The Soulmate, page 11
‘This is all we were given,’ the young police officer said. ‘But I’ll make a note to ask about it.’
‘I’d appreciate that,’ Max said.
After they left, he’d gone to my study and opened my computer again. Apart from the photographs, which he’d already seen, there wasn’t much there that would interest him. Mostly I used my computer to edit photographs, google handbags and search for exercise workouts. He’d tired of it quickly and that’s when he went to the wardrobe. Eventually he tired of that too.
‘Why did you take the USB with you to jump off a cliff?’ he says out loud.
In the master bedroom, he sits on the bed and picks up the framed photograph on my bedside table. It had been taken the Christmas before last. We’d spent it in the Whitsundays on a yacht, just the two of us. In the picture, I am wearing a red kaftan and we are each holding a glass of champagne. He closes his eyes for a moment and rests the photograph against his chest.
He returns the photograph to the bedside table and then, as if on a whim, he opens my top drawer. It is there, next to some bobby pins and a bottle of multivitamins for perimenopause, that he sees the article about ‘the hero of The Drop’ with a picture of Gabe Gerard’s handsome face.
Max pulls the article out of the drawer. He recognises the picture, of course. He was the one who’d showed it to me a few weeks ago. He’d been pleased to see that Gabe was doing well, and so had I. But that didn’t explain why the article is now in my bedside drawer.
Max puts a hand to his temple as he tries to make sense of it.
‘Amanda,’ he whispers, ‘what did you do?’
30
AMANDA
BEFORE
Falling in love with Max was, at best, an inconvenience. At worst, it was a fucking disaster. People always talk about love like it’s a magical thing, a gift from the gods, a sunbeam of euphoria from above! But it’s horrible, being in love. The vulnerability it exposes. The person it makes you. It sent me nutty for a while. Made me lose my edge.
It started with little things. The faintly desperate pitch of my voice when I suggested Max make it home in time for dinner. The way I stuck to his side at dinner parties when I knew my role was to work the room. How I found myself thinking about him all the time.
I started making phone calls to his office, just to say hello. Max was unfailingly polite but his mind, I knew, was elsewhere. He had always worked a lot, but while he was growing the business I barely saw him. His TV and newspaper business was doing well, but online media was the goal. He was so hungry for it. The internet was still niche, and Max had decided it was the way of the future. He wasn’t wrong, of course; he rarely was. But that meant very little to me when I was alone at home night after night.
It was only natural that, after a while, I began to question if Max really was where he said he was. Growing up with a philandering father teaches you to stay vigilant. I adopted the expected rituals. I checked his phone while he was in the shower. I eavesdropped when he left the room to take a phone call. I scanned his emails when his computer was left open and unlocked. I never found any evidence of infidelity. But there was one thing I often wondered about.
It was midweek, and I’d woken in the dead of night to find Max hadn’t come to bed. On my way to the kitchen to get a glass of water, I found Max in his study, sitting in the glow of his laptop, fully dressed, even though it was three or four in the morning. There were two things about this that caught my attention. First, he was using a laptop I’d never seen before. And second, his face was crumpled, as if he was on the verge of tears.
He looked startled when he saw me in the doorway and immediately his expression changed to one of impatience. ‘Go back to bed, love. It’s just work.’
I did what he said. But I didn’t go back to sleep. When he eventually came into the bedroom, I watched in the darkness as he put the laptop into the safe in the walk-in wardrobe. From then on, I was obsessed with that laptop. I knew there’d be a time when he left it out or forgot to lock the safe. And I planned to be ready for that day.
I was desperately lonely. The kind of loneliness that claws at your insides. I found it hard to concentrate on photography. I still accepted invitations to take photos at events that interested me, but it became more of a hobby than a career. After all, we didn’t need the money, and two big careers were a lot to manage. That’s what I told myself, at least.
