“You’re supposed to dip it in your coffee,” he said, staring at her as crumbs fell down her top. “Like the French do. That’s how Eleanor did it.” He returned to his plate for a moment, easing his irritation with another mouthful of eggs. The pastry stuck to the roof of Keisha’s mouth, and she cringed once more with her ignorance and the hurt of the open comparison with Eleanor.
“Sorry,” she muttered, before tearing off another piece and carefully dipping it into her drink.
“You’ll learn. Anyway, we need to think about our Fourth of July party.” Billy finally rested his fork. “You want to organize it?” He smiled at her as if this were some great offering of trust in her wifely abilities.
“I can try,” she said, eager for his approval. Kind Billy was always preferable to mean Billy. “You’ll have to help me with invites. I only know about five people.”
“That’ll change, honey.” He reached for his coffee. “Oh, that reminds me, I’ve booked you in for some tennis lessons at the club. We can go down to the pro shop and get you fixed up this morning. Maybe try the driving range too? Work on your swing. The girls here love golf and tennis as much as the guys. You’ll meet some great people. Soon you’ll be running charity galas like it’s second nature.”
“Sounds wonderful.” Her heart sank. Golf and charity galas. He was already trying to shrink her into Eleanor’s shape. Who was he trying to kid? Her or himself? She wasn’t like Eleanor and never would be. He was displaying her like a piece of art he picked up on his travels. And calling his friends girls and boys was laughable. They were all so old.
But, she thought as she ate some more of her croissant, she’d play the game for the time being.
She had no choice.
15.
It had been a bad couple of days. Alone in the house, Marcie stared into her box of private things. She’d tossed the photo of Jason and her over the side, resisting every urge to tear it up and flush it. While she’d tried to keep her suspicions to herself and behave normally, he’d been coming home late, snappy and distracted. He’d rarely had his phone out of his pocket and when it was, he put it facedown. Casually, as if accidentally, but she knew better than that. This wasn’t his first rodeo. You’d think he’d have learned not to be so obvious. He hadn’t even mentioned trying for a baby or wanting sex, which until she turned up had been the only addition to their new house he seemed interested in.
She thumbed through the various pieces of old paper, all folded tightly, reluctant to be examined. Things she wished she could throw away but knew she had to keep. Documents she might need one day. Relics of the past. This ritual of hers was normally a comfort, a reminder of how far she’d come—now she was trying to find her old strength in it. Maybe she’d have to be that person again. Someone who had the power and resolve to start over from nothing. And do it fabulously. But this life had softened her and now she wasn’t sure she could. Just the thought of it was exhausting. Maybe she no longer had the balls she’d had in her twenties. A couple of weeks ago she’d been feeling suffocated and quietly longed for some freedom, and now she was terrified of losing this smothering safety. No, she realized. She wasn’t afraid of losing it. What she couldn’t stand the thought of was someone else daring to try to take it from her. She hadn’t changed that much in the past decade.
She closed the lid and hid the box back in the ceiling before taking a deep breath to pull herself together. She looked in the mirror. There were dark rings under her eyes but nothing that some carefully applied concealer wouldn’t hide. She had to keep a cool head. She would not become the paranoid wife—at least not visibly. Whatever he was doing, Jason wouldn’t divorce her. Certainly not yet. It had taken a long enough time to make him picture a life without Jacquie, and where one divorce could be forgiven in this polite world they inhabited, she wasn’t so sure he’d get away with two, however many people might privately gossip that she was getting what she deserved. Not combined with what his father had done. The fine families of the South would start to withdraw. Jason came from good stock, but certainly not the best.
How far back could the Maddox name claim heritage? A century? Longer? Certainly not as far as William’s, Noah’s, Eleanor’s, and Iris’s families. They were American blue bloods. Never a shameful moment of history with their ancestors, if the way they told it was to be believed. No doubt anything that might harm their good names had been smoothed away with cold hard cash. Maybe that was the shackle that bound them. All that virtuous goodness constantly on show. Not like her own tribe.
