The Trailing Spouse

by Jo Furniss

“If you’re worried about traveling with me, you can rest assured that your honor is safe. My daughter isn’t much younger than you, and woe betide the man who forced himself on her.” He pulled back to his full height, and once again there was a foot of air between them. She couldn’t imagine this man acting as a father, especially to a vulnerable girl. “Are we on? Shall I set it up?”

  “We’re on.”

  A cab pulled up, and Ed gave Camille a salute of farewell and triumph, a ringmaster taking his leave of the circus.

  Chapter 40

  Ed’s presence in the apartment squeezed Amanda into a girdle of tension. He was already into the booze and a rage. Beside the big window, with ships’ lights on her back, she stood poised like a dancer who knew she couldn’t put a foot wrong or she’d get hurt.

  “If you’d been more careful, Amanda, we wouldn’t be here in the first place, would we?”

  He sloshed vodka into tomato juice and ground a layer of pepper, the same color as the faint cloud he had above one cheekbone, as though a black eye was fading. When she’d pointed it out, he shook her off. Another little injury explained away. A bump, a scrape, a trip. And yet she knew Ed wasn’t a clumsy man. Random drinking injuries perhaps; could he be drinking more—even more—when he was away? Or something else. Someone else. A slap, a kick, a scratch. Defensive wounds? His bruise looked worse in the swelling orange glow, and she tried to stay focused on the argument.

  “You let me think those designer bags were authentic,” she said. However much she tried to hold back—avoid goading him—indignation pushed words out of her mouth.

  “They were!” Ed took a swig and spat a pepper flake from his bottom lip. “Well, that last one wasn’t, maybe the last two. But the others were kosher. And if you can’t tell an original from a fake, then who gives a shit?”

  “The people who paid me.”

  “Is this how you kill time, Amanda? Is this where the money goes?”

  “You buy the presents, not me!”

  The haze highlighted the torsion of Ed’s bare shoulders as he lifted the glass. Just a few weeks ago, Amanda thought, I would have slipped my hands around him. He might have dribbled Bloody Mary into my open mouth, undressed me in front of the window, making jokes about the baby names we could choose if we conceived beside water: “Skipper,” he’d say; “Blue,” I’d say; “Bob,” he’d laugh. Where had that Ed gone? This apartment—the soporific lights and the climate control and the lullaby motion of the boats—had lulled her into a waking dream.

  Maybe nothing had changed. Maybe she had woken up.

  For all that she was alert now, though, the nightmare logic remained, and she couldn’t stop herself from trailing Ed into the living room; before she could think of self-preservation, she was kneeling on the sofa. The air-conditioning made a rhythmic ticking, the sound of fingernails tapping glass. She thought of the Chinese pots, where she had replaced the smashed ginger jar with a cheap doppelgänger. Five false nails, literally a handful, shrouded in tissue. A human fingernail, torn off. What would it take for him to add another one—was it more likely if she stayed or if she fled? Because he won’t let me go, especially if I take his daughter. That’s not how these stories end.

  “Ed, the bank balance,” she said to his back.

  “I moved half a million. I need it to tide over the business. Nothing to worry about.”

  “It’s hard not to worry. All my profit was in that account.”

  “All your profit?” Ed glanced over his shoulder, the razor-sharp angles of his profile blazing. “It’s yours now, is it? What’s mine is yours, and what’s yours is yours too?”

  Her cheeks burned as bright as the ships.

  “It’s been years since you sold your house, Amanda.” He came toward her, the ocean lilting behind him like a stage curtain, lights flaring and dying. “What do you imagine you’ve been living on?” He leaned over the back of the sofa, stretching around her to grab a handful of her trim backside. “This? Do you have any idea how much our life costs? How much of your profits are left, do you think, after living like this for three years?” He released her and rested his glass on the back of the sofa, cold sweat soaking the wool.

  “I can’t work in Singapore.”

