Chapter 29
IMOGEN
I’m glad she’s dead. Imogen ground her teeth as she walked away from Celeste’s body, trailing Bernie and Marta back to the cottage.
Inside, Imogen went directly to the fridge, excavating several bottles of wine before locating the mineral water.
She poured herself a glass and drank it down in quick gulps, the cold doing nothing to extinguish the angry embers in her heart.
Imogen stared at the bottles on the counter, now glazed with condensation, and imagined cracking Celeste across the skull with the dewy rosé.
She could imagine at a visceral level the way such a blow would feel as it reverberated up her arm to her shoulder.
After all, it was the exact feeling she’d experienced a couple of weeks ago.
It was mid-September and Imogen had been putting Derrick off for weeks.
His initial polite emails turned into terse text messages, then became incessant phone calls, which Imogen had been letting go to voice mail.
She thought it was telling that he hadn’t gotten Marta involved in his attempts to contact her.
Imogen and Marta texted each other on a near-daily basis, and had seen each other a bunch of times since Derrick first got in touch.
The fact that Marta seemed oblivious was the only thing keeping Imogen calm; if Derrick didn’t want his wife to know that he needed the money, then he didn’t have a leg to stand on.
She started deleting his voice mails without listening to them.
But this morning, a school Professional Activity day, Derrick turned up at her house.
Imogen was not yet dressed for brunch (she wished she were going somewhere classy—like high tea at the Windsor Arms or lunch at Canoe—but for some reason she’d let Marta pick, so they were heading to a grim spot in the west end), and she answered the door in her pink housecoat, expecting an delivery.
Her arm flinched when she saw Derrick standing there, but she gained control and opened up all the way.
Smile, she told herself. Imogen was proud of her veneers.
She’d gotten her teeth fixed recently and she thought they made her look smarter, like she’d gotten her MBA from a top-tier school—which was, of course, what she told people.
“Finally. You’re a real pain in the ass to get hold of, you know that? You know why I’m here.” Derrick’s normally clean-shaven face was rough with stubble and his hair was mussed. He was still very handsome, but his aura was curdled like rancid milk.
Imogen realized this was the first time in years that she’d seen him in anything other than khakis and a crisp button-up.
Sweeping her eyes up and down his body, it made her uncomfortable to realize she could make out the shape of his dick in his grey sweatpants.
It was bigger than she’d thought it would be, and her brain glitched momentarily.
“I’m . . . it’s a surprise to see you here, to be honest. It’s early.
” She made an effort to muster a pleasant, relaxed tone.
“Is this about that withdrawal you messaged me about?”
“ ‘Is this about that withdrawal?’ ” Derrick’s voice went high and mocking.
“No, I just thought I’d come by to wish you a happy Friday.
Yes, of course it’s about the fucking withdrawal.
After your bullshit ‘let’s discuss it next quarter’ email, you completely ghosted me.
What kind of professional does that? This is my money you’re managing, and when I say I need to take some out, then you’re supposed to say ‘how much?’ and give it the fuck to me. ”
He was coming in way too hot, way too desperate.
There was something here, something Imogen could twist and use to her advantage.
“Of course it’s your money. But look, it’s not only your money, is it?
Marta’s the co-owner of the account, so you’ll need to loop her in.
Actually, I’m meeting up with her this morning, so how about we discuss it then? ”
Derrick’s jaw tightened as he glared at her. “This is between you and me.” He jabbed the air with his index finger. “You leave my wife out of it.”
“I don’t think you understand how this works, so let me lay it out for you.
” Imogen maintained steady eye contact with Derrick, whose upper lip curled into a sneer as she spoke.
“As your investment manager, I have fiduciary duties to protect your best interests—both of your best interests. Which is why I suggested setting up a meeting to discuss this with both of you next quarter. I cannot overemphasize how much money you’d lose if you removed such a significant chunk out of the market right now. ”
“Imogen. I am not fucking around here. I will pull our entire investment if you don’t do what I say.
I know you have a lot of other investors who are parents at the Academy .
. . and you’re only as good as your reputation.
You think I won’t use my clout to make them doubt you? I’ll trash your name to anyone who—”
“Ari!” Imogen called for her daughter—she’d heard the kitchen cupboards banging, so Ariana had to be up.
“Your favourite volleyball coach is here!” Derrick shot daggers at Imogen, then quickly slapped on a friendly expression as Ari rounded the corner in her flannel pajama bottoms and a school sweatshirt.
“Oh hey, Coach Williams! What are you doing here?” Ari pushed her hair back from her face with both hands, then jammed her arms deep into the front pocket of her hoodie.
Derrick stepped back from the door and ran his hand over his face, composing himself.
“Oh nothing, kiddo. Just out for a drive and my wife asked me to stop by and say hi to your mom.” He smiled at Ari.
It was a good smile, one that went all the way into the crinkles around his eyes.
Imogen could see how that kind of smile had made him the most popular male teacher at the Academy, and it unnerved her how fast he was able to turn on the charm.
She reached over to put her hand on her daughter’s shoulder, squeezing harder than she’d meant to.
“Ouch, watch it, Mom.” Ari batted her arm away.
“We’d better get inside and have some breakfast. Say goodbye to Coach Williams, sweetheart. Why don’t you run to the kitchen and get the stuff out for chocolate chip pancakes?”
“Bye, Coach!” Ari gave a shy half wave and left Imogen and Derrick alone at the door.