She started to brush brown shadow onto her eyelids, highlighting her blue eyes. There had been no virtue in her family. Scrabbling for dollars. Living on welfare. Looked down on by everyone. Resenting every new accidental mouth to feed as if it were the baby’s fault rather than that no one had thought to stick a rubber on his dick or get some birth control. Never enough money to go around. She imagined William’s blood to be a rich red wine. Hers would stink of rust. Name had never counted for anything good in the trailer park in Boise.
As each layer of makeup went on, she felt better. At least she’d taken a small revenge yesterday while Jason had been at work. She’d ordered three new divine pieces of furniture for the second dining room out at the back of the house. They were one-offs and handmade to order. Eye-wateringly expensive for a room they’d probably never use and which Jason had been insistent they didn’t need to furnish right away. Her stomach clenched at the thought of the argument to come when he got the bill, but she reminded herself he deserved it. He’d lied. He was lying, constantly, about something. Or someone.
She dressed in a slim-fitting pantsuit, consumed by the memory of that lie.
Just needed the bathroom.
The few words that had forced the widening cracks in her marriage to finally shatter. It hadn’t helped that over the past day or so she’d come to the lonely conclusion that she didn’t even have a friend she could call and confide in. Someone to reassure her and calm her down. Iris was away, and although she could be snooty, she was sage. There was no one else Marcie could trust to listen sympathetically without then blabbing to all and sundry that Marcie Maddox thought her husband had fallen out of love with her. People might be endlessly polite face-to-face here, but one thing she’d learned was, good lord, this city loved to gossip.
Shopping, she decided. She’d go shopping. Buy herself some new clothes. Revamp her look. Something less middle-aged. Something cool like the stuff the kids wore at the club. The kids. They were only a year or two younger than Keisha, most of them. Shopping always made her feel better—adding to her possessions so she didn’t have to face how lonely she was. Jason had brought her into this world, and all she had now was him. She didn’t share the years of friendship the others had. She didn’t have coworkers to laugh with. She really had nothing of her own anymore except Jason, and now they were broken.
She wanted to wear her vintage Hermès scarf tied around her throat like a sixties movie star. She loved that scarf. It made her feel bold rather than a pale ghost of a beauty who once was. Where had she put it?
She groaned. The last place she’d worn it had been to the Mission. Her heart sank. And it was Wednesday today. If she went to pick it up the other volunteers would all side-eye guilt her into staying for her two-hour shift, the one she’d promised Virginia she’d try to do.
Just needed the bathroom.
Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to go and do the hours. There could come a time when she’d need these friends on her side and as much as there was something snide about Virginia, she’d make a better ally than an enemy if Jason was doing the dirty. Women tended to rally in those situations in a there but for the grace of God go I kind of way.
The Mission then, she thought, leaving her glorious new house that now felt like a paper castle, and then she’d shop. Build a protective wall of expensive clothing around her damaged heart.
16.
“Hey, Marcie!”
She was about to rep
lace the empty tray of mashed potatoes with a fresh one from the kitchen when the voice cut across the room, and she froze, knuckles whitening against the steel.
Keisha.
Her accent was immediately recognizable. Marcie’s veins burned as she handed the tray to Frannie, one of the least irritating of the church volunteers, mumbling an apology before turning to face her glamorous rival.
“What are you doing here?” Marcie couldn’t peel her serving apron off fast enough, as somewhere in the room someone let out a low, appreciative wolf whistle. It wasn’t for her.
“There’s an emergency,” Keisha said. “Nothing to worry about. Just need you to come with me.” She looked over Marcie’s shoulder to the other volunteers. “A water leak. Sorry!” And with that, she’d taken Marcie’s arm and was dragging her outside. “Thank me later,” she whispered. Marcie’s jaw clenched. Thank her for what? Embarrassing her in front of all those good Savannah women? There had been no sense of emergency in Keisha’s tone, only mischief, and they’d see through it. So much for keeping Virginia on her side. This would get reported back in no time at all. Maybe that was the point.
