by Elka Ray
Although I’m gazing out to sea, I’m not seeing it. Instead, I’m seeing my teenaged self, sitting curled up in the dark, hugging my knees, terrified. The memory makes me shiver.
“Toby?” My best friend jabs me in the ribs. “You’re not listening!”
I nod a little too vigorously. “Um, yes I am!” I say.
Quinn looks suspicious. She shades her eyes against the sun. “So you won’t get, like, emotionally involved with this guy?”
I stop walking. “What?” I ask. “Of course not! I haven’t even seen him in over nineteen years! And I’m his lawyer! I can’t believe you’d even think that! He’s a client!”
“Okay.” She holds up both palms. “Sorry.” But she doesn’t look sorry.
Further up the beach some kids are playing Frisbee. We watch as the wind catches the disc only to drop it in the ocean. The kid who threw it is forced to wade out and get it. He emerges, legs red from the cold, and flicks a jellyfish at one of his playmates.
When we hit the rocks, we turn back. Instead of walking on the beach we head up to the sidewalk. For some minutes we walk in silence. Then Quinn asks whether Josh and Tonya’s divorce is amicable.
While I shouldn’t divulge details, it’s tempting. Sometimes, I discuss my wilder clients with Quinn, without mentioning names, of course. When I lived in Toronto, it wasn’t an issue. But in this case, she knows both parties. I hesitate.
She turns to look at me and laughs. “I guess that’s a no.”
The esplanade is lined with parked cars. Some people are sitting in their cars, and others are lying on their hoods or seated in lawn chairs on the sidewalk. Music is playing. I catch a whiff of grease from the Willows Kiosk, and the smell of fresh-cut grass. I don’t want to talk about Josh and Tonya anymore. “Do you want an ice cream?” I ask Quinn.
“Sure,” she says. “But how bad is it?” When I don’t answer, she looks smug. “Oh come on, Toby. I can practically read your mind. One look at your face and I know Josh and Tonya will set the bar for messy divorces to a new high. What’s the deal?” We join the lineup outside the kiosk, behind two small kids clutching handfuls of change.
I grit my teeth. I know Quinn. She is not going to drop this.
“Allegations of adultery, mental cruelty, and deceit,” I say. Plus, from what I gleaned about Josh’s tech company, a shitload of money. But I don’t mention that.
We are near the front of the line, the kids in front of us exchanging their coins for a paper tray heaped with fries. We wait as they pump a crime scene of ketchup onto the pile. “One chocolate twist and one vanilla,” I tell the large, bearded guy in the window when it’s our turn. We get the same thing every time.
I’ve been handed my cone and am turning to go when I spy a stack of today’s newspapers sitting on the shelf, next to boxes of candies. I freeze. Above the fold lies a photo of a woman with long, bleached blonde hair. Tonya.
For a moment I think I’m imagining it, that it’s someone who just looks like her—perhaps some minor celebrity. Someone pouty, blonde, and big-breasted. I pick some coins out of my purse and slide them toward the bearded guy, who’s already helping the next person. “I’ll take a Times Colonist, too,” I say, and grab the top paper off the stack. He grunts. I tuck the newspaper under my arm.
Quinn has found a bench. I join her. My ice cream has already started to melt. I slap the paper onto the bench between us and take a seat.
Quinn’s eyebrows ricochet. “Is that—?” She bends forward to read it. She removes her bucket hat and lays a hand on her belly. “Oh my God,” she says. “It is her.”
Although the paper is facing the wrong way I can still read the big black headline: Aspiring Actress Goes Missing.
CHAPTER THREE:
FIFTY, FIFTY
Given Tonya’s disappearance, I thought Josh would cancel his appointment today. Instead, he called to ask if we could make it earlier, which is why I’m in Starbucks at 8:15 a.m. on a gloomy Thursday, seated in a low armchair near the window. Rain is streaking the glass. On the sidewalk, people are walking fast beneath their umbrellas.
Maybe on account of this appointment, I dressed more carefully than usual this morning in fitted black pants, black high-heeled boots, and a blue, sleeveless mock turtleneck. Unfortunately I left my jacket in the car. While my top is cute, I’m freezing.
