The Trailing Spouse

by Jo Furniss

  “I’m sorry about before.” Josie’s voice was little.

  “We’re all upset.”

  “It’s not your fault, though, is it?”

  “I hope not.” The TARDIS-blue walls, paint she’d sourced at Josie’s request, felt oppressive. If only the rules of stepmotherhood could be defined as easily as Pantone numbers. Josie took the snack and dallied a spoon in the yogurt.

  “I need to ask you about the money your father gave to Awmi.”

  “If I tell you something, do you promise not to be upset?”

  Amanda tried to smile, but her lips stuck to her teeth. “Go on.”

  “A lawyer came to school asking questions about Awmi and Dad. She’s doing a media campaign about helpers who commit suicide.”

  “What lawyer?”

  “She said she met you? Camille Kemble? From the British High Commission? And HELP—she volunteers for them. Is she going to publish Dad’s name or something?”

  “She’s not a lawyer. She’s some kind of assistant. When was this?”

  “Just now, after school.”

  “What did she want to know?”

  Josie shrugged. “About Awmi. Just the details. About the money. She was the one who said it might be ah longs and—”

  “Wait. Did you tell her about the money?”

  “I didn’t think. I’m sorry—”

  Amanda rubbed her temples. “They can’t name and shame us when we did nothing wrong!”

  “Maybe we did do something wrong.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like not upholding Awmi’s human rights.” Josie got up to put her bowl back on the tray and took the water to her desk.

  “It’ll be humiliating if this gets in the newspaper. Everyone will hear about it. Your dad’s clients even. I’ll call her boss, what’s-his-name, Joshua MacAlpine. How did she even get on campus without a security pass?” Josie shrugged helplessly, and Amanda cut short her rant. She snatched up the tray from the bedside table and nearly trod on a vinyl record on the floor. Cold Sister’s most famous album, its cover as iconic as Nirvana’s swimming baby. The woodcut image was like something slashed and shredded until you looked closer and saw a bird’s nest with a single sparrow inside. “I forgot about your concert tonight.”

  “I gave the tickets to Willow.” Willow lived upstairs; the girls hung out by the pool, pretending they weren’t on Tinder. Amanda didn’t have the mental bandwidth to worry about why Josie wasn’t going to see her favorite band with her friend—probably she was just upset over Awmi. Instead, she went to her own room, sitting on the edge of the bed to face the window, while she reached down and put the snack tray on the floor. But she kept hold of Josie’s journal, which she’d held, hidden, underneath the tray.

  Josie knew more than she was telling. Amanda was sure of it. She was smart enough to know what was going on with her father and smart enough to keep it hidden from his wife.

  The cover of the journal was a hand-drawn copy of the Cold Sister artwork, the sparrow in its nest. Amanda folded her legs beneath herself and opened Josie’s journal. In Amanda’s day, a child might have written a warning for adults to keep out. But Josie had a list of Internet log-ins. It was an active list: passwords struck through or whited out, each replacement scribbled in increasingly tiny letters. Josie obviously updated her passwords more frequently than Amanda did, which was, admittedly, never. The inside cover of the journal had only one note. There, Josie had written “a-scribble-of-a-girl.com” with a fluorescent heart encircling it.

  She flicked through the journal, finding it filled with dense, anxious pencil drawings. Self-portraits and depictions of Josie’s mother, obviously copied from the windswept photo beside her bed. That flailing hair, as though she were already falling. And there were pages and pages of Ed’s long fingers, the tiny curling hairs so detailed Amanda felt she could touch the paper and feel warmth. But she didn’t touch them; she didn’t know where those hands had been. At the turn of a leaf, the journal went blank and the starkness of the white pages was like the houselights coming on at the end of a movie.

