“We haven’t had time to think about it yet.”
“Don’t tell me you’re still mooning over that photographer woman! She used you, and now you need to move on!”
“How do you know? Maybe she was sincere.”
“Have you spoken to her since January?”
Gabriel shakes his head. For the past several weeks, he’s been routinely erasing the messages Emma leaves on his voice mail without even listening to them.
“And what difference would it make if she was sincere?” Geoffrey goes on.
“None. You’re right. It wouldn’t change anything at all.”
If it was all just a game for Emma, there’s no reason to pine for her. And if she really was in love with him, then the only choice is to let her go, like he did when he bought her the plane ticket. Emma isn’t the kind of bird you can keep in a cage. Either way, Gabriel prefers not to talk about her.
“How are things with Chloé? Are you still sleeping in the guest room?” jokes Geoffrey.
“No. We’re trying to pick up the pieces. It’s going to take time, but we’re both trying, so it should all turn out okay . . .”
“Aren’t you being a bit melodramatic? I mean, sure, thinking she was dead couldn’t have been much fun, but at a certain point you just have to forgive and forget, don’t you think?”
“That’s exactly what I’m trying to do.”
Everything is always so simple for Geoffrey. He doesn’t see why it’s so hard to go back to the way things were after being manipulated for months. He doesn’t understand that the thing that really bothers Gabriel isn’t that Chloé lied to him, but that now he doesn’t know how to trust her again. Seventy-five percent of the time he feels empty, as if a vampire sucked the life—his soul—out of him. As if he let the sharp fangs plunge into his neck without putting up a fight. He remembers something a childhood friend said to him once when Gabriel had turned down an invitation to a party in order to spend time with Chloé when they were still dating: “It seems like your life revolves around her . . . Sometimes it even feels like you are her!” The little voice in his head has been repeating the mild slight over and over for days.
He wonders who he is now. Who he would be if he had never met Chloé. If he would have become a different man without her.
Geoffrey’s upbeat voice tears Gabriel away from his thoughts.
“Well, if you really don’t know what to do with the money, you can always give it to me! I’ve got a thousand different ideas for spending it.”
EMMA
Gabriel,
I’ve been sitting in front of this piece of paper for almost an hour, trying to decide what to say, but nothing seems right.
I’m writing this because you refuse to talk to me. Don’t worry, it’ll be my last attempt to contact you; I’m not the kind of woman who harasses the man she loves. If you choose not to answer, I’ll leave you in peace.
I doubt you’ll believe any of what I’m about to write, but it’s important for me to tell you the truth—my truth. The rest is up to you.
I agreed to participate in the show because I had always dreamed of becoming a celebrated photographer, and I wanted to have the means to leave everything else behind, to live my art without thinking about money. When I signed my contract with Interference, it was just like I was buying a lottery ticket. A chance to get rich quickly and easily. I didn’t realize that I would be hurting someone in the process.
I know, I’m so naïve.
By the time I finally realized what I was doing, it was too late. I had signed the contract: I couldn’t back out and I couldn’t tell you the truth. So I kept going. I let myself get pulled in, and then I started to have feelings for you.
Over the weeks and months we spent together, I fell in love with you—despite myself. I wanted to tell you everything at least a hundred times. Even if you hate me now, you know I couldn’t tell you. You know that in the end, we were all trapped.
I really do love you. And I’m truly sorry.
I don’t know what else to say or how to prove my love for you, except maybe by reminding you that when I was given the opportunity to live my dream, I didn’t take it. I chose you.
At a certain point during the show, I thought that if I won the five hundred thousand euros and still stayed with you, you would know that what we had was real, that it wasn’t just a farce. I held on to that hope. But I lost . . .
Do you remember the framed picture of the two of us I gave you for Christmas? Open it, please. Inside you’ll find a statement I wrote and signed back in December 2013, before the end of the show. In it I promise to share the money with you if I win. The document was drawn up by a lawyer and notarized, so there’s no trap, no fraud. It’s the only way I could think of to prove my sincerity to you if I lost.
I hope you’ll be able to find the strength to forgive me.
I love you.
Emma
CHAPTER 17
APRIL 2014
CHLOÉ
When a letter came for Gabriel in the mail last week, I knew who’d sent it right away. A handwritten ivory envelope addressed to my husband. It was clearly a woman’s writing. No return address, obviously.
My first impulse was to throw it out before Gabriel saw it. That little tease was part of the past now anyway. Gabriel and I were just starting to get closer, and I didn’t need her back in the picture adding fuel to the fire.
But my curiosity got the better of me. I’d read enough detective novels as a kid to know how to discreetly steam open an envelope. I put a pot of water on the stove and watched as the seal slowly moistened and the flap came loose.
I skimmed Emma’s flowery letter. It was like something out of a Harlequin novel. I really don’t understand what Gabriel saw in her. I searched everywhere for the framed photo she mentioned, but gave up quickly. In the end, I decided it wasn’t that important to find.
I gently refolded the letter, slid it back inside the envelope, resealed it, and placed it under two thick dictionaries to flatten it out so Gabriel wouldn’t suspect a thing. Satisfied, I put it back with the other envelopes the mailman had delivered that day.