“Don’t you dare come to my door thinking you can intimidate me into breaking the rules for you,” Imogen hissed at Derrick after Ari had skipped off.
She was insulted that he thought he could speak to her so rudely and furious at his threat to denigrate the ITFF to her other clients.
She especially didn’t like the way Ari had blushed when she saw him.
“I’ve made it clear that I’m perfectly willing to have a sit-down conversation with you and Marta regarding the overall health of your portfolio and the best time to withdraw a substantial sum from your investments.
Your behaviour is so unreasonable, what’s gotten into you? Honestly, it’s so—”
Derrick suddenly broke into a devilish grin, and Imogen was again struck by how attractive he was.
“No. No, this isn’t about Marta, is it?” He stuck his lower jaw out, biting down on his lower lip as he shook his head slowly.
“You would have already told her about me pestering you if everything on your end was above board. You guys are, like, best friends or whatever. So don’t feed me that line. ”
Imogen stiffened. She didn’t think he’d be smart enough to make this leap.
“I don’t know what the deal is—maybe you’ve messed something up on your end, or taken on too much risk?
Played it a bit fast and loose with regulations?
Whatever it is, I don’t care how you run your business, but I swear to God if you don’t get me that money by tonight, I will let everyone in this town know that you are not to be trusted.
How many of those rich moms on the PTA do you think would continue to do business with you if I had a quiet word with them, hmm?
How many golf club members do you want me to poison against you?
” Derrick pointed two fingers directly at Imogen’s eyes.
“You get me that twenty grand tonight. I need it in cash. I’ll be waiting for you at eight o’clock on the east running path at the top of High Park. Don’t be late.”
Imogen cancelled her brunch with Marta by making up a story about a warehouse sale somewhere she knew Marta wouldn’t want to go.
There was too much to do. After a trip to the bank, she started making calls, starting with a couple of the nosiest members of her extended social network.
Gisele DeSantis, the front desk secretary at the Academy, was happy to talk her ear off about school gossip.
The janitor was getting drunk on his lunch break, the vice-principal was online shopping every morning when she was supposed to be working on reports, and there was a pretty new student teacher, Georgia, that all the boys were in love with.
Not just the boys, Imogen thought. Apparently, Georgia was considering teaching physical education, and Derrick had taken her under his wing.
She wouldn’t be the first. Imogen wondered if Marta ever suspected anything.
It was already dark when Imogen got to the park.
The hint of woodsmoke in the air and the cracklecrunch of crispy leaves underfoot briefly lifted her spirits, despite her reason for being there that night.
Imogen inhaled deeply to bring the September evening into her lungs, then tugged on her camel coat to pull it closer to her body.
Her Burberry tote was tucked under her left armpit, pulling at her shoulder.
The bag was heavy, not because of the thick bundle of hundred-dollar bills (which she was hoping to hold on to), but because she’d picked up a bottle of vodka in case any of the girls wanted a martini tomorrow night at book club.
“You’re late.” Derrick stepped out of the shadows with a menacing look on his face.
Imogen already regretted agreeing to this meeting place, a dark footpath in a deserted part of the park.
She looked behind her, but there was no one around.
“I’m here, okay? The only reason I showed up is out of respect for my friendship with Marta.
I don’t want her getting hurt.” Imogen hoped this was the right tactic.
She figured that if it came down to it, she could afford to take the hit, as long as this was the only one.
She certainly couldn’t allow Derrick and Marta to withdraw their entire investment—it would be too big a blow for her fund at a precarious time.
“What the fuck are you talking about? No one’s getting hurt. Did you bring it or not?”
“Relax, I brought it. But cash? Jesus, Derrick. Since when is an e-transfer not good enough?” Imogen started prodding, armed with the barbed nuggets of gossip she’d extracted from the school secretary. “Why don’t you tell me about Georgia?”
“Georgia?” His eyes widened. “What are you talking about? Stop wasting my time and give me my goddamn money.” Derrick took a step toward Imogen.
“I’ve heard you’ve been mentoring her after hours, how sweet.
” Imogen wagged a finger at Derrick, who blinked rapidly and bit his lip.
“I have my sources. I know what’s been going on, and unless you want the details of this mentorship getting back to your wife, then I’d advise you to stand down.
Because I can’t give you the money without looping Marta all the way in.
” She crossed her arms as he blinked at her again.
For a moment Imogen thought it had worked and that he was going to back off, but she’d misread him completely. Derrick was flushed and sweating despite the chill in the air, and as he approached, she could smell the whisky on his breath.
“You stuck-up, prissy bitch. Who have you been talking to, huh? Spreading shit around, you’re not the only one who can do that.
You’re going to give me my money or I’m going to—” Derrick reached both arms out and Imogen thought he was about to grab her throat.
Panicking, she dipped her right hand into her bag and grabbed the bottle neck.
She felt the crack in her entire arm, which was now wet with vodka.
Derrick was on the ground. Stunned, Imogen touched the jagged edges of the broken bottle, slicing her index finger, drawing blood.
She started breathing quickly as it became clear that Derrick wasn’t moving, he wasn’t moving at all, no, and there was blood streaming from the gash on his forehead, and ohmygod ohmyGOD, this is badbadbad.
Imogen scanned the area, eyes darting this way and that.
There was no one in sight. She was still squeezing the bottle neck in her hand, so she dropped the entire mess into her tote.
She felt glass grind underfoot as she backed away from Derrick and hurried out of the park.
I was never here.