I once remembered more good than bad about Mark. Now I recall more bad than good. And that’s the whole bloody problem. Because it’s the sum total of minuscule remembered gestures that makes love powerful. It’s the agglomeration of tiny recollected grievances that makes hatred potent.
My dossier’s thick enough. I already have everything I need on his suicidally depressive wife. Thanks to the nice, obliging Helmut Jong (shame it had to end between us). I even have everything I need on Mark. Thanks to my strategically positioned pin-size video cameras.
I suppose I can go to the press with my dossier anytime. Brandishing a 144-GB memory stick full of gripping bedroom escapades. Scintillating scenes of sex and punishment. One phone call is all it will take. I don’t even have to show them the videos. The mere suggestion that they exist is good enough.
When hell implodes, even the heavens will melt. Particularly that snug little “Evans heaven” in the village of Newnham. One untainted with the slightest whiff of scandal thus far. But I should wait. For the right time. Because timing is everything.
Patience, Sophia, patience.
Revenge only comes to those who wait.
And scandals are only scandalous if the timing is right.
11 February 2015
So Mono Housewife has been hiding another secret. The Cambridge Flower School isn’t really a flower school. It’s a fucking front for budding sorts. Delusional Mono writers, to be precise.
She didn’t go this morning. Drove by Newnham and saw her Range Rover parked outside. Must have been ill. So I went to Linton instead. Just to check what kind of flowers she’s been sticking into pots on Wednesday mornings. You never know what sort of dirt can be attached to shrubs.
A man with a leprechaunlike demeanor greeted me when I strolled into the lily-infested foyer. A space that both looked and smelled like a funeral parlor.
How did you find out about us? he asked.
Claire Evans, I said.
Ah, he said, tapping his nose and winking in response. I’d fully expected him to say, Blooms or greens? Instead, he said: Novel or short story?
I stared at him in surprise.
Whatever Evans normally goes to, I managed.
Short story, then, he said, pointing in the direction of the basement. Room B112.
I couldn’t bring myself to walk back out again. Not when I was hooked by this unexpected turn. So I went to the basement. Twelve hazy, dim-witted faces swiveled in my direction as I sauntered in and sat down at a large table that groaned under the weight of writing pads.
Welcome, said a man at the head of the table. Rheumy eyes and wispy mustache. We are always delighted to welcome new members to our Mono writing group. The last time someone new joined was three years ago. What’s your name, and what are you currently writing?
I blinked, my mind a brief void. Before coming up with the inspired: My name is Mariska Van Dijk, and I’m writing a story about a woman who was incarcerated in a mental asylum for seventeen years before seeking her revenge.
Nice, a woman said. That’s thematically similar to the story Claire’s writing. A Mono who was imprisoned in a claustrophobic marriage for twenty years before breaking free from her shackles.
I gaped at her. So Dear Mono Housewife has literary aspirations inside her pitiful little brain.
How do you keep track of what inspires you? someone asked. We’re always open to new suggestions.
Inspiration just sticks in my head, I said, prompting incredulous expressions all around the room. The questions went on and on, during which I progressed from squirming in my chair to being thrown out of it. Especially after a man asked: Do you write in your diary twice a day, just to give you an edge?
I don’t even bother writing at the end of each day, I said. Let alone twice.
Big mistake, as they say.
Huge.
She’s a Duo trying to infiltrate our precious group, a woman gasped. Eyes big and horrified. If so, we should throw her out.
I’m not a Duo, I said. I don’t really need diaries, either.
She’s crazy, someone yelled. Utterly bonkers.
Definitely a Duo, someone else shouted. But a mad one.
We have no room for delusional Duos in this writing circle, said the man at the head of the table, wispy mustache twitching mournfully. If you could kindly leave now, Miss Van Dijk.
You are the delusional ones, I said, rising from my chair. Not me. Trying to write when you can barely read. Thinking someone will publish your Mono drivel.
If looks could kill, I would have dropped dead in Linton. But I was smart enough to evacuate. After all, the last time people discovered I wasn’t keeping up my diaries, I ended up in the Outer Hebrides.
So Mono Housewife’s attempting to cure her suicidal depression by putting it all down on paper. How wretched. Or maybe she’s trying to mimic her husband’s success as a writer. How illusory.
Shame I didn’t get any extra dirt today. Only a miserable little secret. But it’s reassuring to learn that she’s both pathetic and delusional. I bet he didn’t realize that when he married her all those years ago.
Which makes him just as pathetic.
14 February 2015
I can’t believe this. More dirt is indeed lurking out there.
What a revelation. What a delight.
It all began when he called this morning. To cancel on me. To apologize.
He can’t spend Valentine’s Day with me, he said. Though he really wants to. Even if he has fantasies of tying me up to that four-poster bed.
Why? I asked.
A representative from the city council rang minutes earlier, he said. The Cambridge mayor has taken ill. Will no longer be able to open the Valentine’s Day charity masquerade ball at the Guildhall as planned. Could Cambridge’s famous resident author perform the honors instead? Part of the ball’s proceeds will go to the author’s chosen charity.
This is huge, he added. His political campaign will benefit from all the local publicity it can get.
Of course, I purred. Great things seldom come planned, do they? One should embrace opportunities as they come along. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the ball tonight. Aren’t authors pretty damned good at masquerading, anyway? They have a tendency to hide their incompetence behind flowery, adverb-infested prose. Make sure the Cambridge Evening News takes a flattering photo of you, my darling. Don’t forget to show off your political pecs—or literary creds.
You’re the most understanding woman I’ve ever met, he gushed in response. The most perceptive. And the most intelligent.
The man, despite his multiple sins, definitely has a way with words.
Now, don’t you try buttering me up, I said.
Can we meet at the usual place next Saturday, then? he asked.
That’s fine, I said.
I terminated the call, multiple questions burning in my head. I pulled out my smartphone. Typed in Mark’s name followed by the word charity. A link to a website called Action for Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS) emerged, with Mark and Claire Evans listed as two key donors.
Sudden infant death syndrome? How did I miss this before? Why would Mark Evans and his wife be supporting this particular charity? Out of thousands in Britain? Mark and Claire don’t have any children. Or did they? How could I have missed this crucial detail?
Shame on you, Sophia.