Chapter 18

18

Nate invites me back the next morning to work on some of the final chapters. By now they are almost complete but his attention to detail is obsessional, and he doesn't like me working on the memoir alone.

"You know ghostwriters don't usually hang out this much with their interviewee, don't you?" said Amira as we passed each other in the hall this morning. "You're going way beyond the call of duty."

It seems I don't have much choice. When I arrive at Algos House that morning, Jade stands in the doorway, giving me a baleful stare as if I'm an unwelcome inconvenience.

"Oh, didn't Nate let you know? He rushed out to a meeting and won't be back till after lunch, I'm afraid."

"Really?" I ask. "How odd. But we arranged it yesterday."

I check my phone and, sure enough, a text from him flashes up.

Sorry I'm not at home. Unexpected meeting, but you can work at the house and I'll be back by 2. Nate

"It hardly seems worth going back," I say. "He's suggested I stay here and work in his study. That wouldn't be a problem, would it?"

"I guess it's fine," she says a little doubtfully. "If he says so, come in. I'm making soup, if you'd like some?"

Her tone is slightly less arctic, and I follow her into the kitchen area where there's a sweet, savory aroma of butternut squash and shallots. She places an extra bowl on the marble island between us. There is a plate of crusty white bread, iced water poured into pale blue stemless glasses. She sits down opposite me, waiting for her bowl to cool down.

"So. How's the book coming along?"

"All good. Nate's really enjoying it, I think."

"He's really okay about it all?" She tilts her head.

"It all?" I repeat.

"I know there have been some...reservations."

I dip my bread into the soup, let it coat the crust. When I look up again, she is watching me.

"I think he's enjoying the whole process actually. He's letting go a bit and it's all been quite...therapeutic." I smile at her, and she looks puzzled rather than pleased. "Sometimes it helps to talk about the past, don't you think?"

"Maybe to an actual therapist, but—"

"But not a journalist," I complete her reply, watch as she lifts the soup to her mouth, sipping in quick birdlike movements. She puts down her spoon.

"It's a whole different thing, isn't it? One is designed to be helpful, and the other, I guess..."

"You have a problem with journalism," I say, as kindly as I can. "I can understand that. All those reporters hanging around here after Eva died, the stuff they wrote. Insensitive, untrue. It must have been so difficult for all of you. It's just we're not all, I'm not—"

"It's not the journalism, it's the memoir that some of us have trouble dealing with."

"Us? Who else?"

She sighs, smooths her hair behind her ears. "It's not a personal thing. I guess I'm just allergic to this current obsession. Confessional journalism, memoir, whatever you want to call it. Putting it all out there on display, self-cannibalizing." She almost spits the word out.

"I think Nate is a very willing self-cannibalizer. It's exactly what he's signed up to."

It must be a superpower, I think, Nate's ability to inspire devotion like this. Priya is another disciple too, those glances during the interview, a chemistry that hums below the surface. Priya and Jade alter imperceptibly when he's around, something stirs in them. I recognize it in them, a hunger for his approval.

Yet, I realize in that moment, sitting at the table across from her daughter, that it's Kath I really admire. She exerts her own power. But Priya told me soon after I got the job that talking to Kath for the memoir was off-limits. Why?

Nate has told me how close Eva and her sister were; only seventeen months between the two of them and Kath had always looked out for her. Kath's home was apparently covered in her art. Eva had also been Jade's much-adored godmother as well as her aunt. I think of her often, the newspaper picture of her after the inquest, looking haunted but grimly determined. Fighting for her little sister with a burning passion that someone should pay the price for her untimely death. I'm no stranger to that. Siblings who've become so fiercely loyal and protective that it can be a little extreme at times.

"So what worries you about the memoir?" I ask. "The fact that Nate's doing one at all or that I'm ghostwriting it?"

"It's one thing," she says carefully, "to write about yourself, reveal your private life to strangers, share personal details, whatever. But when it's scavenging Eva's life too..."

Heat rises up my neck.

