Dark Mirrors (26 page)

“Mrs Myers –”

“Oh for God’s sake, this is farcical!” Esmée snapped and standing up gathered her coat, bag and umbrella to leave. “There is no Mrs Myers. He wasn’t real. It’s not my name. I am Esmée Gill. Always was and still am. If you haven’t managed to grasp that, then, well . . . I’m done here.”

“Please, Esmée, you’ve misunderstood. Of course this isn’t your doing. You can’t be blamed. I’m only trying to explain from Rob’s – eh, Philip’s point of view – what he may have been thinking. I’m here to help you understand.”

Esmée stopped in her tracks and turned back to the now standing counsellor. “Thanks but I don’t think I need to hear this. I understand what has happened and no amount of ‘psychological spin’ can make this all right. I appreciate you’re trying to help, just doing your job and all that, but this is too soon. I don’t want to . . . I can’t think of him as a victim.”

She left the warm, mellow office standing tall, bolstered by her anger. She and Julie now had something else in common: they would both use rage as a mechanism to survive. Stepping into the grey wet day she didn’t bother with her umbrella, liking the cold wet drops of rain and their cooling effect on her burning cheeks. What was happening to her? Why was this happening? She felt like such a fool. She had fallen in love with him and for years had given him everything: her whole self.

She shared with him everything she held dear. He had seen her at her best and her worst and she had been happy to share those vulnerable moments with him because she trusted him: loved him and thought he loved her. But really, how could he? How could he have made himself fall in love with her? Just like that? He sought her out. He made it happen. True love is supposed to be all about serendipity. Destiny. It’s supposed to ‘just happen’. You can’t force it. Their love, if it even existed at all, was synthetic. Unnatural.

Lizzie was waiting for her when she got home. Recognising the dark mood, she allowed her sister to smoulder in silence, handing her a mug of tea. The two women sat in silence, each lost in the detail of the family woes.

The vibration of Esmée’s phone ruptured the reverie. Jack’s name flashed white on the screen. She sighed: did she really want to speak to her husband’s colleague? She answered.

“Hi, Jack.”

“Esmée . . .” He sounded uncomfortable.

In no mood for small talk Esmée pitched straight in. “What can I do for you?”

“I promised I’d look into things for you.”

“You’re very good,” Esmée responded. She was tired and cross and sure this was just another wasted courtesy ‘found nothing’ call.

“Well, I thought I’d better give you the heads-up,” he continued.

The resting demons of dread in the pit of Esmée’s stomach woke instantly and lurched upwards: he had something. She sat upright in the chair.

“What, what is it? Do you know where he is?”

“No. Sorry. It’s not that, but I may have a clue as to why he . . . well, why he went away.”

“Go on,” she encouraged cautiously.

“Well, I’ve had a look at everything – his files, his customers, the deals that were processed – just to see what he was working on before, before he . . .”

“It’s okay, Jack, I know what you mean,” she helped him along.

“Well, it appears that things aren’t quite what they seem.”

“No shit,” she muttered quietly.

“There’s a team here about to launch a full-blown investigation. I can’t stall it any more. I wanted to be sure before I called. It’s money, Esmée. We think he . . .” again a hesitant pause, “well, he may have lost some money.”

“Do you mean stole?”

“God no, Esmée, I didn’t mean that.” Jack rushed on, mortified at being so transparent, ignorant of the litany of accusations facing the absent Philip. “There is probably a reasonable explanation – Philip wouldn’t do anything like that.”

“Yes, you did mean it and, yes, he would,” Esmée stated apathetically.

“I’m so sorry, Esmée,” he apologised, his words oozing pity.

“Thanks for letting me know.”

“Look, if there is anything I can do . . .”

Conversation over, she cast the phone aside. “Christ, I need a drink!”

“What is it? What’s happened?” Lizzie broached warily.

“Do you know what, it doesn’t fucking matter. I don’t have the energy to care any more.” She dropped her heavy head into her hands and expelled a huge sigh.

Mentally she racked up each of the indictments and accusations, then reminded herself that he was gone. And for a moment she was glad. He had buggered off and left her, so she, in good faith, must act accordingly.

“Right!” she declared, jumping up, shocking Lizzie out of her chair. “That’s it. If he wants to go, then let him. Come on! No time like the present.”

And striding to the sink, she reached in under it and grabbed a roll of black refuse bags. Throwing on her coat, she grabbed her keys and marched toward the front door.

“Well?” she threw back to her sister. “What are you waiting for? Are you coming or not?”

Grabbing her things Lizzie, with no other option presented, submitted and tripped after her, if only out of curiosity to see what the hell was going on.

“Where are we going?”

“Back to the house.”

“Why, what are we doing there?”

“What I should have done weeks ago,” she replied, locking the front door behind her.

She had been avoiding this task, fearing latent feelings of regret that could distract her. But she was angry. There were no emotions of regret or shame or guilt or sadness, only biting rage that she needed to express. If he was around she would have barked savagely at him, probably swiped and whipped him hard. But he wasn’t. The only part of him she could reach was his belongings.

“I’m not waiting for the bastard to turn up. He’s gone. So let’s get rid of him,” she asserted, driving fast and steady through the streets.

“Jesus, Esmée, is it not a bit soon? He’s only gone . . .” Lizzie questioned, keeping one eye on the parked cars they whizzed past and the other on the stony face of her sister.

“I know. But hey, this was his call. No time like the present. And once we’re done, I’m getting drunk. Very drunk. If you’ll take care of the children!”

They pulled up outside the house, the dust on the cobblelocked drive throwing up a plume as she pulled on the brake.

