The Soulmate, page 9
‘Edmund Hillary’s sherpa, seven letters,’ Dad says.
Silence. I imagine them pondering it.
Tenzing, I think.
‘Tenzing,’ Gabe says.
Once again, I wonder how he is doing that. Sitting with my parents, doing a crossword. Pulling facts from his mind, facts buried below the immediate, the pressing, the horrific knowledge of what his wife has done. Yes, Gabe has made his share of mistakes, but that was when he was unwell. I don’t have an excuse. My involvement in this wasn’t an accident; my intentions were not noble. I made a choice without considering who I was hurting. That choice started a chain of events. Now Amanda is dead. Max has lost his wife.
I hear a cheer from the girls and deduce that the Freddo frogs have been distributed, and that’s when something occurs to me – something so obvious I can’t believe I hadn’t yet considered it.
Max.
Max is going to find out that Gabe was the one on the cliff with Amanda. In fact, he might already know. After all, the man does run a media organisation. No doubt he’ll go to the police with this information, and it won’t look good for Gabe: a former employee of NewZ who’d left in disgrace. Plus Max had slept with his wife! And Gabe had failed to disclose any of this when he was questioned by the authorities. Things are so much worse than I’d thought, I realised. Gabe could go to jail.
I hear the thud of little feet jumping for joy and then scampering around the house. I imagine chocolate melting in my little girls’ warm sweaty hands. In a normal situation, I’d insist they sit on their stools and wrap a tea towel around each of their necks (Gabe called this ‘Mummy’s straitjackets’) and I’d stand by with a damp face washer to clean their hands when they were done.
Freya will feel rattled by this sudden freedom. Asha will revel in it. When I get up, there will be chocolate on the couch and God knows where else. And yet, as further proof of my malaise, I can’t bring myself to care.
Gabe is good. He is a man who marches for causes, gives to charities, is brought to tears by a feeling that he isn’t doing enough. A man who spends hours on the edge of a cliff in the bitter cold trying to convince strangers to choose life, for heaven’s sake! A man who’d saved the lives of seven of those strangers! He can’t go to jail. If anyone should go to jail, it’s me.
The door to my room bursts open and the girls stand there with huge, chocolate-covered grins and sticky brown hands. Their eyes are glazed with sugary delirium. Even Freya looks slightly maniacal. I wonder how many Freddo frogs they’ve eaten.
‘Mummy,’ they cry, leaping onto the bed. They plant chocolate kisses on my face and make tiny chocolate handprints all over my pressed white doona cover.
Freya notices the destruction first. ‘Asha’s making a mess!’ she cries, her eyes wide and horrified. She points a chocolate finger at Asha, desperate to distance herself from the trouble.
Asha bounces on the bed, either oblivious or uncaring. I love them both so much in that moment, I think I might die.
‘Mummy doesn’t care,’ I say, grabbing Asha’s foot so she collapses onto me. Freya clambers on top of me too. There are fingers and heads and legs everywhere. I breathe in their sweet chocolate breath. ‘Mummy doesn’t care one little bit.’
24
AMANDA
BEFORE
I never got used to the wealth. Perhaps I would have, if the wealth had stayed at the same level as it was in the early days. Back then, we had a lovely house in a sought-after area of Melbourne. Two cars. A kitchen with a butler’s pantry and wine fridge. A holiday overseas every year – flying business class. But Max’s wealth was growing almost daily. Business class became first class. Tables at expensive restaurants turned into private rooms.
Having money hit me daily in ways I didn’t expect. Getting places was faster now that I could park in the most convenient location, regardless of the cost. Getting ready to go out was easier now that I’d shopped for ‘outfits’ – including shoes and a bag – rather than having to piece things together to see if they worked. I started ordering what I felt like when I went out for a meal regardless of cost. I caught taxis instead of trains. I bought myself a camera that cost more than my first car and was invited to photograph all the hottest events – fashion shows, design launches, architecture. I’d had no idea how many doors opened to you simply because of who you were – or, as in my case, who you married.
