Family Pictures

by Jane Green

  Sylvie sits down. “Do you think he still has money?”

  “I don’t know. He’s certainly been spending it. Not on you, though. God. When I think what a hard time he gave you over that jacket you wanted last year. What was it? Two hundred dollars? Three hundred?”

  Sylvie shrugs. “Something like that.”

  “And she’s swanning around in sable bloody coats. I could kill him.”

  Sylvie closes her eyes and sits back, leaning her head on the pillow. “I’m just so tired. I have no idea what’s next. First Eve and her anorexia, now my mom with a stroke, and the pièce de résistance, my sham marriage and lying, cheating husband. I keep bracing myself for what’s next.”

  “Nothing’s next.” Angie sits next to her. “Don’t you know? Bad things always come in threes. That’s it. Those are your three. Now it’s nothing but good all the way.”

  “That’s hardly likely, given the press are camping on my doorstep. I can’t even go home. And presumably, they’re looking to expose everything in my private life. Angie, I don’t know how I’m going to survive this.”

  “Don’t be overdramatic,” Angie tuts. “That’s my job. You’re going to be fine because you’re a survivor. And thankfully, unlike the other one, who has clearly spent her life trying to hide her humble beginnings, you have no secrets. What are they going to find out about you? That you’re an obsessive gardener? That you make great candles and have been known to stay up all night doing so? Big fucking deal.”

  “What if they start asking people in town about me? What if they’re already interviewing mothers at school?” Sylvie shivers in horror.

  “What are they going to say? That they don’t know you well, but you seem lovely? The only person who knows you well is me, and I’m certainly not going to say anything—” She is interrupted by the ring of the doorbell. “Be right back.”

  Downstairs, Angie opens the door to find a lone reporter, notebook in hand, on her doorstep.

  The reporter opens her mouth to speak, but Angie, her most charming smile on her face, gets there first.

  “Take your notebook and pen,” she says, “and shove them up your ass. And yes, you can quote me on that.”

  * * *

  Upstairs, Sylvie is on the phone, scribbling notes on a pad. She finally says good-bye, turning back to Angie, as white as a sheet.

  “Who was that?” Angie sits next to her.

  “The bank.” She is numb. “They’re foreclosing on the house. The mortgage hasn’t been paid in months.”

  “I can’t believe it. Oh God. What did you tell them?”

  “I…” Sylvie opens her mouth to speak, but can’t find the words. “I couldn’t say anything. I feel too sick.”

  “How much is owed?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

  “First mistake. What’s your monthly mortgage?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “God, Sylvie. Promise me you’ll never get into this situation again?”

  “If I ever get into this situation again, I’m killing myself.”

  “I mean with the finances. I just mean you have to have an understanding of where you are financially.”

  “But Mark handled—”

  “No. He mishandled.”

  “But it was his money.”

  Angie barks with laughter. “Because he stole it?” She lets out a heavy sigh. “I know, I know. You didn’t know he stole it, you thought he earned it, but even so, you are his wi— You thought you were his wife. It’s a partnership. Do you think of your house as Mark’s house?”

  Sylvie shakes her head.

  “Exactly. It’s your home. Both of you. It’s the same with money, and as a partner, you need to know where you stand. I’m the worst person with figures in the whole world, but I force myself to go through the credit card statements, and I know exactly what’s coming in and going out. How else do you think I know I can afford to splurge on designer handbags?”

  “Angie?” Sylvie, who has nodded in agreement even as she zoned out, brings her attention back to her friend. “Where in the hell am I going to live? How am I going to pay for anything?”

  “We’re not going to let you live on the streets.” Angie covers Sylvie’s hand with her own. “Worst case, you’ll come and stay here until we figure it out. We will figure it out, I promise. Get the financial information together, and we’ll talk to Simon. For all you know, there’s a ton of money in a hidden account. You need to find everything you can get your hands on and access his accounts. We’re all assuming there’s nothing there, but how do you know? Isn’t it far more likely he has a secret account?”

