As I clear the bank entrance and walk down the stone steps toward the Mercedes, that thought surfaces again, like a butterfly flitting in and out of sight: Don’t go back. Don’t get in the car. Don’t go back to the hotel. Ever.
I don’t know where these thoughts are coming from. Somewhere deep inside. My lizard brain. The limbic system, the part of the brain that wants things, the selfish part that doesn’t want to share. Our instincts, our gut reactions, all those subconscious involuntary processes, offering up their wisdom. Primal wisdom. Lizards aren’t pack animals, though. Humans are by nature pack animals. Yet I still feel the powerful tug to cut and run. To take what’s not mine.
I imagine Mark waiting in our suite, pacing back and forth, checking his watch, moving to the window, peering down onto the streets of Geneva, the sunlight slowly fading into night, streetlights buzzing on, and no sign of me. What if I don’t return?
I could go anywhere with this money; I could do anything now. I pause on the steps outside the bank. Out in the fresh air. I could be anyone. I have the means. I’m already this far in, why stop now? A thousand possible futures flood my brain. Beautiful lives, elsewhere. Novelty. Adventure. A yawning chasm of potential. Terrifying freedom. The car sits there, waiting across the street.
I am my choices. Do I want this family? Do I? Or do I want something else?
I keep walking toward the car, I pull the door handle, and I slide into the leather seat and slam the door. Twenty minutes later I’m back in the suite, Mark’s arms around me.
We’ve been back home for two days now. I won’t lie; it feels odd. The weather. The light. Being back. Back where we started. The plan is to carry on as normal. Fulfill our obligations, see friends, talk about the wedding, and, of course, get back to work. Well, work for me anyway. We’re filming with Holli tomorrow morning, in her home—technically, her mother’s home—and I’ve got a lot to get through tonight. I need to get my head back in the game. It’s important that nothing appears different.
Mark is beginning the process of setting up his own financial consultancy company. It’s a great idea; he’s got the skills, and he’s certainly got the professional experience, to run a company focused on helping those who already have lots of money make even more through targeted investment. The idea’s been brewing since Rafie’s text. If Mark can’t get a job, he’s going to make one! And we’ve got the startup funds now. He’s not going to take unemployment lying down; he’s going to get out there and make stuff happen. His plan is to eventually partner with Hector, who’s been working for a hedge fund since he was let go, once Mark has got the new company fully up and running. They met over the weekend to discuss potential client lists. For the sake of ease we’re saying this “startup money” is the money Mark got as a redundancy payoff. Nobody knows Mark got nothing after being let go, except Caro. And fuck it, why not? The world’s moved on from Mark; why shouldn’t he try to catch up?
I need to read through my notes before going with Phil to interview Holli tomorrow. It’s strange to think that while we bumped across the blue-green waves in the sunshine, Holli was stepping out into the chilly gray of North London for the first time in five years. Duncan, my sound guy, can’t join us tomorrow, so Phil will be covering sound too. He’s a trooper.
There’s lots of work to be done before the morning. But it’s hard to focus. My mind keeps juddering between two worlds. My old life and my new.
I glance at Mark, who’s trawling through piles of old business cards. Hundreds, thousands of them, twelve years’ worth of meetings, dinners, functions, networking drinks—each card a person. A person who could potentially be of help to us now. Mark’s kept every business card he’s ever received. I remember the first time I looked in the drawer he keeps them in, the horror. He studies them now, each one connecting with a time and place in his mind, a handshake, a conversation, a smile.
Mark’s met a lot of people over the years, and we may be able to use some of his old work contacts to find a buyer for the stones. He’s been looking into the legality of diamond sales; it’s amazing how much you can learn from the Internet. I don’t know how people managed without it. I honestly wouldn’t be able to do my job without it. And we certainly wouldn’t be able to do what we’re doing now.
I Googled Hatton Garden, London’s diamond district, in the airport lounge on our way back from Geneva. Absentmindedly, just looking at places to sell gemstones. It seemed like a fairly safe Google question. Not too suspicious. I could always argue that after the wedding Mark and I had agreed to sell my engagement ring to pay off some of the mortgage. It’s an option, selling the diamonds ourselves, but it could raise suspicion; it would be better if we could sell the stones through a private dealer, a middleman.
Mark is trying to cover all our bases—well, as far as it’s possible to do so. Apparently, it might be complicated but it’s not illegal to sell diamonds. Just very delicate. He’s been making tentative inquiries. After all this is done we’re seriously going to have to consider wiping our hard drives.
I think of the computer back in the business center of our hotel in Bora Bora. I wonder if they found out where their emails where accessed from. If they figured out where we were. If they’re even looking. Or have we just evaporated? I ran an Internet search on the company names I could remember from the translated emails, but I couldn’t find out anything. These people are shadows. Ghosts.
It’s getting late when the house phone rings. It’s about six and the London light has already faded around us, leaving us in darkness lit only by the blue glow of our laptop screens. I leap up, the sound jolting me back to reality, but Mark beats me to it. He’s been expecting a call back from someone about the diamonds.
His demeanor changes instantly at the sound of the voice on the other end of the line. He relaxes.
“Oh, hello, you.” It’s his mum. Susan. I can tell by the way he says “you,” drawn out and playful. They’re sweet together.
I try to dig back into my research while he tells Susan all about the honeymoon. She knows we came back a bit early because of my “food poisoning,” but this is the first real chat they’ve had about our trip. I catch snippets. Sharks, massive rays, empty beaches, the helicopter trip, tans and relaxation. I don’t know how long the conversation goes on for, but I snap back to attention at a sudden change in Mark’s tone.
“They what?” He stands tense, transfixed in silence, his face tight, as her muffled voice repeats. He lifts his eyes to me. Something is up. Something is wrong.
He waves me over and I join him by the phone.
“Mum, here’s Erin. I’m going to put her on; tell her what you just told me? No, just tell her what you just said. Please, Mum, just—” He hands me the phone. I take it, confused, and raise it to my ear.
“Susan?”
“Oh, hello, love.” Her voice is mild and slightly confused by the situation. “I don’t know what Mark’s annoyed about. I was just saying about your honeymoon…”
“Oh?” I look back to Mark, leaning against the sofa now, as he nods me on.
“Yes, I was saying it’s lucky you got ill, really, because of the news yesterday—” She breaks off like I might know what on earth she is talking about.
“What news, Susan?”
“In the paper. What happened.” She pokes me toward understanding but I have no idea what she’s—
Shit. What news? I look at Mark. Is it the plane crash? Have they found the plane? Is it in the paper?
“Sorry, Susan. What’s in the paper?” I try to keep my voice steady.
“The accident. That poor young couple. I was saying it’s lucky you weren’t still out there, because I know you had an accident diving yourself a while ago and it’s such a dangerous sport. It’s lucky you weren’t out there too.”
Oh God. A couple. Are they okay?