in my cottage. But that annoying little voice has started up again. Because it’s also more temporary, isn’t it? Easier for him to move back in when he’s had enough of playing house with Alfie and me.
I can’t hold the words in much longer.
“You are sure this is what you want? That this isn’t just because of…” I silently mouth the name: Sally McGowan.
The effect is instantaneous, as I knew it would be. He sets down his fork and stares at me as if I’ve accused him of something monstrous.
“What do you take me for, Joey?”
His voice is a little louder than it needs to be. The buzz of chatter around us dims, or maybe I’m just imagining that, being overly self-conscious because this is a private conversation in a public place.
My chest is tight with emotion. I should never have said it. But now that I’ve started, I can’t stop. I have to let my worries out before it’s too late and arrangements have been made. I can’t let a romantic lunch cloud my vision. It’s too important. This is my future. Alfie’s future. He’ll be devastated if Michael moves in, only to move out again a few months later. He won’t understand.
I’ll be devastated, too. I know that now.
“It just seems a bit…unexpected, that’s all. One minute we’re jogging along like we always have, then I tell you about that rumor and all of a sudden you want to move in.”
“Look, I’ll admit it might seem that way,” he says. He exhales slowly, pushes a piece of chicken around on his plate with his fork. “But honestly, I’ve been wanting to ask you for months.” He puts down his glass and looks directly into my eyes. “Years, if you must know.”
Now it’s my turn to stare. “Years?”
“You’ve always been so fiercely independent. I thought if I asked for more, you might…I don’t know, pull up the drawbridge completely.”
I clasp my hands on my lap. Is he actually saying what I think he is? That he’s been too scared to tell me how he feels? That I’ve basically been pushing him away all this time?
“I…I always assumed you…” My voice breaks. Any second now I’m going to start crying over my pasta. I shut my eyes tight and focus on my breath. “I always assumed you wanted the freedom to just take off whenever you liked.”
Michael reaches across the table and strokes my cheek with his finger. “What a couple of idiots we both are.”
“You can say that again.”
“What a couple of idiots we both are.”
I laugh through my tears. “Shut up and finish your chicken before it gets cold.”
“See?” he says. “That’s what I’ve always loved about you, Joanna Critchley. Your kind, gentle manner.”
When the waitress asks us if we want any dessert, Michael’s foot starts working its way up my calf again. There’s only one dessert we both want now, but that’s going to have to wait till tonight. We shake our heads and ask for the check instead.
As we leave the restaurant and step out onto the street, we’re like one of those soppy couples in a romantic movie. The bit at the end where, after all the misunderstandings and confusion, all the tears and the heartache, they’ve finally found each other again and are about to live happily ever after.
But then the shouting begins.
19
THERE’S SOME SORT OF ALTERCATION going on across the street. Voices raised in anger. A gathering crowd.
“What’s happening over there?” Michael says, already pulling away from me.
I recognize Sonia Martins’s white complexion and dark hair from here, see the fury on her face.
I tug at his arm. “I was going to tell you. Someone’s been sticking pictures of Sally McGowan on the window of the New Age shop and saying the woman who runs the store is her.”
Michael curses under his breath, and before I can stop him he’s crossing the road. There’s no choice but to follow him. When we get there, two women are jabbing their fingers at her and flinging accusations. One of them is the woman with the greasy ponytail from the other day. She’s wearing the same gray sweat suit and she’s with a pasty-faced woman with a whining toddler in a stroller. They’re calling Sonia Martins a child murderer. A filthy, dangerous monster who should be locked up forever.
Sonia snatches the bits of paper they’re thrusting under her nose and rips them into pieces. “How dare you spread these vicious lies!” she shouts. “How dare you! Get away from here or I’ll call the police.”
“You can’t tell us to go away. This is a public street.”
“Yeah, we have more right to be here than you do.”
Suddenly Michael’s taking control of the situation. Steering Sonia Martins into her shop, telling the crowd that the show’s over and that he’s known this lady for years and can categorically vouch for the fact that she is not Sally McGowan. The expression on Sonia Martins’s face is caught between gratitude and confusion, and she allows Michael, and now me—for what else can I do but tag along?—to accompany her into the shop.
Sonia is shaking all over. She fumbles in her pocket and brings out the keys. Turns the key in the lock and flips the CLOSED sign, sags against the glass.
“Thank you,” she says to Michael. “I should call the police. It’s a crime what they’re doing, isn’t it? Making false accusations? This could ruin my business.” She glances nervously out of the window. “If it hasn’t already.”
A few people are still standing around, peering in at us, but most of them have moved on.
“Can we make you a cup of tea or something?” Michael says.
“No, no, I’m fine. Thank you for what you said out there. That was kind, considering we’ve never even met.”
Michael gives a little shake of his head, as if to say, It’s nothing. Her eyes dart toward me. “I’ve seen you before, though, haven’t I? You’re a customer.” She narrows her eyes. “I saw you yesterday as well. I must admit, at the time I thought maybe you had something to do with…” She spreads her hands in the air—a gesture of hopelessness. “…with all this.”
Michael throws me a sharp look.
“Me? No, absolutely not. I did see the pictures stuck on the window that first time. I was going to take them down, but then the man from the shop next door came out and removed them.”
“Chris, yes. He called me. I was hoping it would all go away, that it was just someone’s idea of a nasty joke.”
“I can help you refute this rumor,” Michael says.
Ah, so that’s what he’s up to. I should have known. Michael Lewis. Never one to miss the chance of firing off some copy. Anything to get a byline. Even in a two-bit local rag.
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet, takes out one of his business cards. “Michael Lewis. I’m a freelance journalist. The sooner you can get your side of things out there, the better. We can nip this thing in the bud, but we have to act fast.”
Sonia’s face has changed. She clenches her fists at her sides. “So that’s what all this is about. A story in a paper! Get out of here! Get out now!”
She pushes past us and unlocks the door, stands there with it open. “Go on. Leave now before I call the police and have you arrested for harassment.”
“No,” Michael says. “You don’t understand. This is just going to get worse. These things always do. We need to get something in the paper as soon as we can. It’s the only way you’re going to—”
“Get out. Both of you. Now!”
“Come on, let’s go,” I say. “I’m sorry about this, Sonia, I really am. Michael?”
