The Accomplice(53)

Irene, March 2005


Irene’s timing was terrible, but it could have been worse. She could have done it the day of, while her mother was having her hair done, getting sewn into her lace gown. Irene had been debating what to do, whether she should say anything at all. She decided that if she didn’t, she’d always regret it.

Chantal Boucher wanted a simple, relaxing night alone with her daughter. The next day would be long, chaotic, and, Chantal hoped, perfect. She wanted to reserve all her energy for her wedding day. Her third, and hopefully final, wedding. Irene and her mother were booked in a two-bedroom Gatehouse suite at the Stafford Hotel. It was Irene who’d suggested room service. It would be easier that way.

Irene devoured an entire plate of chips. Then she dug into a steak. Chantal tracked her daughter’s consumption of everything.

“I was like that at your age,” Chantal said. “Enjoy it while it lasts. Because it won’t last. I swear I gained five pounds every year after age thirty.”

They’d had that very conversation too many times to count. Irene was so tired of the way her mother, and even strangers, commented on her body as if it were their own. She was the object of envy and doubt. She was the kind of skinny that made many people question whether her food was staying down.

Irene followed up her steak with Veuve Clicquot. One flute down, then another. Chantal told Irene to pace herself and reminded her daughter of the nine-thirty a.m. appointment at the salon. Blue hair was forbidden at Chantal’s wedding.

“I don’t care what color you choose,” Chantal said, “so long as it’s one that humans had before the invention of hair dye. Do we understand each other?”

“I understand,” Irene said.

Under different circumstances, Irene might have pushed back. But her hair was the least of her concerns.

“Mom, you don’t have to marry him.”

Chantal’s lips pursed, her gaze sharpened. God, Irene hated the way her mother’s face scrunched when she was angry. Chantal’s darker emotions had a contagious effect on her daughter, emboldening Irene.

“Don’t marry Leo. He’s a creep. I know at least three girls from college that he slept with,” Irene said.

“Oh god,” Irene’s mother said.

She wasn’t shocked by Irene’s statement but rather disappointed. In her daughter, not her betrothed.

“You can’t trust him,” Irene said.

Chantal crossed the room and picked up the hotel phone. She called guest services and asked to have the room-service table taken away. She told them not to knock. That she’d be asleep. Irene understood that Chantal was done with her. The conversation was over.

Irene threw on her jacket and slipped on her boots. “I’m going out.”

“Why don’t you stay at the apartment tonight? Then you won’t have to worry about waking me,” Chantal said.

“Sure,” Irene said.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Chantal said.

“Are you sure you want me to be there?” Irene said.

“At my wedding? Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re my daughter. What would people say if you weren’t there?”



* * *



—

After dropping her luggage at the apartment, Irene went to the Three Legs. Tessa served Irene her usual gin and tonic while chatting with a boy or man Irene hadn’t seen before. He was young and lean, wearing a plaid blazer and a striped tie. His almost-black hair, chin-length, was combed back and tucked behind his ears. His outfit, Irene thought, looked charmingly ridiculous. He was handsome, in a young, vaguely effeminate way. He couldn’t have grown a beard if his life depended on it.

Tessa delivered a beer to the young man and said, “Hope it’s cold enough for you.”

“What?” the guy said.

“We don’t get many Yanks in here,” Tessa said.

“Not a Yank. Canadian,” he said. “I’m from Halifax.”

Tessa nodded and smiled. She served a drink to the blue-haired girl to his right.

“Owen from Halifax,” Tessa said, “meet…uh—wait, remind me.”

Tessa wasn’t sure who Irene wanted to be that day.

“Phoebe from Sheffield,” Irene said.

“Right,” Tessa said with a subtle wink. “Phoebe.”

“Hi, Owen,” Irene said.

“Hi, Phoebe from Sheffield,” Owen said. “I like your hair.”

“Thank you,” Irene said. “I like the way your jacket and tie are begging for attention.”

“When you’re done with that drink, can I buy you another?” Owen asked.

Irene finished her drink in one take. “Why not?”

They ordered another round.

“I’ve never been to Halifax,” Irene said.

“Glad to hear it,” Owen said.





October 13, 2019


Griff wished he hadn’t asked the question. If Luna thought Owen was a killer, she wouldn’t still be friends with him. He wondered if she’d tell Owen about their conversation.

“I shouldn’t have asked. I’m sorry,” Griff said.

“That’s okay,” Luna said.