The Accomplice(36)

Irene appeared to be visualizing the act of putting on a coat. Then she spoke. “Phoebe from Sheffield. Ey up,” Irene said.

Tessa nodded. “Don’t know why you can’t use your own name.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Irene left after one drink. She could have easily gotten blotto, but she was afraid of what she’d do after that. She’d been staying in the London apartment for almost nine months, ever since she graduated from Vassar. Sometimes she was lonely, although she was rarely alone. Word had gotten out back home, and soon every acquaintance she’d ever had was inviting themselves for a visit. Eventually, Irene shuttered the doors of the Boucher Boardinghouse and claimed to be backpacking across Europe. She screened all her calls.

Irene passed a hair salon on her walk. It wasn’t one of the swanky ones her mother frequented, where you were greeted with a flute of champagne. A woman leaned against the brick wall, apron on, hair like a rainbow, smoking a cigarette. Irene turned back and regarded the smoker.

“I like your hair,” Irene said, using her regular voice.

“Thanks. You American?”

“Canadian,” Irene said. Then: “I’d like to make an appointment.”

“What are you doing now?”

The next thing Irene knew, she was wrapped in a smock and Fiona was painting her brown hair with bleach. Irene’s scalp felt like it was on fire.

“The price we pay for beauty,” Fiona said. “Fucked-up world we live in.”

It was hours later when Fiona finished. She wrapped the towel around Irene’s head and returned her to the chair. As she combed out the platinum-blond hair, Irene caught her reflection in the mirror.

“Fuck,” Irene said, floored.

“Jesus, you look gorgeous,” Fiona said.

When women went blond, that was the transformation they were going for but rarely achieved. For some women, the color didn’t do a whole lot. For others, like Marilyn Monroe and Carole Lombard and the customer sitting in Fiona’s chair, it was a game changer. A stunning transformation. If Irene had walked out of the salon, she would have turned heads.

But Irene was clearly not pleased. As she stared at her reflection, her eyes began to water.

Fiona could feel pain coming off the woman like heat.

“You’re gorgeous,” she said. “Why are you upset?”

“I look like…old pictures of my mother.”

Fiona thought maybe the mother was dead. “Can’t have that, can we?” Fiona said.

An hour later, Irene’s hair was cobalt blue. When Irene saw her reflection, she resembled neither her mother nor herself. Relieved, she smiled at Fiona.

“Thank you. I love it.”

At the age of twenty-two, Irene imagined a lifetime ahead of her. She would have done so many things differently if she knew she had only fourteen years left.





December 2003–March 2004


“Who am I?” Luna asked.

When Griff said that he knew who she was, Luna allowed for the possibility that he was speaking of her character in general. Luna wasn’t foolish enough to drop her cover until she knew for sure it was blown.

“We studied your case in law school,” Griff said.

Cover blown, Luna felt like she was sinking into the floor. “Is that really a thing?” Luna asked. “Do all law schools have me on their curriculum?”

Griff, hearing the panic in her voice, said, “No, no. It was just a small segment in a legal ethics class.”

“Did you tell Owen?”

“I didn’t tell anyone,” Griff said. “And you don’t have to worry about Owen asking now. He feels too guilty.”

“You think I should tell him, don’t you?”

“That’s up to you,” Griff said.

Hours after the disastrous game of Truth or Dare, the house was quiet. The neighbors had finally departed; Vera and Tom were in a deep alcohol-induced slumber; Griff tossed and turned; and Owen and Scarlet were in his bedroom, unambiguously awake. Owen had apologized for his harsh words, but the contrition felt hollow, because so were his feelings. Owen couldn’t remember a moment when Scarlet wasn’t crying. The tears felt deliberate, unnecessarily punitive, like nails on a chalkboard. Owen was certain that Scarlet would quit if she lost her audience. He went downstairs, gulped water, took a glass to Luna’s room.

Owen knocked and said, “I know you’re awake.” Luna opened the door and crawled back into bed. He delivered the tumbler of water and climbed into bed next to her. Owen closed his eyes and gulped oxygen. He rubbed his temples. He allowed his body, tensed for hours, to uncoil.

“Do you hate me?” Owen asked.

“I don’t hate you,” Luna said. “I’m disappointed.”

Owen was startled Luna would use the parental-shaming word.

“That hurts,” Owen said, wincing for show.

“Good,” Luna said, satisfied.

“I’m exhausted,” Owen said.

“You have to leave,” Luna said. “If she finds you here, she’ll—I don’t know. Be careful. She hates me now too.”

Owen slept on the living room couch. He woke before dawn. It wasn’t the kind of couch that invited sleep. He was in the kitchen, making coffee, when Scarlet turned up, standing in the doorway, stony-faced, raccoon-eyed. She resembled a character in a horror film. It wouldn’t have seemed incongruous if she had a knife in her hand.