by Karen Swan
Sigh. ‘Fine. Pass it over.’
Ted picks up carrot from plate on table out of shot. Holds out carrot.
Marina’s hand comes into shot. Reaching.
Ted pulls back carrot.
‘Hey!’ Marina reaches closer.
Ted grabs her wrist. Pulls her towards him. Leans up. Face inches from screen. Closes his eyes. Kisses her.
Blackness.
Ro opened her eyes, startled to find they’d even shut, her heart pounding as her fingers found the soft pucker on her own mouth, reflected back to her on the screen.
She sat in silence, calming herself down. W-why . . . why had she . . . ? She shook her head and pushed herself off the stool angrily. She was overtired, that was it. It was gone eleven and she’d worked far too late, that was what it was. It was only Monday and she’d already worked fourteen hours this week.
Hump had said he was out tonight, which was all the more reason for her to stake her claim on the sofa. She switched off the screens with fierce stabs, grabbed her bag and went home. She needed a beer.
It was 11.35 a.m. and Ro was sitting in the child pose, breathing like a professional, like she’d been doing it all her life, when the door opened and someone entered. The lesson was more than halfway through – what was the point of coming now? she wondered irritably – but she kept her eyes closed, desperately and determinedly trying to find Matt in her subconscious. She had to find him today. She’d slept badly, agitated and upset by her body’s own betrayal last night, trying to understand why she had imagined kissing Ted back as he moved in to the camera while she sat alone in the studio in the dark. Were kisses like yawns – contagious, maybe? For God’s sake, him, of all people!
If she could just connect with Matt, it would overwrite the moment . . .
But she couldn’t sink down thanks to the sudden hard slap of expensive shoes hitting the wooden floor. She couldn’t float away as she heard the gentle pad of manicured bare feet lightly running over. She couldn’t drift into her subconscious over the jingle of pretty hippy bracelets as hair was quickly tied in a topknot, and by the time Ro felt the soft breeze as a mat was thrown out and unfurled beside her, she knew the intruder by name.
‘Hey,’ Bobbi whispered.
‘What are you doing here?’ Ro whispered back, still keeping her eyes closed and privately giving herself a brownie point for putting on her new sleek olive yoga kit. ‘It’s Tuesday morning.’
‘I know that. I’ve got a meeting in an hour. Thought I’d try to chill beforehand.’
A meeting out here? Ro listened to the sound of Bobbi inhaling deeply and knew from her movements that she was running through some warm-up stretches.
Melodie began moving the class through some salutations and Ro got onto her knees, looking across finally at Bobbi, who was wearing a white crop top and navy hot-pant-style shorts, her body doubled over, her nose taking a well-earned rest on her knees.
‘It’s so dark in here. What’s with all the gloom?’ Bobbi whispered again, turning her cheek onto her knees so that she could look at Ro.
Ro, who was upside down in downward dog, tutted lightly. ‘It allows the mind to rest from external stimulation and helps with the meditation. We all like it.’
The ‘we’ sounded cliquey and she flashed a brief smile to take any sting out of the words, but Bobbi wasn’t looking. She couldn’t take her eyes off Melodie. Ro closed her eyes again, trying to engage with the light inside her.
‘She looks good for her age, don’t you think?’ Bobbi whispered, sitting up from her stretch and joining in with the rest of the class.
‘She’s only forty-one. Hardly a pensioner,’ Ro whispered as they slid from downward dog into a plank.
‘Check out her toe ring. That stone’s citrine. Pomellato, if I’m not mistaken. Probably, what, eight thousand? Just on her toe.’
‘You are obsessed. Melodie isn’t remotely acquisitive. She’s a very spiritual woman.’
‘With a very rich husband.’
Ro fell quiet, still disquieted from the dinner party at the weekend. Bobbi and Brook’s continued high spirits and private conversations had persisted throughout the meal, long after the open-table topics had ended and the plates had been cleared. Bobbi had insisted she had only been ‘being polite’ as Hump teased her all the way home. Greg hadn’t said a word, and Ro had a bad feeling about what might happen if Brook’s showman ego and Bobbi’s ambition were given further opportunity to merge.
