Chapter 5
IMOGEN
Imogen scraped herself off the bathroom floor, flushed the toilet, and winced at her reflection in the mirror.
Her right eye was red—blown-out blood vessels from the force of her purge.
She was very glad she had the house to herself as she stumbled into the kitchen to pour herself a G and T and grab a sleeve of saltine crackers to eat in bed.
Upstairs, she stripped out of her clothes, collapsed onto her mattress, and created a nest out of her duvet and pillows.
Imogen clicked it open so fast she spilled her drink on the sheets.
You’ve been up to no good haven’t you, babe?
It was unsigned. Part of her wanted to delete the message and pretend she’d never seen it.
She could block the sender. Smash the digital frame.
But that wouldn’t solve anything. Before she could stop herself, she found herself tapping out a reply.
Who is this? Maybe you think you saw something, but you didn’t.
After pressing Send, she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep. Her phone was glued to her hand as she went back downstairs to pour herself more gin (not even a suggestion of tonic this time) then back up to her room, where she sat in bed waiting for her phone to ding. An hour later, it did.
This is going to cost you.
Imogen didn’t fall asleep until nearly four in the morning, then woke up every hour or so until Ari got dropped off from her sleepover and started banging around in the kitchen.
Whole body aching, Imogen rolled herself out of bed, mildly disgusted at the smears of foundation and mascara on her pillowcase.
She’d have to make sure the sheets got changed.
Imogen shuffled her way through the minefield of crumpled clothing, used mugs, open magazines, and gummy takeout containers (when Mark was away, she always went a little feral) on her way to the bathroom.
In the shower, she turned the knob to freezing cold and practised her Wim Hof breathing under the icy stream of water.
By the time she’d pulled on her jeans, paired with a new sweater, she was feeling marginally better, but the spectre of one of her closest friends blackmailing her with life-ruining photographs hung heavy in the air.
Imogen popped two painkillers then plastered on a smile to go downstairs and greet her daughter.
“Gross!” Ari was scandalized at the state of the kitchen.
“There’s sticky stuff on the counter and cracker crumbs all over the floor.
Ohmygod and there’s a broken glass in the sink.
Did you guys get drunk last night?” Ari was sipping a banana-raspberry smoothie and Imogen’s stomach lurched at the sight of the lumpy red drink. “Mom? Are you okay?”
“I’m totally fine, Sweetpea.” Imogen kissed her daughter on the head.
“I got a bit lazy last night and didn’t clean up properly.
Nobody was drunk. Don’t worry about it.” Imogen debated leaving the whole mess for her housekeeper, but decided she needed to do something with her hands while she thought about what she was going to do.
As she wrapped shards of glass in newspaper, she felt her cellphone buzz in her back pocket.
It was a message from Celeste. I need to talk to you. Can I come over?
Imogen was about to reply that whatever it was would have to wait until Monday, but then it struck her that if Celeste was behind the photos, this would be her chance to get things out in the open.
OK, she texted back. Come over at 11—Ari will be out at her piano lesson so we’ll have the place to ourselves.
It was almost half past eleven when Celeste showed up, annoyingly late, not that Imogen would say anything about it.
Imogen wondered if Celeste knew how much the world let her get away with because of her model physique and blue-green eyes.
Today, she was dressed in a relaxed pair of jeans and a loose button-up that accentuated her angular body.
Imogen had been envious of Celeste’s graceful (let’s be honest, this was code for skinny) style since the day they first met.
Celeste came from money, so work had never been her priority; she’d spent her early twenties doing experimental art and attending charity lunches.
She met her future husband, Dr. Harry Sarkassian, at an auction for ALS research (the disease that had killed her own father, who was a major donor to Sunnyvale Hospital).
Up until about two years ago, Imogen had thought that Celeste’s life was shiny and perfect, but then the gold plating started to rub off.
Harry died suddenly, leaving Celeste a widowed single mother at thirty-five.
Making a bad situation worse, Harry had apparently made some unfortunate investments before he died, significantly depleting the family assets.
