‘It’s right here,’ I’d say, pointing.
For me, if I could see something, it would happen. And I can’t see a world without Gabe. That must mean something. Mustn’t it?
‘I’m not saying it will happen,’ Gabe says. ‘Just that it’s a possibility.’
I force myself to imagine Gabe going to jail. On a superficial level, we’d manage. I am the breadwinner anyway. Mum and Dad and Kat and Mei would rally around to offer emotional support. The initial flurry of activity after his arrest would help. I could turn my mind to logistics. Lovely, clear logistics. I would need to arrange for child care. The girls would need to see a psychologist, which would involve getting a referral and a mental health plan. I’d probably need one too.
There’d be the shame to deal with, of course. Both the internal and, of course, the external. News would travel fast. We live in a small coastal town. For the past year we’ve been cruising on our reputation of being good people. Lifesavers! But small towns are notoriously difficult when you aren’t popular. I wonder, suddenly, what the Hegartys would think. ‘They seemed like such nice people. They have children!’
We’d probably have to move again. To a city, where we could blend in. We’d need to make new friends, ones who didn’t know Gabe and I before. But ultimately, we would get through it – physically, at least. Emotionally is another story. Because I can’t let Gabe go to jail for a crime he didn’t commit – a death for which I am responsible. I can’t. I won’t.
The night ticks on, but we don’t sleep. At one point, we have sex. A bizarre thing to do, maybe, but not for us. Even in the most terrifying moments of our relationship, we’ve been able to connect in this way, with our hearts in our throats and dread in the pit of our stomachs. Sex has been our escape, our distraction, our apology. And over the last year, when we haven’t needed an escape or a distraction or an apology, it’s been our comfort, our pleasure. It’s something I’ve had tucked in my pocket of self-satisfaction. Gorgeous husband. Adorable little girls. Great sex. Soulmates, with a connection that I’ve never seen in another couple.
‘Why didn’t you just tell the police in the first place?’ I ask him at one point. ‘If you’d just told them, they would have been more likely to believe you.’
Gabe appears tortured by this. ‘I know! I wasn’t thinking. It never occurred to me that either of us could be suspects in her death. Amanda made the decision to jump. You didn’t push her and neither did I. I thought it would be written off as any other suicide . . .’
‘But surely you realised word would get out that it was Amanda Cameron on the cliff?’
‘I hoped it wouldn’t.’
‘And the suicide of Max Cameron’s wife isn’t an ordinary suicide.’
‘I know.’
And this, of course, brings us back to why he must confess. The reason our conversation has travelled in circles all night. There is no other conceivable option. Max will discover that Gabe was with Amanda when she died. Either Gabe goes to the police with the information . . . or they come to him.
‘I’ll go to the police station in the morning,’ he says.
This time I don’t argue; I just slide into his arms and begin to sob.
26
PIPPA
THEN
Freya was six months old when I fell in love with her. We were in the doctor’s waiting room when it happened. She had been fussy for a few days with a runny nose, and it seemed like a good idea to have her checked out. I was holding her upright against my chest when she let out a long, sleepy sigh. I inhaled her sweet milky breath and, just like that, my heart moved in my chest.
By then, I’d clawed my way back from postnatal depression. I attributed this to medication and exercise – as well as the Gabriel Gerard rehab centre, which regularly took me on excursions and provided opportunities for me to feel. No matter how resistant I was initially, every time Gabe took me out on a new adventure he helped me to connect with some part of myself that had been dormant. Little by little, I felt myself come back to life.
‘I feel better,’ I said to Gabe one day. ‘I feel . . . good. You fixed me.’
The wonder of it was indescribable, a confirmation of what I already knew about the power of my connection with Gabe. I was the fixer; we both knew that. Gabe was the dreamer. And yet, when I’d needed him, he rose to the challenge.
I was intoxicated by it, the yin and the yang. Unfortunately, as with yin and yang, there was a cost to my recovery. As life returned to me, it slowly leached out of Gabe.
It started with sleep.
In the past, I’d always been shocked by how little rest he needed. He was always so full of energy! But suddenly he was yawning all the time, turning in at 8 pm.
We laughed about it at first. Blamed parenthood. Look how wild we are now that we’re parents! Quietly, I was grateful that he was home at night, going to bed early. It beat the days when he stayed out all night.
When the tiredness persisted, though, I told him to stop getting up to Freya during the night. But even after nine hours sleep, he would wake exhausted. Dark circles appeared under his red-rimmed eyes. One Saturday, he slept the entire day, and when he got up around 6 pm he still looked awful. It made me think of the ‘black periods’ he’d described suffering from as an adolescent.
‘I think you should see a doctor,’ I said eventually.
I made an appointment for him with Dr Withers, our local GP, who tested his iron levels. When the tests came back fine, Dr Withers decided Gabe must have a lingering virus. I suggested that he get a second opinion, but Gabe told me not to worry.
He took so much time off work I worried he might lose his job. But, perhaps due to his relationship with the boss, he managed to get by doing the bare minimum. I still had Max’s business card. Several times I’d picked up the phone to call him, then I’d put it down again. After all, the man was a media tycoon! He had enough to worry about without the wife of one of his executives calling him. I almost threw the card out a couple of times, but I always ended up tucking it back into my wallet – just in case.
One night, while watching a British police procedural on Netflix, Gabe started to cry.
We were tucked up in bed with cups of tea. Freya was sleeping soundly. It was the first time Gabe had stayed up late enough to watch a movie in weeks, and I had been thinking how remarkably normal I felt, like the other new mums in my mothers’ group, watching TV with their husbands.
‘What is it?’ I asked him. ‘What’s wrong?’
He didn’t answer. The tears weren’t alarming in themselves; Gabe was a crier, especially in movies. What disturbed me was the fact that it wasn’t a remotely sad film, combined with the fact that the crying continued after the credits had rolled and went on for four days after that.
‘I think you’re depressed, Gabe,’ I said. ‘It happens to a lot of people. I think you should see a psychologist.’
In fact, I’d started to wonder if I should see a psychologist too. I was battling the sleep deprivation of new motherhood and Gabe’s moods simultaneously. The littlest things had started to annoy him. As he lay on the couch, he’d complain that the cars outside were too loud. Freya’s sweet snoring was too loud. It was all interfering with his sleep and that’s why he was so . . . damn . . . tired.