For the most part, Max and I were happy. I knew what Max needed from me at any given time and I supplied it: trust first and foremost, but also a listening ear, a home-cooked meal, sex, time to unwind. What surprised me was how much I enjoyed giving him what he needed. Charming the relevant people at dinner parties. Challenging him just the right amount. Being playful or serious, as required. Max also gave me what I needed: good company, a nice lifestyle and, most importantly, his fidelity. I couldn’t say I was in love with him, but as far as I was concerned that was a good thing.
But one night, a year or so into our relationship, things changed. We were hosting a dinner for some of Max’s colleagues and their wives. The dinner had been catered and served by staff in aprons, as usual. My role, as I’d come to understand, was to be fabulous, effortless, comforting.
The evening started much like they all did. I chatted with the wives about botox and face lifts, the latest place to go skiing, the most exclusive new villa to book for a holiday in Tuscany. Conversation at these functions was achingly repetitive, but it meant I could contribute without having to try too hard. Usually, I was more interested in what the men were discussing. To be clear, those topics were also achingly repetitive, but the subjects tended to offer more opportunity for a discussion beyond getting the name of a new aesthetician or travel agent.
The men’s conversation tended to be louder and more aggressive. They stood with their legs spread and their arms crossed, determined to tell you what they thought. Max was the only one who didn’t stand that way. He didn’t talk over the top of anyone or argue his point belligerently. He waited for a natural pause in conversation before he offered his opinion. If someone started to speak over the top of him, he stopped and listened to them before responding. Perhaps on a different person this would have conveyed weakness, but with Max it was the opposite. In any room or situation, it was clear that Max was the most important, the most powerful person present.
At these dinners, it was only when the staff invited us to be seated at the dinner table that the men’s and women’s conversation merged. Usually at this point discussions moved into more personal matters, like people’s health, their children, perhaps a scandalous news story that had caught people’s attention. This night, though, the men brought their pre-dinner conversation to the table; they were speaking of the plight of the unemployed. It wasn’t an unfamiliar topic. The wives were often involved in some sort of charity fundraiser that the men had been roped into attending. Typically, the conversations were sympathetic, if empty, trotting out someone’s sob story, mostly to affirm the speaker’s own privileged place in society and express gratitude for their individual circumstances. On this night, however, the conversation took a different turn.
‘But this is Australia!’ Steve said, nodding for a waiter to fill his glass. His cheeks were already pink with passion, or maybe with red wine. ‘This is the land of opportunity. People need to stop looking for handouts and pull themselves up by their bootstraps, am I right?’
Steve had inherited his very successful industrial cleaning business from his parents and been appointed CEO on his thirtieth birthday.
‘I’ve always hated that expression: pulling yourself up by your bootstraps. It gives the idea that anyone can do anything with hard work.’ My voice was quiet, my tone polite. I wasn’t drawing attention to the antagonism or prejudice of Steve’s comment, but I felt the energy of the room change as our guests absorbed the comment.
‘You don’t agree, Amanda?’ Steve looked amused.
‘No. There are a lot of reasons people can’t help themselves. Mental illness. Disability. Criminal records. Language barriers.’
I was thinking of my mother, of course, who’d spent a large part of her life unemployed despite attending hundreds of job interviews, each position more menial than the last. Her pelvis, which had been shattered in a car accident when she was twenty, meant she couldn’t work in a job that required her to be on her feet for long periods of time, and considering the kind of jobs she was qualified for, this made her virtually unemployable.
‘And that doesn’t even take into account the people who are working hard but just can’t get ahead because they are supporting their entire family,’ I added.
‘I’m not saying it’s easy,’ Steve said. ‘But opportunities are there, if you work hard enough.’
I couldn’t help it; I rolled my eyes. ‘And how would you know?’
A hush fell over the room. Steve’s expression became slightly less jovial. I felt Max’s gaze on me, but I couldn’t quite read his expression.