The class repeated the sequence, pushing back into a downward dog again. Ro felt the sense of calm trickle down her as she focused on her breath, trying to loop it in one continuous, fluid motion, and by the time they started on the salutation seals, ten minutes later, she wasn’t even aware of Bobbi’s competitive meditation beside her. It was beginning to happen again, the peace that settled upon her during the class transporting her across continents and time zones . . .
‘How much longer?’ Bobbi whispered.
Ro sighed, losing her concentration again. ‘We’re nearly done. Honestly, I don’t know why you bothered coming.’
‘Well, it never hurts to consolidate contacts.’
Ro stiffened. What did that mean?
‘Who’s the client?’ she asked casually, willing her not to say Brook.
‘Can’t say yet – don’t want to jinx it.’
‘Where did you meet, then?’
‘I gave him my card at the Wölffer party.’
The Wölffer? The night Ro had met Brook for the first time – and Bobbi had been there too. Could they have met there, before the dinner? Was that why Bobbi had been so curious about him? Why she’d been so nervous about what to wear?
Bobbi looked across at Ro. ‘If I can pull it off, it’s just the kind of new business I need to bring in to make the partners sit up and take notice.’
‘Bobbi, how could anyone not notice you?’
‘I know, right?’ Bobbi deadpanned, as they rolled onto their backs to the bridge position, hips in the air, arms by their sides. ‘Hey! Is this giving me a double chin?’ Bobbi demanded.
‘Can’t. See,’ Ro muttered, more concerned with not being smothered by her breasts, which had slid up her chest and were making breathing difficult. What was it with yoga that made apparently reflexive behaviour strained?
They relaxed into the final pose – the Shavasana – lying flat on the floor, palms up, and Ro closed her eyes for the last time, trying to forget about Bobbi’s ambitions and push herself back down into a lucid mental state. She had to find Matt today; she had to have some feeling of connection with him to hold on to. What had happened in the studio last night was nothing to do with Ted Connor, she knew that. It was just a reflection of her loneliness. The affection she saw between Ted and Marina was a mirror to her and Matt, and she missed his touch. She missed being touched so badly she wanted to cry – back slaps from Hump on the way to the fridge didn’t count. Matt had been so certain that their reunion sex would more than make up for his absence, but she had never counted on feeling so physically isolated that a yoga class would be her only escape from the loneliness.
She inhaled as deeply as she could; her ribcage spread gratifyingly wide with each inhalation, the lotus oil and gamelan background music pulling her to a land that was as dark and ancient as this one was bright and shiny and new. Matt was in there somewhere; she could sense him, like smoke in the mist. But even as the familiar feeling of safety settled over her, something was wrong – she couldn’t see his face.
The class had ended now. People could get up when they felt ready to. Most took advantage of the peace to lie there for a few minutes longer, but beside her, she heard Bobbi jump up and dash across the room, determined to be first at the water cooler. Ro opened her eyes, jolted back to reality once again, and stared bleakly at the ceiling. No matter what she did, it was going to be yet another day without him.
‘The very person!’
Ro turned, her newly purchased yoga mat on her shoulder narrowly mi
ssing knocking over a white mannequin in a $1,000 dress. Florence was walking towards her down Newton Lane, a cardboard roll under her arm.
‘Guess what I just picked up!’
‘The posters?’
‘The very same! Are you free for a bit or rushing off?’
Ro beamed, grateful for yet another diversion to keep her from going back to the studio – the scene of last night’s crime. She didn’t want to see Ted Connor’s face when she hadn’t been able to find Matt’s, and she’d hopped on her bike straight after Melodie’s class, adamant that she couldn’t go another minute without owning her own yoga mat. She’d do anything to delay pressing ‘play’ again.
‘I’m free. I was just putting up my ads, at last.’ She pointed to her advert, now hanging in the window of the hardware store, and showed off one of the high-quality cards Hump had sweet-talked his printer into doing as a small run, for her to leave in the smarter galleries.
