Family Pictures (19 page)

She screeches up and slams the door, striding over to them. “Who are you, and what are you doing in my home?”

“Are you married to Mark Hathaway?” one says, checking a clipboard as he proffers a piece of paper to her.

She nods cautiously.

“We’re here from Smith Brothers debt collection agency?”

Sylvie hesitates, less righteous now. There has been some mistake. There has to be. “What debt collection agency? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“We’ve been instructed by a number of credit agencies to collect on your debts.”

“What debts? We don’t have any debts. What are you doing?” Sylvie takes the paper as she frantically calls out to two of the men, now rolling Mark’s Harley-Davidson out of the garage. “You can’t take that. I’m going to call the police.”

“Ma’am? You may want to read that paper. We also need to collect the Porsche and the Range Rover.”

Sylvie doesn’t even glance at the paper, just snorts with undisguised laughter. “Porsche? Range Rover? Are you out of your mind? This is clearly a mistake. See?” She slows down her speech as if talking to a child. “See my car? Does that look like a Porsche or a Range Rover to you? No? That’s because it’s a very old Volvo station wagon. I think maybe you have the wrong address. Or the wrong Hathaway. Or something. We don’t have a Porsche, have never had a Porsche. I wish we could afford a Porsche, but this is all we have.”

The men look at one another, confused. They are used to excuses, but this woman’s reaction is genuine. This is not a house, or a woman, that has a Porsche and Range Rover hiding anywhere.

One speaks up. “What does your husband drive?”

“He doesn’t,” she explains with a smile. “He’s hardly ever here, and when he is, he drives the Volvo. Please. Put the Harley back. I won’t even report you. It’s fine. Let’s just forget about it.”

He examines his papers. “His other address is Pound Ridge Road, New Salem, Connecticut?”

“No!” she laughs. “He stays in an apartment in New York City. I’m telling you, this is a mistake.”

The foreman flicks through a sheath of papers before finding what he’s looking for. “Mark Anthony Hathaway. Born July 14, 1965.”

Sylvie, now confused, nods.

“CEO of Hath Comfort Solutions, Inc.?”

Sylvie nods again.

“Two registered addresses. One in La Jolla, one in Connecticut. And you would be his wife, Margaret Alice Hathaway. Married September 27, 1987?”

“I’m so sorry.” Sylvie starts to laugh once more. “There’s obviously been a mix-up at the office. You have the right Mark Hathaway, but the wrong wife. I’ve never heard of Margaret whoever, and he doesn’t live in Connecticut. He has an office in New York and a rental apartment in Manhattan. You need to check your paperwork. I’ll have to ask you to leave.” Margaret, she thinks, wandering why it has a familiar ring Margaret. And then she realizes.
Maggie.

The foreman frowns, flicks through papers, frowns again. “I’m not getting it,” he murmurs to himself, turning the page back. “He’s definitely married to Margaret Alice in New Salem. I just can’t figure out who you are.”

26

Sylvie

It’s a mistake, Sylvie tells herself. A terrible mistake. She tells herself this even as she sits in front of the computer, even as she feels slightly numb, even though a tiny voice is telling her that it’s not a mistake, that something is very, very wrong.

She hesitates over the keys. There is nothing Google will not be able to solve, and perhaps, a faint dash of hope filters in, perhaps there will be some sort of explanation.

It takes Google less than five seconds to bring up Margaret Alice Hathaway, seconds more to discover she does indeed live in Connecticut, is known as Maggie, and has a husband called Mark.

It isn’t proof, the voice says. There must be thousands of Mark Hathaways. Sylvie moves the cursor to images, and inhales sharply as her screen fills with small photographs of Margaret Alice Hathaway. Numerous pictures of a preppy blonde in a group of identical women, smiling at some benefit or other.

But it is when she is scrolling through the fifth Google page that she gasps. Just as she is about to believe that it has been a mistake, there is Mark. With Maggie. And
their children
at a picnic at their sailing club.

Sylvie can hardly breathe. It feels as if a dagger has gone straight to her heart, but this time there is no mistake. More googling brings up more information: their children; their home; their lives.

Sylvie’s fingers fly over the keyboard as her silent tears drip down, and when she has exhausted the information she can find, she gets up, walks to the door, only to find her legs can’t support her, and slowly, her back to the wall, she sinks down to the floor, where she curls up, her entire body heaving with sobs.

