An Accusation: A Novel

by Wendy James

  “Why the fuck,” he’d asked, “aren’t you on the pill?”

  He hadn’t even bothered to wait for her response. “You can’t keep it,” he’d said. “I don’t want a kid. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. This is bullshit.”

  They weren’t in the same boat at all. They weren’t even sailing on the same ocean.

  “And, anyway, how do I know it’s mine?”

  At that she’d vomited on his shoes. And just for a moment, she’d felt better.

  SUZANNAH: JANUARY 2019

  “What haven’t you told me, Chip? What’s all this got to do with you?” He tried to pull me closer, but I stepped away.

  He looked at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “Honor got pregnant. When we were going out. She had . . .” He faltered, started over. “She had an abortion.”

  Honor laughed again, but this time it sounded more like a cry.

  “I was . . . we were just kids, Suze. There was nothing else we could do.” His eyes met Honor’s. “I couldn’t know, could I? I couldn’t know what was going to happen.”

  HONOR: 2006

  Wasn’t this the way the universe worked? It was some sort of law, surely. Murphy’s Law? Sod’s Law? The law of if I can fuck you over twice, three times, four, even, I will. There was some immutable natural law that meant it was always going to happen, that it was always going to be exactly like this, and against such forces, Honor never stood a chance.

  There had been no grief when she’d aborted that baby. Maybe a pang for a future she could glimpse from the corner of her eye, just a chimera: one where she and Chip raised the child together, where she was welcomed with open arms into the Gascoyne clan, where Honor became one of them, his mother melting into a soggy pile of grandmotherly gratitude when introduced to their baby boy (and this baby would be male, natch; people from those families always had their boys first: hale, hearty, full of that born-to-rule vim and vigor). It had been a ridiculous fantasy when she actually thought about it. The reality was that his parents would have been quietly horrified. They weren’t snobs, not exactly—his mother was matronly, decent; his father genial, boozy, a little too fond of women—but they wouldn’t have wanted their boy’s future curtailed, constrained in such a way.

  So that fantasy didn’t really have traction, even if Chip himself hadn’t been so resolute. And there was no complementary fantasy about being a single mother. She’d never fooled herself about that. Her own family wouldn’t have welcomed a baby. Not without a father. Oh, they would have supported her, there was no doubt about that. But to see the disappointment in her parents’ eyes—it didn’t bear thinking about. Honor had a bright and glorious future ahead of her, her smarts a ticket out and up.

  There was only one solution. At the time, it had meant relief from the constant sickness, the headache, the anxiety. There were no real regrets. Not then.

  The regrets came later. When she was in her late thirties, and that clock she’d dismissed had begun to tick progressively louder, had chimed the hours, the halves, the quarters. She’d suddenly begun peering into prams, looking enviously at women with swollen bellies, begun thinking that there would be something nice about taking time off, time out, devoting herself to someone who wasn’t after fame and fortune, who wanted nothing and everything from her, who might even return something more tangible than 15 percent. And of course there was Dougal. He had felt the same way—had wanted kids from the start, had been waiting more and more impatiently for her to agree. He was old-school to the core, and back then she’d loved that about him, too, his unapologetic conventionality. He was homo suburbiensis in the flesh, and the thought of finding herself barefoot and pregnant had become ever more appealing.

  Honor had waited a full year before checking, that was what everyone advised. It was always going to take a while, after all that time on the pill; just relax and let it happen naturally, they’d said. She had waited, done her best to relax, but there’d been nothing, not even a scare. Every month she was as regular as clockwork. Ticktock. So after a year, she’d visited the doctor. He was married to a high-profile model she’d agented years before, who’d since left and had her own little brood—twin girls and a boy—in her midforties. Honor had been encouraged by her success. Her husband obviously knew what he was doing.

