I start the car, but let it sit idle for a moment. I shouldn’t go home to my kids in this state. I will Luis to call me back, then I think, Why don’t I go to him? I could watch him work while I tell him about Alex and why it’s all my fault. Not the real ‘all my fault’, obviously. I mean the bit about pushing him too hard, having high expectations. No. Don’t tell him about Alex. I will tell him later. Instead I will say, “Let’s go away after the exhibition, just the two of us. The kids will be fine without us. They can stay with your dad for a week or two. They’d love that. I’ll take time off work. We wouldn’t tell anyone where we were. Let’s remember us, the way we were. I miss you.” That’s what I’ll tell him.
I text Carla.
Working late, eat without me, there’s a lasagna in the fridge you can microwave. Make sure Matti does his homework, please. I’ll see you later, honey. Love you xox
She replies immediately.
K x
I stop by the liquor store on the way, because one thing I need right now is a drink. I’ve been needing a drink for hours. I pick up the first bottle I see, a Napa Valley cabernet, when I catch sight of the box wine further along the shelf. A wave of nostalgia rolls over me and for a moment I am back at college. Luis and I, seated crossed-legged on the floor of his room, Cher or Celine Dion on the CD player. We’d drink Franzia wine out of jam jars and kiss till my lips hurt. We’d talk of our plans for our future, how many kids we wanted (two: a boy and a girl), we’d talk over each other, our hands flying around as we constructed a life where Luis was a famous artist and I would be a famous mathematician.
I put the bottle back on the shelf and grab the box wine instead. The guy at the till recoils slightly at the sight of me. I glance at my reflection in the mirror behind him and see that my cheeks are streaked with dried-up rivulets of tears stained with mascara. I find a scrunched-up Kleenex in the bottom of my purse and check it. It’s stained with something vaguely oily, vaguely yellow. Chicken korma from the other night, I bet. I use the least stained corner of it to wipe my cheeks clean and add a small packet of tissues from the counter to my purchase.
Luis’s studio is in an old industrial warehouse on the west side of the city. He occupies half of the third floor, which is huge. It’s perfect for him, with massive windows, exposed red bricks and high ceilings.
I park outside and automatically look up, expecting the light to be on, but his windows are dark. Could I have missed him? I check the time on the dashboard—ten to six. I pull out my phone and try his number again but still get voicemail. I text Carla.
Hi honey, is Dad home?
No. When r u coming home?
I don’t know. Late probably. Love you xox
I wait a moment for a reply but none comes, so I slip the phone back in my bag and grab the box wine from the passenger seat. I know where the key is kept, and with a bit of luck it will still be there. There’s a code to get in downstairs which I have to look up in my notes on my phone. I punch in the numbers and the heavy door opens with a click. I take the elevator—one of those enormous cargo lifts—to Luis’s studio.
I find the spare key in its usual place, between two bricks where the mortar has crumbled away. It’s small and flat, round at the top, and looks completely wrong for the big metal door. It feels gritty in my hand, like it hasn’t been used in a long time. It catches in the lock and looks like it might not work after all, and suddenly I feel desperate to get in, to wait for him. I give it one more twist and it gets past the snaggy bit, and suddenly, I am in.
I haven’t been in Luis’s studio in months, but the smell is the same: a mix of turpentine and glue, or something like that. I flick the switch by the door and the fluorescent tubes flicker into life, and I gasp.
In the center of the room is a giant bird’s nest made of twigs and feathers and bits of hay, and suspended by cabling so thin as to be invisible. I run my fingertips over a small part of it and realize it’s not twigs and feathers but bits of recycled plastic made to look like them. Inside are two small, strange creatures emerging from their giant eggshells, their eyes pleading, and I have to look away.
Other than bits of materials on a trestle table, the place is surprisingly tidy. But Luis is always tidy. Very organized.