*   *   *

The phone rings as Sylvie lies tucked up in the fetal position, too exhausted, too shocked to move.

She lets it ring, moving only when the phone clicks to the machine, is put down, before ringing again.

Her entire body feels like lead as she moves to the phone, snatching it up only when she sees it’s Eve.

“Eve!” She tries to sound normal, upbeat—as if her world hasn’t just fallen apart.

“Hi, Mom.” Her voice is dull.

“Where have you been? I’ve been phoning you for hours. Is everything okay? I’ve been so worried.”

There is a long pause. “Eve? What is it?” Sylvie’s voice starts to rise; she forces it down. Does she know? Of course not—how could she know? “Do you need me to come out and get you?”

“No. I’m with Claudia.”

“Just tell me, are you okay?”

“Can we talk about it when I get home?” Eve’s voice is small.

Sylvie is terrified, but she knows her daughter, knows not to push. “I love you,” she says.

“I love you too.”

*   *   *

After Eve’s phone call, Sylvie sits at the desk for a while, looking at the pictures, trying to make sense of it. She calls Mark, over and over, but his phone is switched off, and of course, she realizes, she has no way of getting hold of him. He has designed his life in such a way that he can disappear, has always disappeared. Only now does so much make sense.

Later, she moves to the kitchen, pouring herself a large vodka. At the kitchen table she sips the vodka, a reel of her marriage, her meeting Mark, going through her head, and is trying to pinpoint how he got away with it, how she could have been so stupid.

You see what you want to see, and you hear what you want to hear, you dig?
The deep narrative tones of Harry Nilsson, from a childhood musical, fill her head. It is so obvious now, to see how he got away with it. She just doesn’t know why. If this woman is, as she clearly is, his wife, why did Mark marry Sylvie? Why not just have an affair, why not be honest, at least with her?

Angie zooms up outside the window and lets herself in, coffees in hand, finding Sylvie still at the kitchen table, a half-empty bottle of vodka in front of her.

“It’s a bit early in the day, isn’t it?” Angie frowns. “I know it’s five o’clock somewhere, but it’s barely lunch—” She takes one look at her friend’s face and sits down, laying a hand on her arm. “What is it? What’s happened?”

Sylvie looks up at her, then bursts into tears as Angie takes her in her arms and strokes Sylvie’s back, her heart in her mouth at what might have happened.

*   *   *

It is Angie’s turn to drink the vodka.

“I can’t believe it,” she keeps saying, looking at Sylvie and shaking her head. “I just can’t believe it.” She knocks a full glass of vodka back in one gulp and reaches for the bottle to top them both off. “If you hadn’t found the pictures, I wouldn’t have believed it. I can’t. I mean, this is Mark.
Mark!
How can this be true?”

“I don’t know.” Sylvie shrugs. “But I know that it is. And the worst thing of all is there’s a part of me that isn’t surprised. There’s a part of me that … knew.”

Angie’s mouth falls open in shock. “You
knew
?”

“I didn’t know he had another wife”—she is slurring now, her voice impatient—“but I couldn’t shake this feeling that something was up, something wasn’t fitting into place, but I couldn’t face it. Every time I started to think it was odd when he didn’t call for a few days, or that maybe he was having an affair, I’d just push it deep down. I can’t believe I’ve been so unbelievably stupid.”

“If you’ve been stupid, we’ve all been stupid.” Angie takes her hand. “Mark is the last person in the world I would expect this from. He’s charming, and funny, and—”

“Don’t,” whispers Sylvie, a lump rising in her throat. “I can’t bear it.”

“I’m sorry.” Angie has tears in her own eyes. “I just can’t believe it.”

“I know. I can’t believe it either. I keep thinking it must be a mistake. And that this should happen now, of all times. I honestly don’t know that I have the strength to go through this right now. I’ve got my marriage being a sham, having less than no money, daughter being ill, and mother on her deathbed.”

Angie falters. “I didn’t realize it was that bad. Is she really on her deathbed? I thought she was going to recover.”

“She’s not going either way right now. I want to feel upset. My mother is lying in a medically induced coma, possibly on her deathbed, and I feel
nothing.
If I’m really and truly honest, I’m hoping she won’t recover.” Sylvie looks at her friend, stricken. “How disgusting does that make me? What kind of a person must I be?”