Florence nodded approvingly. ‘Well, we’d better hurry, then – before your phone starts ringing off its hook.’ She tapped the large tube under her arm. ‘This warrants a coffee and a muffin – my treat. We need to admire the fruits of our labour.’
They wandered into the Golden Pear, Ro grabbing them a table at the back where there was more space and the tables were larger, while Florence poured them each a coffee from the orange-rimmed percolators – signifying the French roast – and carefully chose the two best-looking gluten-free banana muffins.
Ro, who had picked up a free copy of the East Hampton Star on the way in, began absently scanning the news as she waited.
Suspicious School Visitor Is Arrested
East Hampton Village’s police chief this week explained the sequence of events that led to the arrest of a father who visited the John Marshall Elementary School on June 29 and allegedly identified himself in the parking lot as a New York City police officer . . .
Her eyes flicked to the next panel.
Sandy Left Vacationers Wondering, How Are the Beaches?
It’s the first question being put to employees working the phones at Montauk’s beachfront motels this summer. The good news is that reservations are strong. The scary news is that such a strong tourist season has such a shaky foundation . . .
She wondered whether Brook Whitmore had read this.
Vigorous Debate Over Town Manager
The question of whether a manager or administrator is appropriate and advisable for the town of East Hampton was the subject of a lively debate at the village’s Emergency Services building on Saturday. The ninety-minute forum provided residents with a range of opinions from elected officials and others . . .
Ro was about to move on to the next story when her eyes caught sight of a name in the text. She leaned in closer.
Support for a change in the organizational structure has argued that since its inception, the local town government has grown in complexity to the point where it is believed management of the administrative details of government should be in the hands of professionals. The Town Board spends ‘an inordinate amount of time on administrative details, many of which people are truly not qualified to do, but it’s part of the job’, said one reformer, who asked not to be named. Supporters cited the $24-million deficit that pushed the town to the brink of bankruptcy, accrued three years ago under the leadership of Florence Wiseman, saying it would not have occurred under the steer of a qualified administrator and that questions were still unanswered over the handling of the issue, particularly the $3-million black hole that remains unaccounted for . . .
‘Here we go,’ Florence said, setting down a tray with the coffees and muffins.
Ro looked up, quickly folding the paper away, but not before Florence caught sight of the headline.
‘Oh.’ She drew her lips into a thin line as she sat down slowly, her back to the room. ‘Well, that ruined my breakfast this morning.’ She shook her head slowly.
Ro blushed, embarrassed that Florence had caught her hunched over it, reading it avidly as though it was a gossip column. Florence had been one of the first people to show her kindness and friendship since arriving here and this was how she repaid her? But a $3-million black hole . . . ? She couldn’t not ask about it.
‘May I ask what happened?’ Ro took her coffee cup and wrapped her hand round it.
Florence busied herself with stirring her coffee and was quiet for a long while. ‘We made some bad calls,’ she said finally. ‘Invested too heavily in a highway-maintenance scheme that was later badly damaged by Sandy anyway, so that was money down the drain. We privatized the recycling programme hoping to make some savings, but it was a complete fiasco during the changeover: some people had no collections for over a month, and with the costs of trying to put it right, we ended up spending more than we ever could have saved . . .’ Her brow furrowed. ‘It was just a bad year. We couldn’t do right for doing wrong. We overspent, borrowed too much . . . There were too many people writing cheques. It was shambolic – I readily put my hand up to it . . .’ She inhaled sharply, meeting Ro’s gaze with watery eyes. ‘And I was having problems in my personal life. I was there in name only. I was grieving and . . . not myself.’ Her voice faltered, but she stared back at Ro with wet, determined eyes. ‘It was the first and only time I’ve ever given less than my all to the town, but I take full responsibility. It happened under my watch. When we discovered the money was missing, I offered to resign, but the board gave me a vote of confidence.’ She shrugged. ‘Well, nearly all of them, anyway. Some members saw it as the perfect opportunity to try to get rid of me; they see me as getting in their way. I’m a stickler for making sure our rules are fair to everyone – not just the rich weekenders – and that they’re rigorously enforced. It doesn’t always make me popular, especially when there’s money involved.’
