And fuck this life because it’s been out to get me from the start.
I don’t want to waste whatever time I have left feeling sorry for myself.
Sometimes you just have to accept the shitty hand life dealt you and play to win anyway.
There are things I need to do before it is too late.
5EDEN
October 30
I hide in the shadows until the police officer leaves, trying to understand the situation I am in, my eyes fixed on the door of the house that was supposed to be our forever home. Trying to run only drew more attention to myself, so I hid, stayed perfectly still, and held my breath. Running from something dangerous can make it even more determined to chase you. Moving to Hope Falls was meant to be a dream come true but now it feels like a nightmare.
How can my husband pretend not to know who I am?
Who is the woman in my house claiming to be me?
Why are they doing this?
It’s pitch-black and bitterly cold now. I’ve been crouching in the same spot for a long time and all of me hurts. The freezing air nips at my skin, my teeth chatter, and my body shivers, but I stay where I am. Watching. Waiting. Not knowing what else to do. If I had my phone I could call someone, but I left it on the kitchen counter like I always do before my run. I have no phone, no money, no ID; everything I own is inside the house. I need to think, but I’m so cold it physically hurts. Who would I call if I could? And what would I tell them? I have never been good at making friends or holding on to them, and finders doesn’t always mean keepers when it comes tofriendships. My husband has friends in London—people he works with mostly, people I have little or nothing in common with—and although I force my face to smile on the rare occasions I get dragged along to see them, his friends are not my friends. I’m just the wife.
The front door of Spyglass opens and I see them.
First Harrison, thenher. I watch with fascination and bewilderment as they walk toward his Porsche. He opens the car door for her—something he never does for me—before climbing into the driver’s seat and turning on the engine. I don’t know what to do. I consider throwing myself in front of the car but it seems a bit dramatic, and before I know it they have driven away.
Where are they going?
I run again, chasing after the car from a distance, but I can’t keep up.
I retrace my steps back down the hill toward the village, retracing my thoughts at the same time. Trying to make sense of something that simply doesn’t make any. I stop to catch my breath when I reach the harbor. I’m doubled over with exhaustion and fear, hugging myself for comfort and warmth, feeling like I might be sick. The black water mirrors the sky and is perfectly still, reflecting the moon, and Hope Falls is eerily quiet tonight. I look around me but everywhere is closed. The bars and restaurants don’t open until the tourists come back. Even the local pub, The Smuggler’s Inn, always looks empty. I haven’t met anyone here yet, I only spoke to the owner of the art gallery on the phone, but maybe she can help me. I start to walk in that direction, not knowing where else to go.
Even from a distance, I can see that the gallery is full of people. Their chatter and laughter spill out onto the cobbled street through the open doors and windows, and I’m so angry that tonight has not gone according to plan. This exhibition meant so much to me. I wonder if there might be a way to salvage the situation, but I don’t know how to explain what has happened, or my appearance, without sounding completely mad. Turning up in my running gear wasn’t thefirst impression I was hoping for, but maybe there is still a way for the exhibition to go ahead. I could find the gallery owner and explain that I got locked out of my house while out on a run. That’s not a lie.
The loud babble of conversation from inside the gallery stops abruptly just before I reach the entrance. The place is filled to the rafters with people I have never met, and the turnout is much bigger than I expected. I stay outside on the cobbled street, take a breath, and try to calm my breathing. I was right to be nervous about tonight but wrong about why. I hear the sound of glass clinking to signal the start of a speech, and when I stare inside through the gallery window I see that someone is about to give one.
It’s her.
The woman who was at my house earlier is standing in the middle of the gallery, wearing my black velvet dress. I can see her more clearly now, under the bright lights. I’d say she is around forty, a good ten years older than me, and clearly far more confident. Her long blond hair has been perfectly styled into loose waves framing her face, and her lips are painted a shade of red I would never dare wear. She’s holding a glass of champagne in one hand and my husband’s hand in the other, and everyone—including me—is staring at her.
“Without further ado, it’s my great pleasure to introduce you all to the very lovely and very talented Eden Fox,” says another woman I do not recognize. She’s talking aboutme, but she’s looking ather—they all are—and I feel as though I have been sucker punched when the woman pretending to be me starts to speak.
“When Harrison and I moved to Hope Falls I knew it was going to be a very special place for our family. Thank you for making us feel so welcome these past few weeks, and for this, my first ever art exhibition. As you can probably tell from my work, I am obsessed with the sea. I’m so grateful to the Saltwater Gallery, to all of you for coming tonight, and last, but never least, to my Harri for encouraging me to paint again and for being the best husband in the world.Cheers to you all. I hope you have a wonderful evening, and please buy my work!”
What the actual—
The packed gallery erupts into spontaneous applause and laughter and it feels like they are all laughing at me. Because this has to be a joke.
Harrison is smiling at her. He looks so proud. I don’t understand.
This was my night. My paintings. My exhibition.
I am not going to let this woman steal my work, my husband, my life.
I won’t let her take what is mine.
I push my way through the clapping crowd, trying to reach Harrison, and her, ready to confront them both about whatever this is, when a hand grabs my arm. I am not used to being manhandled and look up in shock to see the police officer who was at my home earlier. He smiles but it is not kind.
“I think it’s time to go.”
