There is nothing honest about a second bank account, about a second phone. It’s complicated. Strangely, it wasn’t the things I kept apart that stung—the separate things were a shield—it was the crossovers that were painful. The near misses fling themselves into the front of my awareness now. They itch uncomfortably around my wrist where I’m chained; they sit in my parched throat. I can’t swallow them back.
I recall walking down the street, Kai walks with an arresting fluidity. She rolls, languidly, like a cat. Leigh bounces, much more of a puppy. This me, is bounding. So I am Leigh, heading toward Mark, Oli and Seb, keen to rest my eyes on them, to feel the boys roughly bury into me as they hug me hello. There is a supermarket trolley lying across the pavement. I bend to stand it up and park it to the side so that it doesn’t obstruct those with strollers or in wheelchairs. That is when I notice it, the bracelet glinting against my skin. Relieved I’ve spotted it, I slip it off. Not that Mark would guess they were real diamonds, he’d imagine I’d splashed out at Swarovski at best, more likely Accessorize. I slide ￡4,000 worth of jewelry into my handbag. Noting that I should take more care. I slip in and out of consciousness; in my dreams, my nightmares, I’m chained by a row of diamonds.
My head throbs as I recall an especially busy week when I took clothes from both my wardrobes to the same drycleaners and then had them delivered to the penthouse for ease. I didn’t think an extra dress and suit would be noticed; I planned to take them back to my home with Mark on Thursday. But Daan did spot the dress Leigh had worn to Mark’s parents’ wedding anniversary lunch. “That’s very fashionable,” he commented. I knew it was a criticism. He is not fashionable and doesn’t aspire to be. He is classic. He liked me to be classic too. Classy. I didn’t take offense. I was simply relieved he hadn’t seen Mark’s suit from Next.
I suppose there is only so long you can choke back a secret like this. Bliss like this. Pain and stupidity on this monumental scale will out.
I sacrificed myself. I wasn’t twice as interesting or busy or complete. I was half the person. In my dreams I hear the typewriter hammer out another note. The paper is slipped under the door.
Too late for regrets.
Then there is another, it flies around the room.
Too late for explanations.
And then a third. A flock of paper birds swoop and swarm, surrounding me. Pecking at my hair, my head, my eyes. I manage to read one or two of the messages.
Too late for excuses.
Too late.
And I close my eyes because he is right. It is too late for me. I do not know how to be or who to be. I’m no longer the woman I was or even the woman either of them thought I was. I’m no longer anyone. It will be easier if I allow myself to slip into unconsciousness. It will be easier if I let go.
41
Mark
The moment Fiona leaves the house Mark bounces up the stairs and charges into Oli’s room.
“You knew?” he demands.
“Don’t you ever knock?” Oli is trying to sound bolshie, confident, but Mark can see in his eyes he is scared. Scared of Mark? The thought is like a punch. Another one. His son gets up off the bed, draws himself up to his full height. Chest out, man to man, eye to eye. He glowers a challenge. He’s taller than Mark now. Maybe two or three inches. When did that happen?
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Mark demands.
“Because you’d have gone off it.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. You’d have gone all hulk-man and started tearing our lives apart. It was better I just dealt with it my own way.”
“And how was that exactly?” Mark’s spittle hits Oli in the face.
He doesn’t acknowledge it. He doesn’t wipe it away. Slowly, he replies, “I decided to do nothing. You know the teachers are always calling me lazy. I decided to do nothing.”
Mark wants to believe him.
But he doesn’t.
42
Kylie
Someone is shaking me roughly. “Kylie, Kylie. Kylie, wake up.” It’s just another dream and I don’t want to wake up. But the voice is desperate, frightened and insistent. They won’t let me go. “Kylie, open your eyes.” I feel a water bottle being pushed to my mouth, water dribbles down my chin and it feels real. The wetness on my top is true. I flicker open my eyes.
“Fiona?” I try to say her name, but I can hear it comes out as little more than a moan. Still she looks relieved. She gently puts the bottle to my lips again and this time I manage to sip. She kisses my forehead. Fiona, who for a long time I loved more than anyone else in the world. Until I had a husband and kids. Then another husband. A thought skitters through my mind. I am still the person Fiona loves most in the world. She will save me.
“Oh God, Kylie, what the fuck have they done to you?”
She’s calling me by my old name. The name I was when we met. The name it took months of training to get her to kick, but I don’t chastise her for using it as I did when I first applied for the deed poll, instead I’m glad. I am grateful. Kylie is the woman I was before. Whole, complete. Singular. I cling to Fiona, even though doing so causes spikes of pain to throb through my injured hand. I start to sob, inelegant, hiccuping, hysterical sobs erupt from my eyes, mouth, nose. The feel of her flesh, after nothing but space and brutality, makes me feel dizzy, untethered. I thought I was going to die. I thought I wanted to die but I know now I don’t. I want to live. I want Fiona to rescue me. She gently prizes her way out of my grasp. Stares at me for a moment, probably taking in my wounds. “Kylie, love, we haven’t got much time. They know what you did. Both of them do.”
“I am in Daan’s building, aren’t I?” I mumble.
She looks at me carefully, presumably weighing up what I’m capable of dealing with. “Yes, you are in Daan’s building,” she confirms gently.
“Daan did this to me,” I assert. I’ve surmised as much but still, hearing it confirmed hurts, wounds.
“No, well, maybe. I don’t know. I thought it was him. He’s—well, let’s just say he’s not what you think.” She looks embarrassed, awkward. “But I’m not so sure now who did this. I think maybe Mark put you here. You know, if he found out what you’d done and who with then—”
“You think he is setting up Daan?” I croak.
“Maybe. I don’t know.” She sounds desperate. “Or maybe they planned it between them. Maybe they are in it together.”
“Both of them?” I’m stunned, although should I be? They have shared so much unbeknown to them, is it such a leap to think they might share this, unbeknown to me?
“We haven’t got time to think about this now,” she says hurriedly. “We need to get you out. I’ve brought pliers, they are in here somewhere.”
In fact, she has a whole bag of helpful stuff; she tips it onto the floor and rummages. I lie back against the wall, too weak to be of much help. She hands me the small bottle of still water and a chocolate bar. It is all I can do to slurp back the water. My fingers are shaking too badly to manage to tear open the wrapping on the chocolate. She notices, stops rummaging and opens it for me. She snaps off a small piece and puts it in my mouth. “Here you go, baby bird,” she says with a sad smile. Her eyes are wet. It’s a thing we used to say to each other, way back when we lived with one another. If one of us was sick and needed pampering, or maybe just hungover and too idle to move, we would hand-feed each other Haribo jelly worms and make jokes about baby birds. The tender words feel like hugs. Fiona returns to rattling around with the contents of her bag. She has clean clothes and first aid equipment. I look at her wide-eyed in astonishment.