  “Expats find work all the time. They get an LOC.” He took a long drink. “You don’t know what that is, do you?” He rocked back on his heels, his lip curled enough to show an eyetooth. She wondered if he might hit her. It would force her into motion, like a push into a cold swimming pool. “Letter of Consent,” he whispered. “Consent to work. Should a person choose to do so.” He drained his drink, strolled over to the wastepaper basket, dandled the glass for a second, and hurled it down. Amanda felt a sparkle of shock, as though glass dust were tumbling through her veins.

  Ed ran his hands from chin to hairline. “Got to keep face, haven’t I? I’ve been wearing this game face for so long I can’t remember what I really look like. Remember that Bian Lian dancer with the masks?” He glanced over at her.

  “The Man with Fifteen Faces.”

  “My mask of sanity.” He leaned a shoulder against the window, head tilted to touch the glass. “Thought I was on a roll. Throwing sixes. And I’d go out with a bang instead of just . . .” He laughed harshly. “And now I’m mixing my metaphors.” He fixed his gaze on her. “What game are we playing, Mrs. Bonham?”

  “I don’t know, Ed.”

  “Come on, have a stab. You play games, don’t you?”

  “Solitaire?”

  “That’s you, solitaire. Buckaroo—that’s me—I’m that donkey in Buckaroo. Stuff gets piled on my back, and if I can’t bear the weight, it’s game over. All the pieces go flying. So I have to bear the weight, don’t I? I can’t just kick it off, because I’m the man. I’m the provider—I hunt—and the women gather, and once upon a time, you gathered nuts and berries, something useful, but now you gather fucking handbags. And”—Ed strode across the room to grab a ginger jar from the shelf. He bounced it once in his hand like a choice piece of fruit—“pots.” He spread his fingers wide to let it fall. “We don’t chase our dinner now, but it’s still okay for me to do all the running because men want to prove themselves—that’s what they say, isn’t it?—it’s in our nature, we feel emasculated if we don’t provide. We’re empowered by working all the hours God sends, and you’re empowered by fucking handbags.”

  Ed bent double, and she thought he might throw up, but instead he scrabbled the shards of pottery into a pile, as though marking a tiny grave. He came back to the window and folded himself onto the edge of the carpet, his head tipped back, eyes closed.

  She’d found Ed in this pose at the New Year’s Eve party in Switzerland where they first met. After they devoured each other’s words for hours—stripping themselves to the bone—he excused himself to go phone his teenage daughter to say good night. His departure left Amanda lonely amid friends, too exhilarated to be weighed down by their boorishness. Toward midnight, she fled to the den, where Ed was folded up under the window, as attractive and enigmatic as a piece of origami. She smelled loneliness like the spring flowers curled beneath the snow outside. He lifted his head as though he could smell hers too. After they walked to his hotel under fireworks rising from the dark valley, he pushed her onto the balcony to see her naked in the cold.

  Amanda had been drawn to his darkness. It gave her somewhere to hide. And now that she had plunged to its depths, was it unfair to be surprised? She hauled her legs from the sofa and went to him, as she had in Switzerland, sliding down the glass to sit beside him.

  “Is this all Josie’s got to look forward to?” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You have hopes when your kid is born. Hopes for them, but also for yourself. You think it’s going to get better, as though each generation is an upgrade. You think you’ll be a fantastic parent—better than all the other dickheads—and your kid will turn out awesome because you’ll pull yourself together and be a role model and because, in
the end, you’ve got the fucking Bonham genes. Superior stock! Or you convince yourself it’s all about nurture, right? You think that if you remove all the obstacles that held you back—all the failures you’ve convinced yourself are someone else’s fault: your parents, your luck, your wife—then that kid will rule the world. And it’s so disappointing, the way it turns out. Because however much you try—and I really tried, Amanda, I was on my own and I really tried . . .” He grabbed her hand out of the air, and she felt her lips peel apart at the tears in his eyes. “But however much you try, society gets hold of them and changes them, and however much you knock sense into their heads, they come out the same entitled, lazy, messed-up version of yourself. And it’s that moment when you look at your kid and you look at yourself and you realize that you’re both so fucking”—Ed banged the back of his head once, hard, against the glass—“average.”

  “She’s far from average. She’s smart and—”

  “She was suspended from school. She’s got no friends.”

