The Soulmate, page 17
We are taken to a room behind a curtain and seated side by side on plastic chairs with the girls on our laps. Gabe has Freya, I have Asha. The receptionist stands nearby, poised to blow bubbles, a distraction technique to take the child’s mind off the sting of the needle.
The nurse flirts shamelessly with Gabe. She’s a young attractive brunette with heavy false eyelashes and pencilled-on eyebrows. ‘Aren’t you lucky having your daddy come with you?’ the nurse says, ostensibly to the girls, but she keeps her gaze on Gabe. It’s like she hasn’t even noticed I’m here. ‘Had the morning off work, did you?’
‘Actually, I am the working parent,’ I say. I hear the tight, defensive note in my voice, and I hate myself for it. ‘Gabe is their primary parent. I took time off work.’
‘You’re the primary parent?’ she says to Gabe. ‘That’s so sweet.’
She removes the syringe from the plastic packet, in full sight of the girls. Asha looks horrified. I’m horrified too. The last time they had shots, the motherly nurse did it surreptitiously; even I hadn’t seen it coming. I feel a pang of yearning, again, for a time before we moved here.
Gabe pulls up Freya’s sleeve.
‘A woman fell off the cliff near our house,’ Asha says. ‘She walked too close to the edge. Normally my daddy stops people, but he didn’t stop this lady.’
The nurse pauses. Now she looks at me.
‘Why didn’t he stop her?’ Freya asks her sister.
‘I think he wasn’t quick enough,’ Asha replies. ‘Or maybe he didn’t like her.’
‘All right, little sting,’ the nurse says and jabs Freya, who lets out an almighty howl.
‘Brave girl,’ the nurse says, putting a cotton bud and then a piece of surgical tape on Freya’s arm.
The receptionist starts blowing bubbles and one floats into my eye. I reach up to rub it and Asha chooses this moment to slip off my lap and bolt.
‘Shit!’ I leap up, still rubbing my eye. I push through the curtain in time to see her disappear through the door onto the street. I run after her, catching up a few doors down, where she has been stopped by a good Samaritan.
‘I don’t want any superheroes,’ she says to the man in chinos, a shirt and a navy jumper who has stooped down to her level.
When he sees me, he stands upright.
‘Hello, Pippa,’ he says.
55
PIPPA
NOW
‘Hello, Pippa.’
Max looks so ordinary, so safe. The kind who would stop to help a woman in a broken-down vehicle, and who would champion women’s rights, while also expecting a home-cooked dinner when he got home from work. Despite this, I feel intimidated. It’s something to do with his presence. His sense of self. The way he is, already, the one in control.
I’m instantly cold – that horrible, clammy feeling you get when you’re about to vomit. There is no running away now, no sneaking off. Asha watches us curiously but silently, perhaps not wanting to draw attention to herself in the hope that I’ll forget she’s meant to be having her shot.
‘Hello, Max,’ I whisper.
I glance back at the health centre. I can’t decide if I want Gabe to come out or stay where he is. I feel stunningly unprepared for this conversation, which I realise is absurd. For all my panicking, my overthinking, my terror, I hadn’t stopped to consider what I might say if I came face to face with Max. How I could even look him in the eye.
As it turns out, I can’t look him in the eye, so instead I focus on his shoulder.
‘I think you know why I’m here, Pippa. But I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and explain. My wife Amanda passed away this week. Took her own life, I’m told, by jumping off the cliff behind your house.’
I should act surprised to hear this, I know, but I can’t find it in myself to feign shock.
‘A strange coincidence, don’t you think?’ Max continues. ‘That she chose to jump from that particular cliff?’
Max waits now – a good strategy, because I only last a few seconds before I start talking.
‘She said she’d seen a video.’ Now, finally, I look at him. ‘Why was there a video?’
Max sighs. ‘That was unfortunate. We have CCTV of the entire office, for security reasons. I asked them to turn it on the night you came in because I thought Gabe might end up joining us and I didn’t know what to expect. After . . . what happened . . . I asked security to cut the footage. I didn’t mean for them to send it to me. She found the video on an old laptop.’
