“It’s an outside firm. Of course, I do the first pass—that’s the stuff you see. But I send everything for an external financial audit. Sometimes they’ll give me accounting suggestions, things like the accrual approach, off-balance items, accelerated revenues, you know.” Imogen invented furiously, hoping to terminate the conversation with a mishmash of financial terms. Celeste went quiet and Imogen momentarily thought she was off the hook. She took two steps backwards, but Celeste wasn’t done with her.
“I got a call before we came here.” Celeste’s voice was almost singsongy, but it had a serrated edge. She picked herself up off the couch and stood, unsteadily, facing Imogen. “They left a message. It sounded really official, like a fraud department or something, and I think I’m supposed to call them back. Immmmy’s in trouuuubl . . . ohmygod.” Celeste’s hands shot up to cover her mouth. “I’m gonna be sick.” She brushed past Imogen and raced down the hallway.
Imogen didn’t follow her, but she heard the stream of vomit hit the water in the toilet bowl. The splash was almost enough to make her retch as well.Fuckfuckfuck.Hopefully, Celeste was so drunk she wouldn’t remember asking about her money, because if she didn’t drop it, they were potentially going to have a problem. But the call . . . every nerve in Imogen’s body was suddenly on fire. The call was very definitely a big fucking problem.
21
MARTA
Bloody juices pooled on Marta’s plate. Dinner that night was braised short ribs—the meat tender and falling from the bones—and she was pleased with how the meal had turned out, although it seemed she was the only one enjoying the food. Celeste announced that she was going through a vegetarian phase as she helped herself to the asparagus and a few crispy potatoes. Marta decided not to tell her that she’d done the sides using beef tallow; the woman needed to eat something to soak up all the booze. Bernie took her usual disciplined portions and ate mechanically, seeming distracted. Imogen was the worst of the bunch. She picked at her food, complained that she felt fat, and lamented that Marta hadn’t prepared something lighter, like a salad. Frankly, Imogen looked a bit ridiculous, having dressed for dinner in a fussy corset top, skin-tight leather pants that creaked when she moved, and sparkly jewellery. Marta was still in her sweatpants and was relieved that Celeste and Bernie had also kept it casual.
“Sorry, Imm, but it’s not like we’re doing a health kick this weekend.” Marta gestured at the troop of empty wine bottles that had colonized the kitchen island.Why didn’t you help with the menu if you wanted something different?“I thought this was one of your favourite dishes.”
“No, it’s totally great and everything.” Imogen prodded the mound of meat on her plate. “But it’s so heavy, you know? After all the wine and candy, I could do with a green infusion.” She reached for an open bottle of red in the middle of the table to top up her glass. “Thanks for cooking, though.” As she poured, the candlelight splintered off her cocktail ring, an emerald stone in an art deco setting.
Like a magpie, Celeste fluttered to life, abandoning her plate of vegetables to coo over Imogen’s jewellery. “Ohmygod, stunner! Are you kidding me with this? That can’t be real. Where did you get it?”
Imogen held her hand up, preening as she explained that she’d bought it at a Sotheby’s auction—“a silly whim!”—turning her wrist this way and that way so the stone caught the light. “Here, try it,” she said to Celeste. She had to give it a few tugs to get it off, leaving her ring finger slightly red and dented.
Imogenwouldbuy a too-small ring and force it to fit her finger, Marta thought. How totally on brand for her to downplay the purchase as a little thing but also make sure everyone knew it was expensive—becauseSotheby’s—and bring it to a freaking cottage weekend. Marta reflexively spun her wedding ring, a simple band of gold that she and Derrick had bought on a romantic two-for-one sale at Costco, and wondered when she could reasonably stop wearing it. After all, she should start thinking realistically about her future.
Celeste happily accepted Imogen’s offer to try on her ring, making a remark about how it would probably be too big for her—Marta caught the flash of annoyance cross Imogen’s face—but, ah, voila! It snugged nicely onto her index finger. Now it was Celeste’s turn to wave her graceful hand around, admiring the green glitter with covetous eyes. Imogen took a sip of wine and waved magnanimously at Celeste. “Wear it for the evening. It looks good on you!”
