The Soulmate, page 4
He rises from his chair and walks to the intercom, past the dining room table, where my laptop is open, the video still visible on his screen. I’d left it there for him, so he’d know I knew. He closes the lid on his way to the door.
‘Do you have news about Amanda?’ he says through the intercom before he even lets the police in.
‘It would be better if we talked inside,’ one of the officers says.
Max presses the buzzer and opens the door. Then he starts to pace the foyer. He finally reported me missing last night, after calling and looking for me in every conceivable place, but I assume he’d expected I’d show up somewhere – the farm, the city penthouse, the Portsea beach house. One thing to be said for having a lot of houses is there are plenty of places to hide. Still, the moment he’d realised I was missing, he’d had to consider the idea that something more sinister was at play. When you have associates like Max does, you always have to consider that.
‘Come in,’ he says when the police get to the door. But after closing it behind them, he doesn’t invite them any further than the foyer. ‘What is it?’
‘We’ve found your wife’s car,’ the policeman says. His face is sombre. ‘It’s parked near a known suicide spot, and a body that matches your wife’s description has been found there.’
Max turns positively grey. He staggers over to the side table and clasps the edge, as if to hold himself upright.
‘Mr Cameron?’ the young officer says. ‘Would you like to sit down?’
Amazingly, I hadn’t considered how the word ‘suicide’ would rattle him, until now. Max’s mother and brother had both taken their own lives after struggles with mental illness. The loss of them had affected him so deeply he’d started a foundation for mental health and suicide prevention. The idea that I might have died this way, I’ll admit, feels impossibly cruel.
‘No,’ he says. ‘No. She wouldn’t have taken her own life. She wouldn’t.’
The police officers exchange a look of pity. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’
My lilac silk scarf is draped over the table in the foyer. Max reaches for it. There’s no denying the emotion on his face.
‘Mr Cameron,’ the policeman says again, and Max turns away, holds up a hand. Then he shoves his fist into his mouth and bites down hard, so the officer can’t hear him cry. Despite everything, my heart breaks a little.
Ah, marriage, you wonderful, complicated beast.
8
AMANDA
BEFORE
It’s funny the way memories float through your mind in certain moments. Max and I met, almost thirty years ago, when I was a waitress at his father and stepmother’s wedding anniversary party. Max, apparently bored with the company of his parents’ friends, was attempting to flirt by trying to take the tray of canapés out of my hands.
Max’s parents’ house was like nothing I’d ever seen. Marble everywhere. Arched doors leading to more marble reception rooms. It had a fountain inside the house and one of those grand sweeping staircases that split in two. The place was abuzz with music, laughter, dancing. There was a champagne tower. A jazz band. Rumour had it there were to be fireworks at midnight.
‘You know that I’m being paid to serve food, don’t you?’ I said when he’d reached for my tray again. I feigned exasperation.
‘At least one of us is being paid to be here,’ he replied, finally commandeering the tray, which he immediately held out to a passing guest with playful confidence.
It was flattering, I’ll admit. Max was handsome – tall and broad enough to fill out his dinner suit. But it was the way he carried himself that was truly impressive. Even then, he knew who he was going to become.
‘All right! Give me the tray back.’
‘Forget it!’ Max popped a canapé into his mouth. ‘These are delicious. I’m not sharing them.’
I could feel my boss’s gaze from across the room. The only thing stopping her from approaching was the fact that she knew Max was the son of the client. ‘Please,’ I said. ‘Give it back. My boss is looking. I can’t afford to lose this job.’
Max handed the tray back immediately, his expression a blend of remorse and attraction. How funny to think that someone actually needing their job could have such an effect. It was curious the way wealthy people found other people’s poverty thrilling; often it even morphed into a perverse sort of admiration. And our stocks rose even higher if we insisted our humble existences weren’t that bad. Some felt compelled to save us. And why not? Saving us was so easy. They could play God! Our gratitude was like a drug for them, particularly the men.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
I continued circling the room, but all night I sensed Max’s eyes on me. At the end of the evening, once we’d loaded the dishwashers, wiped the kitchen clean and loaded the tray into the vans, I found Max waiting for me on the front steps. I pretended to be surprised, but I’d spotted him out there while I cleaned the kitchen.