The woman at the next table looks up, her enraptured expression alerting me to Josh’s approach. Sure enough, when I turn, he’s striding my way. I withdraw my notebook and pen from my bag and lay them neatly on the table.
“Hey Toby!” He pecks me on the cheek. “No, don’t get up! Am I late?” He checks his expensive diving watch.
“No, I was early,” I say, surprised to see him looking so upbeat. Given that newspaper report I expected him to be anxious. It claimed the police feared foul play, which made me anxious, and I hate Tonya. And yet Josh looks as relaxed as he did in my office three days back, like he just stepped out of a yachting magazine.
“I’ll just grab a coffee,” he says. “D’you want anything else?”
I say no, then watch him as he waits in line. He’s in jeans again today, paired with a white t-shirt and a blue blazer, everything casual but expensive-looking.
He sets his black coffee onto our table and smiles down at me. “You look cold,” he says.
Given that every bit of my exposed skin is covered in goose bumps there’s no point denying it. “Yeah, a little,” I say, and wrap my hands around my coffee cup.
“Here, take my jacket.”
I start to protest but he drapes it over me. Still warm from his body, the blazer is enormous. I slip it on, my hands so far up inside the sleeves that holding a pen is impossible. “Let me roll those for you,” says Josh and, before I know it, I’m holding out my arms like a toddler. “Perfect,” he says, when the sleeves are rolled. He leans back and grins down at me.
So much for looking mature and professional. “Thanks,” I say, fully aware that his jacket emphasizes my waif-like frame—he’s six-two and I can still shop in the kids’ department. Not that I’m eager to take it off—it smells too good, a male citrusy scent.
Josh takes a seat across from me. “Thanks for meeting me early,” he says. “I’m still on the board of my old company and have a long videoconference later today.”
I nod but feel confused. I figured he wanted to see me as soon as possible because of Tonya’s disappearance. Instead, he’s behaving like nothing’s happened. “I read the news,” I say. “About Tonya going missing.”
Josh leans back, his face suddenly cautious. He scratches his chin. “You can’t believe everything you read in the papers.”
I wait. Is he saying that Tonya’s not missing? But the story quoted the police, who asked the public for assistance in tracing her movements on Monday night. “Do you know where she is?” I ask.
Josh shakes his head. For an instant, his eyes flash with frustration, quickly hidden. He rips open a pack of sugar and stirs some into his coffee. “I have no clue. The cops questioned me yesterday. But I don’t think there’s any real reason to worry.”
“So why are the police worried?”
Josh sighs. “She was seen down at the Oak Bay Marina late Monday night. Some passerby thought she might have been drunk.” He goes to take a sip of coffee, then reconsiders. “That’s where I keep my boat, the Great Escape.”
I nod. All of this was in the Times Colonist article.
“She didn’t show up for an audition the next morning. And someone found her dog wandering around at the marina.”
“Her dog?” I ask, aghast. Would Tonya really abandon her dog? But this is Tonya we’re talking about. To her, a dog is probably just a fashion accessory, something to update with the seasons.
Josh shrugs. “I guess one of her friends freaked out, said it was out of character.”
“But it’s not?”
Josh studies his hands. I note he’s not wearing a wedding band. “She’s an actress,” h
e says, and I can hear the bitterness in his voice. “Who even knows her real character?”
I bite my lip. How could Josh not have known Tonya’s true nature? Yes, I haven’t seen her in years, but someone’s basic character doesn’t change. I recall the hateful rumors she spread about me, the way she’d watched to see my reaction, turned on by my shock and humiliation. She took pleasure in hurting people. It brought light to her eyes. That need to cause pain can’t have changed.
I study Josh, now staring out the window. “So where’d you think she went?” I ask.
He sighs. “She’s probably just off partying. She’s always complaining how boring the island is. She wants to move back to L.A. More nightlife and her career.” This last word is accompanied by a gesture of ironic quotation marks.
I make a note. “Did she party a lot?” It’d be good for his case if we could prove she had problems with substance abuse.