I drank a lot, alone at night. I slept a lot during the day. At functions, we looked like an adoring couple. Max always spoke about me with the utmost respect. He made playful comments about how good I was to put up with him. When he looked at me, even though I knew it was part of the act, it did something to my insides. I wanted the way he looked at me to be real. I wanted the things he said to be true. I yearned for a real marriage, one that was bigger than the exchange of loyalty for fidelity. But that wasn’t the deal I’d made.
And so I created a life for myself with Pilates, tennis, taking pictures of beautiful people and beautiful things. I made friends with women I found superficial, and I started to become superficial myself. I bought things I didn’t want. I renovated the kitchen and bathrooms and then renovated them again. I hired stylists, for me and for my house and for the garden. I learned to cook at expensive cooking schools that paired the meals with wine and featured celebrity chefs.
Once, after one such cooking course, I recreated a Spanish feast at home – sautéed chorizo, garlic prawns, seafood paella. Max had promised he’d be home on time. I lit candles, put on some music, wore a flamenco-style dress.
Max arrived home fifteen minutes late, which wasn’t bad for him. But then he looked around as if confused. ‘What’s all this?’
‘Dinner,’ I said proudly. ‘I told you I was cooking Spanish tonight!’
In his defence, he did look ashamed. He closed his eyes and swore under his breath. He was apologetic when he said, ‘I have to go back to the office. I’m so sorry. It can’t be avoided.’
I’m not sure who was more surprised when I threw the paella at the wall. The worst part was that it was very unsatisfying. There was no thud or smash. Just rice and seafood all over my new Shaker cabinetry and marble benchtop.
Careful, Amanda, I thought. You’re following your heart. Look what it’s doing to you.
‘Sorry,’ Max said again, and then he went to the bedroom, changed his clothes, returned with another briefcase. ‘I’ll make it up to you, I promise.’
He stepped over the paella as he left.
When I was forty-one, I had a late period. Not very late. Two days. But it was unusual for me. And when you don’t have much else to do, you notice these things.
‘My period is late,’ I said to Max when he came home from work that night. It was after midnight, and I’d been staring into the dark for hours. ‘I’ll do a pregnancy test in the morning, and if I am I’ll take care of it. I just thought I would . . . should . . . let you know.’
Max came around to my side of the bed, sat down and switched on my lamp. ‘Are you all right?’
It wasn’t the question I’d been expecting. That’s probably why, though my eyes filled with tears as I said it, I answered, ‘Yes.’
He slid into bed beside me that night and held me close. It had been years since we’d fallen asleep like that. And in the morning, instead of heading off to work, he cancelled his meetings and changed into casual clothes.
‘Shall I go to the pharmacy to get the test?’ I asked him.
‘How about we just have breakfast together first,’ he suggested.
So we ate breakfast, talking about everything other than the crisis we were facing. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d breakfasted together. I loved every minute of it.
Then, while I loaded the dishes into the dishwasher, Max said, ‘I’ll go get the test now.’
When he returned, I went into the ensuite while he sat on the bed and waited. When I emerged a couple of minutes later, he stood.
‘Not pregnant,’ I said, holding up the stick showing only one line.
Max closed his eyes, his relief palpable. ‘Just one of those things, eh?’
‘I guess so.’
He told me to make a doctor’s appointment, just to make sure everything was okay. Then he kissed my forehead, got dressed and went to work, and I crawled back into bed and wept.
31
PIPPA
NOW
Our morning routine is different. It doesn’t look different – in fact, to an outsider, it would be conspicuous in its sameness – but I feel the difference and I know Gabe does too. We go about our tasks – making cereal, unloading the dishwasher, cutting up strawberries and placing them in bento-style lunchboxes – with careful precision. We talk to the girls in a louder, more intentional way, as if we are Play School presenters rather than weary parents.
‘I don’t want my strawberries cut up!’ Asha cries. ‘And no sandwich this time!’
