The Soulmate(10)

‘Apparently she never . . . you know . . . so who can blame the poor man for finding someone else?’

Mum was standing a few metres away. I’m not sure if the other mothers were oblivious to her, or if they simply didn’t care that she was listening. I do remember how small she looked, caved in, as though she was trying to make herself disappear.

That night, when I came into the kitchen for a glass of water, Mum was crying.

‘Are you all right, Mum?’

She was startled to see me and quickly wiped her eyes. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Just fine.’

‘Is Dad still with Miss McKenzie?’

Now she sat upright, shaking her head. ‘Of course not. Why would you say that? He’s working and he’ll be home soon.’

Did she actually believe that? I wondered.

‘Your father loves us,’ she added. ‘He does. He’ll be home soon, don’t you worry.’

My father left us for Miss McKenzie a few weeks later. Mum never recovered. In the years that followed, she never had another partner. It wasn’t for lack of interest; Mum had lots of potential suitors. But whenever I asked her about it, she said: ‘Your father was the love of my life. There will never be anyone else for me.’

How exquisitely, stupidly tragic.

That was when I decided I’d never marry my soulmate. From what I could see, marrying your soulmate was reckless. A commitment like marriage was best treated like a contract, with a list of terms and conditions, and the potential to extricate yourself if the terms were breached. If I left love out of it, I would never end up the way my mother had, I reasoned.

Unfortunately, as so many of us do, I turned into my mother.



Max is sitting in front of the television, in his tracksuit and socks, when he hears the doorbell. On the screen, of all things, is that plastic surgery show, Botched. I chuckle at that. He used to say he watched it for me, and he always had a thick book in his hands, but I know he enjoyed it too, because he rarely looked at his book and often said things like, ‘Surely you’d just stop having surgery, wouldn’t you?’ I wondered quietly what he thought was keeping my face so smooth and taut at fifty-two years old.

He rises from his chair and walks to the intercom, past the dining room table, where my laptop is open, the video still visible on his screen. I’d left it there for him, so he’d know I knew. He closes the lid on his way to the door.

‘Do you have news about Amanda?’ he says through the intercom before he even lets the police in.

‘It would be better if we talked inside,’ one of the officers says.

Max presses the buzzer and opens the door. Then he starts to pace the foyer. He finally reported me missing last night, after calling and looking for me in every conceivable place, but I assume he’d expected I’d show up somewhere – the farm, the city penthouse, the Portsea beach house. One thing to be said for having a lot of houses is there are plenty of places to hide. Still, the moment he’d realised I was missing, he’d had to consider the idea that something more sinister was at play. When you have associates like Max does, you always have to consider that.

‘Come in,’ he says when the police get to the door. But after closing it behind them, he doesn’t invite them any further than the foyer. ‘What is it?’

‘We’ve found your wife’s car,’ the policeman says. His face is sombre. ‘It’s parked near a known suicide spot, and a body that matches your wife’s description has been found there.’

Max turns positively grey. He staggers over to the side table and clasps the edge, as if to hold himself upright.

‘Mr Cameron?’ the young officer says. ‘Would you like to sit down?’

Amazingly, I hadn’t considered how the word ‘suicide’ would rattle him, until now. Max’s mother and brother had both taken their own lives after struggles with mental illness. The loss of them had affected him so deeply he’d started a foundation for mental health and suicide prevention. The idea that I might have died this way, I’ll admit, feels impossibly cruel.

‘No,’ he says. ‘No. She wouldn’t have taken her own life. She wouldn’t.’

The police officers exchange a look of pity. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

My lilac silk scarf is draped over the table in the foyer. Max reaches for it. There’s no denying the emotion on his face.

‘Mr Cameron,’ the policeman says again, and Max turns away, holds up a hand. Then he shoves his fist into his mouth and bites down hard, so the officer can’t hear him cry. Despite everything, my heart breaks a little.

Ah, marriage, you wonderful, complicated beast.





8


AMANDA

BEFORE



It’s funny the way memories float through your mind in certain moments. Max and I met, almost thirty years ago, when I was a waitress at his father and stepmother’s wedding anniversary party. Max, apparently bored with the company of his parents’ friends, was attempting to flirt by trying to take the tray of canapés out of my hands.

Max’s parents’ house was like nothing I’d ever seen. Marble everywhere. Arched doors leading to more marble reception rooms. It had a fountain inside the house and one of those grand sweeping staircases that split in two. The place was abuzz with music, laughter, dancing. There was a champagne tower. A jazz band. Rumour had it there were to be fireworks at midnight.