by Anni Taylor
“Evie Harlow. She works a few nights there each week.”
“I’m the manager. There’s no Evie Harlow who works here.”
Was she using a different name? “She’s been there for a couple of months,” I insisted. “Twenty-six years old. Brown hair. Brown eyes.”
“I’m sorry. No one by that description works here. Most of our staff are guys. And there are two older ladies. Sorry, you’ve got the wrong restaurant.” She didn’t wait for my reply before she hung up. She’d been polite but firm in what she’d said.
I sat on my bed, stunned. I had the right restaurant. I thought back to the handful of times I’d called her while she was working. She’d always returned my call, never answering straight away. There’d been the sound of people talking in the background, sometimes music. I’d thought that was the sound of a busy restaurant. Obviously, it wasn’t.
I was going to do the thing that I’d always sworn couples should never do to each other—check up on their internet browsing history. Evie and I had an unspoken understanding that we would never do that. I was sure it was more for my benefit than hers. She spent most of her online time on Facebook, sharing recipes and photos of the kids. Or chatting on parenting forums. Evie didn’t need to know which porn sites I visited occasionally. She didn’t need to know that I had a fixation with a certain actress.
But I was going to look at her online history. She had already broken the rules by running off and leaving our kids with Marla.
Like a thief in the night, I picked up my wife’s laptop computer from her bedside table and sat back on the bed with it. The laptop was usually there. At night, when we were in bed together, we often spent an hour or two on our laptops, more often than not chatting about what we were looking at.
Had I been an idiot to think she was happy doing that kind of stuff with me? Did she want more than I could give her? Something—or someone—different? Was I going to find a heap of dating site links on here?
I started with her browsing history.
It was wiped clean.
Okay, I had more tricks in my toolbox. I tried typing in each letter of the alphabet—separately, to see which searches she’d made before. Lots of recipe stuff. That was typical Evie. She loved cooking.
A search came up for browsers other than google.
I hit enter and looked through the results.
She’d clicked on a result for a browser I’d never heard of.
So, my wife had a secret browser.
I opened up the new browser. She hadn’t deleted her history here. I guessed she hadn’t thought she’d need to, because I’d never find it.
Hell. Hell. Hell.
A ton of gambling sites.
Online poker. American slot machines. Other kinds of gambling sites.
Evie had been gambling? The links ran back for months and months.
I scrolled back to the more recent links.
My blood suddenly ran cold in my veins.
There was a link for some kind of escort service website.
I clicked on it.
She was logged into it.
I clicked on the link that led to her account and then her profile.
Fuck.
There she was. My wife.
In a long red dress I’d never seen before. Red lipstick. Hair done in a way it never was—Evie usually just wore it back in a ponytail.
She’d given herself a name: Velvette.
My wife was a prostitute.
The proof was right there on the page.
A few heartbeats later, my mind connected the gambling websites and the escort site. The escort site had come after the gambling sites—had Evie been desperate for money?
It made sense. Terrible sense.
I clicked around the website. There were men on the site, too—older men. Sugar daddy types. Offering money, gifts and trips away.
Had Evie gone off with one of these men, for money?
I didn’t even know which was worse: Evie cheating on me or Evie selling herself for money.
If she had gone off with a guy, what if he was an axe murderer?
I hadn’t realised I was muttering to myself before I looked up and saw Willow standing at the door. Pressing my lips together hard, I quickly closed the laptop.
I could tell from her expression that she knew something was up.
Mummy was gone. Daddy was acting weird.
Maybe I should have left the girls with Marla. Too late now. “What’s up, honey?”
“It’s lunchtime. Can we have cheesy mac?”
“Doesn’t Mummy usually make you sandwiches?”
She shook her head. “No, she makes us cheesy mac.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s not true.”
“Lilly wants cheesy mac, too.” Willow deflected her lie rather than admit to it. How had she learned to do that so young?
“Okay, macaroni it is. Just today.”
“And you said ice cream.”
“Okay, yeah, and ice cream.”
“And apple pie for the ice cream.”
“Choose one.”
A dead silence followed. Willow raced off downstairs. I knew that she and Lilly would have their heads together, holding a quick and frantic board meeting.
Willow’s head appeared around the edge of the doorway a minute later, her expression serious. “We want ice cream.”
“Okay. Done deal. Go and get your shoes on, and help your sister with hers.”
Willow sped away again.
So, what was I supposed to do now? My wife was most probably with some guy right now, doing who knew what. Should I just be waiting here like a chump for her to come home to me and the kids?
What if I signed up to the site—as a damned sugar daddy? Put up a fake photo and pretended to be a big shot, someone who dropped thousands at casinos every week. Even if Evie was busy with whoever the hell she was with right now, she’d have to answer someone like that.
Maybe later, after I’d made the kids lunch and got them ice cream, I’d think that idea was nuts.
I headed downstairs, my head feeling like it’d been chewed and spat out.
17. EVIE
THERE WAS AN AIR OF EXCITEMENT at breakfast. A few of us had been eliminated but all the teams had solved the challenge. We’d lost Andre. I’d secretly hoped it would be Duncan or Ruth.