The girls are cranky and on edge, perhaps picking up on our energy. There are three sets of tears before 8 am, all Freya’s, mostly caused by Asha (although, in her defence, her crimes were ‘eating too loudly’, ‘singing’ and ‘looking at me’). As for Asha, she is inconsolable to learn that it is Tuesday, ‘because words that start with t make me sad’. Asha’s ability to understand and communicate her emotions always arouses equal measures of fear and pride in me. A few months ago, I found her lying in her room with the curtains drawn and the lights off because ‘I want the outsides to be as dark as I feel on the inside’. The whole episode had lasted only thirty minutes, but I’d been alarmed enough to book an emergency appointment with a child psychologist, who declared Asha a ‘delight’ and also ‘one we need to keep an eye on’. Luckily, I’m an expert in keeping an eye on people. I make a mental note to talk to the psychologist about her recent trouble with ‘t’ words, and avert catastrophe in the present by pointing out that Tim Tams make her happy.
When they finally leave for preschool with Gabe, I seek comfort in my regular activities. I organise the buckets of toys, placing like with like, removing the pieces of Lego from the bottom of the basket of dolls, until everything is in order. I go through the girls’ closets, removing clothes that are too small or too worn, arranging them in bags by size for donation. Then I make a list of wardrobe deficits – new underwear for Asha, warm coat for Freya, leggings and pyjamas for both.
As I perform each task I find myself wondering: What do the police know? What does Max? Are Johnno and Aaron at the station right now, talking about how they can’t believe they were duped, that Gabe had always seemed like such a nice normal guy? And what about Max? Is he truly the kind of monster who wouldn’t care what happened to his wife? And then there’s the inescapable question: No matter which way this goes, will I ever be able to live with myself?
Gabe will be out for most of the day. After dropping off the girls he’ll go for a surf, then he’s going to help Dad clean out the gutters. ‘He’s a godsend,’ Mum had said when Gabe offered his services. Mum was, rightly, worried about Dad getting up on the ladder (‘He’ll do his hip and then who will have to look after him?’), but Dad flat out refused to pay someone to do the gutters for him. Fortunately, Gabe stepped into the breach. I wasn’t the only one who relied on him; the entire family did.
Turning my attention from domestic to paid work, I sit at my laptop and complete an application for probate. Then I sit through a meeting about a complicated will dispute. I am answering an enquiry to my website about my services when out of the corner of my eye I see the figures appear at my back door.
‘Surprise!’
I scream.
‘Sorry,’ Kat says, sliding open the door. She gives me a strange look. Mei is with her. They are rugged up in coats, and their faces look pink and flushed. ‘We’re going to The Pantry. Wanna come? Apparently, they’ve got the clam chowder on.’
The Pantry was a new cafe on the main street, next to the pub – a little shopfront that butted up against a grassy area that, in turn, butted up against the beach. Last week Mum had tried the clam chowder and declared it the best she’d ever had. (I pointed out that she hadn’t had a lot of clam chowder before, but she said that was beside the point.)
‘Come on,’ Mei says. ‘We’ll have you back at your desk in an hour.’
I want to protest, but Mei is already getting my coat, and there’s something about the gentle authority of this that I am helpless to resist.
On the short walk to the cafe our conversation focuses on the light and trivial. Dad and his obsession with crosswords. (He thinks they stave off dementia.) Property prices. Kat’s suspected scalp skin cancer that turned out to be a stain from her box hair dye. Asha’s decision to consume only strawberries from now on. What surprises me is how easily I play my part in the discussion, as if drawing on muscle memory. It feels like it should be a pleasure, but today it leaves me feeling empty. I am incapable of conversing properly with my sister now that I am keeping this secret from her. Maybe from now on our relationship will be nothing more than this, a series of repetitive brain spasms.
‘Table for three?’ Dev says, when we arrive at the cafe.