  “She loves music. Cold Sister—”

  “Only to please me. And I don’t even like the band much myself. She latched on to it . . .”

  Amanda felt a spark of anger. A reignition. “She’s not a doll or an experiment, Ed. And she’s not your plaything.”

  “She’s turning into her mother.” He patted the back of Amanda’s hand and placed it on her knee before pushing himself to stand, wavering with the lights. “She’s a slut. That’s the truth of it. She’s a slut like her fucking useless mother. And I have to put a stop to it.”

  Chapter 41

  While Amanda took her morning shower, Ed left for the airport again. A potential lifeline, he said, for the business. His absence felt like loosening a belt, although the shush of air con still echoed his verdict on his own daughter: She’s a slut. Amanda held a towel tight around her chest, hands clamped as if in prayer. She picked up his scribbled note from the bed: “No clean shirts!” His dirty linen could wait. Her phone was on charge by the window, and she looked out to sea while it fired up to reveal angry messages from SOWs, still on about bag-gate. Another mess that could wait.

  She deleted texts until she reached one from Molly:

  Hey, has your Facebook account been hacked? People are saying the profile of this Jacaranda woman selling fake designer bags looks exactly like yours, but you’ve been identity-frauded. Right?

  Amanda hesitated. The secret festered like an ant nest under the coffee machine. Maybe explaining to someone would flush it out into the light. Surely Molly would be sympathetic if she knew Amanda wanted money for fertility treatment?

  Can we meet for coffee? It’s all a bit of a nightmare.

  Molly’s reply came right away: So have you been hacked?

  Amanda: It’s complicated. Can I explain over coffee?

  Molly: Have you been hacked?

  Amanda: No.

  Molly: Are you saying this Jacaranda woman is you?

  Amanda: It’s a long story. I had no idea the bags were fake.

  Molly: But why?!

  Amanda: I needed money for fertility treatment.

  Molly: I don’t mean why you need money. I mean why would you lie to us?

  Amanda: I didn’t lie! I thought the bags were real.

  Molly: You lied about who you are—the fake name! OMG are you the other one too? Annaliese Del Rey?

  Amanda sat on the bed. She used the sheet to wipe her eyes.

  Amanda: I didn’t want everyone to know. I didn’t want Ed to know.

  Molly: You don’t want people to know you’re stealing from them—duh!

  Amanda: I’ll refund everyone.

  Molly’s profile displayed typing for a long time. Outside, a vast cruise ship eased into dock at the pace of a glacier. The horn gave a long moan, a collective sigh on behalf of the passengers at that view, this heat. The phone pinged.

  Molly: That’s not the point. We’re a community—SOWs and the book club—the only real community expat wives have when they’re far from home. Some of my friends bought your stuff. You’ve ripped off your own, Amanda. That’s low.

  Amanda: I’m sorry. Can you please keep it to yourself while I make it right?

  Molly: You’re asking me to lie for you?

  Amanda: Just don’t say anything until I’ve sorted it out. Please.

  There was no reply. Amanda got off the bed and walked through to the kitchen. She needed tea. Cereal. Anything to fill the hollow in her stomach. She hoped there was milk in the fridge, although it would have had to be put there by fairies. The phone pinged.

  I’m sorry, but we’re not close enough for me to lie on your behalf. I don’t want to feel complicit in this. I’m not going to broadcast your identity, but I think it best if you keep a low profile and don’t come to book club. The others are feeling less sympathetic than I am. You might want to avoid SOWs too! I hope you get this sorted and find a better way forward with your fertility treatment. Molly.

  Amanda deleted the whole conversation. She went to the fridge—no milk. Bananas stewing in their own juices. Thank God I didn’t tell her about Ed and Josie. The door closed with a slam, and she thought of Josie’s blog. It seemed to represent everything Amanda felt in the last two weeks—kept in the dark with only her fears for company. What was that timer counting down to?