I didn’t throw out the letter because I don’t want to look bad if Gabriel ever finds out about it. And to be honest, when I really think about it, I don’t consider Emma a threat. Sure, she managed to seduce my husband—actually, “seduce” is maybe a bit much—when he thought I was dead, but now I’m back. She doesn’t stand a chance with me around. A six-month fling hardly compares to eight years together. It’ll take Gabriel a little longer to really start trusting me again, but I know he’ll get there. I know he doesn’t want to throw away what we’ve built together over the years.
Lucille Bellanger’s minions finally came by our house early last week to remove the hidden cameras. It took them a whole morning. I feel like a weight has been lifted now that I know my every move isn’t being filmed anymore. Being on camera 24/7 is no way to live. I didn’t sign up to be the new Truman Burbank . . .
I can tell Gabriel’s breathing easier as well. He’s been more spontaneous since the cameras came down. He’s getting closer to me, really trying. We still have one last hurdle to jump before we can get back to normal life, though. The show is set to air in a few days: every Monday night at 8:50 p.m. for eight weeks. Personally, I’m excited to see myself on TV, but I know Gabriel is dreading it. It was hard enough for him to put up with his friends’ and family’s reactions and remarks about my reappearance, so I’m afraid it will be even worse when his acquaintances and colleagues see him on the show.
It’ll be hard—for him. But afterward I’m sure we’ll go right back to being perfectly unknown, as soon as another show takes our place. People will forget about us quickly, thanks to all the other things consumer society will keep shoving down their throats.
Maybe every once in a while someone—the baker, the appliance salesman, a client at the gym or bank—will say, “It’s funny, but I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere b
efore . . .”
And the rest will be history.
GABRIEL
Gabriel hated all the sympathetic glances he got from his family and friends when Chloé died, but he really can’t stand the ones he’s been getting since Till Death Do Us Part aired on TV two weeks ago.
In the primetime slot. Obviously. That way the entire country gets a chance to feel sorry for him.
That morning at the grocery store, he even saw his face at the checkout stand on the cover of a TV guide. Will Gabriel remain faithful to his wife or fall for the beautiful Emma? It was a photo taken of him at the cemetery without his knowledge, during one of his visits to Chloé’s fake grave.
Six more weeks and it’ll all be over.
Chloé suggested they go away on vacation while the show is being aired, but Gabriel argued he couldn’t leave the bank for two months, so they might as well face the sudden but temporary media frenzy head on.
Gabriel had cut his curly hair earlier this month, leaving less than a quarter inch behind. His wife doesn’t care much for the new look, but he didn’t ask her opinion. He pulls an old Nike baseball cap on when he leaves the house and avoids making eye contact with strangers in the street.
It’s a different story with his clients at the bank. He often has to listen—or at least pretend to listen—to their advice, questions, and criticisms regarding the show.
“So who did you choose in the end? You can tell me, I promise not to tell anyone until the show’s over!”
“Seriously, if I were you, I would’ve gone crazy when I found out I’d been used for months!”
“What about Lucille Bellanger? Is she nice? You’ve seen her up close, do you think she’s had a nose job? I’m pretty sure she has . . .”
“Who won? I guess it wasn’t you, since if you’d won, why would you still be working here? The photographer must have won the prize money and taken off to live her dream abroad . . .”
“If I were you I’d sue. It can’t be legal to make someone be part of a reality TV show without his knowledge! If you want, I can recommend a friend of mine who’s a lawyer. He’s a shark. Hang on a second, I bet I have his number in my phone . . .”
“I just don’t understand why people watch shows like that. Everyone knows it’s rigged, so what’s the point? Who knows, maybe you were even in on it! Come on, admit it!”
Gabriel does his best to end the conversations politely. His schedule is booked two months out—everyone wants him as their financial advisor. Andy Warhol’s fifteen minutes of fame are dragging on a bit too long for Gabriel’s taste.
Sometimes he wonders how Emma’s handling her time in the spotlight. She seems to have disappeared from the face of the earth since he got her letter last month. He read it several times, but couldn’t look in the frame to see if she was telling the truth even if he wanted to. He’d thrown the gift away along with everything else when he found out the truth about her in January. He got rid of everything she had left at his place, including her coffee maker, which she must have forgotten in her rush to move out after their last dinner together. It hardly mattered if she was telling the truth or not anyway. He didn’t want to believe her anymore.
As for Chloé, she agrees to interviews with every journalist who calls, but she knows enough not to talk to him about them. When she comes home at night she never says a word about the show. He can tell she’s doing her best to make it easier for him. He would like to be able to do the same for her, but doesn’t know exactly how to go about it.
All he knows for sure is that the only thing to do now is wait.
And be patient.
EMMA
Wedding season is starting up again, but since the beginning of the month I’ve had nothing but cancelations. I should have predicted that: no one wants a heartless husband-stealer taking pictures at their wedding . . .
I have no work, and my meager savings are dwindling by the day. I won’t be able to keep this up for long. Plus, it doesn’t really make any sense for me to stay in Brittany. Gabriel’s not coming back. I’ve hoped and waited long enough. I have to be realistic.