It’s probably not that important in the scheme of things; still, I’m glad to have an answer to this question.
‘But while the footage explains why she came here,’ Max went on, ‘it doesn’t explain why she jumped.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I wish I understood the inner workings of a suicidal woman, but I –’
‘That’s the thing,’ he says. ‘Amanda wasn’t suicidal when I last saw her. In fact, in our twenty-five years of marriage, she never seemed suicidal. So, it’s hard for me to accept that, even after discovering this video, she’d suddenly choose to jump off a cliff behind the home of one of my former employees. Surely you can understand why I’m perplexed by this.’
I take a few seconds to consider this. ‘Well,’ I say, ‘I guess the video must have affected her more than you think. And The Drop is a well-known suicide place.’
‘That’s true,’ Max says. ‘But I’ve since discovered that Gabe didn’t tell the police he knew Amanda. If this truly was a coincidence, why would he conceal that?’
He fixes me in his gaze. I understand his intention is to intimidate me. It works breathtakingly well.
‘I just want to know what happened to my wife, Pippa.’ There’s the tiniest quaver in his voice here. I notice, suddenly, that he looks thinner and paler than the last time I saw him.
‘Mummy,’ Asha says, ‘do I still have to get my superheroes?’
‘Yes, baby,’ I say, taking her hand. To Max, I say, ‘I’m sorry, I need to go. We have vaccinations. I wish I could help . . .’
‘You can,’ he says. ‘I’d like you to ask Gabe to call me.’
His hands are tucked into the pockets of his chinos, but he draws one out, holding a business card between his fingers. It reminds me of the last time he did this, all those years ago. ‘Give him my card.’
I take it. Nod. What else can I do?
‘I’m staying down here for a few days,’ he calls over his shoulder as he walks away. ‘Maybe longer. Depends how long it takes to get to the bottom of things. Tell Gabe I look forward to hearing from him.’
I remain where I am until he disappears around the corner. Amanda wasn’t suicidal. Max is wrong about that; Amanda must have been suicidal. Because if she wasn’t . . . what had my husband done?
‘Pip!’ Seconds after Max disappears down the street, Gabe and the receptionist join me. ‘I was wondering where you two had got to.’ To Asha he says, ‘Come on, poppet, the nurse is waiting. The sooner it’s done, the sooner you can have ice cream.’
The receptionist takes Asha by the hand and leads her back to the health centre, distracting her with a discussion on the relative merits of vanilla and chocolate.
‘I saw Max,’ I say to Gabe.
‘What?’ He stares at me. ‘Just now?’
I nod. ‘He said Amanda wasn’t suicidal.’
I watch Gabe’s forehead crease as he takes that in. ‘Well,’ he says after a beat, ‘we have evidence to the contrary.’
I hand him Max’s card. ‘He wants you to call him.’
‘I bet he does.’
‘He knows you didn’t tell the police that you knew Amanda. So, he has that over us.’
Gabe swears under his breath.
‘What are you going to do?’ I ask.
He’s staring down at Max’s card, lost in thought. After what feels like a lifetime, he says, ‘I guess I’m going to call Max.’
56
PIPPA
THEN
Gabe’s moods continued to ebb and flow. I was getting used to it, as much as one could get used to living with constant uncertainty. He was better, I found, when he had something meaningful to consume his attention. More often than not, that meant work. I was okay with this. If he was going to direct his hyperfocus somewhere, work was as good a place as any.
His latest project was a challenge. His company wanted to get into streaming, and for that they needed money – lots and lots of it, and as the head of investor relations it was up to Gabe to find it. He worked day and night. I never asked too many questions about his work. The truth was, I had only the most rudimentary understanding of what Gabe did, and when he talked about it I understood less rather than more.
