Chapter 50 Now
Now
If anything has become completely clear to me, it’s that I need to get out of this house. I’m in no fit state to get any kind of answers or revenge. And if my worst fears about James are right, I will die trying.
It’s still early, a half-drunk coffee going cold on the dining table downstairs as I empty out one of the suitcases we’ve been using for storage in the guest room upstairs. A hot mouthful was scalding my throat on the way down when I decided I couldn’t wait another moment. It was time to get out.
I’ve just finished shaking Christmas tree decoration glitter out of the bag when the front doorbell goes. Annoyed, I pelt downstairs. You can imagine my shock when I see—
“Dimple,” I say, jaw dropping open.
“Hi,” she says. “May I come in?”
I give a garbled acquiescence, watch the sleek bob of her hair slide past me. I wonder if this total wrong-footing is how it felt for Emily when she found me on her doorstep last night.
“How…” I begin, failing at my attempt to form a sentence. I try again. “What are you doing here?”
Her eyes are scanning the hallway, peering into the kitchen, the living room.
She does a graceful swivel to face me. Her head does her signature tilt, one side, then the other, as she takes me in.
“I was worried about you. You were clearly distressed at the end of yesterday’s session, and James called to report some concerning behavior.
I know it’s a little…” Her hands are hanging by her sides.
I notice her index finger start scratching at her thumb.
She’s as nervous as I am. “I know this is unorthodox, that we’re scheduled to see each other this afternoon, but I was concerned for your safety. ”
I shut the front door, turn back to face her.
“Well, I’m okay. Or not, I guess. But now’s not a good time to talk.
I…” I cast my eyes upstairs. “I’m taking myself off to a hotel for a few days while I figure out a more permanent situation.
I think…I think I have to admit James and I are done. I don’t feel safe here anymore.”
She nods like she understands, but her face is as impassive as ever.
I’m about to suggest that she leave, that we catch up at our scheduled time, when she says, “I understand. You don’t mind if I wait while you pack, do you?
I’ve already cleared my schedule this morning, and I notice your car isn’t in the drive.
I can give you a lift wherever you need to go, and maybe we can talk on the way there.
” She’s making her way into the living room before I can even respond.
It’s unnerving having Dimple in my home.
There’s something distinctly feline in the way she prowls the space—slow, gentle, and considered—while I flit around her to grab things.
I assumed she’d simply sit patiently on the sofa, but she’s inspecting the room with a soft touch, picking things up to peer at them before placing them down again.
Occasionally, we catch each other’s eye, and she gives me a quiet smile.
I suppose for her it must be quite the trip seeing me in my home environment, like the frisson of strangeness one feels when bumping into your GP or teacher in the supermarket.
I leave her to it, heading up to the bedroom to pack some clothes.
Working methodically, I make my way through drawers and cabinets, filling up one suitcase and then the next.
I log in to the joint account and clear out the funds—I don’t trust James with money.
At first, I only intend on taking half, scared of opening myself up to accusations of theft.
But then I remember my lost inheritance.
It’s hard not to take on a Claire-like rage at that thought, but in order to keep moving, to get out, I shake it off.
“Need any help?”
I jump half out of my skin. “Jesus! Sorry, you startled me.”
“I’ve been told I have an unhelpfully soft tread.” Dimple is standing in the doorway, the picture of casual elegance in her cropped blazer and wide-leg trousers. She’s looking at me curiously through her black-rimmed frames.
“I think I’m—”
And she’s already strolling into the room, recommencing her inspection as she pulls drawers and doors open.
“You have some lovely things. Need any of these shirts?” She indicates a row of brightly colored satin blouses.
“Actually, a couple of those would be great, thanks. Not too fussed which ones.” And I nod toward the open suitcase on the floor.
This house, although not ancient, has squeaky bones, the floorboards groaning in protest as we patter around.
“I’m unsurprised James found your hiding place given how loudly it announces itself,” Dimple says, three blouses in her hands.
I stop, brows scrunched. She catches the confusion. Elaborates.
“The hiding spot under the floorboards. Where he found your letters.”
The evening of the housewarming, the confession about the letters…It all feels like a lifetime ago. It’s been mere weeks, but I feel like an entirely different person from who I was back then.
A small shake of my head. “Those weren’t hidden in this room. They were in the spare bedroom, next door.”
We both look to our feet.
“Do you think there could be…” Dimple leaves the question unfinished, but it’s clear we’re both thinking the same thing. We get to our knees. Dimple throws the blouses aside, presses her fingertips across the wood until she feels the weak spot. “Here,” she says.