‘Hello again,’ I said.
‘I’m sorry to lurk out here like this,’ Max said, ever polite. ‘I just wanted to make sure you didn’t get into trouble. If your pay was docked, please –’
‘It wasn’t.’ I pulled on my coat. ‘It’s fine.’
‘Okay, well . . . good.’
We stood there for a moment. Max smelled like expensive aftershave. He’d taken his jacket and bow tie off, and the top button of his shirt was undone. He looked better like this, a bit dishevelled. His gaze travelled over me, but not in a leery way. Like he was considering something.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘I just realised that I don’t know your name.’
‘Oh. It’s Amanda.’
He smiled, as if my name was pleasing to him. ‘I’m Max.’
‘Yes.’ I smiled back. ‘I know.’
‘What is it that you do when you’re not waitressing, Amanda?’
‘I’m a photographer,’ I said. ‘An amateur one. But I’ve got a few jobs – kids’ birthday parties and the like.’
It felt lame compared to what Max did for a living, and yet he responded as if I had said I was in training to go into space. He asked question after question, making me feel like the most fascinating person in the world. Later, I realised this was a gift of his.
‘Amanda, would it be inappropriate of me to ask you to dinner?’ he said eventually.
It appeared to be a genuine question, like he couldn’t quite figure it out himself. I wondered if he was weighing up our relative positions in life, our employer/employee relationship . . . or something else. I was twenty-five. He was in his early thirties. We were adults. It was a free world.
‘If you don’t mention it to my employer, I don’t see why not.’
I gave him my number and he walked me to my car. After opening my door for me, he leaned in for what I thought was going to be a kiss but turned into a hug at the last minute.
He told this story at our wedding, describing how he’d ‘choked’. But I’d found it endearing that he’d lost his nerve. If he had gone through with the kiss, perhaps we would never have made it down the aisle. Would that have been a blessing or a curse?
With everything I know now, I’m not quite sure.
9
PIPPA
NOW
The police team return just after 7 am, and a steady stream of people traipse up and down the side of the house all morning: a photographer with a large camera, people with gloves and protective clothing, people with other people holding umbrellas over their heads. Freya and Asha sit cross-legged by the back door in their pyjamas, watching them. Asha fires questions at us. ‘What’s that guy doing? What’s the camera for? What’s happening over there?’ Thankfully, by the time she finishes asking one thing her mind has already moved on to something else, so we’re not required to provide answers. She is so much like Gabe; so brilliant, so inquisitive. It terrifies and delights me in equal measure.
When the girls tire of watching the police, we turn on the television. I envy the way they are immediately lost to it, their mouths hanging open, their brains suspended somewhere in the ether. They don’t even demand breakfast, which is unheard of for Asha. Eventually Gabe brings them toast, which they eat on the couch, and I don’t object.
Mum and Dad arrive around 9 am, with colouring books and games for the girls. Dad does a coffee run for the police, and returns with raspberry and white chocolate muffins. Kat arrives mid-morning with Mei, and they set up their computers side by side at our dining room table and work from there, as if it’s the obvious, most normal thing to do. There’s something about the morning that feels sacred and jarring – like someone has died. Which, of course, is true.
Gabe potters around the place, doing laundry, playing with the girls, and everyone watches him closely while pretending they’re not. Mum is the only one upfront about her concern, approaching him every half-hour or so and hugging him tight, before carrying on with whatever she was doing.
During a brief gap in the rain, Gabe and Dad help the girls into their raincoats and gumboots and take them to the playground at the end of the road.