What I did understand was that with every project, Gabe worried that he wouldn’t get the finance together in time. It was practically a prerequisite for any acquisition; an investor would drop out at the last minute, or there’d be a price increase, or some other crisis that would send Gabe into a tailspin. I’d come to realise that the drama of this was part of the fun, so I didn’t worry too much when, days before the streaming deal was due to take place, he started the usual talk about how he might not be able to get the money together.
‘This is different, Pip,’ he said when I reminded him that this happened every time. (He also said this every time.) ‘It’s really different.’
Indeed, he was working incredibly hard. On top of the late nights there seemed to be a lot of hushed phone calls and clandestine meetings. There was even a meeting one Saturday night. I remember it, because it was raining and Gabe had gone out in his waterproof boots. I’d joked that this was not what I’d expected an executive job to entail.
He didn’t arrive home until four or five in the morning. When I got up the next day, I saw his boots outside on the rack, upside down and freshly cleaned. I remember being impressed that he’d thought to clean them at that late hour. Unfortunately, he hadn’t thought to wipe his muddy boot prints from the laundry floor. As I dropped to my knees to do it myself, I noticed that the dirt and mud was tinged with something else. It looked a lot like blood.
The next day, I called Dr Ravi.
It wasn’t just the bloody boot prints, which Gabe explained away. (A dead animal on the road, he said.) It was everything else. The compulsive online shopping. The fact that he’d recently told me he wanted to start an Uber service on the moon. I’d laughed, but he stayed serious. Lately I found it difficult to tell when he was joking. The line between normal and not normal had always been so thin for Gabe; sometimes I didn’t know if I was talking to a genius or a madman.
I’d been having my doubts about Gabe’s ADHD diagnosis. Yes, there’d been a brief period when he’d seemed to improve, but those days were long gone.
‘Thank you for your call, Pippa,’ Dr Ravi said. ‘But before we chat, I need to be clear that I can’t talk specifically about Gabe or anything he has divulged to me, as it would breach doctor–patient confidentiality.’
‘I understand,’ I said. ‘But I’m not sure who else to talk to.’
‘What’s been going on?’
I told Dr Ravi about the compulsive spending, the Uber on the moon. I told him everything else I’d stored up, details that seemed insignificant on their own but were worrying when presented side by side. The fight I’d overheard between Gabe and a workmate, in which Gabe had accused his colleague of spying on him. The poetry he’d written about grief, and how it was the only path to true spiritual enlightenment. How he sometimes cried because he was so happy, and it frightened the girls.
When I finished talking Dr Ravi was silent for a long time. Finally he said: ‘I agree that sounds concerning, Pippa.’
There was something so gratifying about hearing that, after thinking for so long that I was making a big deal out of nothing, I felt a lump in my throat.
‘And he’s been taking his medication?’
‘Every day.’ I swallowed. ‘I’ve checked.’
I could hear Dr Ravi tapping at his computer. ‘I’d like to see him, today if possible.’ He paused. ‘I see he missed his last two appointments. He didn’t even call to cancel. Do you think you can persuade him to come in?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. But I did. I already knew he wouldn’t come. Why would he? According to him, he’d never felt better.
The tears started to flow now. They filled my throat and blocked my nose until it felt like I was drowning.
‘Unfortunately, I can’t do anything if I don’t see him myself,’ Dr Ravi said. ‘Unless I have reason to suspect that Gabe is a danger to himself or to others. Do you think that’s the case, Pippa?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘He’s not dangerous.’
But then I thought of that bloody boot print, and I wondered if I’d told the truth.
57
AMANDA
AFTER
Max has only just got the heating going when his phone rings. He takes a seat in an armchair before answering the call.
‘Max Cameron,’ he says.
Gabe is at home, pacing the living room. Pippa is sitting on the couch watching him. Her hands are steepled in the prayer position. I wonder if she’s actually praying.
‘Max. It’s Gabe.’
Max is as impressed as I am by how quickly Gabe called, but he waits several moments before responding. It is, I assume, a strategy designed to unnerve the other man. Judging by the look on Gabe’s face, it is successful. ‘Gabe. Thank you for calling.’
‘Pippa said you wanted to talk to me.’