‘But what about the missing money?’
‘It’s still missing. We’ve brought in a team of forensic accountants to try to trace it.’ She shrugged. ‘It appears to have been taken in small deposits, rather than one lump sum – that’s why it’s taking so long to trace. There’s just so many accounts to work through . . . Hundreds, in fact, some moving just a few dollars. There’s been a full investigation and inquiry. I was exonerated of any wrongdoing, but . . . mud sticks, doesn’t it? And until they find the money, the whiff of suspicion hovers over me.’
Ro put her hand on Florence’s arm lightly. ‘But that’s terrible. Surely no one who knows you could think you’re capable of something like that . . .’
‘My true friends don’t, of course, but to those for whom I’m just a public official . . .’ Florence chewed her inner cheek. ‘I think it’s the size of the loss that makes people wonder whether maybe there’s some truth in it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, doesn’t it strike you as odd that the number’s so . . . small? I mean, if you were going to defraud the town accounts, why take such a measly sum?’
Ro thought that only in the Hamptons could $3 million be considered measly.
‘If you’re going to go to the trouble and risk of stealing it, why not take thirty million dollars? That would still be insignificant enough to stay below radar for a long time, certainly long enough for the thief to cover their tracks and disappear. But three million?’ She pursed her lips together tightly. ‘It’s almost a domestic sum.’
Ro frowned again; she couldn’t fathom this world where $3 million was almost considered pocket change. ‘So what are you saying?’
‘I’m saying that I don’t think whoever took the money actually wanted the money. I think they took it either hoping to frame me for it or, at the very least, make me look incompetent slash suspicious – delete as appropriate.’ She shrugged. ‘Either way, my reputation’s shattered.’
‘But surely the police were able to discount you as a suspect early on?’
‘Transparently, yes. The authorities were able to establish pretty quickly that I don’t have it in any of my accounts, unless of course
I’m secretly some technological mastermind capable of siphoning money through hundreds of offshore accounts.’ She smiled. ‘And given my callouts to my IT support company for help with my email account, I don’t think that’s an avenue they’re actively exploring.’
‘So then you’re saying that someone took the money to discredit you?’
‘Exactly.’
There was a long pause as Ro digested the hypothesis. Frankly, it seemed almost egoistic on Florence’s part to believe that someone would go to such lengths to smear her, that they would steal $3 million and not even want it.
‘I know it sounds far-fetched, but it’s—’
The sudden scraping of a chair being pushed back made Florence stop, sitting straighter in her chair as she looked across at the people sitting nearby. A middle-aged couple were standing up, a newspaper rolled under his arm, sunglasses on the top of her head.
‘You were saying,’ Ro prompted, looking back at Florence again.
But Florence just shook her head. ‘No, I’m being a blabbermouth, forgetting myself. I’m too indiscreet sometimes,’ she said, shutting the conversation down as though remembering where they were. ‘This is neither the time nor the place for this conversation, but . . .’ She patted Ro’s hand. ‘I do appreciate your loyalty, Ro.’
Ro felt disappointed that she had to let the matter drop. Florence’s theories were almost more dramatic than the actual crimes. ‘Well, I think you and I got the measure of each other very quickly, Florence.’ Ro shrugged lightly.
Florence looked touched as she reached down for the cardboard tube. ‘Anyway, on to some fun business,’ she said brightly, pulling out the poster and pinning it flat at the corners with the saucers and plates.
‘Ace!’ Ro gasped, taking in the lustrous quality of the finished product, which her printout hadn’t been able to achieve. Ro looked at Ella’s image – her blacked-out silhouette telling nothing more than that she was going to be tall, and her hand around her brother’s revealing that she was kind. It was strange seeing her again, now that Ro had been privy to such seminal, intimate moments in her life. Ro smiled at the recollection of Ted engaged in the tug-of-war with the pug over the kite, her grandparents’ pride as they took turns holding her, her beloved pink pig, Binky. Did she still have it?