“But all good fucks must come to an end. Unfortunately, the same goes for faithful husbands.”
I saw comprehension in your eyes. The realization that it was my mistress who was striding past you. Taunting you with her words. Deliberately making you angry. She succeeded with aplomb; your face crumpled up in fury. The rage in your eyes was mingled with a chilling vacantness. I should have understood the meaning of that look. After all, I’d learned from the diary in Sophia’s hands that I had seen it before. On the rainy afternoon when Cath died…
Claire emits another strangled sob. It prompts me to return to the sofa. But this time, I reach for her hand. My fingers curl around hers gently, forming a protective sphere.
I should have done something at that point. Anything at all. But I didn’t. I only have myself to blame. I merely gaped at the two of you, paralyzed by the terrible realization that I had failed in all possible ways. I had slapped you in the face with evidence of my infidelity; you couldn’t have discovered the existence of my mistress in a more horrible way. I had thrown away what we had shared, substituted lies with truth, exchanged meaning for a meaningless tumble in the hay. Jeopardized everything we had fought for. My recklessness of flesh, my first moment of puerile weakness in York, had unleashed a terrible sequence of events resulting in this three-way encounter.
My litany of sins and failures pinned me down; I just stood there, broken and unmoving. Cowed by my wrongs. Desperate to make things right again, yet knowing that would never happen.
“Bitch,” you said.
She flinched.
“You horrible bitch,” you continued, spitting the words at her.
I saw a steely red mist flooding Sophia’s pupils as she paused in her tracks to glare at you.
“You ugly bitch.”
Everything happened in disjointed freeze-frame motion after that, like a broken film reel.
Her nostrils flared.
My diary somersaulted into the air, tumbling down on the floor. She rushed forward in your direction, a cry bursting from her lips. She reminded me of a feline predator closing in for the kill. Her palm landed on your face with a crack, leaving a sharp trail of red across your cheek, prompting you to squeal. I gasped. Her hand reared upwards again like a viper’s head, vicious and poised for another attack. You instinctively lifted your arms to protect yourself from her next slap. My dinner plate crashed to the ground, erupting into a dozen ceramic shards and spraying thick gravy all over the floor. The beef thudded off my wastepaper basket before landing under my desk. You thrust your hands forward, eyes still vacant and unseeing. Your palms connected with her shoulders, merely inches away.
The contact was wild.
Desperate.
She crumpled backwards, her lips forming a surprised scarlet circle. Her eyes widened; I saw both her pupils dilating in shock. Her right hand shot out for support, fingers curling into a desperate claw, but there was nothing to cushion her fall.
Only vacant air.
Her head struck the edge of my desk with a crack, a second or two before her body slid to the floor.
I point to the precise spot where Sophia collapsed two evenings ago. The one that left Claire with more blood on her hands, even if no actual blood was shed that night.
My wife flinches in response. I suspect she knows what’s coming next.
It was our turn to stare at each other in shocked silence. With Sophia’s body sprawled between us, her back twisted in an alarming knot. Realization struck: she was not moving at all. She had been rendered unconscious by her fall. The anger in your eyes melted away. My limbs unfroze; I raced over to Sophia’s side. So did you. Her face was pale, even pallid. Her chest was still. Ominously so. She did not seem to be breathing. I bent down and placed my cheek against her nostrils. I felt nothing. Not the slightest reassuring flutter of breath against my skin. I knelt down and reached for her wrist. I felt no pulse at all. Not the faintest beat. You crouched next to her and placed two trembling fingers below her ear, trying to detect a throb. But you couldn’t find anything, either.
Minutes passed. We looked at each other again, our faces colored by horror. Your eyes had turned into raging pools of fear. The terrible realization of what had happened to Sophia hung above us, bleaching our souls. After what seemed like an eternity, you whispered that you didn’t mean to hurt her. But your words trailed off into the ether when you realized that you hadn’t just knocked Sophia out.
You’d killed her.
I don’t know what came over me. But I just wanted you out of my study. Somehow I couldn’t bear seeing you and Sophia together in the same room. The fact that you were crouching over her dead body made it worse.
So I told you to leave. To go away and forget what had happened here. To get the hell out at once. To leave me alone to sort things out. To write in your diary that you’d spent the evening watching television after I retreated to my study. To stay put at home the next day.
You blinked at me at first, not understanding what I was trying to say. But you soon realized I was offering you an easy way out. I knew you would listen to me. Sure enough, you mumbled that you were sorry and would do exactly what I said. You then dashed out of the study, tears streaming down your face. The door slammed behind you as you vanished into the darkness outside.
“I can’t believe you tried to protect me twice.” Claire shakes her head, her face a tangled knot. “Twice.”
I have nothing to say to this. Despite the absurdity of the situation, my heart is breaking for her. It must be terrible to discover that you’ve been responsible for two deaths. Especially if one was your husband’s mistress and the other was your own baby daughter.
I’m itching for more whiskey. But nothing is left in that bottle. I need the reassuring weight of alcohol on my tongue. I walk to the cupboard at the far end of the room and pull out the finest bottle of Bordeaux in my collection: Chateau Mouton Rothschild, 1945. Fact: The bottle had cost me ￡7,800 at a Sotheby’s auction in January of 2012. I’d bought it in a fit of delirious extravagance two weeks after I received the fourth installment of my advance for On Death’s Door. But if I’m going to jail for what happened to Sophia, I might as well drink my best bottle before someone else gets to it.
I uncork the wine. A whiff of wet newspaper and muddy golden retriever greets my nostrils.
The smell of a big, costly mistake.
I groan before collapsing back onto the sofa next to Claire. The problem with extravagance, I now understand, is that it’s nothing more than a money-wasting form of delusion.
Claire coughs. I glance at her.
“So…what did you do with Sophia’s body?” she says, with a frown that suggests she’d rather not know the answer. “How did she end up in the Cam?”
“I picked her up from the floor,” I say. “I staggered out into the garden with—”
A knock sounds at the door.
I stiffen. So does Claire.