With the back end of a pair of sturdy tweezers, we manage to lever the floorboard up.
For a moment, I’m ready to tell Dimple she was wrong, that there’s nothing to see here.
But then I see the white corner of a small box.
It takes a bit more levering and a big stretch with my arm, but my fingers find waxy coated cardboard pushed out of immediate sight and pull out the prize.
We’re both nervous as we stare at it.
“What is it?” Dimple asks.
“Fucked if I know.” But I’m desperate to find out, gingerly removing the lid.
And at first, the contents are almost a disappointment, sheafs of paper nestled together. It quickly becomes clear what they are as I pull some out and flick through them.
You never really liked me for me.
I’m trying to starve it out
I was too stupid to realize that just because you said you liked me, it didn’t mean you respected me
I regret being too slow to notice what you were doing
But the worst thing you took from me was my sister.
Copies. Copies of each of my letters. And then I see something that punches me in the gut so hard that it winds me.
Dear James,
I sometimes wonder, if we’d met at a different time, in a different place, whether things might have ended differently, too.
I don’t think there was ever really the possibility of a happy ending.
So much stood between us—so much history, so much blood—that the way things have worked out is sort of fitting.
Despite that, I really do think it’s a shame that things have turned out this way. I did love you. I think. Perhaps.
I would have certainly given you almost anything you’d have asked of me. I guess, though, when the chips were down, what you wanted was something I just couldn’t give.
I’m sorry for everything I’ve done.
I’m sorry for what I’ve put you through.
But now, after everything, I think we both have to agree that what we have between us needs to come to an end. As much as we’ve been at odds, I don’t believe you’d fight me on that. As much as we’ve been at odds, I think you’d agree that only one of us can come out of this marriage alive.
At first, I’m confused. The writing is so much like mine, and it sounds so much like me, that for a moment, I wonder if I’ve finally cracked. If I’ve well and truly lost my mind. But then I reread it, read the sentiments that don’t quite ring true.
I feel Dimple over my shoulder, hear a sharp intake of breath as she reads.
“This is him, isn’t it?”
A nod. It must be.
But why? Why write this letter? I think you’d agree that only one of us can come out of this marriage alive.
It makes me sound dangerous, like I’m going to hurt him, or myself.
But what’s the point in that? Whatever his plans, I’d obviously just vehemently deny I wrote this.
That would be a massive problem for him, no?
The final knife in the back lands.
Because I realize it would only be a problem if I could deny it. And I can’t do that if I’m dead.
Oh god.
“Hold on—” And I’m racing to the chest of drawers on which my phone sits. I grab it and fling myself down on the edge of the bed. Dimple comes to sit beside me.
“What is it?”
“Those girls from his other Instagrams. I messaged to ask them about James. It’s unlikely I’ll get a reply, but maybe…” One. There’s one new message in my finsta’s inbox. “Shit.” I read it aloud.
Hi this is Jade’s mom and if this is serious you need to get away from him immediately. Jade died seven years ago and they ruled it suicide but I know that monster killed her. If you don’t believe me you can call me on the number below but don’t wait just get away from him now
Dimple’s hand fastens around my wrist. “You’ve got to make sure you’re out of here before James comes home.”
I’m still reeling from the message; James is exactly the monster I feared he was. Maybe worse. I know what Claire would say.
Natty, have you learned nothing from our parents? You take your shit and you get out!
My voice is shaky, breath a thin hiss, but I manage to say, “You’re right.
I…I should finish packing and get out. Thank god you found the letters.
” Something in my brain slides into place, and the weight of it triggers a wailing alarm.
I shift away from Dimple a few inches. “The floorboards,” I say.
Her eyes flick dispassionately to the doorway.
“How did you know I hid my letters under the floorboards?”
Her cool gray irises level me with a look void of emotion. “You told me, in our sessions.”
“No. No, I didn’t. I never mentioned exactly where they were hidden.”
I spring to my feet, step in front of her to block her exit. She stands, too, but where my limbs shake and I can’t stay still, she’s a resolute statue.
Warm in the places I’ve been cradling it, my phone sits in my palm. I bring the screen back to life. Flick through the call history.
“What are you doing?” Dimple asks.
I don’t answer. Simply find the number, the number I found in James’s call log. The number he’s been making so many calls to for weeks now. I press dial, wait a moment.
And then Dimple’s pocket starts buzzing.