“Oh, Amaryllis. It was almost a relief when I found someone else’s lipstick on Bart’s collar,” I say. “Bart had already accused me of paranoia, of listening at keyholes and eavesdropping. If I asked him what was happening at work, he’d snap an answer that put me in the wrong, as if I had no right to ask.”
I shake my head, remembering. Amaryllis seems perfectly happy to hear how my life disintegrated – slowly at first, and then in an avalanche.
“The Minx – his personal assistant – would turn up at the house with some papers to be signed. I’d invite her in. I thought of her as a friendly colleague. What a blind fool I was! We’d swap news about the network – harmless chatter – while I stapled and glued my furniture. It was insidious, Mishelle’s encroachment. I’d offer to make her a coffee, and she’d tell me to keep my gloves on, and she’d do it. Bart appreciated her visits. That’s an understatement.”
Amaryllis nods.
“I should have been more suspicious, but Bart was a celebrity. Everywhere we went, people wanted selfies with him. He adored the attention, but it didn’t mean I had to be worried, to feel insecure about our beautiful family, did it? Everyone knew he was my husband. It didn’t stop the Minx. Next thing I knew, he announced she was going with him to New York, to help with social media for his next set of interviews.
“After that first trip, I asked him if I should be worried, and all he did was laugh, as if our marriage was rock solid and I’d made the funniest joke. Or maybe it was a laugh of delight, that he should be so lucky that Mishelle, more than three decades younger, would be interested in him.
“There were so many trips – to Toronto, to South East Asia, accompanying senators. Mishelle was in our home office almost every day, helping tee up the interviews, the accommodation, the flights. And then she was in our bedroom – selecting appropriate shirts and ties and jackets for his interviews; and shopping with him for whatever else was needed; something Bart and I used to do together. They’d be in the living room surrounded by shopping bags, feet up, elated, exhausted. Of course I’d invite her to stay for dinner, to find out about the next trip.”
Amaryllis shakes her head.
“I’m so sorry, Lucy. You didn’t deserve any of that. I’m so glad you’ve made a fresh start, and I think your lamps are amazing.”
She turns to me and holds out her arms. She’s as soft as she looks, like the petals of a flower. Somewhere under all the layers there’s a strong centre, as she hugs me as if I matter.
I sigh and we exchange a smile as she steps back.
“I have some deadlines on my reviews, so I have to get back, but don’t you ever feel alone, Lucy. You knock on my door any time you need to talk.”
Just as she leaves, my phone lights up.
You did not deserve that, Mom, texts Phoebe. I’m so surprised, in a good way, that I sit down on the spot, in my hallway, and stare at my phone. It’s real. I didn’t imagine it.
Thank you, darling, I reply.Nor did you. Sorry about that footage of you as a child.
Not your fault, she texts.I saw what they did to you. It’s called victim shaming. We’re learning about it in college...
I’m about to reply, when she shoots me another message.
I’m sorry I victim shamed you, too. I’ve been mean to you, Mom. I cradle my phone to my chest. I want to phone her, to invite her over again and give her a hug. But this is our first real exchange since I left Bart. I don’t want to chase her away again.
Darling, I text back.You were hurting. I love you.
Love you too, Mom.
I fist pump the air ten times. I almost phone Violetta to thank her, but I know that’s ridiculous.
There’s another knock on the door. This time it’s Mrs B.
“Oh, Lucy. That was so unfair.”
“The tv thing? Please come in, Mrs B. I have a gift for you.”
“A gift?”
“You’ve made me feel so welcome here.” I hope to shift the topic, but Mrs B is on to me and won’t let go.
“I just knew you were famous. I thought I recognised you. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’m not famous, Mrs B. Far from it. Bart is the famous one.”
“Well, I used to admire his reports, but my opinion has changed. I’m switching stations. What was he like, as a person? Is that insensitive of me to ask? I think I had a bit of a crush on him way back, not that I ever told Mr B. He just seemed so authoritative. You’re not on drugs, are you?”
“Of course not. She made all that up. Bart was great in the early years, Mrs B, especially when we first met and I fell completely under his spell. He turned up in the network hair and make-up studio, an exhausted District Attorney, about to be interviewed on Prime Time, our channel’s most popular public affairs show. The director told me Bart looked ‘scary,’” I tell Mrs B. “‘If you don’t clean him up, Lucy, viewers will think he’s the criminal.”
