Family Pictures (23 page)

“But … that’s impossible,” I sputter. How would Mark not tell me something as big as moving his company? Why would he not tell me? I stare at the guard, attempting to quiet the questions in my head, realizing he is saying something.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“You want a forwarding address?”

I am so grateful, I could throw my arms around him in a giant hug. I settle for the best smile I can muster given the circumstances, which unexpectedly lights the guard’s face up in return.

“You have a nice day,” he says as I leave, and I know it’s going to be a lot better than it was looking five minutes ago.

*   *   *

I have never felt unsafe in New York, but I have always stayed in neighborhoods I know well. Striding down Madison Avenue, Fifty-seventh Street, hitting restaurants on the Upper East Side, I am confident, safe. I belong.

This is not a neighborhood I have ever been to before. I step gingerly over the legs of a homeless man who is leaning against an overflowing garbage can, his hand outstretched as I avert my eyes, only to see a line of grimy people shuffling through a doorway marked
FREE METHADONE
.

Slipping my left hand in my pocket, I work off the diamond rings, instantly feeling better with bare fingers as I pull my jacket a little tighter and look back down at the piece of paper in my hand.

I stop outside a dingy building sandwiched between a cell phone store and the kind of convenience store you go into only if you’re a tourist, a drug addict, or desperate.

Even as my brain computes that the information on the piece of paper must be wrong, I am pushing open the door, kicking a cigarette butt aside to study the black board on the wall that lists the companies in those white plastic letters that can be pulled out and rearranged in seconds.

In other words, temporary.

There it is. Second floor. Number 203. Hath Office Solutions. I’m not nearly so confident as I step into the elevator, all rehearsed speeches having flown from my mind, and I’m pretty certain I have a look of horror on my face. The corridor is also dingy; there are several bulbs missing, and the carpet saw better days about thirty years ago.

I knock on suite 203, moving my ear close to the door, pausing but hearing nothing. I knock louder before grasping the handle and tentatively opening the door, taking a deep breath as I prepare to confront, if not my husband, then the people who know where he is.

33

Maggie

The door is not locked. It opens smoothly, but there is no one inside.

No one has been here for
months.

There are desks and phones and dozens of boxes, all covered in a thick layer of dust. Even without the dust, this is the kind of grimy hellhole that would drive a person insane.

It doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense. Why would Mark have moved offices? Why would he ever have moved to an office like
this
? There must be a mistake. Or at least an explanation.

I wander to the window, taking in the cracks in the wall, the yellow, damp patch on the ceiling, and I know I’m about to throw up. I grab the wastebasket and retch, but nothing comes up other than painful, sharp bile.

I prize open a box, to find it stuffed haphazardly with papers. Order forms. All genuine. All Mark’s company. Huge orders. So it isn’t all lies.

Then I pull a letter informing Mark of impending legal action for nonfulfillment of a paid order. I reread it before placing it back in the box, stacking the boxes together, and taking them all downstairs, where I pile them into a cab and take them back to my car.

*   *   *

They know me well at the bank. Not because of financial dealings, but because we attend all their social events, and when Ray, the manager, had a baby, we sent a basket of personalized bibs.

Ray is on the phone when I pop my head around the corner. His face lights up when he sees me, gesturing to sit down as he attempts to extricate himself from his conversation. I exhale as I sit. Surely if there were a problem, he would have phoned me. He has known me for years. If there were no money, Ray would not have kept quiet.

“How are you, Mrs. Hathaway!” He puts the phone down. “It’s good to see you!”

“Busy, busy, busy,” I reply, as I always do. “How’s Janie? And the kids?”

“They’re grrrreat.” He rolls his
r
’s, as he always does.

“Nina must be in fourth grade now?”

“Fifth!” he exclaims proudly, turning round a photo frame on his desk for me to see how big they are.

“Oh, Ray, they’re adorable!” My eyes mist slightly, remembering when mine were that young. “I can’t believe how quickly it goes.”

“I know!” He smiles before leaning forward and shuffling some papers. “I’m glad you came in, Mrs. Hathaway. I’ve been leaving messages for your husband. We really need to get hold of him.”