"Hardly scavenging, is it?" I retort. "It's biography, a reflection on his own loss too. It's a way of remembering her, of being true to her life."

"If it is true. We'll never know."

"It's as good a chance as any for Eva's voice to be heard, don't you think? Now because of Nate and this book, her work, her art, can be appreciated by a whole new audience," I say with passion.

After all, Jade and Kath would surely be grateful we're not telling the whole truth in the memoir, doing our best to protect Eva's reputation. If they really knew everything Nate had confessed to me, they'd be grateful that this memoir was preserving the best of their marriage.

"I don't think her artistic achievement is really what this book is all about, do you?" She gives me a broad smile, her tone still withering.

"Well, I think you should wait to read it."

"My mom would like to, but Priya has never offered and neither has Nate."

"Well, I'm sure they will at some point before it's published. I can see why your mom might feel concerned but tell her she really shouldn't be."

Without answering, Jade picks up our empty bowls and carries them to the sink. There is something balletic about the way she holds herself, in the starched line of her back, the sharpness of her shoulder blades. She takes out fresh mint from the fridge, snips it over two cups of boiling water in small precise cuts. Even her posture is somehow a rebuke to me, virtuous, upright. Nate has told me how helpful she is at the Rosen, yet I can't help wondering again what she's really doing here, beyond hanging around the kitchen looking glum and vaguely judgmental. Tending to Nate whenever she gets a chance.

"I should be going. I'm meeting my mom for the afternoon at the bookshop."

"Sure. I've got loads to do. I'll get going too," I say, picking up my bag. I hadn't planned for this. Algos House all to myself. My heart beats a little faster and I can't deny I am strangely thrilled by the idea. It's only when I hear the click of the door as it shuts that I realize I have been holding my breath.

I exhale, flop onto one of the sofas. How differently a house breathes when there's no one else here but me. I angle my face into a shaft of light that beams through the high glass above me, feel the prickle of velvet upholstery on the nape of my neck. Lying back, I close my eyes, put myself in Eva's place for a moment. Imagine how she spent her days when Nate was at work; absorbing this same view, savoring this particular texture of silence, rich and dense and soporific.

I get up and go back to his study, opening my laptop at his desk. For a moment I stare back at my empty silhouette reflected in the black screen, uneasy, until curiosity gets the upper hand. I text Nate to see how long I've got.

Got your message. All good. I'll catch up on rewriting chapter 25. When are you back?

Around an hour. Hope Jade gave you some lunch

I put a thumbs-up emoji by his message. Finishing off a chapter now, hopefully we can run through when you're here. No rush.

Out the window, I can make out the angles of her studio through the trees, a strip of river beyond. It's a tantalizing thought, Eva's studio, where she died, but it's out of bounds. No doubt it's locked anyway. Safer to stick closer to home.

Instead, I'm drawn to the floor above: her bedroom. I glance over at the sofa where the cat is asleep, remembering Jade's warning about how she must never go upstairs. I scoop her up in my arms. She wriggles, indignant at being woken, and I grip her harder. I had to go upstairs to find Nico, I could say. As alibis go, it's not bad. My steps on the staircase are light and urgent, taking me up to the only part of the house I haven't yet seen. I pause for a moment, motionless, the silence thrums in my ears like a radio frequency turned to high.

Ahead are a set of double doors, one left slightly ajar. I step in and deposit her on the bed, making sure she's settled. At the far end of the room, venetian blinds are drawn up to reveal a large picture window. Weak sun slants inside, turning the floorboards caramel and the silk rug next to the bed iridescent. The walls, the scallop velvet headboard and the bedding are shades of iced teal.

I inhale: an aroma of sandalwood and paper, dry and musky, fills the air, the kind that nestles in the back of wardrobes. The potent smell of absence. It is everywhere, a tangible weight in the room, air deadened by the past.

There in the corner is one of her textured glass sculptures, a female torso on a plinth. Hung above it is a silkscreen image; Eva and Nate, her head resting on his shoulder, replicated across an acid tangerine and yellow canvas.

