Chapter 11
MARTA
Marta’s vegetarian lasagna never failed to impress, and tonight was no different.
After eating their fill, the women migrated to the sunroom, a gloriously large space facing the lake.
Imogen took control of the music and turned up the volume, playing hit songs from when they were in their early twenties.
Bernie was reclining in the La-Z-Boy with her feet kicked up and a glass of wine balanced on her stomach, while Celeste was dancing in the middle of the rug, alternately lip-synching to the chorus and reminiscing about her clubbing days.
Marta wished that someone would volunteer to help her clean up, especially given that she’d done all the cooking, but everyone had dumped their plates in the sink with tipsy promises of doing them tomorrow.
Dirty dishes repulsed Marta, so she decided it would just be easier to do them quickly on her own.
After she finished the washing-up, she put together a dessert platter and brought it out to the sunroom, which was now lit only by a cluster of large candles on the coffee table.
The lake, barely visible in the dark, lapped at the rocky shore loud enough that Marta could hear it between songs.
She wished they could listen to the sounds of nature and not the Black Eyed Peas, but she didn’t dare suggest turning the music off for fear of being labelled a party-pooper by Celeste or pissing off Imogen.
“Oh my god, the dishes and now this? Can we be real for a minute? Seriously,” said Celeste.
“Sometimes you’re such a martyr, Marty. Honestly, it’s too much.
” Imogen’s and Bernie’s giggles spiked Marta in the heart as she held the tray out, confused.
She’d thought the others would appreciate the things she’d done to make the evening nice for them.
“What’s wrong, do you not want something?”
“No, of course I want something, I’m drunk and my defences against carbs have been weakened.
” Celeste reached out and took the only brownie from the plate.
“I don’t get why you have to make such a big deal about offering things to everyone else and denying yourself the pleasure.
” Celeste popped a small corner of brownie into her mouth, chased it with a gulp of red wine, then folded her napkin over the rest of the dessert and balled it up. “You’re too nice.”
“Okaaaay, so I’m being nice to you and that’s an issue? I don’t really know what the problem is.” Marta would have loved it if someone else had gone to the trouble of presenting her with a dessert platter.
Celeste sighed. “Never mind. Just remember to take something for yourself now and then, because people aren’t necessarily going to give it to you.”
It made Marta uncomfortable to think about putting herself first. Niceness, which in her mind equalled selflessness, had been her defence against the world for years.
If she never put herself first, then she could never be disappointed when others didn’t either.
It was scary to think about striving for what she really wanted, when she wanted so much more than anyone had ever given.
Imogen patted the spot beside her and told her to forget about it.
Marta sank into the couch gratefully. She was feeling a bit loopy—she’d lost track of how much she’d had to drink over the course of the afternoon and evening—but she accepted another generous pour from Imogen, the self-appointed party captain.
Celeste pulled out her phone and started scrolling with a dreamy expression on her face.
Marta sighed. She would bet anything that Celeste was looking at photos of Harry again.
She wondered what that felt like, to lose someone who’d made her that happy.
In the almost two weeks since she’d reported Derrick missing, she hadn’t looked at a single photo of him.
Being away with the girls this weekend brought back memories of last year’s book club retreat, when Derrick hadn’t sent her a single message (actually, that wasn’t quite true; he did text her to ask if there was mustard in the fridge).
The feeling of being away now wasn’t all that different, Marta realized.
Absently, she traced a long line of cracked glass down the face of her own cell.
She should have gotten it fixed already, or replaced the phone, but she felt paralyzed at the thought of figuring out a new device on her own.
For all his faults, at least Derrick had always been there to help her with any tech issues.
“Cuckoo! Celeste? Get off your phone! All your friends are right in front of you.” Imogen’s loud voice cut through the music.
“Take your shot with the rest of us!” Somehow, a tray of tequila shots had materialized on the coffee table and Imogen was dancing around the room handing them out.
Marta sometimes found Imogen’s relentless energy hard to take, but right now she was like a woman possessed with the spirit of a frat boy.
Saying no to Imogen was hard at the best of times (not that Marta ever tried all that hard), but tonight it would be next to impossible.
“On three!” Imogen lifted her shot glass in the air and everyone followed suit.
