“You can go if you like,” Emily says.
“Is there someone I can call, to come and be with you?”
“No.”
“Nobody?”
Emily shakes her head. “I keep thinking he’s dead and imagining his face with blue lips and cold skin.”
“Don’t,” Jayne says. It’s a horrible image and she’s afraid it might trigger her. She tries to summon up some rationality. “Even if you think Edie’s capable of harming someone, why would she do it and admit to it in a letter? She has a daughter to think about.”
“I don’t know,” Emily says.
“Unless she didn’t write it,” Jayne says. The idea has just occurred to her. Why didn’t she question this earlier?
“She wrote it,” Emily says. “And I’m not going to stop believing that unless Paul walks through the door.”
The glass table between them reflects the window and thewindow reflects the room, where Jayne has put on the side lamps. It’s as if there are alternate realities. Jayne wishes she could dive into one where none of this has happened.
“Are you sure I can’t get you anything or call anyone?” Jayne says.
“Talk to me.”
Jayne feels wrung out, her limbs heavy. “I’m sure they’ll find Paul” is all she can come out with.
Emily makes an exasperated sound. “Jesus, Jayne, can’t you ever stop trying to manage other people? Who are you, really?”
Jayne’s not answering that. “I guess it’s time for me to go.” She stands. It occurs to her that whenever she’s here, she feels diminished somehow by the money that’s gone into this place, by its showiness. It’s not her. She just wants a quiet life with her man.
But it is a very big house for a very young woman to be all alone in. She feels a twinge of guilt. “You’re not afraid that Toby will come back?”
“I’m not afraid of him. He won’t come near me again.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Do you want to try me?”
“Get out.”
Something snaps in Jayne. She shuts her eyes. Sees things that she doesn’t want to see. Pixelated death. A buzzing starts up in her ears, low-grade, but persistent. She blinks. Emily looks hostile to her. Like an imposter. Perhaps none of this would have happened if she hadn’t joined their gang. The buzzing increases in volume.
“You want to know who I am but who are you, really?” she asks Emily.
“Who would you like me to be, Jayne? In fact, who do you think I am? A gold-digger? The girl who takes your husband’s best friend away. The common little slut you don’t want at your nice middle-class party?” Emily’s expression is snarled with sarcasm, but Jayne also recognizes self-hatred when she sees it, especially the brandthat women love to direct against themselves, and she feels a little bit of sympathy for Emily.
She tries to hold on to reality, to ask herself whether she believes something might have happened to Paul and she should remain here, to support Emily. Is it the right thing to do?
The answer is “yes.” Mark has gone to support Imogen. He asked Jayne to do her bit here. And she should.
Emily’s beauty is startling, even now. Strange, that I should notice that in this moment, Jayne thinks. And, then, I envy her. Beauty is power.
But there is something else in Emily’s face. Jayne’s seen it before.
It’s the look of a liar.
I walk toward the car. Toby is sitting inside it and he’s realized that I have the keys. He’s very still. There’s a slackness to his skin that looks like cowardice. Out of the corner of his eye, I believe he can see me approaching.