  Sylvie’s shoulders drop as she sighs. “Three weeks ago, I would have said Mark was the last person in the world to keep any kind of secret, bank account or otherwise. The worst part is how stupid I feel. How stupid I must be that I didn’t realize my husband had a whole other family. All those times I couldn’t get hold of him, or he’d disappear, and even though I’d have this feeling something was up, I let myself believe his excuses were real. That’s the worst thing. I’m so ashamed, I can’t stand it. This was my husband. The man I knew better than anyone else in the world. What the hell does it say about me and my judgment? How am I ever supposed to trust anyone ever again?” She groans. “How can I have been so stupid?”

  “If you were stupid, we were all stupid,” Angie murmurs. “Every single one of us. Simon’s a financial genius, and he didn’t doubt Mark for a second. The day we found out, he was so shaken up, he sat at the kitchen table for the entire day without moving and went through almost an entire bottle of vodka. No one knew. No one even suspected.”

  “I just don’t understand why. Why did he do it? What kind of man looks you in the eye, knowing he’s lying? Knowing he’s going to hurt you?”

  “You could ask him,” Angie offers.

  “No.” Sylvie shakes her head vigorously. “I won’t do that. I refuse to see him. He’s ruined our lives, and right now I don’t even want to look at him.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “No idea. But he can’t leave the state of California until his trial.”

  “He hasn’t tried to contact you?”

  Sylvie pauses. The phone has rung a few times, mostly late at night, a blocked number, and Sylvie has let it go to the machine, suspecting it is him, not wanting to hear whatever explanation he may have come up with.

  “He has, hasn’t he.”

  Sylvie explains about the late-night calls.

  “Next time, pick up,” Angie advises. “Even if you have to pretend, find out where the money is. He must have something. You have to find out. Promise. Please?”

  Reluctantly, Sylvie nods.

  “As to why he did it, God only knows,” Angie says sadly. “Simon said he saw a show recently about love frauds, men who do what Mark did, who were described as sociopaths and narcissists. Except they all stole money from the women they defrauded, which isn’t the case here. Maybe he really was in love with two women. Maybe he couldn’t make a choice? Or wanted to leave his first wife but couldn’t leave his kids?”

  “But why marry me, then? Why not just have me as his partner?” Sylvie bursts out. “Why break the law?”

  “Given his recent arrest, breaking the law doesn’t seem to be of huge importance to Mark, does it.” Angie raises an eyebrow.

  “I wish I understood,” Sylvie says, pressing her fingertips around her eyes, a headache starting to form. “God only knows how Eve’s going to deal with this. This is the last thing she needs right now. I don’t even know where to start in dealing with that.”

  “You don’t have to.” Angie leans forward. “That’s what the therapists are there for. Truly, she’s in the best possible place. There’s nowhere safer for her to work out her stuff than where she is.”

  Sylvie stands up and extends her hands to the ceiling in a big stretch, knowing Angie is right, even if she doesn’t quite believe it herself.

  “You�
��re going?” Angie asks. “Are you ready to deal with the press?”

  “No. You’re coming with me. You can deal with them.”

  Angie grins. “That’s my girl. Nothing I like better than a good fight. And if I curse like a madwoman, they’ll never air it. Would it be sick to say I’m looking forward to this?”

  “Yes. Entirely.”

  “I won’t say it, then,” she grumbles as the two women walk down the stairs.

  41

  Maggie

  When we were selling our first home, I delighted in getting the house ready for potential buyers. I bought armfuls of fresh flowers before every viewing, ensured cinnamon dough was on hand to bake in the oven, filled the house with irresistible smells of home, lit fires and scented candles.

  Just as back then, the Realtor phones to let me know when she will be showing the house, but I’m no longer the owner. The bank has repossessed my beautiful home, and the phone calls from the Realtor are merely a signal for me to leave; there is no incentive for me to beautify the house, for none of the proceeds of the sale are mine.

