Woman Last Seen(64)
“Okay.”
She didn’t ask but I felt compelled to plod on. “Because I don’t want him to feel any more awful about coming between me and my loved ones. He knows my family have boycotted the wedding, but not my friends.”
“Wow, your friends too.” It was clear she was now wondering what my fiancé had done to upset everyone so thoroughly.
“My friends are mostly from my childhood—my family are making them choose sides.” I knew I should stop talking. The more I said, the less convincing the story was. I’ve since learned that the best lies are brief and rooted in truth. I’ve gotten better at being bad.
“My family have very niche issues,” I commented.
“Takes all sorts. I’m not here to judge. So, let’s get some details about this wedding, shall we?”
Once I revealed the budget, Jess gently suggested that she could put me in touch with a couple of actors who “regularly play the role of wedding guests.” I realized her singsong voice was deceptive. Maybe her father hadn’t loved her mother. Maybe she knew more about the dark side of the world than I initially assumed.
“How does that work?”
“Well, they are given roles and characters before the wedding, much like you do at a murder mystery evening.”
“I see.”
“It’s no biggie. It’s just a way of evening up the seating.” When I hesitated, she added, “It helps avoid any awkward or potentially embarrassing questions. They can be such a downer at a wedding.”
“What might it cost?”
“Well, for my services, the bridesmaid and say five guests, we’re looking at—” She named a sum that made me inwardly gasp. “Good value for money when you consider what’s at stake,” she added, leaving me in no doubt that she understood that I was far from a normal bride, concerned with something borrowed, something blue; I was submerged in a world of subterfuge and dishonesty.
And after the wedding, there was the honeymoon. I told Mark I was away with work. My previously demanding role afforded me a cover. Daan wanted to spend two weeks on a remote island somewhere, drinking cocktails, rolling around on white sand. I agreed to five days in Venice, said I couldn’t leave my sick mother for longer than that. I felt superstitious about saying my mother was ill when she was well, but she’d always been quite wearing as a parent, not especially supportive. I told myself she owed me this. When she moved back to Australia I grasped at the convenience her absence offered me.
Lie after lie stacked up but the lies stopped tugging on my conscience. They became easier. They became part of me. I never thought of telling the truth. Leaving one or the other of them wasn’t an option for me. And it went smoothly. I was able to glide through weeks and months, into the first year. Beyond.
I realize that I’ve stayed in my head, confessed very little to my captor when I hear the typewriter keys being bashed again. It’s as though he has kept track of my internal monologue and drawn the same conclusion.
You’re a fucking liar.
The anger and impatience bleed from every word. “Yes, I told lies, but I didn’t break hearts! I didn’t abandon my children. I didn’t hurt anyone!” I yell back. It sounds selfish, maybe even unhinged, but the ease of the situation allowed me to believe it was okay. What I was doing was okay. And wasn’t it? For four years? Wasn’t it? Mark thought I was working harder than ever, heading toward a promotion and a larger salary, which we needed as a family but he could never provide, and Daan respected my commitment to my sick mother. My absences stopped him from getting bored of me, made him hungry for me. I gave them the marriages they wanted. I reach for the cold tea on the tray, but I am weak and shaky. As I unscrew the cap the bottle slips from my grasp. It spills over me and the floor. “No, no, no,” I moan. Fleetingly, I consider licking the floor, like a beast. I just stop myself in time because the smell of my own feces hits. Frustrated, unthinking, I fling the bottle at the door. It’s plastic so doesn’t smash. “What harm was I doing?” I demand. “What fucking harm? The old adage is true. Right? What you don’t know can’t hurt you.”
I hear the keys of the typewriter once more.
But I do know now.
And I am hurt.
So I am going to hurt you.
28
Fiona
Saturday 21st March
Fiona doesn’t know how, or even if, she should tell Mark that she recognizes Daan’s address. His name. She could explain that she once pitched for a client who lived in the spectacularly impressive block. The exclusive apartments in that development are worth millions. The place is serviced and pet friendly on the fashionable border of the financial district. It is dreamy. Telling Mark about Daan’s extreme wealth can’t help. It would just add fuel to the fire that was so obviously raging inside him.
The apartment that she pitched to transform was on the fourteenth floor. It was big but not quite the star of the show. Within just half an hour of being in the potential client’s company, it became clear that Mrs. Federova was obsessed with the penthouse apartment and Daan Janssen, the “very handsome” man who lived in it. She spoke about “the masterful design and modern luxury uniquely embodied in the three-bedroom, four-bathroom duplex penthouse.” She repeated the facts as though she was reading them from a brochure, her accent thickening as she practically salivated when sharing details about the wraparound terrace that offered “truly unparalleled” views. What Mrs. Federova seemed to covet most was the outside space that the penthouse boasted. “There is a wood-burning fireplace, a fully equipped outdoor stainless steel kitchen, a sundeck, hot tub, private outdoor shower, a Jacuzzi and a sauna,” she informed Fiona, with ill-disguised jealousy.