They counted down, took their shots, and Marta felt a rush to her head and a burning in her throat.
It had been a long time since she’d downed straight tequila.
Imogen shook off the shot, bit down on a lime wedge, and then went to retrieve a fresh bottle of wine.
She sat back down with a mischievous look on her face. “I think we should play a game.”
Celeste cheered. “Yes! A drinking game!”
“And everyone’s in, got it?” said Imogen, in an oddly serious tone. “We’re playing Never Have I Ever.”
Bernie laughed. “Wow, I haven’t played that since I was in school, maybe at Med Games.”
“Harry used to talk about Med Games,” said Celeste, her eyes already misting over at the mere mention of his name. “It sounds like they were so much fun. He told me—”
“Yeah, they were great,” Bernie confirmed, cutting Celeste off before she could veer down memory lane.
“I’ve never played,” Marta admitted. It was embarrassing, the things she’d missed.
She’d spent the better part of her undergrad years sipping rum and cokes while pretending to like jazz in the dank clubs where Derrick liked to hang out, even after he swapped his music major for kinesiology. “Can someone please explain the rules?”
“Ha! Oh, Marty, why am I not surprised.” Imogen turned down the music.
“It’s very simple. We go around in a circle and make wild statements—the more salacious, the better—and it can be something that you have or haven’t done.
Like, okay, here’s an example: Never have I ever used a strap-on.
” Marta already didn’t like the sound of this game.
“Now anyone who has used a strap-on has to drink.” Imogen looked pointedly around the circle and hooted when Bernie took a small sip of wine.
“Nasty gal! I love it. Ohmygod, was it with Steven? No, wait, I can’t have that image in my head, don’t tell me.
Get it, Marty? Let’s go!” She pointed to Celeste. “You start.”
“Hmmm.” Celeste took a nip of wine as she contemplated. “Never have I ever cheated on someone.”
Marta pulled up her pant leg and scratched her leg nervously in the silence—scritch-scritch-scritch—the sound of dead tree branches scraping against a brick wall.
She made no move to lift a glass and was shocked when all the other women drank.
“All of you? What . . . what happened? Sorry, I still don’t entirely know how this game works. Can I ask a follow-up question?”
Imogen waved her hand dismissively in Marta’s direction.
“Come on, don’t be a prude. I’m not saying I cheat on my husband or anything.
Although god knows Mark deserves it sometimes.
” She giggled, then said, “There was a period of time in university when there was definitely some overlap between boyfriends.”
Celeste laughed as well. “Yeah, like, in my whole life? Probably a few times. I mean, I started dating when I was, like, twelve, so of course I was a bit messy. Not Harry, though. I never would have cheated on my husband.”
“I did.” Everyone turned to look at Bernie, who gave them a lazy grin.
“I can admit I cheated on my ex. Why not? Fucking Steven and only Steven was simply not cutting it for me. Men do it all the time, don’t they?
I wonder what our husbands—present and past—would answer if they were playing with us, don’t you? Bet we’d be in for some surprises.”
Bernie’s playful remark landed heavily on Marta, who put her wineglass down on the table and hugged a couch pillow against her chest like she was trying to suffocate it. She imagined Derrick playing the game with his friends and wanted to scream.
“I don’t think I’d be surprised,” said Celeste, pulling her face into a serious expression.
“Harry wasn’t like that.” Marta wanted to shake her—there was no way she could know that for sure.
More than anything, she was jealous that Celeste got to enjoy such an uncomplicated reminiscence of her husband.
“Harry always told me I was beautiful and that I had nothing to worry about. Even when I was in old jeans and a T-shirt, he always looked at me like I was the only woman he could see. He was the best.”
Bernie was clearly in a mood to start trouble—Marta recognized the cock of her brow and the way her smile was sliding toward a sneer.
“He was a very handsome man, Cee, I’ll give you that,” said Bernie.
“Very handsome. That sparkly smile? That twinkle in his eye? Hard not to notice. And he was surrounded by all those young interns and med students at the teaching hospital—you think those women didn’t notice?
Some of the men too, I’m sure. I’m not even saying he did anything bad! Just admit that he might have looked.”
“No, I’m telling you. He didn’t look at other women. He was a perfect husband.”
“Right,” said Bernie, a razor blade of cruelty tucked inside the word.