A number of emotions are evident in Gabe’s voice. There is the hot tone of protectiveness for his wife. Irritation that he has been put into the position of having to make a call he doesn’t want to make. Also, fear. Max holds the cards here, and Gabe knows it.
‘Pippa is correct,’ Max says. ‘I want to know what happened to Amanda.’
Gabe stops pacing. He looks through the glass sliding doors out to The Drop. ‘I assumed the police would have told you.’
‘They did.’ Max’s voice is slow and careful. ‘But it’s extraordinary what the police don’t know.’
He lets that hang there for a moment. I’d forgotten how good Max was at creating an air of tension to give himself the upper hand.
‘Look,’ Gabe says. ‘I’m really sorry about Amanda. I can’t even imagine what you are feeling. But I don’t have any information that you don’t already know.’
‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe you.’
‘It’s true. Honestly, it was as much of a surprise to me as it was to you that Amanda came here. I didn’t even recognise her at first.’ Gabe pauses, changes tack. ‘She told me she knew what had happened between you and Pippa. She’d found a video on your computer. There was nothing I could do.’
Max rubs his temple with two fingers and drags in a breath. ‘All right,’ he says. ‘Now tell me what really happened.’
‘That is what really happened,’ Gabe says, but with a little less conviction.
‘Bullshit.’ Max’s voice is strained. Powerful, and yet threaded with something vulnerable. His chin, I notice, wobbles. ‘My wife wasn’t suicidal, Gabe. She would never have taken her own life. She knew how much suicide has taken from me already.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Gabe says.
‘Fine,’ Max says through gritted teeth. ‘I’ll take my questions to the police. I’m sure the fact that you and Amanda were previously acquainted – and that you are a former employee of mine – will be very helpful to their inquiry.’
Now Gabe is silent. It is a strangely intense war between two strangely vulnerable men. A frightening prospect given that, in my experience, vulnerable men are the most dangerous.
‘You could,’ Gabe says. ‘But you haven’t. Which makes me think you don’t want the police to look too closely into what happened. Why might that be, Max?’
Pippa stands up, moving closer to Gabe. Her hands remain steepled. Gabe doesn’t look at her. He looks like he’s almost enjoying himself now.
‘You have no idea what I want,’ Max says coldly.
‘Then tell me,’ Gabe says. ‘You’re the one who asked me to call. What do you want?’
‘I told you: I want to know what happened to my wife,’ Max snaps, his emotions betraying him. He stops, takes a deep breath. When he continues, his voice is more controlled: ‘But since you seem reluctant to enlighten me, let’s talk about something else . . . I know she had a USB with her – why don’t you tell me about that?’
Gabe sinks into the armchair. ‘Not much to say. The USB had the footage of you and Pippa in your office. Amanda brought it to show me because she didn’t think I’d believe her.’
Max closes his eyes. ‘Then what happened?’
Gabe rubs his forehead. ‘She was upset. She talked about how important fidelity was to her. Then . . . she jumped.’
Max sits forward in his chair, so his head is almost resting on his knees. His face is scrunched up in an effort to restrain his emotion.
When Max doesn’t reply, Gabe continues. ‘I didn’t tell the police that Amanda and I were acquainted because I knew it would look bad. Especially after how things ended between you and me before I left Melbourne. But that’s what happened.’
Max is quiet for so long that Gabe has to ask if he’s still there. I think Max is going to once again demand to know what really happened, but instead he switches gears. ‘Where is the USB now?’
A pause. ‘I have it.’
Max sits up straight. I’d seen enough to know that the USB contained evidence of things that could destroy him, send him to jail. ‘I need it back,’ he says.
‘You can’t have it,’ Gabe replies.
Max is incredulous. ‘Excuse me?’
‘You can’t have it.’ Gabe’s thinking on his feet, clearly. But once he says it, I can see that he warms to the idea. ‘I’m keeping it, in case you decide to tell the police about my connection to Amanda.’
‘Gabe,’ Max says, his voice quieter now. ‘I think you’ll find –’