“What are you doing here?” Marcie repeated, pulling her arm free. She looked back. “I need to get my purse. My things.”
“Then go get them. Let’s get out of here.” Keisha leaned over the side of the gleaming red convertible and plucked a bottle from a grocery store bag in the back seat. “I bought tequila. And a load of snacks. We can chill by the pool back at my place and get drunk.”
“I’ve got my car.”
“So what? Follow me to mine and then get Jason to pick you up later.”
Jason. Of course. An elaborate ruse so Keisha could get to see Jason again.
“I’ve got errands to run.”
“Yeah, right. Of course you do.”
The words stung, amused and dismissive. Who was Keisha to judge her? And what did she actually want? She clenched her jaw. There was only one way to find out, and maybe spending a few hours alone with this young pretender to her throne would allow Marcie to do some digging of her own.
All the way to the house Marcie tried to figure Keisha out, her eyes fixed on the little red Corvette ahead. It was one thing screwing around with someone’s husband, but it was taking things to a whole other level trying to be friends with his wife while you did it. What was she playing at? Maybe it hadn’t been Keisha on the phone the other night? But Jason’s furtive behavior. The way he was around Keisha. Even if they weren’t doing anything yet, had they formed a secret friendship? The sort that came before anyone wants to mention sex, but is just as intimate a betrayal as that act? Or was she going mad and the phone call was nothing to do with Keisha at all?
The outside clouds burned away in the heat of her racing thoughts and by the time she parked behind Keisha the sun was brilliant against a clear blue sky.
Keisha thrust a bag of groceries into her arms. “I can’t get enough of all this American shit. The sugar helps with the lack of sleep.”
“Jet lag?” Marcie asked, following her up the drive.
“I’m better in the mornings, but I still can’t drop off until about three a.m.”
Three. The text that got Jason running for her dressing room had come in at two.
“Let’s get started on the margaritas then.” She smiled, trying hard to sound relaxed. “If those don’t knock you out later, nothing will.” If Keisha was behind the mysterious call, then how would Jason react to having to collect Marcie and finding them drunk together? He wouldn’t be happy. She remembered when she’d tried Facebook stalking Jacquie and he found out. He’d hated that. He liked things in his control. Keisha could definitely be marking her card with this move.
“Don’t be so sure.” Keisha winked at her as she opened the front door. “I can drink like a sailor.”
The morals of one too, Marcie thought, following her inside and ignoring her own dubious past.
17.
Within half an hour they were out by the pool, a jug of margaritas on the table between them alongside a family-size bag of chips and a sack of doughnuts. Marcie had drunk her first cocktail fast, Dutch courage against her unsettled mood, and although their loungers were in the shade of a vast umbrella, as she sipped her second, the liquor was going straight to her head in the heat. Keisha had made it strong.
She looked down at the modest blue two-piece she was wearing. It was the best of a bad bunch of guest swimwear—no doubt picked out by Eleanor years ago—but couldn’t compare with Keisha’s red swimsuit, which plunged in a deep V down to her belly. A scrap of thread linked it to the super-high-cut legs and thong by a gold hoop that somehow held the whole thing together, and every piece of skin on show was firm and taut.
“I had a tennis lesson at the club yesterday,” Keisha said, stretched out, luxuriating in the heat. “I hate tennis. I only went because Billy had already booked it and I didn’t really have any choice. Those people at Billy’s club are never going to like me. I’ll never fit in there.”
It was a surprisingly open admission. Keisha clearly hadn’t learned yet that no one in this town, certainly not at this social level, ever showed weakness. It was a shark pool, and the women were the worst. Bored and half-drunk most of the time. What else was there to do but bitch, judge, and gossip about one another between charity events?
“You get used to it.” Had she herself ever gotten used to it? Really? “Underneath all that money some of them are nice. But it’s like school, you know? Different groups. Everyone worried about what people are saying about them and who they have to stay friends with for their husband’s promotions or to get invited to the right parties. It’s harder for you. Eleanor was born and bred local royalty. She and William and Iris and Noah. Blue bloods. But people forget fast. This will be the new normal in a couple of months.”