Josh shrugs. “Yeah, a fair bit. I didn’t notice it so much in L.A., ‘cause that’s what everyone does, but here . . .” He toys with his coffee cup. “Well, I’m usually up by 5:00 a.m. running fishing tours.” He gives me a sad smile. “Tonya hated going out on the water.”
My latte has long since gone cold but I sip it anyway. “So no chance of reconciliation?” I’ve had plenty of clients claim to detest each other only to ditch their divorce proceedings and reconcile, or even remarry after the split was finalized.
Josh shakes his head. “It’s gone way beyond that. We want totally different lives.” He frowns. “What do they call it? Irreconcilable differences?”
“How about her allegations of . . .” I pretend to check my notes. “Mmm, mental cruelty and adultery?”
“Total crap,” says Josh. His cheeks have reddened, which makes the color of his eyes even more striking.
“So she’s lying?”
“Yes.” He’s not looking at me.
Something about his posture feels off, but I decide not to push it. We can come back to this point later, after I’ve had time to think about it. Or am I being too suspicious? “How about her?” I ask. “Has she done anything that could influence the settlement in your favor?”
Josh rubs his eyes. “I don’t know,” he says. “We’ve barely talked since moving back here. I moved out, oh, four, five months ago. And even before that she was out all the time . . .”
“With other men?” Is that where she’s gone now? Off with some lover?
He shrugs. “Possibly. I mean, I saw guys dropping her off but she said they were gay.” He smiles ironically. “Come to think of it she has a lot of good-looking gay friends.”
“Do you recall any names?”
“She talked a lot about a French hairdresser named Florian Moreau,” says Josh. “But he’s gone back to Paris. I remember him because when he left, he sold Tonya his dog. It’s one of those big puffy standard poodles. A purebred.”
I nod. Poor thing, abandoned by two owners. Where is it now? But I’m getting distracted.
I ask him to spell Moreau, but suspect Tonya was telling the truth. A pedigree standard poodle sounds like the type of dog a gay French hairdresser would choose. Stereotype much? says a small voice in my head. I, of all people, should know better.
I recross my legs. “Okay. Who initiated the divorce?”
“I did.”
“Why?”
The café is crowded, other patrons eyeing our near-empty coffee cups and trying to gauge when our seats will be free. Josh is staring out the window, frowning. “I don’t want to keep living like this,” he says. “We can’t agree on anything. Where to live, what stuff to buy, when to have kids. I’d like a family but she’s still obsessed with being an actress.”
“To work out a settlement I need to understand your finances,” I say. “In terms of total assets, what kind of sums are we talking about?”
Josh’s mouth tightens. “About twenty-four, twenty-five million.”
Dollars? I try to not to show my surprise. I figured he was rich, but not that rich. “Did either of you bring money into the marriage?”
“Yeah,” he says. “When we got married I was worth maybe six mil.”
“And Tonya?”
He shakes his head.
“Typically, the assets accrued during your marriage would be split equally,” I say, doing the math in my head. Tonya’s looking at around nine million dollars, plus possible alimony, for eighteen months of marriage. “I guess there wasn’t a prenuptial agreement?” I say hopefully.
Josh gives a wry laugh.
I’m describing the information I’ll need—a list of his assets, any insight into Tonya’s accusations of adultery and mental cruelty, any behavior of hers that might point to deception—when he lays a hand on my arm. At his touch, I freeze. He looks into my eyes and I sit, mesmerized. I swallow hard. Josh and I stare at each other.
Starbucks, its chit-chatting patrons, and the rainy street outside all fade away. I’m taken back nineteen years, to a boy and a girl in the woods. I feel lost, scared and hopeful. I’m so tempted to tilt forward and kiss him.
“Give her what she wants,” says Josh. The spell breaks. I’m back in Starbucks. The windows are fogged up. For a moment, I’ve no clue what he’s talking about.
“W—what do you mean?” I stammer. An instrumental version of Nirvana’s “About a Girl” is playing on the sound system. I wonder what Kurt Cobain would make of his songs turned to Muzak.
Josh shakes his head. His eyes look cold and determined. “Tonya,” he says. “We’ll split things fifty-fifty and I’ll pay maintenance. Whatever.”
“Are you sure?” I say. “I mean you were only married for eighteen months. If her accusations are unwarranted you might be able to get a better deal . . .”
