Chapter 2 #2
Tonight, Marta was planning to get to Imogen’s first (and had, in fact, timed her arrival for half an hour before book club officially began).
She’d tell Imogen, she decided, then the others.
It would be easier that way. When Imogen opened the door—“Babe, hi! Come in, come in”—she was in her usual full face of makeup and her hair looked longer and thicker than it had been last week.
Imogen was a good hugger, always had been, and tonight Marta held on a little longer than normal.
She was about to blurt it all out when Celeste suddenly materialized from the living room, elegant in a simple blue shirtdress.
“Oh, hi, Celeste! It’s so good to see you.
” Marta’s heart cramped with disappointment.
It bugged the shit out of Marta that Celeste seemed to think she was Imogen’s best friend.
When Celeste and Imogen had arrived at Marta’s house for the July meeting of the Murder Mamas wearing welded-on friendship bracelets, she’d had to excuse herself to have a quiet cry in the washroom.
“Marta! Oh my god, look at you. Autumn, here we come!” said Celeste, sweeping her into an extravagant hug that smelled of citrus and spice. Marta was relieved when Celeste released her from her bony clutches.
“Yeah, I guess.” Marta looked down at her blazing shacket like it was the first time she’d noticed it.
She wished she’d worn something less look-at-me, and decided she was definitely going to return it.
“Almost that time of year, pumpkin spice everything. But I, um, wow, I didn’t realize you were already here .
. . I thought I was the early bird. Did I get the time wrong?
” She made an effort to smile at Celeste.
“No, no, babe, you’re right on time,” said Imogen. “Quite early, actually!”
Marta followed Celeste and Imogen to the living room, where she clocked the half-drunk glasses of wine on the coffee table. Her face felt hot.
“I brought Milly over so that she and Ari could walk to their sleepover at Raquel’s together.
” Celeste draped herself over Marta’s favourite armchair—the squashy beige one with the matching footstool.
“Immy and I got a little head start on the booze.” Celeste winked at Imogen, then raised her wineglass to Marta.
“Let’s get you some PG so you can catch up! ”
Marta wanted to stab Celeste in the cheek with a cheese knife, but instead she nodded and gratefully accepted a generous pour of Pinot Grigio from Imogen.
Sometimes, hearing about her friends’ children grated against her heart.
She and Derrick had tried for babies, but it had just never happened.
Supposedly they were still trying, but you have to have sex to try, so it would seem they weren’t trying very hard.
Marta settled into the rocking chair and sipped her wine, resenting the fact that she was automatically excluded from the mom hangs.
As much as Marta enjoyed the book club soirees (that was putting it mildly; getting together with the Murder Mamas was the highlight of her social life every month), she wished it could just be her and Imogen tonight.
Celeste and Bernie were great, of course, but they were newer friends, and they were Imogen’s friends first. And, if she was being honest with herself, Marta wasn’t ever sure where she stood with either of them.
Bernie arrived fashionably late, sweeping into the living room looking like she was on her way to a gallery opening, or at least wearing what Marta imagined one would wear to a gallery opening.
After Bernie had a drink in hand, Imogen ting-ting-ting-ed a manicured nail against the bowl of her wineglass to call their meeting to order.
The host always picked the book—Imogen’s selection this month was a gripping account of the search for the serial killer who had stalked California in the ’70s and ’80s—and was nominally responsible for leading the discussion.
While Marta always prepared a long list of thoughtful questions when it was her turn to host, Imogen’s approach was much more laissez-faire.
Tonight, she opened the discussion with, “So, did we like this one or what?”
Marta had read the book twice and normally would have had a lot to say, but she was too scattered to present a coherent thought.
She tried to make a point about the importance of devoting resources to unsolved murders, but lost steam after stammering on the double hard c’s in cold case.
Celeste ended up monopolizing the discussion and Marta settled for “um-hmming” her reductive points.
Making matters worse, Marta’s seasonal eczema was acting up and the itch on her right shin was driving her out of her mind.
“Oh, before I forget!” Bernie exclaimed.
“Sorry to interrupt you, Cee, but the Airbnb booking for Villa Pines is finally confirmed!” She held her hands together in mock penitence.
“Please, everyone, forgive me, because I went a little over budget. The place looks amazing—it’s super spacious and has totally gorgeous views.
I swear to you, no one will regret it.” Bernie whipped out her phone to show them photographs of the secluded island property on Massassauga Lake.
Imogen clapped her hands with a “Well done, Bernie!” while Celeste squealed over the panoramic sunset images.
Briefly, Marta’s heart felt lighter. Although the cost of the cottage was far higher than she’d anticipated, she didn’t even think of voicing an objection.
She’d figure out a way to make it work—there was no way she was going to miss the second annual book club retreat.
Last year, they’d spent three glorious days in the sunshine at a cottage on Lake Muskoka.
It was the best weekend in Marta’s recent memory.
This year, they’d agreed on a long weekend at the tail end of September.
Marta imagined it would be all blue skies, colourful trees, and drunken bonding over too much Prosecco.
She’d already been looking forward to it for months, and now more than ever, she desperately needed to get away.
When there was a brief lull in the conversation, Marta drew a deep breath and, emboldened by the Pinot Grigio she’d been sipping, decided this was her moment.
“Sorry, I’m so distracted tonight. It’s .
. . I usually don’t like to talk about personal stuff, but things aren’t good at home right now.
Derrick and I . . . um, he didn’t come home last night.
Sometimes he just gets a bit wild, goes out with his old frat buddies, crashes on a couch in someone’s apartment.
It’s normal, right? He lets his phone die, comes home later the next day, and apologizes for worrying me.
” She looked around for understanding—some indication that maybe one of their husbands or ex-husbands had ever acted like this—but the other women were looking at her with varying degrees of pity or dismay.
“Um, so maybe it’s not normal. But for us .
. . like, there was this one time when he was in Vegas for a bachelor party and he didn’t catch his flight home with the rest of his friends .
. . and this other time when he went on a bit of a bender after his beer-league hockey team won a big tournament, and .
. . yeah.” Marta felt a fresh stab of anger as she recounted the ways Derrick had taken their relationship for granted.
“Anyways, I’m just worried because I haven’t heard from him all day.
” She dropped her gaze to her lap and started shredding her cocktail napkin as her vision blurred with tears.
Imogen did her best to soothe Marta, patting her on the back and saying all the right things, but Marta felt like her heart wasn’t in it.
And—am I crazy?—she was pretty sure that Celeste and Bernie had exchanged a look before they started lying to her that she had nothing at all to be worried about.
She wished she’d just called Imogen instead of embarrassing herself in front of her whole book club, wished she had the kind of friends who would make her feel better about herself instead of worse.
Why did I think this was going to be any different?
The rest of the evening whizzed by in a boozy blur.
Marta would have liked to stay behind with Imogen and talk some more, just the two of them, but stupid Celeste couldn’t take a hint and go home.
After saying good night, Marta almost returned to knock on Imogen’s door—she even executed a one-eighty pivot on the sidewalk—but she stopped herself at the last moment, swayed on the spot, then turned around again.
You have to stop being so needy, she instructed herself.
Plus, after a few drinks, she didn’t entirely trust herself to keep a secret.
And there were some things that she could never tell anyone, not even Imogen.