Keisha sat up and refilled their glasses, waving away Marcie’s slight protest. “Must have been hard for you as well. Given the circumstances,” she said. “Was Jacquie popular?”
The circumstances. So, Keisha knew they’d had an affair. Marcie’s skin prickled. And she knew Jason’s first wife’s name. She’d been a busy little bee. Who had she been talking to? Just William? Or the women at the club too? They’d love to spill some dirt on Marcie Maddox she was sure. She took another long swallow of margarita.
“She was popular, yes. But the difference between her and Eleanor is that Jacquie didn’t die. She very quickly remarried—a retired orthopedic surgeon who died just before Eleanor as it happens—and moved to Atlanta.” She paused. “Which may be worse now I think about it.”
Keisha burst into a throaty laugh. “So”—she grabbed a handful of chips—“what’s your story? You’re the only other person I’ve met who doesn’t come from Georgia.”
“No story to tell, really.”
“Everyone has a story. Where are you from?”
What was it with this woman and questions? In Marcie’s experience most people just wanted to talk about themselves and she liked it that way. “Boise, Idaho,” she said, in a bored drawl, hoping to cut the conversation short. “And if you’d ever lived there, you’d know why I left.” That wasn’t even a lie. No doubt she would know. Word choices could make the truth malleable and it was always better to stick close to the truth. “I figured if I didn’t get out when I was young, I never would.”
“Have you got any family?”
“None that I want to stay in touch with. We were never close. My dad died. My mom remarried. Had a new family. I was surplus to requirements.” It sounded so much more sanitary than it was. An old and ordinary tale of young girl grows up and leaves town. The rest of it belonged to her alone, packaged up in the box in the ceiling. “You?” she asked.
“My mum was . . . well, not very stable, I guess. She died a long time ago. After we came to London from Nigeria. I was raised by my aunt and uncle. A long and boring story. They stay in touch but I’m not planning on inviting them over for holidays. I’m kind
of hoping they’ll just fade away, you know?”
She did know. Maybe she and Keisha were quite similar. Maybe that’s what Jason liked. Keisha was how Marcie used to be, even though he was the one who’d changed her. The same way that William was no doubt trying to change Keisha now, squeezing everything they’d liked in the first place into a whole new shape.
“But how did you end up here?” Keisha continued. She was like a dog chewing over a bone for the soft marrow inside. “In Savannah?”
The sun was bright overhead and Marcie stared at it before smiling, privately amused, as she looked over. “I liked the name.”
“And then you met Jason, it was love at first sight, and you lived happily ever after.”
Jason again.
“Well,” Marcie said, “it wasn’t quite that straightforward, but yes.”
“How did you meet? Billy’s never really told me I don’t think. Just that you worked locally.”
Marcie sat up, drained her margarita, and poured another. If Keisha wanted to do this, so be it. They’d do it. She was tired of being something she wasn’t. Her head buzzed. Tequila made her wilder. It also made her want more tequila. So what if Keisha told people? It would embarrass Jason and he deserved some embarrassment.
“They’re all such social snobs,” she said, even though she’d kill to have the respect that Iris and Virginia had from the rest of the town’s society. “Jason still tells new people that I was working as a receptionist at a client’s office just outside of town. He’s said it so often even I’ve started to believe it.”
Keisha peered over her sunglasses. “Not true?”
Marcie shrugged and shook her head. “I was a broke waitress in a diner and living in a motel out by Hunter. Jason used to come in for breakfast when he had meetings that way. He liked my smile apparently.” She paused. “Funny, he didn’t mind me being a waitress then. In fact, he thought it was kind of cute. Obviously cute wasn’t enough when it came to being the wife.” She was surprised by her sudden bitterness. She resented her relationship with Jason more than she’d realized.
Dead to Her Page 8
