My stomach was a jumble of nerves, as it always was when I was about to meet a mark for the first time. So many details had to be in place; so many things could go wrong. Miracle worker is what Renata had been saying to anyone who would listen. With every retelling, she tied me to the lies I’d told. Polishing them until they held the bright shine of truth.
***
Six months ago, I’d been ready to quit. The constant relocating. The isolation the job required. How long until I made a mistake that would blow it all up?
But then I found Celia.
Celia M > Divorced Mamas
July 8
Here’s the thing I’m learning about abuse—it never ends. Even though I’ve left Phillip, he still finds ways to torment me. No, he’s not kicking me out of the car and forcing me to walk home at one in the morning, but every day is a new legal challenge from his lawyers. Some ridiculous way to delay, to prolong. It’s not the physical abuse I endured, but it’s no less damaging because I’m still constantly terrified. He still has power and control over me, and will continue to have it as long as this divorce drags on. I’m running out of money, and in a few months I won’t be able to pay my attorney. My credit is shot. I don’t know how much longer I can live this way.
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I’d felt a familiar stirring of interest, a feather tickling the back of my mind. This one.
That was how it always started. Someone pouring their heart out online, and me, taking notes. The divorce support group was one I’d stumbled into a couple years ago （a fertility group that led to a parenting group that led to this divorce group; the progression depressingly predictable）。 I’d joined as Margaret W, with a profile picture of a sleeping cat. A thirty-year-old woman whose deadbeat husband left her with two young kids and the ability to give great advice.
Celia’s page had led me to Phillip’s page, which had finally led me to his sister, Renata—midforties, no kids, and an unhealthy obsession with interior design.
***
Renata would tell you we met at a political rally. She’d been there registering voters, and I’d been there, new in town, looking to make new friends. But I’d been tracking Renata online well before arriving in Reading—cataloging her interests, scouring secondhand and consignment stores for clothes similar to hers, building a fictional business that would dovetail so seamlessly with Renata’s interests that meeting me would feel like reconnecting with an old friend.
These are the small details that make or break a job. There can never be any question you aren’t who you say you are. And it doesn’t matter what backstory you build for yourself. If the visual details don’t match, it’s like an out-of-tune piano. Hit a wrong note enough times and people are eventually going to notice.
I’d literally bumped into her, pretending to be searching for something in my purse, the contents of it spilling on the grass around us. As she helped me gather my things, I gave her all the basic pieces I needed her to have—that I’d been at a crossroads after my divorce, that my mother had grown up nearby, and that my move had been more sentimental than practical.
“Meeting people will be easier when I have my business up and running and I’ve got an excuse to get up and out the door every day,” I told her.
“What is it you do?”
“I’m an interior decorator and a life coach,” I said, then laughed. “I know, it sounds pretentious, even to me.”
“I don’t know much about life coaching, but I love decorating,” she said. “In fact, I’m kind of obsessed with it.”
I smiled. “There’s something special about taking a room and giving it an entirely new look. I do more than just decorate though. I redesign a client’s physical and emotional space.” Then I leaned forward, confiding. “I’ve worked with many celebrities, but my favorite jobs have been the small decorating ones. The ones where you know the cost is dear to them. It matters more.”