  She marched along the hallway. In lieu of the contaminated pool, Josie had gone to the gym. Her bedroom had its usual seamy tinge, and Amanda gathered damp towels off the rug. The photo of Josie’s mother was in place beside the bed. She picked it up and looked into the woman’s eyes, wondering what she’d been thinking on the day she supposedly killed herself, leaving behind her greatest gift—her child. She squinted to see if anything was written on the Polaroid print. The white space was hidden by cardboard, making the photo into a neat square. She looked closer and saw a tiny fleck of blue; the top of a scribble? A scribble of a girl . . .

  Amanda turned the frame, an expensive one with tiny screws in the back. On Josie’s desk, she found a metal nail file and used it to open the frame. She lifted away the wooden backing, cardboard, and finally the Polaroid. When she turned the picture, a flurry of air-conditioning chilled her neck, as though it were coming from the scene in her hands. Mother and daughter—so alike—pummeled by the elements. And beneath the picture, in the white space, a handwritten note: “Beachy Head, 13 November.”

  It made sense. Beachy Head: a notorious suicide spot. And 13 November: three days from now, a bleak anniversary marked by a bereaved child. She returned the photo to the frame and left it beside Josie’s bed. Of course, she must be fascinated with her mother’s suicide. If Ed’s unwillingness to deal with his daughter’s current issues was anything to go by, she’d never been given a chance to talk, to grieve. Until she found the dark corners of the Internet.

  Amanda opened the blog on her phone. A new post was illustrated with a black-and-white GIF of Amy Winehouse giving a double thumbs-up as she left a room, above the caption “They only miss you when you’re gone.”

  In the future: Three Days Until D-Day

  In the past: Thirteen Days That Made Me Me

  Post 8 of 13: Hospital

  When the doctor comes in, I’m lying across the plastic seats in the waiting room, listening to Teddy’s ancient Walkman. I only had time to throw a cardigan over my pajamas before we came to the hospital, and I see the doctor’s eyes flick over my vest top. As the singer says on Teddy’s cassette, I was the first one in my class to grow breasts. The doctor looks too young to know Pulp. I’m lucky to have Teddy teaching me grown-up stuff.

  “Josie Bonham?” The doctor sits in a chair by turning it around with its back to me and straddling it. Like a cowboy.

  “Are you a doctor?”

  “Yes, I’ve been looking after your mum since she came in. You can see her if you like.”

  “Is she going to live?”

  “Of course! She’ll be fine, and so will the baby.”

  I fold my arms and feel my b
oobs press together.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Dr. Khan. I’m your mother’s gynecologist. Luckily, I was on call tonight, so I got here in time to meet her ambulance. Do you understand what happened, Josie?”

  “Where’s my dad?”

  “I thought he would be here with you, actually. Do you know when he’ll be back?”

  I shake my head.

  “He seemed upset earlier, so . . .” Dr. Khan looks around as though Teddy might be hiding behind the window blinds.

  “He thinks the baby’s not his, so . . .”

  For a moment, I think Dr. Khan is going to say something important. But then he slaps both hands on his thighs and says, “I’ll catch up with him later then. Do you want to come and see your mum?”

  “Do you smoke?” I say.

  “Nasty habit,” he says.

  “Yeah, but do you?”

  That makes him laugh. “I do actually. Surprising how many doctors smoke.”

  “Can I have one? It’s been a tough night.”

  “I’m not giving a cigarette to a fifteen-year-old.”

  I can’t help smiling, even though that shows my braces.

  “You’re not even fifteen, are you? God, I’m old.” He spins the chair under the table and when his pager trills, he clicks it off without looking. His thumb stays hooked in his jeans, a cowboy again. “Your mother won’t be discharged until morning, so after you visit her you can go home.”

  I walk under his nose to the door. “Who’s going to take me home tonight?”

  He comes around behind my back, reaching to open the door like a gentleman. I put my hand around his wrist, and the touch makes my stomach knot. The softness of his skin over the hardness of the muscle. His sinews twist out of my grip, and he steps back.

  “I’m sure you’re feeling upset after everything that’s happened today,” he says. “We should find your father now.” He’s holding his wrist in the other hand as though I burned him.

  The pager chirps again, disturbing us, and I reach toward his waistband to switch it off.