Chapter Theo
Theo
We never get back onstage. Samia does damage control, claiming Rebecca is still “emotional” after her loss, and the irritated reporter agrees to postpone.
I ask Lars to call her a car. I’m supposed to be staying at her house for the next few days, but I’m too pissed off to be reasonable with her at present. I flew back to the States for this, and it was entirely for nothing.
Lars persuades me to come with him for a drink, to help me cool down. I agree, though I doubt a drink is going to help.
What I really need to do is bin this whole thing and file for bankruptcy.
We head to some overpriced place down the street from the studio and grab two seats at the ornately carved oak bar. “Well, that went rather poorly,” Lars says after we’ve ordered.
Oddly, as pissed as I am, there’s a part of me that’s reluctant to bad-mouth my wife, fake or otherwise. “It did. I’ll talk to her.”
“It has only been a few months since she lost them,” he says. “I’m worried maybe this is too much, too soon.”
Perhaps. She seemed fragile in Iceland. Unwilling to eat, unable to get warm.
There’s a point at which any human being just gives up, can no longer summon the will to care for themself.
My mum was like that after Kieran died, and Rebecca strikes me as being a bit close to the line as well.
She hides things slightly too well for her own good, I think.
Maybe if I’d been a little more patient with her, some of it would have been revealed to me.
The bartender slides our drinks in front of us, and Lars deposits the lime from his glass on a napkin. “Did you know her mom was this celebrated physicist?” Lars asks. “She taught at Princeton. Well, celebrated at the time. After she died, some unsavory facts emerged.”
Rick never even mentioned his first wife, and a part of me wants to insist that there’s no chance “I fucked a glass bottle” Bex could possibly be the offspring of a celebrated physicist.
Except Bex is also the woman who calculated the exchange rate for two currencies in a matter of seconds. The woman who can recite Byron on demand and must have a nearly photographic memory with the way she can recall what she reads.
I’ve suspected for a while that there was more to her than met the eye. The real question is why she felt the need to hide it.
On the way to New Jersey, I look Bex’s mother up online.
It’s immediately clear why Rick never mentioned her.
Nadia Daniels died in a car crash with another Princeton professor—with whom she’d been having an affair.
She also had a significant amount of money in an offshore bank account her husband was unaware of and was actively planning to leave Rick—and perhaps Bex—at the time of her death.
Colleagues, friends, and neighbors were stunned that she’d fooled them all so thoroughly.
Per one source, “She was the most charming woman you’ve ever met. ”
“Sounds like someone I know,” I mumble.
I find a photo: Nadia had the same upturned eyes as her daughter—laughing eyes. She had the same slender build, the same lush mouth, the same wide smile.
Even though she did terrible things, Nadia would have been a really hard act for Jessie to follow. Maybe Nadia’s gorgeous, charming, and possibly brilliant daughter was a constant reminder of this.
Jessie gushed about Bronwyn, who was at Cornell, but Bex she dismissed with a shrug, as if embarrassed by the failure. Bronwyn was the good kid and Bex was the one who floundered and made their lives harder, the one who made herself impossible to love.
Every bad thing I knew about Bex, however, came solely from Jessie, and none of it lines up with what I’ve seen.
She worked hard in Iceland. She’s charming and funny and possibly the most resilient person I’ve ever met.
And though she tries to hide it for some reason I can’t quite fathom… she’s really fucking smart.
She’s been feigning her incompetence but feigning it less well with each week that passes.
As if it’s a mask she no longer needs to wear.
“This it?” asks the driver. He sounds uncertain, but I’m clearly not from New Jersey, the woman next door is glaring at us as if we’re about to climb out with machine guns, and Rick and Jessie’s home still looks very much like the abode of two long-married, middle-aged people who never got around to upgrading.
“This is it,” I reply, just as my lovely wife opens the door and stands in its frame, clad in tiny shorts, knee socks, and a crop top. I want to block her from the driver’s view. I want to block her from my own view as well—we will need to discuss appropriate attire for the days I’m staying here.
“Welcome home, dear,” she says before walking to the couch and pulling a frayed throw over herself.
I’ve been here before, but it looks worse than it did then, and it’s not because Bex is a slob—though she’s not exactly fastidious—it’s that it all looks so old and dated and inelegant next to her.
The foyer and living room are cluttered with knickknacks and the sort of art that was popular twenty years ago. The big sectional in the living room is torn, and the wall-to-wall beige carpet has signs of wear and sporadic dark spots from spilled drinks.
She doesn’t belong. Even in her current attire, she still looks like a glamorous princess doing her best to fit in while visiting a peasant’s hut.
“Don’t feel free to explore when you’re in my home,” she says. “And stay out of the kitchen.”
“Are you serious? I can’t enter the bloody kitchen?”
“Very serious.”
We need to discuss the interview, but seeing her there on that ratty couch with her regal profile turned away—her glossy hair the only thing in this room that gleams—leaves me uncertain. It’s a picture that’s out of focus, and I don’t want to comment on it until I’ve seen it clearly.
“Look,” I say with an aggrieved sigh, running a hand through my hair, “I’m tired. Just show me where I’m sleeping.”
She frowns but shoves off the blanket and marches up the stairs. I glimpse the curve of her ass as she ascends and flinch. Why is it that my brain focuses on these things in the worst possible moments?
She walks to the end of a long hall and throws open a door to what must be the guest room—a simple twin bed with a navy-blue blanket, an alarm clock on the nightstand, and no other décor. “You’re in here. Do not go into the other rooms.”
I try to squeeze past her, but there’s barely enough space, and for a moment we are inches apart. My hand goes to her hip, mostly to prevent us making contact in any other way, but my fingers slide against the soft skin of her exposed back in the process and…fuck.
This is not going at all how I intended.
“Please dress appropriately when we’re under the same roof,” I say, my jaw grinding as I step away. “You look like the naughty stepsister in an adult video.”
She turns on her heel and walks back down the hall. “I guess we know what you’ll be watching later, then,” she says over her shoulder.
It’s a pretty good comeback. And not as far from the truth as I’d like.