The Soulmate, page 12
Gabe and I sat across the desk from him expectantly. It was Gabe’s third appointment, but the first time I had joined him. In the lead-up, there’d been a mountain of paperwork to complete, covering everything from Gabe’s family history of mental disorders and long-ago school reports, as well as questionnaires for Gabe and me to complete. There was also a questionnaire to be completed by a boss or work colleague, but we had decided to skip that one to maintain Gabe’s privacy. Now, the psychiatrist was prepared to give us a diagnosis, and I was holding out hope that he might offer a treatment – preferably in pill form – that would fix Gabe.
‘Have you heard of attention deficit hyperactivity disorder?’ Dr Ravi asked.
I had, but only in passing. It conjured up an image of a naughty, fidgety little boy in third grade. ‘You think Gabe has ADHD?’
‘I thought that ADHD only affected children,’ Gabe added.
‘It is commonly diagnosed in children, but about half of children with ADHD will continue to experience symptoms into adulthood. And given what I’ve learned about your childhood, Gabe, it seems likely that your symptoms could have been overlooked due to the lack of close parental involvement while you were young.’
The more Dr Ravi told us, the more sense it made. Gabe had almost every symptom: trouble focusing or hyperfocus; physical restlessness; rapid or impulsive speech; disorganisation; trouble with impulse control; periods of prolonged depression. The psychiatrist recommended a combination of medication and therapy, and he referred Gabe to an ADHD coach.
Gabe started taking the prescribed stimulants immediately. I bought every book I could find on ADHD. Gabe was going to be the poster boy for ADHD management, I decided, and I would be the poster wife.
Gabe threw himself into his new identity as an adult with ADHD. He met with his coach, he followed his new routines, he downloaded the apps. It took a while to get the medication right. At first it seemed to make him even more manic than before, but Dr Ravi adjusted the doses, and eventually he settled down. The change was nothing short of miraculous. He stopped going out all night; in fact, he hardly went out all. He was promoted once, and then again. He was making so much money that we bought a house in a nice neighbourhood with plans to renovate it.
Most evenings were spent on the couch, watching home renovation shows and discussing vaulted ceilings, and weekends were spent at the new house, watching Gabe talk to tradesmen and warning him not to be a pest. He was fascinated by their craftsmanship and peppered the tradies with questions as they worked. Often, after we left the house, we’d wander through the streets of our new neighbourhood with Freya riding on Gabe’s shoulders.
We never talked about the infidelity he’d confessed to. In those moments when I couldn’t help but think about it, I told myself it was a good thing; it had been the catalyst for Gabe getting the help he needed and turning his life – our lives – around. All that mattered was that I had Gabe back. The real Gabe. He was finally fixed, and now we could live in peace.
33
AMANDA
AFTER
‘I‘d like to speak to the investigators in charge of my wife’s suicide . . . Amanda Cameron . . . Yes, I’ll hold.’
Max is in the kitchen. On the counter in front of him, was the article about Gabe saving lives at The Drop. He stares at it as if the answers he’s looking for will suddenly leap from the page. It’s affirming to see that despite our troubles, Max still cares about what happened to me. It’s probably born out of a desire to protect himself, but it heartens me nevertheless.
I can tell the moment the person comes to the phone because Max stands tall again. ‘Yes, hello, it’s Max Cameron here. I have a few questions about my wife’s death. Do you mind telling me from where, exactly, she jumped?’
He glances down at the newspaper.
‘I see.’ His eyes close. ‘Yes. I know the place. And one other question, if I may. You mentioned someone was with her before she . . . yes. Do you happen to have the person’s name?’
He listens a moment. Then the hand not holding the phone clenches into a fist. I wait for him to say something – that the man is a former employee, that Max had fired him. When he doesn’t, I’m not surprised. It makes sense, under the circumstances, that Max would want to deal with this himself.