  Not that I could beautify it now, I think, looking out the window as sadness threatens to drown me. The gravel driveway is covered in weeds, the boxwood hedges shaggy with new, pale green leaves sprouting off in all directions. The apple trees have dropped their fruit; what hasn’t been eaten by deer has rotted and soured on the ground.

  Inside, there is an air of emptiness, of a home unloved. Dust covers the surfaces of what little furniture is left, unless I’m able to emerge from my depression enough to notice and sweep a hand along a tabletop.

  To think that once upon a time, I would have been mortified that the Realtor has to show up half an hour early, armed with fabric spray, beeswax, scented candles, room spray. She has to move furniture to cover the stains, polish the dusty furniture.

  I don’t bother doing any of these things for her. I no longer have the energy to care.

  More and more furniture has been sold, leaving faded marks on the carpet around the house, large squares on the wall where pictures once hung.

  It is hard to believe this was ever a house filled with family, laughter, and love. In fact, I’m not sure it ever was.

  At the bottom of the stairs, I take a deep breath and pause, listening to the women bustling around the living room. My eyes automatically go to the wall facing the stairs, where the huge antique gilt mirror had hung.

  It was the mirror in which I always gave myself one last check, making sure my makeup was perfect, my hair frizz-free; ensuring I looked the part.

  That the mirror has been sold is irrelevant now. I no longer need to glance approvingly at myself in darkened store windows, resenting even having to see my two-inch roots and wrinkled forehead in the bathroom mirror.

  The mirror sold for four thousand, two thousand of which, thank God, I got in cash. The blank holes around the house the only reason we still have electricity and oil. At some point, everything will be reclaimed by the bank, or the police, or the creditors, but until that point, I have a family to feed.

  “There you are!” An older woman with short gray hair, neat and precise, walks into the hallway, holding a crocodile purse. “We’re just getting everything set up, but we think there’s a mistake on the price.”

  I bend down to peer at the price tag.

  “It says fifteen thousand dollars,” the woman laughs.

  “No, that’s right.” She isn’t the local estate seller—I couldn’t handle that. I found her in Norwalk, and understand the incomprehension in the woman’s eyes. “I know it’s a crazy price, but it’s the bag everyone around here wants. It will probably be the first thing to sell.”

  “Oh, goodness!” The woman shakes her head. “I had no idea anyone ever spent this much money on a purse! Goodness! This looks like it’s going to be the best sale we’ve ever done. Are you sure you don’t want to stay? Most of our estate sales have the owners present. They love seeing how much their old things are going for.”

  I look at her as if she’s crazy, then give a mere shake of my head. “Not me, I’m afraid.”

  “I understand. It can be painful, parting with things you’re still emotionally attached to.” The woman’s eyes soften in sympathy as I just nod. It’s less that I’m emotionally attached, more that I’m horrified at the prospect of seeing the vultures gleefully picking over what’s left of my beautiful things.

  I told Lara I’d be away, as if I were nipping over to Nantucket for a couple of days. Ha. I wish. I have no idea where I’m going, but I need country. Trees. Fields. Nature. Maybe a beach, or lake. Somewhere I don’t have to think about what’s happening inside my home.

  The house that used to be my home.

  Yesterday, when I spoke to Lara, she asked how the organization of the sale was coming along. What could I say? That it made me feel sick?

  “I bet Kim will be the first one there,” I said bitterly.

  “Probably,” Lara laughed. “I just want you to know that I’m not going, okay? I know you’re selling these things because you have to, and it wouldn’t be right. I need you to know that.”

  “You’re a good friend,” I said. “I hate the thought of everyone picking over my things. I knew you wouldn’t be going, but thank you for saying that to me. It means a lot.”

  The estate sale woman—what was her name? Oh yes! Eleanor—is still standing there. “Are you off anywhere n—? Oh dear!” She turns to the sound of a car with a frown. “I told the press they couldn’t come in.”