  She’d had no idea that Josie was such an accomplished artist. She stowed the journal under her pillow and left the bedroom, traversing the marble hallway as quietly as the whispering air con. In the kitchen, she got her phone and tapped in the website address: a-scribble-of-a-girl. When it loaded, Amanda turned the phone lengthways. There was a photo of a stormy sky, but that wasn’t what caught her attention.

  Layered over the image was a black box containing a retro-style timer, numbers ticking in a countdown: 15 days, 03 hours, 36 minutes, and 15 seconds. The microseconds were a blur.

  Amanda scrolled up and down, but there was no indication of what the timer was counting down to. She tried clicking on the numbers, but a text box popped up to tell her it was a private blog. Password required. She watched microseconds pass. Then she scrolled up to the photo of the stormy sky. That sky, the sea, those ships scattered like devil’s playthings. This was Singapore: the straits off Sentosa. It was the view from Amanda’s bedroom.

  Chapter 8

  Camille arrived early at the BHC, itching to go over the scanned Bonham file again, but Josh was already in his office. He appeared in the doorway. “Early again, Camille? Anyone would think you have a guilty conscience.”

  She tried to stop her eyes from darting to the pile of manila folders on the desk behind him.

  “Come into my office for a moment, would you?”

  Josh went to perch on the edge of his desk. Camille took her cue and remained standing.

  “Amanda Bonham,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.” Her mind went again to the file; how could he possibly know she had copied his notes?

  “Why is she phoning me to complain about her stepdaughter being doorstepped over the death of their helper?”

  “By the press?”

  “No, Camille, by you.”

  “Ah.”

  “Why?”

  “I wanted background information on the case.”

  “Unless you’re moonlighting for the Singapore Police, there is no ‘case.’”

  “It was for HELP, sir. In my own time. I’m preparing documents for their pro bono lawyer, who is going to lobby MPs before the parliamentary debate on—”

  “Do you understand the word confidential, Camille?”

  “Yes, sir. I do.”

  “Our meeting with the Bonhams was confidential. Leaking confidential information to an external organization puts you in breach of your employment contract.”

  “Sir, I—” Camille tried to swallow whatever had lodged in her throat. She couldn’t lose her job, not after she had arranged her whole life so she could get back to Singapore. “It won’t happen again, sir.”

  “Kindly close the file on the Bonham case. We’ve done our bit, and if there is any further call for assistance, I will deal with it personally.”

  “I’ve finished my report.”

  “Then you can print a hard copy for my attention, but don’t put it through the system.” Josh glanced toward the high commissioner’s office. Camille waited for an explanation of this breach of protocol; all files went through the system. His gaze returned to hers, and his shoulders gave a faint roll that he only just prevented from reaching his eyes. “Truth be told, I only made that house call because I was curious. I knew Edward Bonham a long time ago—at least, I knew of him—and I was intrigued to learn that he’s back in Singapore. Surprised I missed that. So when the wife called in a tizzy about death certificates and having police officers in her home, I decided to pay a visit. But I should have stuck to protocol and advised her over the phone. As there’s nothing doing, we can quietly let it drop.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Excellent.” He pushed himself off the desk, back to full height.

  “There was one thing?” Camille said.

  Josh pulled the elastic of his security tag to full stretch. The metallic zip as it wound back in set her teeth on e
dge.

  “Edward Bonham’s medication was found in the helper’s bedroom,” she said.

  “Oh?”

  “When I was in the kitchen, an officer came in with a stash of pills he’d taken from the maid’s room. Some were contraceptives, but there were also bottles of clonazepam, in Bonham’s name, from different doctors. They’re sedatives that can be used as date-rape drugs.”

  Josh narrowed his eyes and gave a single shake of the head. “If Edward Bonham was secretly drugging the helper, why would the drugs be in her room?”

  Camille faltered. “Yes, but . . . it might explain why she killed herself. Maybe she put them there for the police to find?”

  “That sounds a little fanciful. Please do not get involved with Edward Bonham.”

  “But what if he was abusing his helper?”