“Are we sure he didn’t die of falling off that pedestal you had him on?
” Marta gasped. Bernie sometimes said out-of-pocket things, but even she should realize that dead husbands were off limits.
Bernie evidently realized her misstep—she visibly tensed as if hearing someone else say the words, then quickly apologized.
“Sorry, I’m sorry, that was too much. Cee?
Look at me, please. I apologize unreservedly. Harry was great.”
Celeste nodded once, blinking rapidly, trying not to cry. Despite her general feelings about Celeste, Marta did have some sympathy for her. She was sure that in this moment Celeste hated Bernie for introducing doubt into her memories of Harry, a shard of glass in a bowl of vanilla ice cream.
“God, Bernie, you’re such a bitch sometimes,” said Imogen, but with a laugh meant to lighten the mood.
“I can’t bring you anywhere. Cee, we all know that Harry was an angel.
Let’s change the subject. It’s my turn, so get your drinks ready.
Never have I ever . . .” Imogen paused to take a sip of her wine.
She shook her head, squared her shoulders, and then said in a rush, “Never have I ever blackmailed someone.”
That’s a strange one. Stranger still was the way Imogen was scanning the room waiting for someone to drink, bobbing her head like a drunken cobra about to strike. Marta looked at Celeste and Bernie, who seemed equally confused, then back at Imogen. No one drank.
“Come on, you guys. None of you? No one wants to play for real, huh?” Imogen’s cheeks were pink and a small bit of spit splatted out on the word play.
Marta was taken aback at the sudden intensity. She reached over to Imogen, who was sitting next to her on the couch, and patted her gently on the knee. “Imm, forget the game. What are you talking about?”
Imogen was staring into her wineglass. “Never mind, it’s nothing.
I’ve been getting some weird emails. I think I must have malware on my computer or something.
Forget it.” Imogen brushed Marta’s hand away and stood abruptly, swaying on her feet.
Without another word, she disappeared into the kitchen, then re-emerged carrying a jumbo bag of gummy worms. She tore it open, grabbed a handful, and started shoving them into her mouth one by one, chewing hard.
“That doesn’t sound like malware to me,” said Bernie, putting her drink down and looking at Imogen with concern. “What do the emails say?”
“Honestly, it’s nothing. I don’t want to talk about it right now, it’s stupid.” Imogen spoke around her mouthful of chewy candy. “Let’s keep the game going, come on, I was having fun. Seriously, Marta, go. Do your turn.” She waved a hand in Marta’s direction.
Marta had never seen Imogen acting like this and she didn’t want to play drinking games anymore. The vibe had gone off—the soft candle glow and sweet wine buzz had been replaced with something dark and sour.
“Don’t you want to talk about it, Immy?” asked Celeste.
“It sounds like something’s really getting to you.
” If Marta had any doubt that Celeste wasn’t that good at reading Imogen’s moods, this settled it.
Anyone could see that Imogen did not want to talk about it anymore, but Celeste just couldn’t take a hint. Imogen glared at her.
“No, I don’t want to talk about it. Cee, I literally just said that. Were you listening? God, sometimes you’re . . . Look, I’m saying . . . Let’s play the game, okay? That’s why we’re here, after all, to let loose. It’s Marta’s turn, right? Hit us with a question. Make it a good one.”
Marta scratched her leg as she tried to think of her own never-have-I-ever, but her mind went blank.
“Oh my god, Marta, please. Could you not?” Celeste’s face was twisted up in disgust. “I know it must be, like, a medical condition or something, but my god, it’s just too gross!”
Face hot, Marta yanked her hand away from her shin and looked down at the dusting of dead skin on dark wood. She closed her eyes in humiliation.
“You keep thinking about it, Marta, no worries,” smirked Bernie, sipping her drink slowly. “I’ve got one now if you don’t mind going out of order.”
“Yeah, that’s great. You go.” Marta was happy to cede the floor, but uneasy at the same time, because Bernie was a total shit disturber. She did it with such style that the others never seemed to notice, but Marta was increasingly conscious of Bernie’s sly questions and jabby remarks.
“All right.” Bernie cleared her throat and lowered her voice so that everyone else would have to lean in to hear her. “Never have I ever killed someone.” And then she drank.