I take my box wine to the kitchenette at the far end of the room. It’s just a sink set into a white tiled bench, one cupboard hanging on the wall above, and a small one below. I put the box on the bench and reach up to get a glass, then notice two of them lying in the drying rack. Wine glasses, too. I don’t remember Luis’s studio being stocked up in wine glasses. I check the cupboards and find two pretty blue and white bowls, the kind you’d serve olives or nuts in. The chipped, mismatched china plates he used to use have been replaced by a set of six ceramic dishes, sand colored on the outside, and handmade by the looks of it. Next to them on the shelf sits a set of matching cups, shaped like goblets. What on earth is this stuff doing here? It sure doesn’t look like the kind of thing Luis would buy for himself. He doesn’t care what he drinks out of when he’s working. I search around for the battered old campfire mug with the Cleveland Browns logo on it that he’s always holding and spot it on top of a milk crate, along with empty pickle jars and old newspapers.
My skin feels clammy. It’s too stuffy in here. The windows in this studio are sealed shut except for the ones at the top. Luis has welded a hook to one end of a long steel rod to open and close them, and I find it leaning against the wall. I manage to hook it around the latch and tug a top pane open. A light breeze makes the long white feathers on the sculpture flutter.
I pick up a wine glass, admire its elegant design and pour myself a generous serve of wine just as the goods lift rattles into life outside. The knowledge he is here is like a warm wave of relief and I immediately pour the second glass for him, lean back against the counter, already smiling at the thought of surprising him. But after a few moments, the elevator clanks to a stop one floor above, followed by the sound of a door closing, then footsteps somewhere above my head, then nothing. I gulp the wine down and start on the second glass.
There’s a small round marble table next to the sofa, reminiscent of a Parisian café. On it is a fat candle in a saucer and a box of matches. I light the candle, the match almost burning down to my fingers, then turn off the harsh overhead lighting and sit on the sofa. The giant nest casts a strange shadow onto the wall opposite. I lean back and close my eyes, empty my mind. I pretend I am in a bubble where nothing can touch me, let the sounds of the city wash over me, and wait for Luis to return.
When I open my eyes again, I am shivering. My heart is beating too fast. I was dreaming of Alex and for a confused moment I thought he was here, too. I sit up, feeling groggy and disoriented. The candle has gone out and the room is dark except for the streetlight seeping in through the windows. I pad my way over to where I left my bag and scramble for my phone. No messages from Luis. And it’s 9:23 p.m. I try him one more time, but again am directed to his voicemail so I don’t bother leaving another message. I turn on the lights once more to tidy up. I’ve had three glasses of wine which probably put me over the limit, even though I’ve slept some of it off. I rinse the glasses and return them to the rack, wipe the tiled counter and pick up my box of wine.
Then I put the key back in its hiding place and go home.
The kids have left all the lights on, even though they’ve both gone to their rooms. I check in on Mateo first and find him at his desk, playing some kind of computer game, wearing a pair of headphones almost as big as his head. I put my hand on his shoulder. “Don’t, Mom, please?” he whines.
“It’s almost ten o’clock…” But obviously he doesn’t hear me. I tug at the headphones and he pushes me away. I grab a pen and piece of paper and scribble, 15 minutes then bed! I put it on the desk right under his nose. He nods and grunts something that might have been “Okay.”
Carla is already asleep. She’s like me in that way. She goes to bed early and wakes up early. She has the bla
nket all the way up to her chin but when I kiss her cheek softly, she stirs.
“What’s wrong, Mom?”
“Nothing. Go to sleep.”
I sit at the kitchen table waiting for Luis, my phone in front of me. I keep wondering, What’s the first thing that would happen if someone suspected I was there when Alex died? The cops would call me, surely. But there are no calls like that yet. No messages, no emails. I know, I’ve checked.
I pour myself another full glass of red wine even though it’s making my stomach lurch. Where the hell is Luis? Did something happen to him? And what the heck are those wine glasses doing there? I think about Mila, and Geoff, and work, and I drop my forehead on my forearms and start to cry because I am just so very, very tired.