‘Oh, please. You’re not one of those bleeding-heart lefties, are you?’ Steve said. ‘All I’m saying is that handouts aren’t the answer.’
‘I disagree,’ I said. ‘In many cases, handouts are the difference between people feeding their children and not feeding their children – even for hard-working people.’
Steve held up his hands in mock fear. ‘All right, all right! I don’t want to offend the lady of the house. Let’s agree to disagree.’
Agreeing to disagree was the last thing I wanted to do, but it was clear that I wasn’t going to change Steve’s mind, and I could see our exchange was making the other guests uncomfortable. I was about to let the matter rest when Max spoke up.
‘But you didn’t answer Amanda’s question, Steve,’ Max said. ‘How would you know? When was the last time you had to pull yourself up by the bootstraps?’
Everyone turned to look at Max. His expression was calm, considered . . . and something else. Perhaps faintly amused?
Steve looked abashed. ‘All right. Why don’t we get off this topic and –’
‘Why? Because you’re not as qualified to speak to this complex issue as you suggested? Because you’re afraid that adding nuance to a bullish, one-sided commentary will diminish your argument?’
‘With all due respect,’ Steve started.
‘Actually,’ Max interrupted, ‘nothing about this conversation has showed Amanda the respect she is due. So I’d suggest you think carefully about what you’re going to say next.’
Everyone looked at Max as he sat back in his chair, resting his arm around the back of my seat.
That was the moment I fell in love with Max.
25
PIPPA
NOW
‘I‘m going to tell the police about my connection to Max,’ Gabe says at 2 am.
He paces the room in his boxer shorts. His thoughts on the matter have suddenly become infuriatingly, intensely clear. He wants to confess. He must. It’s so Gabe of him. But my thoughts are not clear. They are slippery and suffocating, flipping from one conviction to another so fast I feel dizzy.
‘You can’t, Gabe! You concealed the fact that Amanda was the wife of your former boss – a man who fired you. Do you really think that if you go to them with this information now, they’ll believe you had nothing to do with her death?’
‘It’s the truth,’ he says. Gabe’s voice sounds scratchy and hoarse. It reminds me that while I’ve seen Gabe in many different states – angry, manic, depressed, overjoyed – I haven’t seen him like this. I haven’t seen him afraid.
I’m afraid too. Afraid of losing him. If I’m honest, this has been my fear since the moment we met. Something about him has always felt fleeting, even after marriage, even after children. ‘But what if they don’t believe you?’
He sits on the edge of the bed. ‘Then I’ll go to jail.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘No. That can’t happen.’
I’ve always been a visual person. All over the house I have pinboards and blackboards and whiteboards decorated with brightly coloured post-its or whiteboard markers. When something is coming up – a birthday, an event, a deadline – it is right there, displayed for everyone to see. Gabe is not a visual person. For a while, I put his important dates on my boards too. It didn’t work, but I derived a perverse sense of pleasure from pointing out the occasion he’d forgotten.
‘It’s right here,’ I’d say, pointing.
For me, if I could see something, it would happen. And I can’t see a world without Gabe. That must mean something. Mustn’t it?
‘I’m not saying it will happen,’ Gabe says. ‘Just that it’s a possibility.’
I force myself to imagine Gabe going to jail. On a superficial level, we’d manage. I am the breadwinner anyway. Mum and Dad and Kat and Mei would rally around to offer emotional support. The initial flurry of activity after his arrest would help. I could turn my mind to logistics. Lovely, clear logistics. I would need to arrange for child care. The girls would need to see a psychologist, which would involve getting a referral and a mental health plan. I’d probably need one too.
There’d be the shame to deal with, of course. Both the internal and, of course, the external. News would travel fast. We live in a small coastal town. For the past year we’ve been cruising on our reputation of being good people. Lifesavers! But small towns are notoriously difficult when you aren’t popular. I wonder, suddenly, what the Hegartys would think. ‘They seemed like such nice people. They have children!’
