Seven Lies (ARC)

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Seven Lies (ARC) Page 18

by Elizabeth Kay


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  too. It was a very different loss. Jonathan disappeared all at once.

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  Whereas Marnie was slipping away. I was the sand: solid and static and

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  stuck in one spot. And she was the sea: being sucked from me, siphoned

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  away by a force greater than either of us.

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  There had been a moment in which she might have chosen me. She

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  could have asked him to leave instead. She could have stepped away

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  from his arm around her waist. And yet she didn’t. Because she be-

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  lieved what he was saying, that he was innocent, that the lies were

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  mine. There are some natural disasters so devastating that it is almost

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  impossible to recover all that has been lost.

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  I stood and I walked along the grassy verge and back toward the

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  hotel. I contemplated settling the bill and heading straight back to Lon-

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  don. But I had committed to paying for the room already and so I un-

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  packed my small rucksack and ran a bath so hot that the steam clouded

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  the metal taps and the mirror and filled the room. I undressed and slid

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  beneath the water, feeling it pull at my hair as my face broke back

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  through the surface. The sun was low in the sky, decorating the tiles in

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  shadow. I heard voices floating up from the road underneath my win-

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  dow, a young girl squealing delightedly and the resonating laugh of a

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  much older man.

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  I stood up in the bath, the water lapping at my calves, and I peered

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  out through the mottled glass, pressing my body against the wall to

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  shield it from sight. She was very young, maybe seven or eight, and

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  wearing only a swimsuit. Her father was wearing swim shorts, still wet,

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  the water seeping into the hem of his T- shirt, and I remembered when

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  my father walked around like that, on beach holidays in Cornwall, after

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  a day spent nestled in sand. A woman— her mother— was behind them,

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  two towels flung over her shoulder and a big woven basket swinging by

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  her ankles. The girl started laughing again and bent in the middle, liter-22

  ally doubled over, unable to continue walking because the movement

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  within her was just so much. Her father was laughing, too— at her, at

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  her joy, at her fearless, noisy laughter. I wanted so much to be part of

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  that family.

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  I pulled on my dressing gown, grabbed the hair dryer from beneath

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  the sink, and went back into the bedroom. I plugged it in. I would dry

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  my hair. I would put on my clothes. And I would be part of that family.

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  I don’t mean literally. I wouldn’t literally be part of that family.

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  But I was determined to be part of something more than myself.

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  I walked back along the corridor and through the reception area. I

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  stepped out of the doors and onto a narrow road, bookended on either

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  side by two small streams. There were lights everywhere: in the pubs,

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  in the restaurants, in other hotels. I walked toward the sea, along a path 02

  with a steep slope down to the pebbled beach. There were children,

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  naked but for the towels wrapped around their shoulders, skipping up

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  and down, running to the top and then back to meet their parents, who

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  were climbing more slowly, tired after a long day of sand and sea and

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  games. There were two men carrying parasols and windbreakers and

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  with sunglasses propped on their foreheads. And two women with

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  their hair pulled back in tight ponytails, damp bikini triangles im-

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  printed on their linen shirts.

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  I tried to imagine myself in the shoes of one of those women, ruck-

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  sack on my back, my children circling, sand embedded in the creases of

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  my elbows, and I couldn’t help but imagine Jonathan there at my side,

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  a brightly colored parasol slung over his shoulder.

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  Even then, I couldn’t envisage a version of my future without him in

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  it. Which was ridiculous. Because, by then, he had been dead for longer

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  than we’d known one another.

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  And yet it felt like no time at all.

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  Before he died, I had never given much thought to widowhood. Al-

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  though I suppose if you had asked for my thoughts on it, I’d have offered 20

  a confident, considered response. I had lost grandparents and I knew

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  the weight of that familiar ache. Those losses had been substantial—

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  the culmination of long, well- lived lives— and yet their passing felt

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  insignificant, too. Those deaths were not tragedies. They did not be-

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  come ghosts.

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  Whereas Jonathan did. I still carry him into every conversation. I

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  bring him to every table. I am the young woman whose husband died.

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  His ghost sits beside me at weddings— do you know that she was mar-

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  ried, yes, she was, her husband died— and at funerals— she buried her 29

  husband a few years ago, did you know, yes, her husband died.

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  He is there in every future, in every hope, in every dream.

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  He haunts me, always.

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  Chapter Fifteen

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  I visited Emma on my way home. She was living in a studio flat south

  of the river. It was a twenty- minute walk from the nearest tube sta-

  tion and the closest bus stop was almost ten minutes away and across

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  an unlit car park. I didn’t have much to spare, but even with my small

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  contribution and the odd payment from my mother’s account, it was all

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  that she could aff
ord.

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  We’d become even closer since she’d moved out of our parents’

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  house. Away from my mother— who’d always insisted on being part of

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  whatever we did together— we discovered that we really quite liked

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  each other. She was refreshingly honest, as only a sister can be. And I

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  think— and I hope that this doesn’t sound petty— that being needed by

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  her was fulfilling for me.

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  She didn’t work regularly anymore. She had been a freelance editor

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  and, for a while, she was incredibly busy, with manuscripts stacked on

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  the linoleum tiles, working through the night in order to meet her

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  deadlines, always in demand. She’d been so diligent and focused, never

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  afraid to interrogate a problem, to ask the difficult questions. But her

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  concentration dwindled, and she started to pore over every text, too

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  indecisive, afraid that she might upset a rhythm, taking so long that

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  eventually everyone stopped sending her new projects. She then spent

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  much of her time working with local charities. But it was all voluntary.

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  I stood on the balcony in front of her flat and banged on the bright

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  red door. There was a doorbell nailed to the frame, but it had never

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  worked.