Dev is the proprietor of The Pantry. He took over the premises three months ago. Previously it was called the Lunch Basket and was run by a husband-and-wife team who always looked irritated when you wanted to order something. Dev, on the other hand, is a thirty-something hospitality natural fresh from the city. He remembers customers’ names and coffee orders, gives colouring books to cranky kids and offers free desserts to old ladies who’ve finished their coffee and have nowhere else to go. The town had lost their minds when he arrived, and now the only complaint is how hard it is to get a table. But today, with the weather being nice, most people are sitting outside at the tables Dev has set up on the grass, and there is plenty of space inside. He shows us to a window table and says, ‘I’ll leave you to peruse the menu.’
‘So,’ Mei says, when Dev has left, ‘we have an announcement.’
I notice suddenly that Kat and Mei are holding hands.
‘We’re pregnant!’ they say together.
Kat reaches into her bag, pulls out a small white card and pushes it across the table. I gasp as I clock the familiar black square, the scratches of white, the abstract blob in the centre.
‘Kat is carrying,’ Mei says proudly, and as soon as she says it, I’ve never seen anything so obvious. Kat’s face is rounder. Her breasts are larger. Her hair is shiny and thick and lustrous. She appears both healthier and more tired at the same time.
I slide out of my seat and throw my arms around them jointly, burying my face in Kat’s lovely, thick, pregnancy hair. I remain there for several seconds, joy washing through me, before returning to my seat. ‘Congratulations! This is the best news.’
‘I’m fourteen weeks along,’ Kat says. ‘I know you usually tell people at twelve weeks but I’m superstitious. This is the first time I’ve eaten out in months; the morning sickness has been too horrendous for me to stand the smells.’
As if on cue, Dev places a bowl of clam chowder on the next table along. Kat turns green. ‘Oh God. I think I’m going to . . .’ She leaps from her seat and dashes to the bathroom.
‘Wow, that’s some morning sickness,’ I say, watching her disappear.
When I turn back to Mei, I’m surprised to find that her expression is serious.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.
‘I know, Pip.’
I don’t have to feign my confusion. ‘You know what?’
‘I know.’ Mei glances around and lowers her voice. ‘I know it was Amanda Cameron on the cliff.’
The adrenaline spikes in my blood immediately.
‘I’ve been following it, Pip. I read in the paper that she’d died unexpectedly. I used to work for Max too, remember?’
It’s funny, but I had forgotten. I hadn’t even considered the fact that she would make the connection.
‘Yes, it was Amanda,’ I admit, when I realise I have no choice. ‘But it was a coincidence, Mei. Gabe didn’t even recognise her. She came to the cliff to jump, that’s all.’
‘Then I assume Gabe has told the police of their connection?’
I don’t reply. Mei nods. It’s almost as if she’s not surprised. It puzzles me. Mei knows Gabe pretty well. She loves him. She knows he wouldn’t harm anyone.
‘He didn’t mention that he knew Amanda because it would have looked bad.’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘It would.’
The silence between us drags on for several seconds.
‘Gabe wasn’t involved in her death,’ I say. ‘You know that right?’
But before she can answer, the door to the bathrooms swings open revealing a slightly less green-looking Kat. Mei leans forward. ‘I haven’t told Kat about this. She’s pregnant and having a rough time of it, and I don’t want to worry her. But I don’t believe it was a coincidence that Amanda was on that cliff.’
‘Guys,’ Kat says when she reaches us, ‘I don’t think I can stay inside with the chowder smell. Can we move to an outside table?’
Kat and Mei call Dev over and a flurry of explanations and congratulations ensue. I muster up a smile but I’m too shocked by my exchange with Mei to engage in any of it.
‘Right this way,’ Dev says, taking our menus. ‘Coming, Pippa?’
I nod and gather up my things.
You’re right, I want to say to Mei. It wasn’t a coincidence. But it wasn’t Gabe’s fault. It was mine.
32
PIPPA
THEN
Dr Ravi, Gabe’s psychiatrist, was a kindly man with a thick grey beard and a pleasantly chaotic office. His vibe, according to the reviews I’d found online, was ‘old school’, but in a good way. After Gabe’s first appointment, he’d echoed the reviewers’ enthusiasm.
He really listened.
I felt understood.
He made me believe I could be helped.
