AN
INCONVENIENTAN
WOMAN
STÉPHANIE BUELENS
Scarlet
New York
This book is dedicated to those who have the soul of a fighter, and who believe in genuine friendship.
To Paul Ward, William Larsen, Vittorio Carelli, for our shared tears, laughs, and endless fights for happiness; Rosheen and Raman Chawla, for their boundless generosity; and to my much unified family: my parents, Luc and Bernadette Buelens; my sister and brothers, Pauline, Grégoire, Matthieu; their wives, Cécile, and Florence; and their children, Mathis, Alexandre, Lola, Louison and Tom.
The whole world can become the enemy when you lose what you love.
—Kristina McMorris
Bridge of Scarlet Leaves
Prologue
His power was in his arms, the muscles of his neck, the force of his legs, as he carried me out into the depths. Wrapped in his embrace, I felt as helpless as the sea beneath the moon. But I was not afraid.
Until he stopped and said, “Let go.”
Instead I tightened my arms around his neck.
He pointed to the boat.
“Swim!”
It was too far, and the waves were high.
I held to him with all my might. It was useless. He unraveled my arms. They were no more than strands of twine.
“Swim,” he repeated, and pushed me out into the current.
I went under, then surfaced.
“Swim to the boat, Claire,” he ordered.
He was not to be disobeyed.
I swam.
The waves washed over me violently. There was something malicious in them. A hatred for my fear. I looked back, hoping that he might be swimming toward me. But he stayed in place, chest-deep in the roiling water.
A foaming crest sloshed over me. It filled my mouth with water. I gasped and coughed. My legs stopped pumping. My arms ceased thrashing. I sank heavily, like a stone.
Suddenly I saw a flash of light above me. Sun on the surface. I propelled myself toward it, clawing upward until I finally broke through. I was panting desperately. Ravenous for air.
I spun around, now certain that he must surely be coming to my rescue. But he remained where he had been.
The water seemed heavier. It had set its mind to swallow me. I couldn’t let it. I kicked my legs, and with each thrust I pressed onward a little.
I pumped and pumped, moving forward inch by agonizing inch.
At last I made it to the boat.
I reached up, grabbed the gunwale. One more pull. I was almost safe. I drew in a deep breath. Readied myself for a final effort. One. Two. Three. Now!
Something gripped my still-submerged legs. I looked back into the water. His hands were on my ankles, tugging me down. I could see my father’s head below the water.
Then there was a cry. “You okay?”
Another boat was closing on us, an old man at the helm. “You okay, sweetie?”
My father must have heard it, too. He released me, surfaced, and pretended to laugh.
But the truth was in his eyes.
PART I
Claire
IN THE HALF-LIGHT of dawn, it comes to me in the vague, soft-focused form of a dream.
I know it’s based on a memory, though as a vision it has a Hollywood feel. I watch it like a scene from a sweetly romantic movie. Something like Robin and Marian.
I’m standing in a broad green field.
I’m in my mid-twenties.
It’s summer.
The light is bright and warm.
A wind sweeps over the undulating grass as a man presses close behind me.
I feel the warmth of his body and the feathery touch of his breath.
“Stand very still,” he tells me.
He takes my hand and lifts it to the bow.
“Draw it toward me,” he says.
He pulls back gently, my hand in his, and the bowstring tightens.
“Now hold,” he says, when the string reaches almost the breaking point.
For a tense interval, everything balances at the tingling point of release.
Then he says, “Let go.”
I do, and the arrow flies toward the waiting target.
Before it hits, I awaken and realize that it wasn’t Robin Hood and Marian in a film.
It was Max and Claire in real life.
We weren’t in a lush green field.
We were in the desert.
And it wasn’t a bowstring I held. It was a gun.
•
Two hours later, I stare at my face in the bathroom mirror. It’s a blur at first, but as the mist from the morning shower dissipates, my features become more distinct.
It’s as if I’m rising slowly from a thick, watery depth. At last I break the surface.
There she is: Claire Fontaine.
Convincingly normal in every way.
Just another woman getting ready for work.
No one would guess.
•
After my shower, I put on my bathrobe, walk to my office, and turn on my computer.
I never cyberstalked Simon. But at the same time, I’ve kept a watchful eye on him. I have an alert on his name, and a few days ago I was notified of a marriage announcement.
I went online to confirm this, and there they were.
Simon, grinning triumphantly, certain that his latest prize is now in reach. Charlotte, his fiancée, unaware of what’s coming.
Emma, her ten-year-old daughter.
I know he is going to do it again.
To remind myself of what he truly is, I type Simon’s name in the search engine, then hit Images.
A wall of photographs pops onto the screen:
Simon at black-tie charity events.
On the golf course with celebrities, politicians, businessmen.
Simon giving civic awards and receiving them.
Simon the altruist, shovel in hand, breaking ground for an art center that will bear his name.
His wealth is on full display as well.
Simon at the door of his big house, leaning against a fancy car, at the helm of his yacht.