  But her faith hadn’t changed his blunt diagnosis: she would never have children. She’d told him about the pregnancy, of course, and the abortion. Had there been any complications after the procedure? She’d thought back. She could remember that the aftermath had been much worse than she’d expected, than she’d been told to expect. She’d had some pain, heavy bleeding—but how much was too much? She remembered that she had felt unwell—her whole body aching, her temperature high—for a week or so after, that she had stayed in bed, had told her mother that it was nothing, just a bad cold, that she didn’t need to see a doctor. How could she tell anyone? At the time the potential shame of discovery had seemed far worse than any possible future ramifications. And in a way, she had welcomed the illness; it felt right—a physical manifestation of her barely acknowledged grief over Chip’s desertion. But by the end of that week, not only was she three kilos lighter, it was as if the sadness had burned away.

  The doctor’s nod was solemn, perhaps slightly judgmental. That could be it. It’s not uncommon. Weren’t you warned? You should have seen a doctor immediately. “But maybe,” he’d added, as if to lessen the blow, “maybe that early pregnancy wouldn’t have gone to term anyway. Perhaps there was damage even then.” It was difficult to tell when the damage occurred, or why. And there was no point worrying, really. Her insides were a mess; she would never have a baby. She should consider a hysterectomy to avoid possible complications down the track. Her eggs were fine, he’d told her, looking determinedly cheerful. Such a pity.

  She’d done as he’d suggested and agreed to have the lot out. Dougal had cried when Honor broke the news, but she didn’t tell him that once upon a time she’d been capable. How could she hit him with that?

  But she told Chip, by God she did. It was years later, just after they’d begun their affair. She’d watched with something close to pleasure as he lowered his eyes, shamed by his younger self’s behavior, his young man’s hardness, his obliviousness.

  “Jesus, Honor,” he’d said, “I was a little shit. But it would have been impossible then, wouldn’t it?”

  Looking back, she had thought maybe not, that maybe there were ways they could have done it, ways they could have made it work, that there was a whole alternative life they could have been living had they decided to keep that child. Who knew whether what either of them had now was better? Who could ever know? But at least he, too, had been denied the pleasures of parenthood. At least the universe had granted her that.

  And then it hadn’t.

  HONOR: JANUARY 2019

  Honor drove a few blocks from the court, well away from the slowly dispersing crowd. She pulled over and parked under a tree, tried to regulate her breathing, calm her mind. She needed to call Dougal. Ellie would have to be told, too—her exposure had been more damaging than Honor’s—but for the moment she was safe at her media-free resort. Honor needed to talk to Dougal first to see if he could see some way out—for both of them. His advice had been invaluable over the years, whenever her clients’ fuckups had proved too much even for her; he was knowledgeable when it came to legal ramifications and the myriad ways around them. And he had the contacts, would know who could help her make it all go away. Even if he wasn’t all that keen on helping Ellie, there was no way he would refuse to support Honor.

  She wasn’t looking forward to telling him about the questions surrounding her own behavior but was certain he would believe her version of the story. She had already worked out how to frame it: she would admit to visiting Suzannah’s but claim they were mistaken about the dates. And her visit to Sally O’Halloran, that could be easily explained, too. Honor had had some concerns about her father’s treatment—wasn’t it natural that s
he would visit an old classmate, get her private opinion of the nursing home? The idea that this proved collusion or conspiracy was ludicrous.

  She made the call, keeping her voice low, as if she were at risk of being overheard. Dougal’s voice was similarly subdued. He’d heard the news, he said, had been waiting for her call.

  “I couldn’t phone straightaway,” she said. “The media were everywhere. It was insane. You can imagine.”

  “I think I can.”

  She got straight to the point. “You do know that it was all just rubbish?” She was surprised by her own sudden breathlessness.

  “About you visiting Suzannah’s? And talking to the nurse?”