As Sylvie silently weeps, Angie puts her arms around her. “You’re a little girl who was abused,” she whispers. “Your mother has treated you disgustingly your entire life, but it’s not your fault. It’s not your fault.”

Sylvie says nothing, just lays her head against Angie’s shoulder and allows herself to be rocked, allows the tears to freely fall.

*   *   *

Later, when they have bypassed tipsy and gone straight to drunk, when Angie has decided to sleep over to make sure her friend is okay, they sit by the computer, scrolling through the pictures.

“Look at those kids!” Angie shouts. “Christ, Sylvie. They all look exactly like Mark.
Fucker.
She looks
awful.
” Angie peers closely at his wife. “Stepford Wife on steroids, no? Weird that he should be married to someone so completely different from you. She’s just so … blond! And perky! And … pink. And green! I hate her,” she growls as Sylvie starts to laugh.

The laughter grows until Sylvie tips over the edge to sobs. Angie, who has always been able to hold her liquor far better than she, helps her into bed and tucks the duvet around her so tightly, so comfortingly, for a minute Sylvie feels safe, and warm, and loved.

27

Sylvie

It is the middle of the night and the phone is ringing. It is not Clothilde, she registers, pulling herself out of her deep, hungover sleep. Who, then, is calling at this hour?

Mark!

“Hello? Hello? Hello?” Sylvie’s voice is urgent, but there is no response until she asks quietly, her voice almost a whisper, “Mark? Is that you?”

“It’s not Mark,” a voice says.

Instantly, instinctively, Sylvie knows exactly who it is. “Is this … Are you Maggie?” Sylvie says tentatively. There is a long silence. “You’re Mark’s wife?”

“As are you, I understand,” says Maggie.

“I didn’t know,” Sylvie offers eventually. “I just found out myself.”

“I realize that,” Maggie says. “It’s just all a bit … overwhelming. I don’t really know what to believe anymore. Have you seen him?” she asks, quieter now. It is not what she wants to ask. There are so many other things she wants to ask: how they met, how it happened, how she could possibly not have known.

But then she might have to answer those same questions herself, and she isn’t sure she is ready, or able, to do that.

“I haven’t,” Sylvie says. “I thought perhaps he was with you.”

Maggie laughs wryly. “And I, with you. He’s definitely not here, and he’s not answering his phone. No one at his office is picking up. It seems he’s disappeared.”

Sylvie blanches. “I’m having the same experience. And worse. I’ve had debt collectors here.”

Maggie snaps to attention. “Debt collectors? What do you mean? They showed up and took things from your house?” The fear is evident in her voice.

“Apparently, they are not legally entitled to enter without your permission, but of course, they intimidate you to the point where they do whatever they want. They loaded Mark’s Harley onto the truck, but didn’t get into the actual house.”

Maggie blinks disbelievingly into the phone. “I’m sorry, what did you just say?”

“They took Mark’s Harley-Davidson.”

“Mark has a …
Harley-Davidson
? Oh, God. Buck, our fourteen-year-old, will die!” At this, Maggie starts to laugh. It is at first a giggle, then a full-throated chuckle before hysterical laughter leads to a round of sobbing.

Sylvie says nothing. She sits quietly, saying nothing, knowing the Mark she has known, and loved, is a very different Mark from the one married to the woman on the other end of the phone.

Hiccups, then sniffs; the sound of tissues being pulled out of a box; loud snorts.

“I’m so sorry,” Maggie apologizes hoarsely. “I don’t know what came over me. I’m scared. And angry. And sad. And I have no idea what to do. I can’t believe this betrayal. I’m furious, but then I keep hoping he’s going to show up and tell me everything’s going to be fine.”

“He’s very good at explaining his way out of things,” Sylvie murmurs in agreement. “There were times when he’d disappear for days—no calls, no texts. I’d be there, worried sick, but he’d come back and say—”

“—he was at a sales conference? Away with no cell service? Broken phone?”

“Of course he said the same thing to you. It makes sense now. But at the time, he made the implausible sound plausible, even though there was a part of me that always sensed there was something wrong.”

“Isn’t it ironic how much we have in common?” Maggie says. “Perhaps I shouldn’t say this to you, but I have been furious with you.”

“Of course you would be. But I didn’t know,” Sylvie says. “I would never have gotten involved with him had I known.”