Dimple waits for me to fill the opened space with words. She’s good at waiting, but today, it seems she’d prefer not to. “But what?” she pushes me on.
“But I thought I’d feel more different, knowing I’m not a killer. And yet…I don’t know. Should my impulses, these dark thoughts, should they have gone? Because I’m not sure that they completely have. And if they haven’t, then what exactly is it that’s wrong with me?”
33
Now
At home, I try to keep my mind occupied as I wait for James to come back. I watch TikToks of people pretending to be happy, but they make me sad. I watch some of people who are genuinely happy, and I feel worse. I take myself for a restorative walk, as that’s something people do, isn’t it? But this town is a leafy kind of dead. I realize I hate it. With no chance of starting a family on the horizon, giving up London for its green barrenness feels like a sin. A cookie from a corner shop does little to lift my mood. I struggle to understand why I thought it would. And then I see her. The blur of a woman in a greedily large hoodie, wild dark curls pushing out of the hood. I catch a flash of brown skin and a blink of bright yellow from the back of her Doc Martens as she disappears down a side street. And it’s not just the outfit lifted from her uni days; the too-speedy smudge of her features looked just like her. Claire. It’s too much. Too much a reminder of how much I miss her and how much I now hate that I do. I return home. Pick my phone up time and time again, start trying to call Claire and stop. I want to scream at her until I’m hoarse. Want to tell her aboutJames. Want to hear her beg for forgiveness. That I can’t see a way to work through the betrayal leaves me feeling wrung out like a wet rag.
I wish I could say that I’m not dreading my husband walking through the door, but this morning was tense and uncomfortable. I’d almost convinced myself to have it out with him while brushing my teeth, but by the time I’d left the bathroom, he’d gone. No goodbye kiss.
Not long after my fourth attempt at reading something and my second glass of wine, I hear the sound of the keys in the door and straighten. For a moment, I think about discarding the wineglass. It’s becoming a habit, and I don’t want James to think I have a problem. But also, if I am developing a problem, probably good to have someone to hold me to account. When I start hiding the bottles, I’m already a lost cause. He materializes in the kitchen doorway, handsome as ever, but face taut. I’m not sure if it’s his day at work or the prospect of this conversation stretching his nerves thin.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” he replies. “People were asking after you in the office.” A beat. “I told them you’re okay.”
It’s awkward. I know it’s awkward. He knows it, too. But so much has happened between us that I don’t know how it couldn’t be. He tells me that Will’s recovering fine. They’ve not spoken, but Vanessa accepted a call from James to check in. Black eye, broken nose. Looked worse than it was. He reassures me that his violence was a one-off. I reassure him that I believe him. I apologize again for lying about George. He reassures me that he understands. Neither of us seems convinced by the words tumbling out of the other’s mouth.
When we go to bed that night, I curl up on the far side of the bed. I’m not sure what else to do with myself. And when I feel him move up beside me, pulling my back into his warm body, for a moment, I consider telling him to move away. But I feel his regret, feel my own, andhold his hand in mine. I think he’s preparing to let himself fall asleep when breath fogs warm on my ear.
“I can get the money. I’ve got some stuff from my father that I think I can…I mean, I know it has value. We’ll be okay.” A beat. “And I’m sorry things have been so shit, Nat.”
“It’s okay.” I want it so badly to be true.
In the morning, I’m almost convinced that things might not turn out totally horribly, that James and I will find a way. After all, it seems that perhaps we’re just as damaged as each other. It’s this thought that allows me to head into the office, fire off emails through the workday, contribute to meetings, act like a fully functioning member of my team, the threat of Will still present, but a bearable heat on my skin.
But when I get home, stepping into the lightly jasmine-scented air, my foot finds itself treading on a crisp white envelope. It stops me in my tracks. Turning the cold paper over in my hands, I can see it’s been sent by priority mail. I also see my name hand-printed in clear letters above the address. It’s not a bill or junk mail. This is something important.
Taking care not to slice my finger open on the paper, I rip the envelope open and pull the contents out. Staring boldly at me are words I recognize all too well.
I hate how much your opinion of me made up my opinion of myself. I hate that I ever let anyone ever have that much control over my self-esteem.
My letter to Marc. Or a photocopy of it, at least. And on the next page, my letter to Luca. And on the next, my letter to George. It only takes me a second to connect the dots. Motherfucker.
The feeling is stronger when it comes again this time, and unlikethe last, it doesn’t take me by surprise. Will is fucking with me. He’s taunting us. Wasn’t it enough to steal the money? Wasn’t it enough to worm his way back into the business? Did he think he could really send me to prison for something I didn’t do, too?
He might feel safe in the knowledge that in the past, my sister has fought my battles for me. Might make the mistake of thinking of me as powerless, someone he can walk all over. But I’m not the girl I was back then. Not powerless, just patient. Patient enough to get rid of him properly.
34
Now
There was a profound powerlessness I felt with Marc, with Luca, even with George. I don’t want to let myself feel powerless again. And so this is how I find myself pulling my second sickie of the week, trailing Will on a Friday morning.
He always goes to the gym on weekdays. A quick scroll on his socials gave me a good idea of which one, provided he hasn’t changed subscriptions in the last six months. I try not to tally how much of our money he could have paid back if he simply adjusted his lifestyle; I need a level head if I’m going to avoid being caught.
I’m currently staked out in the car, tucked away on a side street opposite the gym, waiting for him to appear. I’m not entirely sure exactly what it is I hope to see today, but I need to understand Will better before I make any moves. And nobody is more themselves than when they don’t know they’re being watched.
Eventually, Will strolls out through the gates, sweat drenched. I must admit that he doesn’t look as bad as I was expecting. I’m not sure if it’s my callousness that makes me think that, or the memory of his unmoving face and James’s bloodstained shirt. His eye has a few purplemarks around it and looks the slightest bit swollen. His nose is much the same on the bridge. Otherwise, he looks okay, expression suspiciously sunshiny on a newly ruggedly handsome face. I suppose extortion puts one in a good mood.
I watch as Will disappears into the nearby car park, turning my engine on. When I notice his car pull out, I slip out into the road, too, relieved that there aren’t too many cars between us when I join the main street. After about ten minutes, he stops. I panic a little but manage to find another side street to turn into with a space near the junction. I want to be able to see what he’s doing.
It soon becomes clear that he’s stopped for a pick-me-up, hopping into a café. I can’t see what’s happening in great detail, but it looks like there’s a woman at the front of the queue flapping. She’s rifling in her bag, looking up at the barista, and then rifling again. Her hand gestures grow increasing large as she dips in and out of the bag. I can see her head sink and her body begin to turn toward the entrance when Will darts forward. I see him slip a hand into a jacket pocket. Some passersby obscure my line of sight, but the next thing I know, the woman is walking away, a to-go cup in her hand and a smile on her face. She keeps touching a hand to her chest and waving at Will as she goes.
This act of charity grates against my perception of James’s older brother. The gesture seems nice. Selfless, even. Although perhaps he feels he can afford it when he’s stealing our money.
I’m preparing to pull back into the road when Will exits, but he surprises me by walking past his car and continuing up the street. I think about it for a split second and then throw caution to the wind, hopping out of my own car and pelting down the pavement to join the high street. I can only hope that Will doesn’t choose to turn around. After only a minute or so, he makes an abrupt left turn into a shop. I look up. The chemist. A visit for something mundane or somethingmore interesting? Pushing my luck, I creep toward the windows of the shop and watch him approach the pharmacy counter. It’s not a huge revelation, but for now, it’s enough. I file this stop-off away in my memory and return to the car.