Then Luis walks in. “What are you still doing up?” he says. I wipe my tears with the back of my hand and he comes to my side, pulls out a chair next to me. “What’s wrong, Anna? The kids—”
“The kids are fine. They’re in bed.”
He puts his arm around my shoulders. “What’s the matter?”
I lean against him, my head on his chest, feeling the cold of his leather jacket against my cheek. He must have ridden his bike. I tell him about Alex, I speak through snot and tears. I’ve had so much wine by now I’m crying drunk.
“You should have called me.”
“I did, I left a bunch of messages,” I wail.
He quickly pulls his phone out of his pocket. “I’m sorry. I forgot to turn it back on.”
“Where were you?”
“Oh, honey! At the studio! Did you forget? We talked about this, remember?” He brings me close again. “No, of course you don’t. No wonder, with everything that’s happened.”
My head is fuzzy with all the wine I’ve consumed. It’s sloshing inside me and I think I’m going to be sick. I should have eaten something, that’s my problem.
“I’ll be right back,” I manage to blurt before stumbling into the bathroom and vomiting into the toilet bowl. When it’s over I lean on the sink with both hands and stare at my reflection. Did Luis really say he was at the studio all evening?
I can hear him moving about out there and when I come out he’s in a T-shirt, his jacket thrown over the chair. He’s rinsing my glass. The memory of the two elegant wineglasses on the drying rack in his studio flash into my mind.
“You look pale, babe. You okay?”
I move him out of the way to fill a glass of water from the tap and nod. “I think so,” I say, wiping my mouth with my sleeve. But my heart is thumping and I feel tears sting at the back of my eyes again. I think I am more upset about where Luis has been than anything else. “Did you come from the studio just now?”
“Yes, I’m sorry it’s so late. I have so much to do. I got completely lost in my own head.”
“Did you go out to eat?” I ask, thinking that maybe he went to a diner somewhere and came from there. That we have our wires crossed, our timelines disjointed.
He has his back to me, but he shakes his head. “I got takeout delivered from the deli. Around seven, I think.”
No, you didn’t, I want to say. And it’s not just because I was there around seven, it’s the fact that he’s included the time. Around seven, I think. Inconsequential, so why mention it? But I keep my mouth shut and the question pops into my head, fully formed. Are you cheating on me? Because that’s sure what it sounds like. I realize the thought has been lurking inside my brain ever since I found the pretty dishes in his studio.
“Come to bed,” he says, and starts up the stairs, then stops to wait for me, even putting his hand out to me.
I am so angry my ears are hot. I take his hand because I see myself in my mind’s eye yanking it back hard enough to make him fall backwards. I wouldn’t try and catch him—that would defeat the purpose. I’d stand there, my vision blurry with alcohol and watch him crack his head on the wooden steps. But then I remember my children and I disengage my hand from his and grab the banister instead.
Nine
I wake up with a dry mouth and a feeling of doom. Luis’s side of the bed is empty and I roll into it, my fingers pressing into my eyes, turning the lie over in my head. But my head doesn’t work anymore, so I give up. The smell of coffee tugs at me, and I slowly swing my legs to the floor.
“How you feeling, babe? I thought I’d let you sleep.”
“Good, thanks. Better.” I take the steaming coffee mug Luis hands me and search his face, waiting for some kind of correction. A slap on the forehead followed by something like: Wait! Did I say I was at the studio last night? What an idiot! I was playing squash with Toby. He can confirm. Toby is our next-door neighbor and they do play squash sometimes, although not at night, I don’t think.
But all I get is, “You okay? You don’t look good. Is it because of Alex?” and my stomach flips.
There’s a kind of a hush around the department when I arrive. I go straight to my office without meeting anyone’s eyes, then June checks in on me, her face a picture of concern. She brings with her a chocolate chip cookie on a small white plate and a coffee, which she puts down in front of me.
“John is taking your class this morning. How you feeling?”