He cuts me off. “It doesn’t matter,” he says. There are faint lines around his eyes, which, if anything, make him even more attractive. He places his hand on mine. “I just want this over with, Toby.”
With his hand on mine, it’s hard to think. I ought to pull my hand away, pull myself together. Instead, for way too long, I just sit there, enjoying the buzz his touch gives me. When he squeezes my hand, I take a deep breath. “Josh, I can file your divorce application,” I say. “But obviously, the papers can’t be served until we find Tonya.”
Josh’s nostrils flare. He withdraws his hand and makes a fist. Abandoned on the table between us, my hand looks tiny and pale. “Don’t worry. She’ll show up,” says Josh.
I want to believe him.
CHAPTER FOUR:
BFF
I’m standing in the checkout line at Safeway when some women behind me start to bitch about how long it’s taking. I turn to look at them and do a double take. No way. It can’t be. And yet it is—the taller of the pair is Chantelle Orker, who was Tonya’s BFF at camp, a girl not quite as nasty as Tonya, but not for want of trying. I blink, trying to take this in. Another familiar face from that awful camp. Why are they all popping up now, like poisonous toadstools, when I haven’t seen them in going on two decades? Yet isn’t it always that way, like the second you notice some excruciating new trend—like mullet dresses—you’re bound to see them everywhere?
I spin around, hoping to God she hasn’t seen me.
“Like, could this line be any slower?” moans Chantelle.
Her shrill voice takes me back to the age of fourteen, my short, scrawny frame clad in an oversized sweatshirt and a saggy-bummed tankini, which, according to the label, was made to fit ten-year-olds. I was standing on a rock overlooking Lake Philobee—otherwise known as Full-of-Pee—shivering.
“I’m not jumping into that!” I said. “Look at the water! It’s mustard-colored!”
“That’s the result of tannin. It’s totally natural!” said our group’s counsellor, Thelma, as though this were reason to celebrate.
“So’s dysentery,” I said, but Thelma ignored me. Beside me, Quinn shifted from foot to foot in an effort to keep warm. While this passed for summer in Western Canada, in most of
the world we’d have been wearing jackets instead of swimsuits.
“Last one in is a rotten egg!” trilled Thelma. I shook my head in disgust. This might work on toddlers, but did she really expect it to motivate five teenaged girls?
Yet strangely, it did. Chantelle Orker went first, which wasn’t surprising. She’d do anything to show off to Tonya and was constantly trying to prove how tough she was.
“Who-hoo!” she yelled, when she popped up, spluttering. “That was awesome!”
Liar liar panties on fire.
Louise Dobson went next, although it was more a forlorn shuffle-off-the-plank than a jump. What a sorry-assed suck-up! If Thelma told her to drink from Lake Full-of-Pee she’d claim it tasted like apple juice.
“I’m going,” said Quinn, and jumped. The traitor!
That left me and Tonya on the rock. Tonya gave me a sneering once-over. “Nice swimsuit,” she hissed. “I had the same one when I was six. But I think you forgot your water-wings.”
I pretended to sniff. “I think you forgot your deodorant.”
Her icy eyes narrowed. Faced with Tonya’s dead-eyed sneer, being in that piss-yellow lake didn’t seem so bad. The rock felt too small. Maybe she had the same thought because she ripped off her fleece top.
My stomach fell.
She was wearing a bikini in a hideous but effective shade of neon green, her breasts like dayglow melons. There was no way I could disrobe with those twin orbs glowing beside me. The contrast between them and my teensy nubs would be too stark, my humiliation too apparent. If she was the Rockies, I was Manitoba. Eyes fixed on the murky depths of Lake Philobee, I stood frozen.
“Come on! The boys are watching!” squealed Chantelle.
I followed her gaze. She was right. Just when it couldn’t get worse. All the boys were watching us: obese Danny G and the jocks, Brock and Brent, tall skinny Luke, and smart serious Sam. And the Barton brothers, Josh and Mike, both too handsome to be real. My eyes snagged on Josh: red shorts and no shirt, a body straight off a sporting trophy. Thelma, meanwhile, was already swimming back to shore, freestyle.