I stare at him. Do I tell him Mark’s left me? What if he then refuses to give me information about our finances? But it’s a joint account. Surely I’m entitled to know how much money is in there.

“Is everything okay?” I ask first.

“I’m sure it’s fine.” He pulls a file from a cabinet behind his desk, flicking through, then frowning. He goes back to the beginning and reads through again, this time more carefully.

He clears his throat, then stands up, the file in his hands. “Mrs. Hathaway, would you mind waiting here a minute? I just need to speak to my assistant manager.”

I watch through the blinds, but I can’t see anything. The assistant manager is explaining something, Ray listens, says something, they both look at the file.

Ray comes back, his brow still creased. “We really do need Mr. Hathaway to come in,” he says, attempting to disguise, with little success, the slight panic in his voice. “I know he travels a lot, but he needs to at least phone us today. It’s actually rather urgent.”

I can’t not tell him. “Ray, I don’t know where he is. He’s left me.”

His face takes on a mask of shock as he stumbles over his words. “I’m … I’m so sorry.”

“Here’s the thing, Ray. I presume he’s left me. He seems to have another family in California. All I can tell you is that he’s disappeared. None of my credit cards are working, and I’m down to about a hundred and twenty-six dollars, which is nothing with two children to feed, and I have no idea what to do.”

I burst into tears.

*   *   *

There is no money in any of the accounts. The various accounts Mark has opened over the years—based on his good standing, long relationship, and, at some point, large amounts of money—and there are many, are overdrawn.

The total overdraft amount is $764,483.33.

“I don’t understand.” I am staring numbly at the papers in front of me. “How can the bank let someone reach an overdraft of this magnitude? This is three quarters of a million dollars. Why … how does this happen?”

Ray looks worried. “I don’t understand either. I’m going to have to start an internal investigation. I had authorized an overdraft feature last year when there was a significant amount of money in the accounts. But it was two hundred thousand. I’m not sure how…” He sighs, and suddenly I realize his job is on the line too. He may not know how this happened, but he’s the manager here, and therefore responsible.

“Ray?” I set the papers down on the table. “How do these things happen? How do accounts empty? How are overdrafts allowed to grow to this? Are you telling me there’s no money whatsoever? Nothing? Everything’s empty?”

He shuffles repeatedly, delaying the inevitable, but the expression on his face says it all, and when I stand to leave, my legs are wobbly, and I forget to say good-bye. Or thank you. Or tell him to send my best to Janie. It’s all I can do to get to the door.

34

Maggie

You would think I would be completely numb, but as I head to the car, my brain goes into overdrive, frantically trying to find a way out of this mess.

This is, after all, what I am good at. I did not run all these committees because I have pretty clothes. Although that helps. I am, as my children relentlessly complain, controlling, organized, superefficient. I am resourceful and determined.

Look at the life I have been able to build out of nothing.

The life I now need to save.

With no access to credit cards or money in the account, I need cash, and fast. The fridge is empty, I have four mouths to feed, and in my purse, right now, is $126.32.

I take inventory of what I can sell. We have valuable paintings, furniture, jewelry, clothes. So much
stuff.
I shudder at the prospect of hosting a closet sale, becoming one of the women I have pitied. There must be another way, and right now, with under two hundred dollars to my name, I need to find it.

I pull the car into the parking lot of the grocery store. I know we have pasta at home, and if I buy a can of tomatoes and cheese, a lettuce, I can at least throw together an inexpensive dinner for the kids tonight.

A shard of sunlight glints red off a stone, sparking a memory. Four years ago, Mark gave me an antique ruby necklace for our anniversary. It is beautiful, and one of a kind, but it is so ornate, the gold chain so heavy, I have never done more than admire it in the closet.

I didn’t tell Mark. When he asked why I never wore it, it was easy enough to tell him I wore it all the time and if he were home more, he’d realize that.

The night he gave it to me, we were at a restaurant having dinner. The Meyers were with us, and Ginny spent the whole evening drooling over the necklace. On the way out, we ran into Kim, and of course, she noticed the necklace immediately.