Was it this I fell for? Simon’s big show?
If it was, I am even more to blame.
But there is no point in looking backward, in wishing I had seen his real face sooner.
I have to think of Emma.
Blond hair.
Blue eyes.
Innocent and trusting.
Simon’s type in every way.
•
The phone rings as I am about to leave for my first client.
Simon’s name appears on the caller ID.
It’s a call I’ve been expecting, and yet I hesitate before answering it. Finally I respond with a clipped “Yes?”
“I can’t believe you did this, Claire.”
His voice is taut, controlled, everything about him kept in check.
In the background I hear the heavy slosh of water and immediately imagine him standing on the bow of his boat, dressed in that faux naval costume. Blue blazer with brass buttons. White pants and shoes. A cap with a gold insignia. The yacht he tellingly named My Little Girl.
“Claire? Are you there?”
When I don’t answer, he turns lawyerly, a dispenser of sound advice. His tone is wise and patient. Who but a fool wouldn’t listen to him?
“That letter was completely inappropriate, Claire. It’s a groundless accusation. It always has been.”
If I try to produce the kind of evidence he’s used to and that he demands, the sort that’s admissible in a court of law, I’ll be on the defensive for the rest of the conversation. He will counter my every statement wit
h a wily feint. It will frustrate and exhaust me. Leave me swirling with anger and powerlessness while he grins smugly at the other end of the line.
Some women act on their rage. They take a tire iron to their husband’s car. They crack its windshield and shatter its headlights and beat its metal skin.
If a woman’s fury could be soothed so easily, there’d be no cars on the road.
Simon, the chameleon, now transforms himself into a psychologist. The kind we see on television: helpful, solicitous, dripping with sympathy and understanding.
He talks about my “corrosive guilt,” my “trust issues,” my “outrageous suspicions.”
Then he moves on to our life together.
He is sorry it ended as it did, brought low by my own “dark history,” by which he means that my father tried to drown me. A story he obviously doesn’t believe and probably mocks behind my back: Claire’s first delusion.
Or does he bother to talk behind my back?
Am I even worth his ridicule?
“I still care about you,” he says. “I really do.”
I know this isn’t true. Divorce is an eraser.
Unfortunately, I haven’t been erased enough.
Like a stubborn stain, I have reappeared.
“Please, Claire, let’s just call this an unfortunate episode.”
I hear him, but I can’t help imagining what might have been. My daughter, Melody, at twenty-one, just graduating from college. In this alternative future, she is telling me not to worry: “Oh, Mom, you are so SM.” Texting shorthand: Single Mom. Now the scene shifts into the past and she is a girl of eight, playing in the sea. Light glitters on the water. She calls these flashes “diamonds.”
I know that this is an odd twist of mind, this moving back and forth in time, from what was to what might have been. There are occasions when I “remember” the future as if it has already happened, past and future blending like the colors on an artist’s palette. At such moments it is only the present that seems unreal.
For Simon, this is just another symptom of my derangement. A mind-set he can use to build his case against me.
But I can’t help giving Melody a future, even if it’s only imagined.
I see her again. Playing in the pool, Max teaching her how to swim. All of us laughing. Melody on a pony, Max holding the reins. The storied holidays sweep by: Melody opening her Christmas presents, or at a large Thanksgiving table, Max carving the traditional turkey.
Max, my husband.
Melody, my daughter.
Once I had a family.
“Can we do that, Claire?” Simon asks. “Can we just say that you . . . had a little breakdown?”
Simon, the long-suffering and forgiving friend.
When again I don’t answer, he releases a dramatic, world-weary sigh. “This silent treatment is childish. Absolutely childish.”
He is now the frustrated father.
How many disguises does he have?
Ava considers men little boys who rush toward a cliff. They are always certain that they won’t go over the edge. Simon has this kind of self-assurance.
“Are you listening to me, Claire?”
His voice is solicitous, kindly. You’d think he was my guardian angel. It reminds me of my father’s voice. They both pretend to feel sorry for me and regret that I am a victim of sinister delusions. I could be happy, they insist, if I would just shuffle off these malicious visions. Move on is their shared mantra. Forget the past. Especially the parts you’ve only concocted.
There are times when their lips seem poised at my ears.
Whispering incessantly, None of it is true.
Sometimes I press my hands against my ears to silence them.
Like a woman who is truly crazy.
Once or twice I have even screamed.
Silently.
Only in my mind.
No one hears.
“I can’t let you do this again, Claire,” Simon tells me. “Not to me or yourself. And certainly not to Charlotte or Emma.”
At last his best role emerges: Simon as the benevolent protector. A man who never thinks of himself. It is always someone else he is trying to protect. Once it was me and Melody. Now it is Charlotte and Emma. It will always be someone. And it will always be a lie.
“Please remember what happened last time,” he adds.
We finally arrive at where such exchanges always end: a threat.
He’s made it subtle and indirect, but I feel it like a slap.