He ends the call, puts the phone down on the counter and looks out the window. I can practically see his brain ticking. It’s amazing how often people underestimate Max. They take him at face value, seeing a thoughtful, intelligent, considerate gentleman. Don’t get me wrong – he is all these things. But Max didn’t get to where he was by being kind and lovely. When he needs to be, he’s as ruthless as the next guy – with one difference: no one ever sees him coming.
34
AMANDA
BEFORE
After the pregnancy that never was, Max and I entered a new season of our marriage. I pushed my feelings for him to the side and, instead of focusing on what I wasn’t getting from my husband, I focused on what I was: a comfortable life with a good man. Experiences and possessions beyond the wildest dreams of most people. It wasn’t so bad.
Instead of nagging Max to come home earlier, I waited up for him. Often, when he arrived home at midnight, I would have wine and a cheese platter ready for him. Max didn’t seem to find this irritating, the way he had with my demands that he be home in time for dinner. In fact, he told me once that he looked forward to our new ritual. Sometimes we sat up until two or three in the morning, just chatting idly.
After a while, he started to open up to me. He described the pressure he’d been under to get the online business up and running. He told me about the two occasions on which he’d thought he was going to lose everything – the house, the business. One of those times, I discovered, had been the night of the paella. I made him promise that from now on he would share his problems with me, no matter how bad. ‘Believe it or not,’ I said, ‘I can handle it.’
Max regarded me for a long time then. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I do believe it.’
A few weeks later, I came home early from a charity function one evening and found Max sitting at the dining room table with his head in his hands.
‘What’s wrong?’ I asked him.
He didn’t even look up. ‘It’s all so much more expensive than I thought.’
I pulled up a chair beside him. The online business again, I ascertained. He’d spent months setting it up. I thought it would have taken off by now. Clearly Max had thought so too. ‘But I thought it was all ready to go?’
‘It is. But the bank has cold feet and won’t advance the final payment. And I have no money left. There are no more investors. At least, none that I would want to call on.’
I thought about that for a moment. ‘Why don’t you call on them anyway?’
Max didn’t reply.
‘Sometimes,’ I said thoughtfully, ‘the road to our destination leads us in a direction we don’t want to take. But does it matter, in the end, if it gets us where we want to go?’
It felt like the right thing to say. It was the kind of thing Max himself might have said. Perhaps that’s why he lifted his head. After several seconds, he smiled. I wish I could have bottled that smile. It was the way you want the man you love to smile at you.
‘You’re right,’ he said.
The next morning, I made coffee while Max showered and dressed. When he emerged, he was bright-eyed and focused. I fed him, pumped him up and then waved him off at the door, still in my nightgown.
‘Go get it done,’ I said to him.
By the end of the day, Max had the money he needed. In desperate times, sometimes we do desperate things.
The online business moved us into a new stratosphere of wealth. We bought a new house – a mansion. We had a swimming pool, a tennis court, a private cinema. An underground car park with room for twelve vehicles. It was ridiculous. I adored it all.
I filled my days with enjoyable, purposeless things like tennis and shopping and visits to art galleries. I started a ‘classics’ book club. I took photographs of my friends’ children and grandchildren and gave them as gifts. And I kept an eye on Max. If he left his phone or computer lying around, I’d take a quick look. I never found anything incriminating – usually it was mind-numbingly boring – but that didn’t stop me. I still wondered about the laptop that remained locked in the safe; I had never seen it again.
I’d like to say that I drew the line at spying, but shamefully that wasn’t the case. On the rare occasions when I came home and saw Max’s car already there, I always took advantage of it. There was one such occasion that stands out in my memory. It was a weekday, around 5 pm. That alone was reason to be suspicious. Max was never home from work by five unless he was ill – or, perhaps, up to something.
When I noticed his car in the garage, I slid inside quietly. It was a mild evening, and he was on the patio, talking on the phone with the French doors ajar. He was in his suit, minus the tie and the jacket. His sleeves were rolled up.
I crept as close as I could and concealed myself behind the curtains. Max’s back was ramrod straight, and he was pacing.