We’d probably have to move again. To a city, where we could blend in. We’d need to make new friends, ones who didn’t know Gabe and I before. But ultimately, we would get through it – physically, at least. Emotionally is another story. Because I can’t let Gabe go to jail for a crime he didn’t commit – a death for which I am responsible. I can’t. I won’t.
The night ticks on, but we don’t sleep. At one point, we have sex. A bizarre thing to do, maybe, but not for us. Even in the most terrifying moments of our relationship, we’ve been able to connect in this way, with our hearts in our throats and dread in the pit of our stomachs. Sex has been our escape, our distraction, our apology. And over the last year, when we haven’t needed an escape or a distraction or an apology, it’s been our comfort, our pleasure. It’s something I’ve had tucked in my pocket of self-satisfaction. Gorgeous husband. Adorable little girls. Great sex. Soulmates, with a connection that I’ve never seen in another couple.
‘Why didn’t you just tell the police in the first place?’ I ask him at one point. ‘If you’d just told them, they would have been more likely to believe you.’
Gabe appears tortured by this. ‘I know! I wasn’t thinking. It never occurred to me that either of us could be suspects in her death. Amanda made the decision to jump. You didn’t push her and neither did I. I thought it would be written off as any other suicide . . .’
‘But surely you realised word would get out that it was Amanda Cameron on the cliff?’
‘I hoped it wouldn’t.’
‘And the suicide of Max Cameron’s wife isn’t an ordinary suicide.’
‘I know.’
And this, of course, brings us back to why he must confess. The reason our conversation has travelled in circles all night. There is no other conceivable option. Max will discover that Gabe was with Amanda when she died. Either Gabe goes to the police with the information . . . or they come to him.
‘I’ll go to the police station in the morning,’ he says.
This time I don’t argue; I just slide into his arms and begin to sob.
26
PIPPA
THEN
Freya was six months old when I fell in love with her. We were in the doctor’s waiting room when it happened. She had been fussy for a few days with a runny nose, and it seemed like a good idea to have her checked out. I was holding her upright against my chest when she let out a long, sleepy sigh. I inhaled her sweet milky breath and, just like that, my heart moved in my chest.
By then, I’d clawed my way back from postnatal depression. I attributed this to medication and exercise – as well as the Gabriel Gerard rehab centre, which regularly took me on excursions and provided opportunities for me to feel. No matter how resistant I was initially, every time Gabe took me out on a new adventure he helped me to connect with some part of myself that had been dormant. Little by little, I felt myself come back to life.
‘I feel better,’ I said to Gabe one day. ‘I feel . . . good. You fixed me.’
The wonder of it was indescribable, a confirmation of what I already knew about the power of my connection with Gabe. I was the fixer; we both knew that. Gabe was the dreamer. And yet, when I’d needed him, he rose to the challenge.
I was intoxicated by it, the yin and the yang. Unfortunately, as with yin and yang, there was a cost to my recovery. As life returned to me, it slowly leached out of Gabe.
It started with sleep.
In the past, I’d always been shocked by how little rest he needed. He was always so full of energy! But suddenly he was yawning all the time, turning in at 8 pm.
We laughed about it at first. Blamed parenthood. Look how wild we are now that we’re parents! Quietly, I was grateful that he was home at night, going to bed early. It beat the days when he stayed out all night.
When the tiredness persisted, though, I told him to stop getting up to Freya during the night. But even after nine hours sleep, he would wake exhausted. Dark circles appeared under his red-rimmed eyes. One Saturday, he slept the entire day, and when he got up around 6 pm he still looked awful. It made me think of the ‘black periods’ he’d described suffering from as an adolescent.
‘I think you should see a doctor,’ I said eventually.
I made an appointment for him with Dr Withers, our local GP, who tested his iron levels. When the tests came back fine, Dr Withers decided Gabe must have a lingering virus. I suggested that he get a second opinion, but Gabe told me not to worry.
