So it’s true that we look for contestants with a particular psychological profile. Though they might not know how things will turn out, we’re perfectly sure of the outcome.
We saw Chloé as a real wife-zilla. A bossy, superficial control freak. Viewers would start to wonder why her husband ever married her.
Gabriel was Mr. Nice Guy. The romantic yes-man who slowly learns to love again after his wife’s sudden and devastating death.
And Emma, as I’ve already explained, was the happy, innocent girl next door.
The one who was supposed to win.
That was our plot. Gabriel would ask Emma to marry him and everyone gets a happy ending. Except for Chloé, of course, but no one would care since she deserved it for tricking her husband into thinking she was dead.
To ensure the expected outcome and keep the pace up when things started to get slow, we sometimes had to manipulate reality—only a little bit. Nothing too big. We cheat a smidge; it’s nothing to write home about.
At the funeral, an extra encouraged Gabriel to attend the group therapy sessions where Emma would be volunteering. After all, they had to meet somewhere. We wanted a truly authentic feel to the show, so we decided to infiltrate a bereavement organization incognito, with real people and real suffering. It’s way better than hiring actors.
We gave Emma index cards detailing all Gabriel’s likes and dislikes. We had to give her a leg up if she was going to have any sort of chance of getting the “widower” to fall for her so quickly.
We made up the story about Simon when he showed up at the funeral. Chloé had told us who he was and about their shared past, which prompted us to make Gabriel believe his wife was still cheating on him. A gentle nudge to get him into Emma’s arms that much faster.
As for the abortion, we hesitated for a long time before doing that. Not for any sort of ethical reason, but because we were afraid Gabriel would call the hospital to learn more. And by that point, we didn’t have any money left to bribe doctors, especially since they generally come with big price tags—even the provincial hick variety.
But we decided to go for it anyway because we knew it would do Gabriel in. He’d always dreamed of starting a family, so he could never forgive his wife for depriving him of a child without at least mentioning it to him. Guess you could say we brought out the big guns! Chloé thought she was omniscient, that she was seeing everything as it happened, that we would actually show her everything . . . I have a hard time understanding how people can be so damn gullible. It gets tedious sometimes.
Okay, sure, I’ll admit it: after that things got a bit out of control.
We led Emma to believe that a big NGO wanted to hire her, knowing full well that she couldn’t accept due to the terms of the contract she’d signed with us. The idea was to put Gabriel in a situation where he needed to make her stay, to get him to realize that he could lose her, and to finally ask her to marry him. Honestly, I think we did everything possible to help the guy out.
Unfortunately, we hadn’t planned on him suggesting that she go. I mean, really, how many men do you know who are willing to sacrifice their own happiness for the woman they love? It’s the kind of thing you only see in romcoms, not in the real world! “Live your dream, honey. I don’t want to be the one to hold you back.” Blah, blah, blah. God, just thinking about it makes me want to puke.
That idiot screwed up the whole damn show.
Right now we’re working on final edits for the show, which is scheduled for broadcast in early April. A little romance to celebrate the beginning of spring. We’re trying to decide what to keep and what to cut, now that our plan has totally blown up in our faces. We’re hoping to film a few positive clips of Chloé, to get the viewers to like her, to side with her more than Emma. But it’s not going to be easy, especially since we can’t use any “daily life” footage because she’s out of the picture for six months. We’re going to do short close-ups on aspects of her life before the game, interview the people who love her, maybe fabricate a volunteer position for her at the Humane Society or something like that. You know, cast her as likable. We’ll film interviews with her to show how devastated she is as her husband gets closer to Emma.
I really think we can make it work and land on our feet. We just have to put things together right, add a narrator who makes Chloé look good, and that’ll be that.
It’s going to be the show of the season, just you wait.
This all stays between us, okay?
CHAPTER 15
FEBRUARY 2014
CHLOÉ
It’s been a month since I “came back to life.”
I’ve gotten back into swimming and running. I got my job at the gym back too, though I only plan on staying until we decide exactly what we’ll do with the money. The girl they’d hired to replace me didn’t make it past her trial period. Not peppy enough, or not hot enough. Elise looks at me with respect now. I don’t know if it’s because she admires the guts it took to fake my death for months or because she knows I might be rich—I can’t tell everyone for sure until after the show has aired. Maybe she thinks she’ll get something out of being nice to me—as if I could be bought.
My father hasn’t spoken to me since I told him what I did. Oriane doesn’t even pick up when I call. I can easily imagine her condescending critique: “When will you ever grow up, Chloé?” My mom is—obviously—the only one who gets it. She thinks my idea was “stellar.” I tried to explain that nobody has said “stellar” for at least thirty years, but it’s no use. She does her best to reassure me whenever I talk to her about how difficult things have become with Gabriel. She says I just need to give him some time to process the whole thing, that he’ll come back to me in the end. “If it’s not for love at first, the money will reel him in. Don’t worry, sweetie.”