‘I understand,’ he was saying, ‘and I’m grateful for your support, but I’m now in a position to return your investment. I’m sure you can appreciate why I’d want to do that.’
Even though it was clearly a business call, and I hadn’t stumbled on evidence of an affair, I continued to listen anyway; I appreciated the calm, authoritative way that Max handled himself.
‘That may be the case, but as I’ve delivered great returns for you, I’d like to think that we’re even.’
It was obvious that the person on the other end of the phone was not happy, which was odd. What kind of person would get angry about someone wanting to return their money?
‘I’m sorry you feel that way,’ Max said finally, ‘but I’ve already decided. The money will be transferred back into your account at the end of the month.’
Max ended the call and looked out over the pool and gardens. I crept from the room and acted as if I’d just arrived home.
‘Max?’ I called.
Max was in the same spot on the patio, but when he heard my voice he turned around. ‘Hello.’
‘You’re home early!’
He came inside and greeted me with the customary perfunctory kiss. It was one of those small marital rituals that always brought me immense pleasure. We went to the kitchen, and I opened a bottle of wine.
‘So why are you home at this hour?’ I asked, pushing Max’s glass across the counter to him.
Max lifted his glass and touched it to mine. ‘Just had a few phone calls to make, so I decided to make them from here. Nothing for you to worry about.’
The truth was, I knew what kind of person Max would want to return money to: one of those shady investors. Someone crooked. The kind of investor Max might have turned to when he was desperate, but someone he would definitely want off his books now.
Still, as long as Max wasn’t talking to a secret lover, I was going to take his advice and not worry about it.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘I won’t.’
35
PIPPA
NOW
‘Why don’t we go out for an early dinner?’ Gabe suggests.
He looks weary. It’s 4 pm and we’re standing in the kitchen. The girls have been home, as they don’t go to preschool on Wednesdays, and Gabe has had a full schedule of imaginative play, craft and baking.
‘Sure,’ I say.
After lunch with Kat and Mei yesterday, I’d told Gabe that Mei had figured out it was Amanda on the cliff, but I didn’t tell him of her suspicion that it wasn’t a coincidence. I was still shocked that Mei could think Gabe could be guilty of something. Particularly since, this time, he was the one protecting me.
We arrive at The Pantry half an hour later. The after-school rush is over but it’s still too early for most people to be thinking of dinner, so it’s just us and an older couple sharing a fancy-looking ice-cream sundae. The girls look at them enviously.
‘Why are they allowed ice cream before dinner?’ Asha demands.
‘I told them they could,’ Dev says, appearing like a hero before Asha has a meltdown, ‘but only if they eat a bowl of brussels sprouts immediately afterwards. Would you girls like the same deal?’
The girls look appalled and quickly move on from the ice cream, instead focusing on the coloured pencils and paper that Dev has placed on the table.
‘What can I get you?’ Dev asks us.
Gabe and I order a bottle of wine, apple juice for the girls, and a bowl of chips to get us started. As Dev writes down the order, I think again of my visit to The Pantry the day before and what Mei had said. I don’t believe it was a coincidence.
‘Your mother told me that you handle wills and estates,’ Dev says, as he tucks his notebook back into his apron. ‘I’ve been meaning to do a will. Are you taking new clients?’
‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Give me a call.’
Dev leaves us and returns gratifyingly quickly with the chips. Then, as the girls focus on their colouring, Gabe and I enjoy a few moments of precious silence. For the first time in twenty-four hours my mind feels blank. Numb. Under the circumstances, it’s the best I can hope for.
‘What happened to the woman who was outside our house?’ Asha says out of nowhere.
Her voice is loud in the quiet cafe. Her eyes are on her drawing.
I put my drink down on the table. ‘Which woman, baby?’
‘The one that was on the cliff before the police came.’
She reaches blindly for a chip, dunking it in sauce and lifting it to her mouth without looking up from her drawing. Freya, on the other hand, immediately looks up.