“I’m okay,” I say, hoping she’ll go away so I can curl up beneath the desk. I stare at the cookie. June has never brought me a coffee before, let alone a cookie. I pick up the chocolate chip cookie and look at it closely. “Are you my mother?” I ask. She chuckles. Then I worry she might think I implied she was old enough to be my mother, which is ridiculous, obviously, so I add, “Because believe it or not, she bakes them just like that.” Which is a complete lie. Maybe I’m just saying things to fill the void. Or to stop myself from saying things like, By the way, I was there when Alex died and I can’t stop wondering if he would have jumped had I not been there. Oh, and my husband is probably cheating on me.
She puts a hand on my shoulder. “You look tired.”
“Thank you. That’s what my mother says.”
“Which goes to show you should listen to your mother. You should take a couple of days off if you need them, Anna. I’ll talk to Geoff if you like, make sure your classes are covered.”
“I’m good, really, but thanks.” I take a sip of the coffee, playing for time. Finally, when she makes a move to leave, I take the plunge.
“Can I ask you?”
She turns around. “Yes?”
“I’m trying to understand why Alex told you, what you said yesterday, about how he felt, and his moods…”
“I asked him. I could see something wasn’t right. He’d been quieter, I thought—he’d lost that boisterous energy.”
“He was exhausted,” I say, nodding.
“He was depressed, Anna.” She hesitates. “Could you not see it?”
I nod quickly. “Of course I did.” But I hadn’t. Not really. What I saw was the obsession and the highs and the lows, but I didn’t see that he needed proper help. Not like that.
“It’s not your fault,” she says. And I’m thinking that if she keeps saying it, she must believe it is.
“I know. Thank you,” I reply. Even though it’s a lie, obviously. It is my fault. I may not have killed him, I don’t think so anyway, but he is dead because of me. Because I was there, and he lost the plot.
God. I so don’t want to think about that right now. But I can’t help wondering just how much he’s confided in June, especially considering I had no inkling they were even speaking to each other.
“Did he ever talk to you about me?” I ask.
She smiles. “He said that you were the best and that was why he wanted to do the best possible work he could. Because of you. You deserved it.”
I think about that, wait another beat, but she’s lost in her own thoughts now. So she doesn’t know, clearly, that Alex had changed his mind about me. That he didn’t think I deserved much at all in the end.
“Let me know if you need anything,” she says. “Also, his father called. He said to thank you, on beha
lf of him and his wife. He said they really appreciated how much you did for their son.”
It’s like someone has their thumb on my throat. I can’t speak.
“I know.” She sighs. Then as she leaves, she adds, “The police will be here in an hour. I know they’ll want to speak to you.”
I breathe in at last. “Me? Why?”
She frowns. “Because, out of everyone here, you were closest to him.”
“Of course. Sorry. Yes, I’ll be here.”
Ten
Talking to the police turns out to be the easy part. Almost perfunctory, I think. There are two of them, a man and a woman whose names don’t register through the white noise of my anxiety. They want to know about Alex’s state of mind. I tell them how very bad it was, how we were terribly worried about him. I echo June’s words. He’d lost so much weight lately. He’d changed so much. He would get over-excited, too much so, like he was on drugs. It dawns on me that I never liked Alex very much. That maybe I knew that deep down, but I never put it into words before. I liked what he brought out in me, I liked myself as his savior, the only person who could comfort him, put him back together when he fell apart, help him find his true genius. But now that he is dead, I have no feelings for him other than the lingering resentment of what he was about to do to me.
The police and I agree on how very tragic the whole situation is and I tell them the university is reviewing how it assesses students’ mental health, which is something that just popped into my head—I make a mental note to bring it up at the next staff meeting. They nod, write things down and thank me for my time. They speak to June, who no doubt tells them the same thing, and to Geoff, who wouldn’t have known anything anyway.
Unfaithful: An unputdownable and absolutely gripping psychological thriller Page 5