  “Yes, that, of course. You know I didn’t have anything to do with it. But I’m talking about Ellie, too. That witness, David Lee—he’s lying, it’s been fixed somehow. They must have—”

  “Honor—”

  “Surely there’s something we can—”

  “Honor.” His voice was stern. “David Lee was telling the truth. Everything Ellie Canning said was a lie. From beginning to end. She was never in that house. I know it.”

  She felt cold suddenly.

  “And you know it, too.”

  She ignored his final assertion. “What do you mean, you know it?”

  “Because I was the one who told the defense about David Lee.”

  “What?”

  “He was trying to contact you. You’d gone out somewhere and left your phone at home, and I picked it up. He told me he was ringing to tell you he had information about Ellie Canning.”

  “Why would he call me? Why not the police?”

  “Perhaps he was ringing to blackmail you. I don’t know. I don’t care, to be honest. But I wanted that information, so I paid him for it. He told me that she’d been with him—sent me the photos, the footage.”

  “And you sent it to Andy Stiles?” It was impossible to disguise her fear.

  “I did it for you. I thought Ellie was trouble. I was trying to protect you.” He paused. “But it turns out you didn’t need protecting. When I heard what went on in court today, it all suddenly fell into place. You buying the property up the road from Gascoyne’s. All those visits back to see your father, pretending to be the dutiful daughter. Encouraging me to stay home, saying you needed the peace and quiet, that you wanted time alone. My God. I don’t know how I managed to be so blind. You and Chip—childhood sweethearts!—how you must have laughed.”

  “Dougal, I—”

  “It must have almost killed you when he chose Suzannah. After all that effort.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Even she could tell that her words lacked conviction.

  “Of course you do.” He laughed, but there was no joy in the sound. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, Honor. You always have. It’s a talent. I used to admire it, that ability you have to listen properly, to work people out, spot their weaknesses, and exploit them.” His voice was full of a deep, dark sorrow. “I just never imagined you’d need to exploit mine.”

  SUZANNAH: JANUARY 2019

  Chip pulled up in front of the house.

  “I’m just going to go home and check on a few things. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  He helped Mary out, and we both stood by the idling car and watched her climb up the veranda steps. She gripped the railing, dragging each foot onto each stair slowly and painfully.

  “Actually,” I said, “I might wander over when she’s asleep. I feel like a walk.”

  “A walk? Now? In this heat? Are you sure that’s a good idea?” He paused, looked at me worriedly. “And don’t you think we need to talk?”

  I laughed. “Oh God. No. Not today. I just can’t.” I gave him a reassuring smile. “And anyway, it’s history.”

  “It might be history, but it almost—”

  I cut him off. “Honestly, Chip. Can’t we just forget it for now? I’d rather talk about the future. Actually, I’d rather talk about the price of mutton.”

  “Fine.” I could hear his relief. “As a matter of fact, there have been some interesting developments in the sheep industry. We’ll have plenty to discuss.”

  I laughed. “How about I just wander over when it cools down? I need to get out. It feels like I’ve barely moved since this all began. I’ll come over through the paddock, and we can walk back over together.”

  He frowned. “I don’t know that you should really be out in the dark alone.”

  “It won’t be that dark. What if I bring the dogs?”

  That almost satisfied him. “Bring a torch. And your phone.” He ran his hand down the firm curve of my belly. “And walk slowly.”

  “I don’t really have much choice about that, do I?”

  “Probably not.” He kissed me lightly and slid back into the car.

  I poked my head through the open window. “And can you put a bottle of something in the fridge? We need to do something to celebrate.”

  Mary was surprisingly compliant. She barely ate her toasted cheese sandwich, which was pretty much the only dinner I could concoct with our dwindling supplies—a loaf of frozen bread, cheese, butter, some wrinkled apples.

  We’d ordered new pajamas online, and they’d just arrived the day before. They were short-sleeved cotton pajamas, not quite the same as her lovely silk “Chanel” pair, but at least the colors were similar, and she was eager to put them on and go to bed, happily forgoing her bath and the nightly game of Trouble. Instead, she listened to a few chapters of the abridged version of Heidi we seemed to have been reading forever. We were up to the part where Heidi put on all her clothes to travel down to the city with her aunt.