I’ve had enough.
“Do you remember how Melody looked?” I ask him coldly.
“It was an accident, Claire. She got in a boat. The sea was turbulent, and it overturned.”
“And why did she get in that boat, Simon?”
Simon is exasperated.
The answer to that question is one he won’t acknowledge.
“I have a right to be happy,” he says firmly, almost nobly, like a man defending a sacred document. “I won’t let you stand in my way.”
He hangs up.
I feel like a tuning fork struck hard. Still vibrating.
I put down my phone, walk into the yard, and let the morning sun pour over me. It’s hot and dry. In its bright light, my twitching nerves grow still.
Abruptly I feel exposed, an easy target.
As vulnerable as a deer in an open field.
I walk back into the house, and for distraction turn on the television.
“The body of a girl was found floating this morning among the pylons of Santa Monica Pier.”
A girl in the water.
I think of Melody swirling in the waves.
It’s a powerful connection.
A sisterhood of the drowned.
The screen shows policemen on the beach, standing over a black body bag.
“The victim has not been identified, and her cause of death has not yet been determined.”
Years ago, when I was studying art history in Paris, I read about the body of another girl. A teenager. Floating in the Seine. No one knew who she was, so they called her “L’Inconnue,” the Unknown. A photograph of her death mask became a hot item among the city’s artists. They framed it and hung it in their studios. German girls modeled their looks on her. She became a romantic ideal.
I sweep into an invented future. Melody is now sixteen, reading in her room. A poster of L’Inconnue is thumbtacked to her wall. Along with one of Amy Winehouse.
I finish dressing. Before leaving, I give myself a quick once-over to make sure everything is properly in place before heading to my first client. My earrings are modest, with a short dangle. My shoes are low-heeled. My blouse is silk, light pink. My skirt is black and falls just above the knee. I use very little makeup and a pale lipstick with a touch of gloss. No visible bra strap or panty line. Nothing provocative.
“Anyone having information concerning this girl should contact the Los Angeles Police Department at the following tip line.”
I reach for one of my notebooks and write down the number on the screen. I have no idea why I do this. I don’t know the girl in the water. And besides, she’s dead. I can’t save her. Perhaps I write the number because I’ve been watching movies on a new cable network called Femme Fatale. Last night’s movie began with a woman in a raincoat running from an oncoming car.
Watching this scene, I was reminded of three days before, when I decided to write to Simon. The fear I’d felt as I’d written that single, chilling line:
I won’t let you do it again.
In noir films, the women are brave and smart. They know how to move and talk and get out of a tight spot. They are always one step ahead of whoever is pursuing them.
It will be much harder to stay ahead of Simon.
I hear his voice in my head: I won’t let you stand in my way.
He has the means to back up his threats. Money. Influence. He is a prominent lawyer, with important clients. An officer of the court. All the powers that be are on his side.
I have only myself.
On the way to my car, I see Mr. Cohen waving at me from the adjoining yard. He calls me his “adopted daughter” and advises me on the Big Questions. His nurse often rolls him out in the morning, then goes back inside to tidy up. Today he looks lonely, isolated, a castaway marooned on his wheelchair island. His wife died many years ago, and his only son was killed in Iraq. He is a great lover of the classics, particularly the Greeks. He says that he is like Creon in Antigone: schooled by sorrow.
Perhaps I am, too.
After we chat awhile, he says, “You look like you’re under strain, Claire. Anything in particular?”
I tell him it’s an item in the morning news, the drowned girl.
He looks at me sympathetically.
I know what he’s thinking. He’s concerned that this latest drowning has brought it all back. The rain. The wind-tossed sea. The heaving boat. Melody’s body in the water.
I see myself reflected in his eyes, Claire on the brink.
I understand his concern.
He’s no doubt seen women like me before.
Tense. Strained. At loose ends. Perhaps falling apart.
He assumes such women are capable of anything.
He may be right.
I go to my car, insert the key, and fire the engine.
As I back out of my driveway, I catch my eyes in the mirror. They look cold, fierce, steely.
I’m frightened by them.
Mr. Cohen is right.
Anything.
2.
On the way to my first client, I pass the auction house where I once worked. I never go there, because the Claire my colleagues and customers knew then—talkative, outgoing, funny—is not the Claire I am now, wound tight, on edge, forever on guard, an LA version of the madwoman in the attic.
Melody was four years old when I first took her to the auction house. Max went with us that day. We strolled through rooms of paintings. Melody was alert and eager. She was fascinated by a collection dubbed “Fantasies.” They presented a whimsical world of floating faces, eyes bulging from trees, boats with butterfly sails. Everything in them was weird and topsy-turvy. Melody found them funny.
At one point she rode happily on Max’s shoulders. Together in that way, they appeared as one body, the two of them melded, one form seamlessly rising from the other. This physical representation of their closeness seemed equally fantastical to me, father and daughter bound in a way that was beautifully surreal.
An Inconvenient Woman Page 1