Lucille Bellanger called yesterday. She had an “un-be-liev-able” offer for me.
“I had a brilliant idea last night that I’m sure you’re going to love! What would you say to telling Gabriel you’re four months pregnant? You know, to keep things interesting! I did the math: that’d mean you got pregnant around December 25. You did make love over Christmas, didn’t you?”
I refused to dignify the question with a response.
“We’ll make you an adorable little silicone baby bump and a fake ultrasound to really get Gabriel going! At this stage of a pregnancy it already looks like a tiny baby with little arms and legs. It’s too cute! I think you can even find out the sex at four months! Do you know if Gabriel would rather have a boy or a girl?”
The words just kept pouring out of Lucille Bellanger’s mouth, like a never-ending avalanche. Her tacky enthusiasm had her so wound up that I struggled to get a word in edgewise.
“You have got to be out of your mind!”
“Not at all! Listen, I’ve thought it all through: you tell him you’re pregnant, he comes back to you straightaway, and then a few weeks later you have a miscarriage. Ta-da, everything’s peachy! All you’d have to do is console him yet again, and we both know you’re good at that. He’d never suspect a thing!”
“But why in the world would you want to fake something like that? The game is over, they’ve already won the five hundred thousand euros. What more do you want?”
“Let’s just say that . . . Well, I shouldn’t really be talking to you about it, Emma, but the truth is that the show’s not doing as well as we’d hoped. The first episode got promising ratings, but the next two fell flat. If we don’t get back on track with some enticing trailers, viewers will lose interest and the show will get bumped to late night. It would be just awful to be forgotten after all our hard work . . .”
“And I should care about all this why?”
On the other end of the line, Lucille Bellanger stifled a laugh, seemingly surprised by my indignance.
“Oh, come on, Emma, I wasn’t born yesterday, you know! I’d have to be blind not to realize that you really do care about Gabriel, that you practically fell in love with him the first time you met!”
“That’s not true,” I managed, but my voice was not very confident. I hated that I couldn’t find the words to give this maniac a piece of my mind.
“There’s no fooling me, I know what I saw. I could even tell you I planned it all! That’s why we picked you in the first place, so be honest with me! I’m doing this to help you too, don’t you see? It’s a win-win. I would hate for your love story to end like this, and all because of a stupid misunderstanding. I want you to get your happy ending! You deserve it, especially after all you gave up . . .”
She softened her voice to a syrupy-sweet tone and I rolled my eyes. She really thought I was an idiot.
“I think we’ve said all we have to say, Lucille. I have to go.”
Over the line, I could almost hear how fast she shed her best-friend mask.
“No, wait! Since you’ve forced my hand, let me put my cards on the table: I’ll give you twenty thousand euros to play along with this harmless little game. You have to admit that’s good money. I wouldn’t offer this much to just anyone, believe me.”
“I can’t believe you’d think for a second that I’d accept!”
“I know that your financial situation is complicated. I just wanted to give you a helping hand, that’s all! Don’t tell me money doesn’t interest you because I wouldn’t believe you . . . So, you’ll do it? I can have the funds transferred ASAP. I know that you can’t afford to pass something like this up . . .”
I hung up without answering and turned off my phone.
That woman will stop at nothing.
If she keeps on like this, next thing I know she’ll suggest I kill myself to make Gabriel feel guilty and give t
he viewers a chance to shed a few tears.
CHAPTER 18
MAY 2014
CHLOÉ
“You must be pretty disappointed that they canceled the show so suddenly, huh?” asks Oriane, clearly mocking me. It’s the same arrogant tone she always takes with me, as if I were a stupid little girl.
She finally decided to call me back a week ago to say that if my husband could forgive me, then she should be able to do the same. That’s why Gabriel and I drove all the way to Rennes to have lunch at her house with my nieces and nephew. Her husband, Maxime, isn’t here, but there’s nothing unusual about that. He’s obsessed with historical reenactments and often spends entire weekends participating in medieval tournaments. I’ve never really understood the fascination, but I suppose he probably liked playing dress-up as a kid, and his hobby lets him continue doing it with other adults who are just as nostalgic as he is.
Oriane and I are comfortably seated on a glider in her huge backyard. Gabriel is playing Frisbee with Adrien and Alice, her two older children. My sister and I are talking as she feeds Léontine her strained vegetables. My niece keeps wriggling in her seat, clearly more interested in playing with her brother and sister than in swallowing the parsnip purée her mother has made.
“I don’t care that Till Death Do Us Part was a flop. I didn’t do it to become a TV star. I did it for the money. Plus, Gabriel is so relieved that the whole thing ended after only a few weeks on the air.”
After the third episode, the show was bumped from 8:50 p.m. to 11:10 p.m. Then, given its poor ratings, the network canceled it altogether—much to Lucille Bellanger’s chagrin. After all, her career was on the line.
“Come on, Léontine, one more bite and you can go play Frisbee too.”
Oriane flies the small silver spoon around like an airplane. The toddler follows it with her eyes, a sour look on her face. When the food nears her mouth she reluctantly opens and chews up the vegetables as she watches her brother throw Gabriel the Frisbee.
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