Shade from the surrounding trees of the garden made a dappled, swaying pattern over us, putting us half in deep darkness and half in shimmering summer sun.
Richard plunged a knife into a peach and lifted it to his chin, eating it straight from the blade. “We’re like gladiators, feasting after destroying the beast.”
Poppy dabbed at his chin with a cloth napkin, like a mother fussing over a rowdy toddler.
Maybe the mentors knew what they were doing after all. That feeling of accomplishing the seemingly impossible was something you rarely got from everyday life. I had to replace the highs of gambling with better things, real things.
Kara sat at another table by herself, quietly sipping tea, hood over her head as usual and shutting everyone out. I was glad she’d made it through, despite the fact that neither of us wanted the other to be here.
Cormack piled his plate high with a doughnut shaped, sesame seed–coated bread that one of the Greek people told us were called koulouria. Sighing, Cormack took a large bite of bread. “Damn if we didn’t go too close to the wire last night.”
“Not us,” Richard boasted. “We had time to spare.”
“And you made pains to tell everyone that in the dorm last night.” Cormack munched his koulouri. “You big-headed bastard.” He gave Richard a quick grin to show he wasn’t serious. It seemed he’d forgiven Richard for being a rich fat cat.
“It was bonkers,” Poppy breathed. “I feel like we just lucked our way through it.”
“Yeah.” Cormack shook his head. “They’d better give us an easier time of it tonight.”
Brother Vito entered the garden, causing everyo
ne to turn their heads. “I trust you all got some rest last night after your challenge. But if you were too excited to sleep, please find a shady spot and have a well-earned nap. Four people won’t be continuing on, and they were returned to the mainland last night. But we wish them all the best in the future.” He paused. “Please, give yourself a round of cheers for a job well done. Yamas!”
“Yamas!” everyone echoed, raising their glasses of juice and tea.
“I’ll leave you all to your breakfasting,” Brother Vito told us. “Eat well, and gain lots of energy for round two.”
He strode away, back towards the interior.
Grabbing a koulouri, I followed him out. We hadn’t seen the mentors at all between midnight and breakfast, and I wanted to tell him about the noises I’d been hearing.
“Brother Vito!”
He stopped and turned, surprised. “You should be in there celebrating, Evie. Your team finished in the shortest time.”
I blinked, feeling stupidly happy at that small announcement. “We did?”
“Yes. By three minutes. Well done. You can be proud.”
“Can I tell the rest of my team?”
“Of course. There are no secrets here. But in keeping with the history of the monastery, we do not boast about our accomplishments. We do not want to make others feel bad. We acknowledge our good fortune, and we apply ourselves to do even better next time.”
I smiled. “That makes sense.”
“You wanted something, Evie?”
“It’s just that I’ve been hearing noises.”
“Noises?”
“Behind the walls. Maybe even inside the walls. I think there might be a rat problem here.”
“Thank you for letting me know. Perhaps rats moved in during the winter while much of the monastery has been locked up. I’ll have the monks check it out.”
“Good. It’s kind of unnerving.”
“I’m sorry you’re feeling unsettled, but don’t be surprised if the monks don’t find anything. I’ll tell you something. Sometimes I hear noises, too. And sometimes I even think I see people when I roam these corridors. Not much light gets in. And there is so much history here. I think my head is stuffed with so much of the past of this place that I can sometimes experience it as if it were happening now.”
“I feel it, too. The monastery certainly has an atmosphere all its own.”
“Yes, it can be overpowering at times. Would you like a glass of wine, perhaps, to settle you?”
I nodded. “I’d like that.”
“Come this way.” He led me inside and along the halls to the library. We stepped through the library and into what I remembered from the map as being the scriptorium. Hundreds of years ago, holy books must have been painstakingly written by hand here.
Brother Vito poured me a red wine.
I picked up a book from atop one of the tall piles of books on the desk, the name Spinoza on the cover.
“Spinoza is well worth the read,” he said, pouring himself a glass of wine, “should you find yourself with some spare time and should you like to sit and think.”
“He’s a philosopher?”
“Yes. Seventeenth century. Spinoza said that we dream with our eyes open. We trick ourselves into believing we have free will, but free will is an illusion.”
“It’s not an illusion,” I said firmly, surprising myself.
“No? You don’t believe so?”
“We make choices all the time that change our lives. Like me coming here.”
“But what forces were in place that brought you here? You might think one thing, but the universe has other plans for you.”
I smiled wryly. “You mean, in religious terms?”
“I’m not a monk, Evie.”
“I know. Well, for a while there, I used to believe that mumbo jumbo about the universe changing to help you achieve your goals. Like, if you had a plan, that was all you needed.”
“And what stopped you from believing that?”
“Something that happened when I was seventeen. When the car that my brother and I were travelling in got wrapped around a tree. Two people died, including my brother. Now I think the universe is chaotic. No sense of rhyme or reason.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your brother. I’d prefer to keep some faith and to think that somehow, things are all in balance. The people here believe it’s all based on numbers. Everything, from our human wants to the grandest galaxy. I’ll quote Spinoza—he said, I shall consider human actions and desires in exactly the same manner, as though I were concerned with lines, planes and solids.”