Imogen knew that it had nearly killed Celeste to admit this to her, and she was sworn to the strictest secrecy about her friend’s much-diminished financial situation.
Although Celeste maintained her involvement in select charities, as well as her seat on the board of directors at Sunnyvale (Harry’s old hospital), she needed paid work.
Imogen had felt magnanimous when she offered to hire her on at the Inherit the Future Fund, the investment firm she’d built from the ground up.
Celeste’s lack of financial background was not an issue in her role as Imogen’s part-time assistant, as the job mostly consisted of emailing statements (prepared by Imogen) to clients and keeping track of Imogen’s social and professional calendars.
Celeste was grateful for the work, and even more grateful when Imogen agreed to make an exception to her normal client policy and let Celeste invest her surviving nest egg with the ITFF.
Imogen and Celeste got settled in the kitchen nook with cups of peppermint tea.
Celeste looked obnoxiously fresh-faced with her signature no-makeup makeup look—no signs of the previous night’s indulgence.
Botox, Imogen decided, that had to be Celeste’s secret, maybe also some subtle filler.
She made a mental note to make an appointment at her dermatologist ASAP.
Imogen had put on a full face after Celeste messaged, and now she felt overdone in comparison.
Plus, her pink lipstick only served to accentuate the burst blood vessels in her eyeball, which were so vivid that Celeste had actually gasped when Imogen answered the door.
“So, what did you want to talk about?” Imogen took a big swallow of tea, scalding the roof of her mouth. “Is it about last night?”
Celeste laughed, a light tinkle. “Straight to business, huh? I guess that’s for the best. No, nothing about last night, it’s something that happened before. But you already know what I’m going to say, don’t you?”
“Should I?” It was Celeste?! Imogen frowned. “Cee, I really don’t know what this is about.”
“It’s Mark.” Celeste circled the lip of her mug with her middle finger in a way that Imogen found mildly obscene. “This can’t be the first time, can it?”
“Mark?” Imogen couldn’t keep up. She’d been sure Celeste was going to say something about Derrick. “Look, I had a rough night after you all left. I . . . I didn’t sleep very much and I’m running on empty. Tell me what’s going on.”
The cuff of Celeste’s shirt slid up as she lifted her mug, exposing a delicate arm adorned with a simple gold strand.
She took her time sipping her tea, putting her mug back down, rearranging herself in her seat.
God, she’s milking this. Celeste fiddled absently with the heart locket that never left her neck, clicking the mechanism open and shut as Imogen wondered how much force it would take to snap her spindly wrist. Finally, Celeste said, “He came on to me.”
“He . . . what? When? What happened?” Imogen felt the familiar feeling spreading through her body. Mark had promised her it wouldn’t happen again, he’d sworn up and down, and she—How could I be so naive? Stupid, stupid—had believed him. But now this? With one of her closest friends?
“He’s been flirting with me for a while.
If you’re out and I’m working in your home office, he’ll pop his head in and say hello.
Shirtless, fresh from the gym. I mean, I think it’s clear what he’s after.
” Celeste gave a wry smile and lifted one shoulder in a shrug that Imogen read as who wouldn’t want a piece of me?
Hot embarrassment flooded her system and Imogen wanted to throw her tea in Celeste’s face.
Mark was a flirt, Imogen knew this about him, but he wasn’t dumb, or at least she didn’t think he was this dumb.
Plus, she reminded herself, Celeste had a major siren complex.
Any time Celeste went anywhere, she was certain that men were flirting with her and she always made a point of telling Imogen about it—in excruciating detail—whenever they got together.
The butcher at the Meat Counter slapped the rib-eye suggestively.
The way the baker at Cobb’s squeezed the baguette was a come-on.
The new trainer at her gym stared at her ass when she squatted.
The boundaries of fact and fantasy were always a bit blurry with Celeste.
“Did he . . . has anything happened? I mean, like, physically, has he tried to touch you?” Imogen couldn’t believe she was having this conversation right now, not when she should be trying to figure out who sent those photos. She put her mug down and pushed her fingers into her temples.