The air in the house was stale. A pile of mail jammed the door. Shoving it hard and pushing aside the paper mountain, she marched in. A quick rummage through the mail revealed that it was almost entirely junk mail. She shoved the few items of importance into her bag and checked her watch. She had a couple of hours before the kids needed collecting. With the decision already made that this was no longer their home, she had to deal with the problem presented by the house’s vacancy. The subject bothered her: she hadn’t the emotional fire to deal with it – until now. Now it was really clear and her prior reluctance slightly innocuous. The house couldn’t be sold so it had to be rented. Simple. How difficult was that?

She walked the rooms, assessing the best place to start, focused and ready. The memories in this house were nebulous, with no basis in reality, all her happy days demoted to mere fiction. She had been an unwitting player in Philip’s game and now it was over she was the one who had lost.

* * *

“Are you okay?” Lizzie asked as they tied up another bag, setting it aside in the hall.

They had spent the time in the house in near silence, with Esmée trapped in her thoughts.

“Not really, but I’ll live,” she smiled back at her sister.

“Wanna share?”

“Not really. I’ll only cry if I do.”

“Okay.”

And so the silence resumed as, bag after bag, they packed up Philip till nothing but his smell remained.

* * *

They toasted her loss in Zac and Barney’s bar in town, miles away from the sympathetic eyes of the village. She was glad of the anonymity. Fin took over as Lizzie and Penny left.

“So you’ve been sent to mind me?” Esmée asked bitterly.

“Don’t be such a bitch,” her friend replied gently. “They’re so worried about you, and don’t forget that they’re all wrapped up in this too.”

“I know, I know. And I should be grateful. I think they’ve had enough of me anyway.” She emptied her glass.

“Need another?” Fin offered.

“You betcha.”

Fin nodded to the barman, indicating a refill for her melancholy friend and a pint for herself.

“So how’re you doing?” she asked. They hadn’t seen each other in days with Fin occupied by her impending exhibition.

“Please, please, don’t be nice to me,” Esmée pleaded. “Can we talk about something else? How’s your exhibition going?”

“Jesus! Frying pan and fire stuff there, honey!” Fin threw her eyes up to heaven. “It’s a bloody disaster . . .”

The night wore on and the music got louder. Despite herself Esmée was enjoying herself, happy to be out and distracted by someone else’s issues, Fin’s hilarious tales an effective tonic that brought the absent smile back to her face.

“It’s good to see you laugh again,” said Fin.

“It’s certainly been a while,” Esmée said, feeling almost human.

“Seriously, though, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I think so. It’s tough though.”

Fin nodded. “But you’re strong, Es. You’ll come out the other side.”

“I know. It just seems a long way off. You know, I’m actually beginning to think I’ve had a bit of a lucky escape.”

“New beginnings!” Fin toasted, raising her glass and with it once again the mood. There was plenty of time for post-mortems, she thought, anxious to see her friend laugh some more before sending her back to reality.

Suddenly Fin’s face dropped.

“What? What is it?” Esmée asked, alarmed.

“It’s Lara.”

“Lara who?”

“Lara Wilson.”

“College Lara Wilson?”

Fin nodded.

“Where?” Esmée asked, turning on the spot.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“What? Oh that!” Esmée responded as reality bit. “Feck it, Fin. I can’t hide for ever, and we don’t have to tell her anything we don’t want to . . . unless she already knows . . . ?”

“Not from me, she doesn’t!”

“Well, then,” she enthused, her prudence dulled by the alcohol consumed so far, “what the hell?” She shrugged. “Lara!” she called over the heads queuing at the bar.

Lara looked around, then seeing her old friend bounded towards her in amazement.

“Bloody hell, Esmée Gill, how the hell are you? If it weren’t for Fin we would have thought you’d been abducted by aliens.” She hugged her hard. “Wagon! You haven’t changed one bit, you’re still as gorgeous as ever.”

“Neither have you!” Esmée choked in between shrieks and hugs.

“Yeah, right, have you seen the size of my ass? That’s changed!” she laughed, slapping her behind playfully.

Yep. Whatever about her backside, some things really hadn’t changed: Lara was still the gregarious whirlwind she always was, whipping up a storm wherever she went.

“So what happened to you?” Lara asked above the din.

“I got distracted,” Esmée replied dismissively.

“Well, I’m glad you’re back. Now come and dance with me.”

And her vivacity was infectious. Esmée hadn’t danced in years, she wasn’t even sure she’d remember how, but it didn’t take long for her to get her mojo back and she was soon strutting rhythmically across the dance floor with her dance partner of old and loving every minute of it.

It was like history repeating itself. Lara and herself on the dance floor with Fin holding court at the bar.

Fin realised it too and smiled smugly, acutely aware of Lara’s two escorts standing on either side of her.

“So, can I buy you a drink?”

She looked round to find a dapper young man in a sharp pinstripe suit with a sparkle in his eye, beaming eagerly from ear to ear.

“Why not?” she replied.

“Justin,” he introduced, extending his hand, his perfect hair shining under the down-lighters above the bar.

“Fin,” she reciprocated with a smile. “So, are you Lara’s partner?”

“God, no. We’re just workmates, that’s all.” He laughed. “I’m young, free and single, if that’s what you’re after.”

Fin laughed. “I don’t think so,” she replied, trying to let him down gently, but liking his smile all the same. “I don’t think I’m quite your type.”

“I could be your Mr Grey,” he smiled, raising his eyebrows seductively.

“Grey’s not my colour, honeybunch,” she countered “I’m more sixty shades of crimson, myself.” She raised her glass to meet his.

“Touché!” he smiled, touching his glass to hers.

By the time Esmée and Lara got off the dance floor, puce and sweating, Fin and Justin were laughing raucously, a line of empty shot glasses decorating the bar in front of them.

“You’ve met Justin then?” Lara asked rhetorically, watching as the rambunctious pair slammed then dunked another shot.