  Josh pushed his fists into his trouser pockets and rocked back and forth. His security card tut-tutted against a shirt button. “You have to understand that detective work is not our job. We do not have the power—or the inclination—to protect British nationals from the law of the host country—”

  “But—”

  “—nor do we have the power to investigate them of our own accord.”

  “So what is the protocol if we suspect a UK citizen of committing a crime?”

  “All residents of Singapore are subject to its laws.”

  “So we should inform the police?”

  “Didn’t you say a police officer found the drugs in the helper’s room?” he asked.

  Camille looked down to see the toe of her shoe twisting into the carpet, trying to bury itself.

  “So the police are already informed, am I correct?” said Josh.

  When she looked back up, her boss indicated with one flat hand that he wished to exit his office. “I’ve always found the police here to be thorough and fair. You will not plunder this case for information to feed to HELP. I support their cause, I do, but you have to keep it separate from your day job if you wish to remain in gainful employment.” He ushered her out. “Is this matter closed?”

  “It’s closed.”

  Josh stalked away with his trousers snapping like flags around a pole. She sat at her desk, forwarding the Bonham file to her personal mail. Better to print it at home and delete all trace from her work computer. If Josh found out she had taken notes from his office and copied them . . . Phrases from his dressing down blurred through her brain. Do you understand the word confidential? She felt her cheeks burn. Breach of your employment contract. She had let Josh down. It went beyond a simple pride in her job—she liked to please him.

  What had he said? I knew Edward Bonham a long time ago. That gave Camille pause. I was intrigued to learn that he’s back in Singapore.

  Back in Singapore.

  She picked up her phone and downloaded the case file from her personal email. In the identity documents, she found Edward Bonham’s Employment Pass. It was current, but his ID number linked to a previous work permit, which had been canceled in 1999. So he had lived in Singapore at the same time as her parents. In fact, he’d left in the same year as Camille. She swore under her breath.

  She’d known there was something about Edward Bonham. He wasn’t just a pretty face; she recognized him, and there was every chance this was a real recollection.

  Do not get involved with Edward Bonham.

  If Josh knew she intended to speak to Bonham about his maid, he would fire her. He’d made that clear. So she wouldn’t talk to him about the maid. This was personal: a link to her childhood. If Josh could drop into the Bonhams’ lives because of curiosity about the past, then so could she.

  Chapter 9

  Amanda got back to the apartment after making an emergency dash to the condo shop for dinner essentials—she had always appreciated Awmi, but now she realized how much work she had delegated to the helper and how seamlessly the young woman had run the household. As soon as Amanda stepped out of the lift, she heard Ed’s shower hammering. It was his habit to clean up right after a flight—the sort of thing that wasn’t suspicious until she had reason to wonder what made him feel quite so dirty.

  Outside the cavernous living room, the volcanic colors of the sunset made lava of the sea. She felt intimately acquainted with this view after a long day watching it ebb and flow with her mood, the forgiving morning light giving way to a ferociously hot afternoon that broke in a storm. Three times she had dialed Ed’s phone, vowing to confront him. Three times she’d pressed the red button before it connected. His shower stopped abruptly. As she moved to take the shopping to the kitchen, she noticed on the coffee table a black box wrapped up with an enormous bow.

  “Amanda?”

  Ed came down the hallway still damp in a towel. He leaned down to kiss her on the forehead while tapping a message into his phone, and she let her hand trail across a long scratch on his hip.

  “What happened to you?”

  “Caught myself getting out of the pool.”

  “I thought you were staying in Manila another night?”

  “Wrapped up quicker than I thought. And I’m going to Tokyo tomorrow so I needed to pick up my winter suit. Open it,” he said with a nod to the black box.

  “What’s that for?” she asked.

  “Just to show I was thinking about you.”