She swooped like a vulture, scooping it up to examine the diamonds and ruby, knowing it was real, knowing it must have cost a fortune.

I saw how she coveted it, enjoyed her disappointment when Mark told her it was from an antiques dealer in New York, was one of a kind.

Lara told me Kim was obsessed with my necklace for months. She spent months trawling the Internet trying to find another, or one similar. She was planning to go to the dealers in New York to see if they could find her one, had even asked Lara to get her a photograph.

I wore it once, deliberately, for the ladies’ tea at the tennis club. Even I recognized it was a little over the top, but how could I not, when Kim was going to be there. She made a beeline for me, pointing out the necklace to all her girls, who had heard all about it.

“If you ever get sick of it,” she said, “I’ll buy it from you. I’m serious.”

“I doubt I will,” I laughed, “but I’ll keep it in mind.”

I was sick of it already, but I would never have sold it to Kim.

The thought of having to phone her is horrifying, but it’s the lowest hanging fruit. How much is the necklace worth? I vaguely remember it being valued at eight thousand dollars.

Eight thousand dollars is a fortune. To think Mark could spend that amount on a gift without even thinking. If I am careful, it could last awhile, at least until I manage to sell some other stuff, find a job, figure out what to do next.

I pause by the canned goods and whip out the phone, scrolling to Kim’s number, shuddering at the mock sympathy in her voice.

“Maggie!” She picks up almost before the phone has even rung. “I’ve been so worried about you. I’m so glad you called. I wanted to know how everything is. Have you heard from Mark?”

“Everything’s fine.” I keep my voice as light and breezy as possible. “I’m actually phoning for a different reason. I was going through some stuff today and realized I really have to get rid of the things I don’t wear or use. I was about to take some of the jewelry to Sotheby’s, when I remembered you quite liked one of my necklaces, so I just thought I’d let you know in case you were int—”

She actually gasps. I hear it. “The antique ruby necklace?”

“Yes.”

“I love that necklace. I’ll take it. Seriously. How much do you want for it?”

My mind starts whirring. I had thought the full eight thousand, but what if she loves it so much, she’d pay more? That would be wrong … but I’m destitute … and God knows she can afford it … and the price of gold has gone up … really, I should have it valued … but I haven’t got time … but but but but …

“Maggie? Are you there? Hello?”

“I’m sorry. You dropped out. What did you say?”

“How much do you want for the necklace?”

“I don’t know.” I falter, embarrassed now. “It was valued at eight thousand?”

“Eight thousand?” She has the audacity to laugh. “In today’s economy? Wow. I think that’s a little steep,” she says.

“Really?” Two can play that game. “Do you have any idea what’s happened to the price of gold?”

“I know gold is expensive,” she says condescendingly, “but this is an antique, and antiques aren’t holding their prices.”

“Not according to Sotheby’s,” I lie.

“I’ll give you four,” she says.

“Kim, I just told you it’s valued at eight. I have the paperwork. I would take eight.”

“I’ll give you four and a half,” she says.

I’m so tempted, but I remember her face when she saw the necklace, her obsession with finding one just like it, her competitiveness with me—and I know I can pull this off.

“I’m so sorry, Kim.” I am proud of myself for sounding authentically apologetic. “I wanted to offer it to you first, but Sotheby’s are willing to put eight as their reserve.”

She snorts contemptuously. “Well, good luck with
that
!”

“Thank you!” I sound almost stupidly perky. “Betteridge has some pretty estate jewelry. You might find something similar in there. Good luck!” I put down the phone, smiling to myself as I count the seconds.

Eight … nine … ten … eleven … twelve.

The phone rings. “I’ll take it.” No charm to her voice this time. “Can I bring a check over in about half an hour?”

A check would be swallowed up.

“It will have to be cash,” I say. There is a silence as she waits for an explanation that I won’t be giving.

“Fine,” she huffs eventually. “Make it an hour.”

*   *   *

I slide the phone in my back pocket and turn the corner to find two women I know huddled together, whispering. They break apart as they see me, plastering false smiles on their faces as they embrace me.