Rowan should be proud of me. After all, I’ve managed to conceal the fact that I’ve not had sex with my wife for a damned long time (the date of our last sexual encounter eludes me). Fact: Claire will never have the guts to admit in public that our sex life has gone into hibernation. The truth about our relationship should remain a secret known only to the two of us.
A suited man with a flamboyant quiff is trying to get my attention from the right-hand side of the room. He’s standing next to a man in a green jacket, hand gripping a television camera. Its lenses are pointed in my direction.
“Mr. Evans,” he says. “Bruce Bernard, crime beat, ITV. A dead woman was found in the River Cam this morning.”
Shit.
Even though I know Bernard’s camera is trained on me, I’m unable to stop blood draining from my face. So that’s why so many journalists are lurking around in Cambridge—and at my press conference—this morning.
“The woman has since been identified as Sophia Alyssa Ayling, a resident of neighboring Grantchester,” says Bernard. “You were interrogated by the police earlier this morning. Could you explain why?”
Gasps resound across the room. Rowan stiffens at my side; I swear he’s also beginning to hyperventilate. I ought to have told him about Richardson’s arrival this morning and my subsequent Parkside ordeal, but I didn’t have an opportunity.
Did Sophia really live in Grantchester? What was she doing there?
“I…I…er…”
I gulp, still casting about for an appropriate answer. The journalists in the room are craning their heads forward, sensing delicious copy. They look like a pack of bloodthirsty hyenas closing in after a kill.
“I was…er…horrified when I heard the news,” I continue, trying to sound as much. “I also felt that it was…er…my duty to help the police. My diary says that I met Miss Ayling at a writers’ conference two years ago. Her behavior suggested that she was obsessed with me and my books. The police, as far as I understand, are trying to build up her psychological profile. You’re a crime beat journalist, Bruce. I’m sure you’ve learned that every little detail helps in this regard. The police haven’t yet dismissed suicide as a possibility, it seems. After all, Miss Ayling was in a mental institution for seventeen years before she was released two years ago.”
Dear God. I have waffled on a bit. But I may have averted disaster with that final juicy detail about Sophia. Bernard’s scribbling away in his notebook, knitting his eyebrows in concentration. I draw in a surreptitious sigh of relief. Rowan’s relaxing a little, too. A woman in the front row is waving her mobile phone at me. I raise a hand, hoping she will steer the subject away from Sophia.
“Jane McDonald, Woman’s Weekly. I interviewed you and your charming wife, Claire, for an article last year.”
Ah, yes. Fact: A journalist named Jane McDonald came to our home for an interview last December. My diary also contains a few rude remarks about her. She had turned out to be more interested in Claire’s orchids than the books I’ve written, even though she claimed to be researching unorthodox sources of literary inspiration.
“My diary tells me that Claire’s a remarkable woman,” says McDonald. “I was impressed by her mince pies and her ideas for home improvement. We even featured a few photographs of your living room in our Christmas issue. Claire and I have since kept in touch. We both love exotic flowers, you see. In fact, we’ve been sending each other the occasional text message.”
I wonder where this inconsequential ramble is heading. But it’s better to have journalists do more of the talking. I should just keep quiet for the moment.
“Your wife’s sent me another text,” she continues, her tone pregnant with ominous implication. “Just about a minute or so ago. It’s an interesting one.”
Oh, no. I know what’s coming. Damn it. I should have interrupted McDonald earlier and moved on to the next person. But it’s too late now. An eager hush has descended on the room. The journalists are leaning forward as a rapt collective, sensing blood again. I retract my right hand behind the podium before spooling my fingers into a fist to prevent them from trembling.
That scheming woman at home.
“She says she’s divorcing you, Mr. Evans.”
Fury is etched on Rowan’s face as he bundles me out of the conference room. I wonder if I’ve ever seen him in such an apoplectic state before.
“Why didn’t you tell me about Claire?” he says, choking on his words. “And about that dead woman?”
“I didn’t get a chance—”
“A chance? You’re on the fucking verge of ruining everything—”
“I know, but I did try to salvage things when that woman brought up Claire—”
“Salvage?” Rowan’s face is getting redder. “You dug yourself an even bigger hole when you said that you and Claire had a ‘tiny disagreement.’ That things will be ‘all right again soon.’ At that point, I wanted to reach out and clamp your mouth shut. Do you realize what you’ve done?”
I remain silent.
“You’ve gone and screwed yourself. Chopped off your own balls in the process. By admitting you’ve fucked up with Claire. Which suggests she’s dead serious about divorce.”
Bloody hell. Rowan’s right.
“I can already picture tomorrow’s headline: MARK EVANS’S MIXED MARRIAGE COLLAPSES: DO THESE LAUDED UNIONS REALLY WORK? Your political career’s dissolving even before it’s started.”
“But I’m sure that Claire can be persuaded to change her mind…”
“You’re a fucking idiot.” Rowan gives me another vicious glare. “Even if Claire wakes up tomorrow with a forgiving heart, it’s clear to everyone that your marriage is on the rocks. She must be damned pissed off with you if she’s getting dramatic.”
I gnash my lower lip.
“No one elects a man who can’t keep his own household in order. No one.”
“But I couldn’t think of anything else—”
“You should have said it wasn’t Claire. That it’s unthinkable for her to have written a message like that. People get prank messages and calls all the time. The text was from someone else. Someone with evil intentions. An ulterior motive. A heinous one. You’re a fucking writer, Mark, for God’s sake. You can figure out the right adjective. The point is: someone out there is trying to bring you down.”
Spin Doctor Rowan is right. I should have said something along those lines. Weariness overtakes me again; I spot a stool a few feet away and collapse on it. Rowan, however, remains standing with his arms folded.
“Denial’s the first rule of politics,” he says with a growl, spitting his words out. “Especially when you think you might be heading for disaster.”
I ought to write these two points down in my diary tonight.
“I’m sorry,” I say, hanging my head. “My brain stopped working when that woman brought up Claire. I had a really tough morning. Especially after the police showed up at my door.”
“Don’t even get me started on the dead woman.” Rowan gives me another withering look. “That ITV guy nearly gave me a heart attack. Only guilty people get interrogated, mind you. But you did well there, saying she’s a suicidal nutcase. You’re clearly capable of improvising when you need to. The business about Claire is worse. Much worse.”
“So what do we do?”