After they’d eaten, the four women stayed seated around the dining room table, having reached a post-dinner paralysis; everyone was finished, but no one had the energy to clear away the plates and make a move to the more comfortable seating options in the sunroom. They hadn’t bothered to turn on the overhead light after the sun dipped below the horizon (turning the sky a purply blue, then navy, then black), so the room flickered in the glow of scattered tea lights. The dining room had one wall of windows looking out over the lake, a stunning view during the day, but at night it was like looking out into the void.
Marta sat facing the wall opposite the windows, on which there were a number of framed maps of the lake that showed depths and currents and temperatures. She supposed this would be useful for the type of guests who were interested in hard-core boating and fishing expeditions, but not so much for this sorry gang of drinkers and loungers. She was already disappointed in how the day had gone, and she got her feelings hurt all over again when she suggested they get into their book club discussion.
Imogen shut her down. “Ugh, not tonight, Marty. Let’s save it for tomorrow. I’m too drunk for a serious conversation about the ethics of true crime reporting.” Celeste agreed and Bernie shrugged her indifference. “Come on.” Imogen rose from the table and gestured for the others to join her. “Let’s go get comfy and talk about stupid stuff. Like Marry, Fuck, Kill—but we’ll leave the husbands out of it.”
22
CELESTE
“Psst, Celeste.Come here. I need to talk to you.”
Celeste had already said good night to the group; they seemed intent on keeping the party going, but she was too far gone. She sat on the toilet for a long time, brushing her teeth and trying to muster the strength to take off her makeup. Eventually, she got up to look in the mirror. Her face was swollen and her eyeliner had smudged and settled into the fine lines beneath her eyes that injectables couldn’t seem to fix—a web spun by a vindictive spider who’d taken up residence the year she turned thirty. Celeste dug around in her makeup bag and found some quick wipes, deciding that they’d do for now. There was no way she was going to get through her usual eight-step skin care routine while feeling so wobbly. A few swipes at her eyes and she decided she’d done a good enough job for the night. She re-braided her fishtail plait to set herself up for a beachy look the next day.
Leaving the bathroom, she walked the hallway to her bedroom with her hand against the wall for balance. It would have been better to turn the lights on, but at the moment she simply could not remember where the switch was located. That’s when she heard the voice beckoning her.
“C’mon, it’ll only take a minute.”
“What?” Celeste was too drunk for this. “No, I’m tired. I’ve gotta go to bed.” But her friend was already holding her by the elbow and leading her out the back door. Resisting was too hard. “What’s going on?”
“It’s about Harry. There’s something I need to ask you, but not in front of the others.”
Celeste’s heart thrummed at his name. She blinked a long blink and the next thing she felt was the wet ground beneath her sock feet. She was arm in arm with her friend as they walked away from the cottage—when did we leave?—and down toward the lake. Lately, her memory skips had been getting worse when she drank. The brownouts were more frequent, the blackouts no longer as rare as they’d once been. She had a flash of concern that she wouldn’t be able to remember this in the morning, but the thought winked out of existence just as fast as it had appeared.
Her friend steered them away from the dock, veering down toward the rocks on the far side of the cottage. Celeste felt like a Ouija board planchette, moving without any effort on her part. When they got to the rocks, Celeste looked back at the cottage, a glowing beacon spilling warm light from the sunroom windows. The rain had finally stopped, but the sky was still overcast and she couldn’t make out a single star. She thought that if she sat down, she might not be able to get back up again; the dark lay like a weighted blanket over her shoulders.
But there was an insistent tug at her elbow, then another, and suddenly she was bending at the knees and folding herself into a seated position. The rocks were uncomfortably wet and cold. They really should have gone to the dock and perched in the Muskoka chairs, those would probably be drier, this spot was no good. But the seat of her jeans was already soaked through, and it was too late, so she decided to go with it.No, wait, why am I here? I’m going to bed.Celeste struggled to piece together why they’d come outside in the first place, then she remembered:Harry.
She blinked and the world spun and all she wanted to do was lie down.Why couldn’t this wait until morning?She’d have to go to the kitchen to make a hot water with lemon before she got into bed, otherwise she’d never be able to shake the chill. Celeste shook her head slowly, trying to focus, then turned to face her friend and asked, “What about Harry?”
She never saw it coming.
23
FILTHY FUNDSS4E06: SACK(LER)S OF SHIT