A deep pain embedded itself in the middle of my forehead as I remembered the accident that took Ben’s life. “I have a recurring nightmare about the car crash. Ben and I and the others are travelling on the road. It’s a straight, long road. Lines of trees on either side. I can see the perspective of those lines ahead, like a long, thin triangle. It’s like Ben is trapped forever inside the triangle. Sometimes, when I’m driving and a straight road appears in front of me, I get these flashbacks, and I have to pull over until the shaking stops.”
Brother Vito held out his arms to me. I moved into them, and he held me.
“Your mind remembers what your eye did not,” he said gently. “On that day, you wouldn’t have even noticed the lines and the geometry of the scene. Your attention would have been on the people in the car or the small details of the scenery outside or your own thoughts. But in retrospect, you see it like Spinoza.”
I nodded against his shoulder, suddenly back in the raw, helpless moment when I was watching Ben dying. “It’s like Ben’s life was closing down to a point, just ahead of us. But I couldn’t see it then. We’d all been drinking, but that wasn’t why it happened. The driver had a stroke and most probably lost his eyesight.”
“Perhaps it was just going to happen, no matter what . . .” he said gently.
I shivered, not knowing whether that thought itself was soothing or not.
A female voice at the door made me twist around. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
“Poppy?” I said, stepping away from Brother Vito. He dropped his arms.
She glanced with discomfort at Brother Vito and me. “I came looking for you, Evie. I got worried—you dashed away quickly, and I thought something might be wrong.”
“No, I’m fine,” I told her, flashing a quick smile.
“We were just discussing philosophy,” said Brother Vito. “But I have some preparations to make for this evening’s challenge, and so I’m afraid we’ll have to leave it there.”
Poppy peered at the book that Brother Vito snapped shut.
“Thank you,” I told Brother Vito and walked out into the hall, out of his line of sight. The whole scene felt too intense to put into words—philosophy, geometry and Ben. I hoped Poppy wouldn’t quiz me.
But she grabbed my arm. “Tell me everything. I mean, how lucky are you getting to talk philosophy with Brother Vito? I love philosophy. Not Spinoza—he’s a sexist old windbag. But maybe Vito can come across me curled up in his library, reading one of the Stoics or something. And then he and I can have, y’know, the same kind of in-depth discussion you just had.”
“It wasn’t like that. We’d been talking about a . . . painful memory.”
“I have lots of those. Maybe Brother Vito can give me some comfort, too.” She winked.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like . . . I just really need to be alone for a little while.”
Poppy looked hurt for a moment but then either swallowed the hurt or had a change of mind. “Of course. I was just having a little joke with you. Go and curl up somewhere and have a good old rest.”
“Thanks. I mean it.” I met eyes with her to show her that I did.
Turning away then, I left Poppy behind as I wandered along the hall and into the garden.
Kara was sitting in a secluded corner, her arms locked around her knees in a large, round papasan chair, picking at her sleeve. She looked small with her l
imbs all wrapped up tightly like that, like a child. Today, I understood her wanting to distance herself from everyone else. Being here at the monastery was giving us all too much free time to think.
I stepped through the mandarin trees, the scent of the ripe fruit sweetening the air.
Sister Rose stepped through the garden, picking and gathering a bunch of flowers. She shot me a smile that was as apple-pie pleasant as her face.
A short distance away, Richard, Cormack and Saul were playing a card game, with pebbles for poker chips. For a moment, I ached to go and join them. Poker would take my mind away. No, poker would take me some place I didn’t want to be.
I found Ruth and her cronies huddled together, talking in quick, sharp voices. Strategising. Harrington looked around at me with a squinty face.
All of a sudden, someone was shouting. One of the girls who’d been sunbathing yesterday—Yolanda—rushed through the garden. “Greta’s gone! I knew she would. She’s gone!”
Sister Rose ran up to Yolanda, flowers in her arms. “Are you sure? She might be having some quiet time inside somewhere.”
Yolanda grabbed Sister Rose’s arm. “No, listen to me. This morning she kept saying she couldn’t last out the week here. She said she felt like she was dying without her drugs. Without ice. I went looking for her and found a ladder pushed against a tree. I think she climbed the tree and got over the wall.”
Sister Rose looked stricken at the news. “Oh dear. She might have broken a leg jumping down from that wall. And if she tries to get back to the mainland by rowboat, things could go very badly for her. It’s a very long way, and not all of the boats are seaworthy.”
Thrusting the bunch of flowers at a woman nearby, Sister Rose took out a small walkie talkie from her pocket. She called for urgent assistance from the other mentors.
Whirling around then, Sister Rose frantically gestured to everyone. “We need to find her quickly. Would anyone like to help?”
A cranking noise shuddered in the air. The gates were opened by two monks. Everyone who’d been in the garden raced out to the bare, hilly countryside.
“There she is!” boomed Ruth. “Out there in the water.”
Greta was a speck in a tiny boat, rowing out to sea.