That doesn’t change the fact that I’ve slept alone every night since I’ve been back. Every morning I wake up in our bed and look to my left, hoping that during the night my husband returned to the place he occupied for so many years. But he’s determined to keep sleeping in the crappy fold-out bed in the guest room.
I’ve tried explaining in every possible way that I never got back in touch with Simon after we moved to Saint-Malo, but I can tell he still doesn’t believe me. Simon sent me one e-mail after the move to see how I was doing. I sent a short reply telling him that everything was amazing, that I loved Brittany, and that I went swimming several times a week. Period. Is it my fault he showed up at my funeral? Or that the studio planted that stupid fake note to make Gabriel worry? That they fooled me too?
“This is a TV show, Chloé! We have to keep things fun, spice it up!” answered Lucille Bellanger in a carefree tone when I called to demand an explanation.
And the whole abortion story is the cherry on top. Even though Lucille begrudgingly confirmed to Gabriel that it was another lie, I swear he still has his doubts.
“I don’t know what to believe, Chloé. Are you really all that surprised, given everything that’s happened? I don’t even know who you are anymore. I don’t trust you right now, and even though I want to, I don’t know how to start trusting you again. I feel like I spent eight years living with a stranger.”
Make way for the melodrama.
“What if you had gotten pregnant? What would you have done?”
Gabriel’s tone is bitter and borders on threatening. His face is tense, his fists clenched in frustration. I instinctively back up a few inches.
“What kind of question is that? I told you I’ve never had an abortion!”
“Okay, but if you had found out you were expecting, what would you have done?”
“I have no idea, since it never actually happened! You can’t hold a decision I might have made against me!”
“So, potentially, you could’ve chosen to have an abortion without even talking to me.”
“I never said that! You’re twisting everything I say, Gabriel. Facts are all that counts. I never got pregnant and I never had an ab
ortion, okay?”
“Whatever you say . . .”
He exudes disdain. His tone, his eyes, his slightly curled lips and defensive posture. His whole being is so full of . . . I struggle to find the word, but when I finally put my finger on it, it hits me like a bag of rocks.
He is full of disgust.
My own husband is disgusted with me.
We’re going nowhere. I’ve tried to convince myself that with time, everything will be like before, but I’m starting to lose my patience. I’ve tried being kind and gentle. Crying and asking for forgiveness. Anger. I’ve tried to win him over with gifts. I even bought a bowl for his beloved mutt. Nothing is working. The distance between us just keeps growing. He hardly even looks at me. He’s elusive and impossible to read.
He can’t reject me forever, can he?
The team at Interference has made it even worse by having me meet with their psychologist. “You’ll see, Chloé, reality TV is his specialty. He knows what you’re going through and will understand,” explains Lucille in a slimy, slithering tone that reminds me of a snake hypnotizing its prey.
From the minute we meet, I can tell that the small balding man and I aren’t going to get along. His arrogant smile and the way he explains that he knows exactly what I’ve been through and have yet to overcome are revolting. As if I were just another contestant like the dozens or maybe hundreds of others he’s seen over the course of his career. As if I weren’t unique at all, just another product. A broken machine to be patched up in a hurry. I want to tell him that in just eight months I made more money than he makes in eight years. But I hold back, feigning humility and modesty.
He pulls a thick file of stapled documents out of a black leather folder and puts on a pair of round glasses.
“Have you had trouble sleeping since the show ended?”
“No, not really.”
“Do you feel stressed or anxious? Often, sometimes, never?”
“Never.”
“Do you feel sad or depressed? Often, sometimes, never?”
“Never.”
Sitting with my knees crossed, I start restlessly kicking my top leg to signal my impatience. The balding psychologist doesn’t seem to notice, or at least offers no reaction.
“Are we almost done here?”
“My only goal, Ms.—”
“It’s Mrs.,” I say, cutting him off. Apparently the idiot doesn’t even know I’m married. He clearly spent a lot of time studying my file before I walked in. An impressive display of incompetence.
The pudgy little man takes off his glasses and cleans the lenses with a cloth. He’s really taking his time—I can’t help but think he’s doing it on purpose. When he holds them up to the light to check his work, it takes all my strength not to stand up and leave the tiny room. But Lucille highlighted in bright yellow the clause of my contract requiring me to submit to a psychological assessment at the end of the show. She offered a predatory smile as she ran her index finger over the lines, explaining, “It’s for your own good, you know . . . Gabriel and Emma led a relatively normal life during the game, but not you. You’re important to us, Chloé. The well-being of our big winner is a priority for us!”
The psychologist puts his glasses back on and stares at me with faded blue eyes. The seconds tick by. If he’s trying to impress me, he’s failed. I’m just getting more and more annoyed.
“My only goal, Mrs. Hamon, is to make sure that you can go back to your normal life. I know that returning to reality can be complicated after what you’ve been through, after being isolated for several months and following your dramatic reunion with your spouse.”
“I’m perfectly fine.”
He nods, muttering a circumspect “mmm hmm,” as he jots down a few notes. I try to read them, but his writing is terrible—totally illegible upside down.