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  “I’m coming!” she yelled as I banged a second time. “Learn some

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  fucking manners.”

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  “Oh,” she said when she opened the door. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

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  “Clearly,” I said. “Is that how you greet everyone?”

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  The front door opened straight into the only room: the lounge, the

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  kitchen, the dining room, and the bedroom all combined in one small

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  space. The kitchen was at one end; the white units were relatively new

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  but the floor tiles were speckled orange. The blinds were made of plas-

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  tic and held together with thin white string. There was a coffee table, a 12

  sofa, a small television, a wardrobe, and a few bookshelves. And beside

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  the door that led to the small bathroom, framed above the radiator,

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  there was a large sketch of a very thin woman. It wasn’t much, but

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  Emma had never needed very much.

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  “No one visits,” she said. “It’s only ever someone trying to sell me

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  something.” She stepped back to let me in. “Why are you here?” she

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  asked.

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  “Charming,” I replied.

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  “I don’t mean it like that,” she said.

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  “I’ve been to Beer,” I said.

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  “To Beer?” she asked. “In Devon?”

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  “Where Jonathan and I went. Do you remember?”

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  “Why’d you go there?” she asked.

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  “Marnie and I argued.”

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  “You told her.”

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  I nodded.

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  She gestured toward the sofa.

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  “I told you not to say anything,” she said.

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  “I had to,” I replied.

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  “You bloody didn’t,” she said, taking three dark chocolate digestive

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  biscuits from a packet and placing them onto a napkin for me. “Watch

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  the crumbs.”

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  I nodded and sat down at one end of the gray sofa. She unrolled it

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  into a bed each evening.

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  “You could have just pretended that everything was normal,” she

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  said. “Like I told you to. Then you wouldn’t be in this situation. You’d

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  still be friends.”

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  “But she needed to know the truth about her husband. Wouldn’t

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  you want to know the truth about your husband?” It seemed obvious to

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  me that if something couldn’t be said and yet still needed saying, then

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  it had to be said.

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  Emma sat on the sofa beside me. Her trouser leg lifted slightly so

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  that I could see the bones that made up her ankle. She clutched a mug

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  of warm tea between her hands. I bit into one of the biscuits and it was

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  softer than I’d expected, almost damp inside.

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  She was quiet, thinking.

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  “No,” she said. “I don’t think I would.”

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  “If your husband was a pervert?” I said. “You wouldn’t want to

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  know? And imagine that I knew he was a pervert. Put yourself in Mar-

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  nie’s position. You wouldn’t want me to say something?”

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  “I wouldn’t believe you,” she said.

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  I sat up and several crumbs shook themselves loose from the napkin

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  and fell onto Emma’s sofa. She leaned over to brush them away.

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  “What do you mean?” I asked. “Why not?”

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  “Because,” she said, and then she paused. “Oh, don’t be so naive,”

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  she said eventually. “If I told you that Jonathan had hit on me, you

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  wouldn’t have believed me, not for a second.”

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  “I’d have listened to what you had to say and then— ”

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  “And then you’d have taken his side. You know what they say, and it’s

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  what everyone always says, to never give up your friends for a man, but

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  it doesn’t matter because everyone does. Friendships are one thing, but

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  a true love, a romantic love? That trumps everything. Always has. Al-

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  ways will. You might like to think otherwise, but you’d have hated me.”

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  “It’s different,” I said. “Jonathan was . . . He would never— ”

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  “Ah,” she interrupted. “That’s what everyone thinks. That’s why you

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  can’t blame her for choosing him.” She sighed. “They don’t know they’re

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  thinking it, but it’s always there, whenever anything bad happens to

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  somebody else. A little voice that says, But it wouldn’t happen to me.”

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bsp; 07

  I laughed and more crumbs fell from my T- shirt. “What a luxury,”

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  I said.

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  Emma smiled. We both knew how it felt to be the people to whom

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  bad things happened. It wasn’t that way for most of our childhoods, but

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  something changed in our adolescence. My father’s relationship with

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  his mistress became common knowledge and we became that family,

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  those girls, the daughters of that man. Emma fell first; she became that

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  girl, the thin girl, the girl who didn’t eat. My husband died. Our father 15

  left. Our mother was diagnosed. Maybe once you start— once you be-

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  come one of those people— you can never stop being one.

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  Emma and I are united by a history of stares and secrets and whis-

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  pers. Perhaps that is why we both choose to live anonymous lives in a

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  city so big it swallows you.

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  “Do you think she’ll forgive me?” I asked.

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  “I don’t know,” Emma replied.

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  “I think she will,” I say. “I think I can make her.”

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  “You going to record him and send it to her?” Emma smirked. She

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  loved that story.

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  “You said you wouldn’t mention that again,” I replied. She was al-

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  ways teasing, always trying to ease the tension within me. “And, no.”

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  “You would if you could,” she insisted. “I know you. It’s still your

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  style. Skulking in when the place is quiet, clambering into a wardrobe.

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  Detective Black. Delighted to make your acquaintance. All those martial 30

  arts classes. Do you have a black Lycra jumpsuit?”

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  E L I Z A B E T H K AY

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  “He’s too smart,” I said. “He wouldn’t say anything incriminating.”

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  “Oh bloody fuck,” she said, and she laughed. “You’ve really thought

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  about it.”

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  “Only just now because you brought it up.” This was so typical of

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  her. It was her idea but she was blaming me.

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  “Chill,” she said. “You’re getting crumbs all over the place.”

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  “But you do think it’ll be okay, don’t you?” I asked.

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  “Probably. She’ll see sense eventually.”

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  “What do you mean?”

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  “Well, it’s not going to last, is it? The marriage?”

 

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