I glance at Gabe as I try to activate my brain. We’ve never had this conversation with the girls. I’d thought it was still a few years off. I’d planned to thoroughly research the best ways to talk to kids about suicide, maybe even consult a psychologist first. Trust kids to interfere with best-laid plans.
‘Well . . .’
‘Did she jump off the cliff?’ Asha asks, looking up. She raises her eyebrows, her expression simultaneously curious and uninterested, as if it is something she’d been meaning to ask about but isn’t of much importance either way.
‘I heard Nana and Papa saying she jumped. And you and Daddy did too.’
Gabe puts down his wine. ‘It was an accident, baby girl. She walked too close to the edge, and she fell. That’s why Mummy and Daddy tell you not to go anywhere near the cliff.’
It is classic Gabe: the perfect response. He says nothing to alarm her while also reinforcing the importance of staying away from The Drop. Even now, it makes me fall in love with him a little bit more.
‘Did she get dead?’ Asha asks.
Both girls stare at us. Even Gabe falters for a second. Eventually he answers the only way he can.
‘Yes,’ Gabe says finally. ‘She did.’
Asha nods wisely. ‘Her family must be very sad.’
‘Yes,’ Gabe says. ‘I imagine they are.’
Asha appears to think about this. Gabe and I don’t look at each other.
‘Where is the lady now?’ she asks.
Her gaze moves back to the rainbow she is drawing. I want to ask her about it. Offer to help. Anything other than answer these questions for my beautiful little girl.
‘She’s in heaven,’ Gabe says.
Asha looks at me then. Her expression is slightly different now. Less wise. All I see is her small round face. The vulnerability of it. I want to take her in my arms and block her ears, so she never has to try to understand any of this stuff.
‘With my mum?’
I take a breath in, hold it, then slowly let it go. And I do her the respect of looking her in the eye when I answer. ‘Yes, baby. With your mum.’
36
PIPPA
THEN
‘I have to tell you something,’ Gabe said.
I pulled two glasses out of the cabinet, set them on the kitchen counter and looked at him expectantly. It didn’t occur to me to be worried, even though, on reflection, the words ‘I have to tell you something’ rarely precede anything good. On hearing them, my heart rate didn’t speed up. I didn’t have the faintest idea what was coming.
It was just that things had been so damn good. Three weeks earlier we’d moved into our stunning new dream home – a four-bedroom renovated Edwardian house with a swimming pool and a rich green lawn. Freya was a delight: a busy but thriving almost two-year-old. We’d just put her to sleep in her big girl bed. We’d even been talking about trying for another baby.
‘I’m so sorry.’
I thought it must have something to do with money. The house had been so expensive. We’d taken out a mortgage that was a challenge to the risk-averse side of me, but Gabe was so confident that we could afford it. I remember feeling a flash of annoyance at myself. Why had I listened to him? Why hadn’t I suggested something smaller and cheaper? Perhaps it was because his boss, Max Cameron, seemed to believe that he could do no wrong? It was hard to imagine that he had anything other than complete job security.
But it wasn’t the house.
‘There’s a little girl,’ he said.
It should have taken me longer to understand. I should have been confused. I should have asked, ‘What do you mean there’s a little girl?’ But I knew. Perhaps I’d been primed for it since learning about the night he spent with the barmaid. I assumed it had been more than one, but I hadn’t pressed him on it because I couldn’t bear to have my fears confirmed.
I broke into silent tears. The kind that fall without effort or noise or even feeling. The kind movie stars cry. It was a strange thought, in among everything else. I’m crying movie star tears!
‘I got the call a couple of days ago. A woman I used to know . . . she died of a drug overdose.’
I closed my eyes, unable to look at him as I listened. Gabe told me he didn’t remember the woman, though he had memories of sex, shameful memories that he’d tried to push down. She’d certainly never got in touch to let him know of a baby. The little girl was six months younger than Freya. His name wasn’t on the birth certificate. The woman’s friend had been the one to identify Gabe as the father. The baby’s name was Asha.