Mei and I are in the kitchen, making yet more tea. Kat is filling up her water bottle. Mum is folding laundry on the kitchen counter.
It’s soothing being here with the three of them. Mei, as usual, is a particularly calming presence. There’s something about her intelligence, her slow movements, that always puts me at ease. She is an ex-colleague of Gabe’s; funnily enough, it was Gabe who introduced her to Kat. He said he just knew they would hit it off – and, as usual, Gabe was right. As if my family needed another reason to adore him.
‘How’s Gabe doing?’ Mei asks, flicking the kettle off and pouring water into her cup.
‘Oh, I think he’s . . . all right.’
‘I can’t imagine what it must be like.’ Mei dunks her teabag thoughtfully. ‘I’ve seen a few animals die. Both my dogs, when they were put down, and a bird that I ran over accidentally. Never a human being.’
‘I saw a man get hit by a car once,’ Kat says. She perches herself on the counter and takes a slug from her water bottle. ‘A pedestrian. He was cutting between cars, and someone clipped him. He didn’t die, I don’t think. But I was spooked for weeks.’
‘I’ve seen plenty of people die.’ Mum was an ER nurse, so this isn’t surprising to us. When we were young, she’d come home and tell us stories about kids who’d died of drug overdoses – an effective warning, as neither of us has ever touched so much as a joint. ‘But I never saw one who didn’t want to live. Seeing a healthy person take their own life . . . that’s something else entirely.’
‘Maybe they’re not healthy,’ Kat says. ‘Mentally, at least.’
‘Good point,’ Mum says.
‘I’ve never seen anyone die.’ I pour milk into my tea. ‘Thank goodness. I’m not sure I could handle that sort of trauma.’
There’s a short silence. I look up and find Mum and Mei and Kat exchanging a look.
‘Actually,’ Kat says, ‘I’d say if anyone could cope with it, it’s you.’
I’m not sure what Kat’s getting at, but the three of them are all staring at me now. It gives me a weird feeling, so instead of replying, I lift my cup to my mouth and take a big slurp.
Mid-morning, shortly after Gabe, Dad and the girls have returned from the playground, a police officer appears at the glass sliding door and waves. I recognise her as one of those who’d introduced herself earlier. She is dressed in a white shirt and navy trousers and a pair of gumboots covered in mud.
Our reaction, as a family, is comical. Everyone freezes, even the girls. Then we blink at the poor woman, standing in the rain, as if her presence is bizarre and unexpected, as if the police haven’t been there all morning, as if Mum hasn’t been out looking for them several times with offers of tea. The difference, I suppose, is that this is the first time they have come looking for us.
‘Sorry to intrude,’ she says, sliding open the door. ‘I’m Detective Senior Constable Tamil. Thank you for your patience as we’ve tramped around your garden. And, of course, thanks for the tea and coffee.’ She holds up three empty mugs, and Mum rushes over to retrieve them.
The police officer turns to Gabe, who is on all fours giving Freya a horsey ride. ‘Before we head off,’ she says, ‘I wonder if you’d be able to spare a minute, Mr Gerard? Outside?’
‘Of course.’ Gabe rises onto his knees so Freya slides to the floor. When she protests, Dad jumps in as a substitute horse and saves the day.
‘Do you mind if I join you?’ I say suddenly. I feel the gaze of the others on me and wonder if I shouldn’t have asked. ‘Just for moral support?’ I add.
Tamil looks a little surprised but hesitates only a moment before she says, ‘Sure thing. The more the merrier.’
The Drop is cordoned off with police tape, a crime scene now. I’ve always found The Drop eerie, but surrounded by police tape in the rain and wind the energy of it is almost repellent. For the millionth time, I wonder why I agreed to move here. Gabe and Tamil also appear to eye it with distaste.
‘All right,’ Tamil says, ‘it’s cold and wet out here, so let’s get straight to it. I know this is going to feel repetitive, but I need you to tell me what happened, from start to finish.’