I listen to him distractedly for another twenty minutes, lackadaisically answering his questions, each of which is stupider than the last. Finally, he closes his folder and sighs—apparently his job wears him out quickly—then pushes a scrawled-on piece of paper toward me.
“What is this?”
“A prescription. Nothing too exotic. Half a Paxil every morning. It’s a very light antidepressant. And Xanax, if you’re feeling anxious. It will help with the . . . transition.”
“But I said I’m doing great, didn’t I?”
“I heard you. I’m not deaf, just nearsighted . . . Take the prescription, okay? You never know.”
His smile is laced with pity, and all I want to do is crumple his little piece of paper into a ball and stuff it down his throat. To shut him up, suffocate him.
Instead I put on an amiable, obedient face, tuck the prescription in my purse, and leave the room with dignity, thanking him as warmly as possible.
Hypocrisy is one of my strengths.
GABRIEL
“Today we’re going to talk about an important part of the grieving process: anger. I hope you’ve taken the time over the past month to think about the things that make you angry. Would any of you like to share?”
Gabriel has continued to attend the group, since Edith agreed he could finish the full twelve-session cycle, even though it turns out that he didn’t lose anyone after all. She understands that, in many ways, his wife coming back has put him in a difficult situation. Now that everything has changed yet again, he has to grieve his past from before the show. When he called and asked her in a flat voice if he could come to the next session as planned, she didn’t have the heart to tell him he had no place being there.
She didn’t have the slightest problem, however, leaving a cold message on the photographer’s voice mail informing her that she was no longer welcome at Coping with Bereavement. Emma tried calling back a number of times, but Edith didn’t answer. The young woman’s excuses didn’t interest her in the least.
The attendees glance furtively at one another. It’s always hard to be the first to speak, to break the silence.
Gabriel decides to start. He has so much to say that he figures it’s best not to wait for someone else to work up the courage to open his or her mouth.
“For the past month, I’ve been filled with anger. With rage, even. I’m mad at my wife for agreeing to participate in this stupid show without thinking for even a minute about the suffering it would put me through. For deciding that everything we’d built together could be swept away with the brush of a hand in exchange for a big check. I’m angry that she doesn’t understand my reaction to her coming home. Apparently she thought I’d jump for joy at the idea that we were rich. How could I have been so wrong about her? Was I completely blind to her flaws all those years? Did I just ignore them? Maybe in some ways this is all my fault, maybe it’s the price I have to pay for believing in her?”
Edith nods silently, encouraging Gabriel to continue. He shakes his head as if trying to free himself from his intrusive thoughts, then goes on, his jaw visibly tense.
“I’m also mad at Emma, of course. She toyed with me, my emotions, and my grief. She set a trap for me without ever seeming to have even the slightest regret. Then she simply disappeared from the face of the earth overnight, leaving me wondering if she ever really existed.”
Gabriel takes a pack of cigarettes out of his pants pocket, then remembers he obviously can’t smoke inside. He puts it down on the table and keeps talking, without making eye contact with anyone.
“I’m mad at all the people behind reality TV, who are prepared to do anything at all as long as it gets good ratings. I was manipulated, and now I feel totally powerless! I can’t even stop the show from being broadcast because it turns out that I signed the authorization papers and contracts without knowing it. For Chloé’s funeral, the mortician had me sign dozens of forms, so many that I didn’t even read them. I was too upset and in too much of a hurry to get it over with. I guess it’s my fault. I should have checked them.”
“Anybody would have done the same in your position, Gabriel,” Laura offers kindly. “How c
ould you have possibly imagined for even a second that your wife wasn’t actually dead?”
Marie-Hélène nods, horrified at the thought. They all seem to think that, in some ways, what Gabriel has been through is worse than really losing a loved one.
Edith waits for a lull, then explains, “I’m going to give each of you a piece of paper. I’d like you to indicate how angry you are with the different people in your lives. The scale goes from zero to ten, with ten being the angriest. I’ll let you have a few minutes to complete your ‘angerometers.’ Then the idea is for us to come back to these at our last session in June, to see if your anger has begun to subside.”
Gabriel contemplates the blank chart. At the bottom of the page, he writes “Chloé,” then “Emma.” Next he adds “the studio,” a vague term covering everyone who participated directly or indirectly in Till Death Do Us Part.
From Chloé’s name, he traces a line to the number seven.
From Emma’s, the line runs to the number eight, because he feels like she betrayed him even more than his wife.
Six for the reality TV people.
Gabriel moves to hand his paper in, then changes his mind.
He adds “Gabriel” to the list of names and draws a line that goes beyond the number ten. Because he didn’t see it coming, because he went along with everything like a sheep to slaughter, because he gave people his trust like children throw crumbs to birds. Because he doesn’t know who he is anymore or what to believe.
Because he feels more bereft now than when he found out Chloé had “drowned.”
EMMA
I gave Gabriel almost two months to mull everything over. I spent them doing nothing but thinking about him, but I didn’t give in to my urge to call.
Yesterday, I decided that I’d waited long enough and gave myself permission to dial his number—which I still know by heart. After five seemingly endless rings, it went to voice mail.
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