  Mary laughed. “I did that once, you know.”

  “Did what?”

  “Once when I was coming back from LA, I couldn’t afford to pay for my extra luggage, so I wore half of my outfits under this big coat. I was so huge, I could barely squeeze into my seat. And it was bloody uncomfortable. But I was coming back for good.”

  “You were?” This was a story I’d never heard.

  “Yeah. It was just after me and Jonno split up. I’d had enough. I thought I’d come back to Australia. I was going to go back to Sydney, try and make a go of it with you. See if I could actually do the mother thing, you know, settle down, make some sort of family.”

  “So what happened?”

  She didn’t respond. I could see her eyes drifting, losing focus.

  “So why didn’t you come back, Mary?” I prodded. “You flew to Sydney, and you were coming back for good?”

  “I . . . oh, it was just the usual.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I met someone at the airport. This guy I used to know. He offered me some blow.” She shrugged. “Anyway, I didn’t make it home that time.” She patted my hand. “But I’m here now, aren’t I? We’re together.” She wriggled down in the bed and gave a deep, satisfied sigh.

  “We are.” I closed the book, pulled the blankets up under her chin, and tucked her in. Her eyelids were fluttering.

  I turned out the lamp. Kissed her forehead. “Night, Mary.”

  “Night, kiddo.”

  She closed her eyes and turned on her side away from me. As I started down the hallway, I could just make out her quiet singing.

  I soon will be in New Orleans, and then I’ll look around, and when I find Suzannah, I’ll fall upon the ground.

  But if I do not find her, then I will surely die,

  And when I’m dead and buried, oh, Suzannah, don’t you cry.

  HONOR: JANUARY 2019

  She had called his number over and over, left message after message, but there had been no response. She had sent dozens of texts, desperate missives, rambling and incoherent. She had abased herself in every way possible, begged forgiveness, promised the world. Nothing.

  When a message finally lit up her screen, it wasn’t even Dougal, but an unknown number.

  Just heard them bitchs have got away with it. J & D are goin fo
r a drive up Wash rd tonite. Cheryl

  Honor read the message twice. She thought about calling back. Thought about calling the police.

  Revenge: they say it’s best served cold, but who knows when it’s digestible?

  SUZANNAH: JANUARY 2019

  I waited until Mary was asleep, then called the dogs, who were both immediately eager for adventure, despite the late hour. They rushed ahead of me when they realized we were heading for their home, barking excitedly, dashing off to snuffle in the bushes before running back to check on me. It was dark now, darker than I’d expected, the only light from a small sliver of moon and my flickering phone torch. I trod cautiously, not wanting to trip or stumble, the new house a brightly lit beacon at the end of the rough path. I paused for a moment as I approached. Chip was facing the kitchen window, a glass of wine in his hand, gazing out into the dark. I waved my little light a few times to reassure him, the dogs rushing forward noisily. He returned my wave and walked toward the veranda door. I heard his even footsteps across the timber floor and then faster as he walked down the driveway to meet me.

  The dogs reached him first, raced around him, yapping. He clicked his fingers, and they immediately ceased their antics. Although they sat obediently, their pleasure in seeing him was still evident in the swishing of their long, elegant tails, their hopeful panting.

  “I hope you don’t expect that sort of behavior from your women.”

  He clicked his fingers again, feigning disappointment when I refused to obey. “You probably shouldn’t be sitting out here in your condition anyway. You could . . . well, I’m sure it’s not good.”

  “So what should I be doing?”

  I knew what I should be doing at this point, what anyone sensible, anyone else in my position (but who has ever been in this particular position?) would suggest: that we should debrief, decide on next steps, ways forward. But right then I didn’t want to be sensible; I didn’t want to think.