‘Okay,’ Gabe says. ‘Well, we were doing the dishes when Pip spotted her through the window. I came outside right away, and Pip called the police.’
‘Can you show me where she was standing when you first got here?’ Tamil asks.
Gabe points to a spot very close to the edge of the cliff. ‘Over there.’
‘And where were you?’
He points to the ground where he currently stands, several metres back from the edge. ‘Here.’
As Tamil photographs each of the places, I consider them. They seem a little different from what I saw. Then again, I was watching from the window. Perhaps my perspective was off.
‘What happened next?’ Tamil asks.
‘I approached her,’ Gabe says. ‘And I asked if she needed help with anything.’
‘Did she reply?’
‘She turned around. She was clearly upset. She might have been crying.’
A powerful gust of wind cuts through us. One of the legs of the police tent comes free and a couple of officers quickly pin it down. We all look at it for a moment, then Tamil says: ‘And then?’
‘I asked her if she was all right. She said her husband had been unfaithful and that she didn’t want to live anymore.’
‘Did she mention her husband by name?’
‘No.’
‘And she didn’t give her own name?’
‘No.’
She makes a note on her notepad. ‘What happened next?’
‘She kept talking, but the wind was so loud. I was only getting every second or third word. I moved closer, but the wind was wild, and I didn’t want either of us to get too close to the edge.’
Detective Tamil keeps writing, then flips a page on her notebook and looks up. ‘And then?’
‘And then it happened very quickly. One minute she was facing me, and the next she was facing the edge. I lunged forward to try to grab her but . . .’ He’s overtaken by a wave of emotion that I recognise as real. ‘It was too late.’
Detective Tamil’s gaze jumps to her notebook. ‘Sorry – you said you lunged forward? I didn’t see that in your statement. Did you touch her at any point?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘Well . . . I touched her ponytail. It flew up as she fell. It touched my hand.’
‘I see.’ Tamil makes a note of this. Then she looks up. ‘Can you show me how you lunged? Act it out? Over here.’
Gabe nods, moving across the grass to where she has gestured. ‘She . . . uh . . . started to fall and I . . .’ He steps forward, his arms starting wide and then slowly closing until he’s nearly touching either elbow. Detective Tamil watches him for a second, then she looks back at her notebook.
‘And I understand she screamed?’
Gabe straightens up. ‘Yes. At least I think she did.’
‘At what point did she scream? Before she jumped? During?’
‘During,’ Gabe says. ‘But again, I may have got it wrong. Maybe it was the wind.’
Tamil scribbles some more in her notebook. ‘All right. Is there anything else? Anything she said or did that you haven’t mentioned?’
‘No.’
‘In that case, thank you very much for your time,’ she says, returning her notebook to her pocket.
‘That’s it?’ Gabe says.
‘For now. We’ll be in touch if we need anything else.’ Tamil looks like she’s going to walk back to her colleagues, but she hesitates a moment. ‘I read the article in the local paper. It’s pretty impressive, the number of lives you’ve saved. Focus on that.’
She smiles, then moves off to join her colleagues, who are huddled under the newly fixed tent. The mood feels casual, I notice. A couple of them are talking about where to stop for lunch on the way back to Somerville.
No one suspects Gabe of anything, I realise. I know I should feel relieved by this, yet all I can think about is the position of Gabe’s hands when he acted out the lunge for Tamil, and how it looked nothing like what I’d seen out the window.
10
PIPPA
THEN
‘Pippa? You might not remember me. It’s Gabe Gerard, from the Botanic Gardens?’
It had been three weeks since our ill-fated first meeting. After he failed to call, I’d played out every possible scenario in my head, and eventually decided that my meeting with Gabe, and his subsequent invitation to the wedding reception, had been imagined. It made sense. So much about that meeting had felt strange and otherworldly. And so, when the call finally came, I was genuinely startled.
‘Pippa? Are you there?’
‘I’m here. And I remember.’