  She lowered herself onto the sofa and placed the gift on the dais of her crossed legs. The white bow loosened with a satisfying tumble, the lid came away, then the dustcover, layers of anticipation until she finally revealed the gift: a black leather wallet printed with a doll-like face. She ran her fingertips over a girl’s downcast eyes. The leather was soft and smelled floral with an undertone of flesh.

  Ed had his back to her, fiddling with his phone. She wondered if another woman had held him last night. Given him that long scratch. Maybe Ed had washed her off his body in the shower and off his conscience in duty-free. Maybe he was texting her now, right in front of Amanda. Brazen. Then music burst through wireless speakers, and Ed slid his phone onto the coffee table. He came toward her, performing a little shuffle to the tracks of his youth. She wanted to ask him right then about Awmi, but the words roared in her head. If she tried to articulate it, she might scream. Keep screaming.

  Ed sat next to her on the sofa. “There’s something else inside the bag.”

  She clicked open the clasp and peered into the satin interior. Tucked between the red folds was what looked like a scrunched piece of paper. Amanda lifted it out between thumb and forefinger and held it up to the light. “Is this . . . ?” She smelled the thin tube to confirm that it was, as she suspected, a joint.

  Ed circled one arm around her butt and pulled her in close. “You look like you need it, Mrs. Bonham. Put some color in your cheeks.” He ran a fingertip under the curve of her cheekbone. “I thought we could smoke it and, you know, like that time in New York.”

  “You smell of whisky,” she told him.

  “Ed on the rocks. Your favorite.”

  “You’re playful tonight.”

  “Well, I sold a plane and I’m about to fuck my wife.” Ed dropped onto his knees on the rug, uncrossing Amanda’s legs as he went.

  “Josie’s here.”

  “She’s at Willow’s.” He pushed her skirt up, revealing neon-yellow panties. He ran the tip of his tongue along the edge of the lace.

  “She could come home any minute,” Amanda said.

  “Okay.”

  “I’m worried about her, Ed.”

  He came up from between her knees and slumped back onto the sofa. “I’ll need another drink if we’re going to talk.”

  “Wine?” Amanda escaped to the kitchen with the shopping bag and heard a crunch as he got off the sofa to follow her.

  “I want a Bloody Mary. Do you want a Bloody Mary?”

  “Not really.” She poured herself a glass of red.

  “Why are you so worried about Josie?” Ed ground a solid layer of black pepper that floated on the tomato juice like ash.

&nb
sp; “She’s got a secret website. And it’s counting down to something, but I don’t know what.”

  “Probably her birthday. Blogs are like teenage diaries these days. Just read it.”

  “It’s password-protected. And she doesn’t have any friends; that’s the other thing that bothers me. Apart from Willow, and they didn’t go to the Cold Sister gig together last night.”

  “Josie said she didn’t feel like it after Awmi.”

  “When did she say this?”

  “I called her earlier. Willow has a crush on this Rafferty boy, so Josie let her take him to the gig. And anyway, she’s got about three hundred friends on Facebook.”

  “You’re on Facebook?” Amanda held up her wineglass, and Ed clanked it with his own.

  “I joined to keep tabs on Josie. Don’t see the attraction myself.”

  “That’s what I mean. Apart from Willow, how many real friends do you know about?”

  “It’s expat life: friends come and go. It seems normal to me, but maybe I’m not qualified to understand teenage girls’ friendships.”

  “Being her father qualifies you.”

  “Being her stepmother and a former teenage girl qualifies you more.”

  “Don’t be an arsehole.”

  Ed stepped forward and gathered her around the waist, hands sliding to her buttocks. “Being an arsehole is part of my manly essence.”

  Over his shoulder, Amanda sucked red wine through clenched teeth. “This spliff, Ed?”

  “Shall we smoke it on the balcony?”

  “Since when are you that reckless?” She wriggled out of his hold and pushed him to arm’s length. “What were you thinking, bringing drugs into Singapore? Have you never noticed the ‘Death to Drug Traffickers’ signs all over the airport?”