  “The press are here?”

  “All of them,” Eleanor sighs. “I’m not sure we’re going to be able to keep them out. But that’s not press. That’s a local.”

  “How do you know?” I step away from the window so I can’t be seen, or photographed with a long-lens camera.

  “Black Range Rover,” Eleanor says, peering outside.

  “Oh yes. Definitely local.”

  “Someone you know?”

  “Could be one of a hundred.”

  “We said no early birds. I do hate it when they ignore what we state quite clearly in the ad.”

  Whoever it is, I don’t want them to see me, not face-to-face. I don’t want them to witness my shame.

  I thought I had friends here—believed I had earned a loyalty and respect from the women I saw almost every day, be it at school, a committee meeting, a charity event. Those same women who are now appearing on television, giving their opinions and comments about my marriage, telling stories about Mark and me. Women more interested in their fifteen minutes of fame than in protecting a woman who had hosted them in her house numerous times.

  Grabbing my bag, I practically run to the safety of the kitchen, but just before I close the door, I hear a familiar voice from the hallway.

  “I’m so sorry I had to come early. I have an appointment in the city, but I wanted to stop by. This is just too good to miss.” My heart is in my mouth as I listen. I would know this voice anywhere.

  It is Eleanor’s turn to charm. “There are certainly some beautiful things here. The purses are on this side, and there’s wonderful jewelry over there. This is truly one of the best sales we’ve ever done.”

  “I’m sure. Nothing but the best for Maggie Hathaway. Oh well, one woman’s loss is my gain,” she laughs.

  “I’m Eleanor.” The estate sale woman has the grace not to join in. “Let me know if you need any help.”

  “Thank you, Eleanor. I’ll take that Birkin, for starters.” There is a pause during which I imagine her turning the Birkin over in her hands. “Fifteen thousand? I know it’s crocodile, but look at that scratch! And that one? That’s far too much.”

  “Oh,” Eleanor says nervously. “Gosh. I hadn’t noticed those. I see what you mean.”

  “I’ll give you five,” the woman says confidently. “Five thousand dollars. Cash.”

  “I’m going to have to check with the owner—”

  “Five thousand? For a used purse with scratches? No one’s
going to offer you more, I promise you.”

  “You have a point.” Eleanor is doubtful, but five thousand dollars for a purse is, in her mind, still obscene. “It is rather badly scratched.”

  “Good. I’d like to look at those necklaces too. And the earrings. Those purses are interesting but priced much too high. Trust me, I know what these are selling for in consignment stores, and it’s a lot lower than that. Can I just start a pile over here? I’m Kim, by the way.”

  “Nice to meet you, Kim.”

  I would know Kim’s voice anywhere. And that isn’t Kim’s voice.

  It’s Lara’s.

  * * *

  I resist the urge to burst through and let her know I know. I’ve done enough damage to myself already. I just need to get out.

  I race to the car, put my foot down hard, and accelerate out the driveway, scattering the clamoring reporters and camera crews. No one can keep them out of the house, but who cares anymore. There is nothing they can say or do that could make my life worse. Nothing people I don’t know can do, but there are still things my “friends” can do to hurt me. Clearly.

  I drive on I-95, in shock. I’ve lost my husband, my life, and the respect of everyone I know. Even the few I thought were friends have proved to be more interested in profiting. I am well aware that in the newspapers and one of the blogs I have publicly been declared a fraud, my humble beginnings doubtless the subject of much mirth along the scrubbed wooden tables in Le Pain Quotidien.

  I have lost everything, but in doing so, I can’t help but start to wonder what that “everything” meant.

  Mark was described by all who knew him as “the perfect husband.” I may have been blind to his betrayal, his other marriage, but that aside, what kind of a husband was he, really? Hardly ever home, when he was, he would be stepping outside to take a “conference call”; would disappear in his office for hours, closing the door so as not to “disturb anyone.” Then there were the times he would go missing for days, out of reach.