I move through the space, my fingers brushing the thick satin throw on the bed, into her en suite bathroom. An open door at the other end reveals another bedroom almost identical to this one, and I find myself peering as if through the looking glass. His and hers. I take it all in: his ruffled bedding, yesterday's discarded clothes. Something stops me from stepping in there. A transgression too far, even though I'm tempted.

I can't help registering a discreet buzz of satisfaction at the geography. Nate wasn't exaggerating on that score. Adjoining rooms, separate beds, the froideur he mournfully described to me. Were they delineated when their marriage got rocky? Did Priya ever stay in this room with Eva? Or could it be yet another privilege of the wealthy to double up on everything, including their sleeping arrangements?

I glance at the silkscreen of them and my eye travels down to a small polished walnut bureau beneath it, its curved drawers edged with gilt. I can't resist. I wrestle with the top drawer first. There are boxes of old makeup mixed up with vintage jewelery. Gold necklaces, paste earrings, a pretty cushion-cut emerald cocktail ring catches my eye.

I try the second drawer, equally chaotic. Nate told me how disorganized she could be, never throwing anything away. There are hair clips and old paintbrushes mixed with receipts and invoices. A vintage brooch, a pot of varnish, postcards. As I comb through the rubble of her life, I register this as another fact about Eva, her desire to collect, a magpie drawn to the next shiny thing that came her way. Other people's stories, their emotions, above all their pain, trying it all on for size.

I try to push the drawer back in but there are dislodged papers at the back, which are jamming it. I need to clear the gap behind. Carefully, I edge my fingers around the side of the drawer and feel my way around the corner of...a pad, or a book of some sort. Slowly, I slide it back and sit back on my haunches, take a second to catch my breath.

The cover is glossy, with an intricate design of flowers and leaves. In black italics across the front is printed Self-Reflection Journal .

I have around half an hour left before he gets back. I picture his expression if he could see me here, furtive, deceitful. The threat of getting kicked off the book project, of Nate's disapproval—his anger, even—unmoors me, but not sufficiently enough to stop myself from opening the journal.

The first page has several suggested areas for self-reflection from her supervisor. How do you feel about your current client? Have you picked up on any transference today? If so, what feelings came up? The spaces left for written notes are blank. I flip through all of them. Inside are a few receipts along with several pages filled with writing. I take them out. My stomach lurches.

Her entries.

I stand up too quickly, feel the ground give way and the room spin.

28 March 2019

It hasn't gone away, this sense of being overwhelmed by emotion, drowning in it since I've met Patient X. I'm out of my depth. It's something I've never experienced, not even in marriage. The power of it, the raw emotion. Their pain makes me feel alive. I can't imagine a better feeling.

My hands shake as I turn to another page. I begin reading her entries about a patient she starts seeing regularly, Patient X. Their complex, emotional sessions, how they slowly open up to her, first about surface-level anxieties and then deeper histories. Family trauma. My stomach spikes with adrenaline, her words in that perfectly neat handwriting begin to blur.

Me: "I know this is difficult for you but I wonder if we could return to that night you mentioned early on. Can you unpack that a bit more?"

Patient X inhales sharply. Their tone shifts, features soften. It feels like a privilege to create this atmosphere of trust that I hope I've helped to nurture. To finally, finally share their pain.

Patient X: "I guess it's the smell I remember first. The kitchen was filthy, flies at the bottom of the fridge, rotten food. We were all there together."

Me: "But this evening was different from the rest?"

Patient X: "We'd started eating and the windows were open wide, it had been a hot day, kind of close and airless too. The weather affected his mood. He'd been furiously impatient all day. His outburst was vicious but right in the middle of it, the weather broke. Sheet lightning, thunder. Somehow it triggered the smoke alarm, there was this unbearable high-pitched sound and maybe it was the shock of it. He collapsed with chest pain, struggling to breathe. He usually keeps an inhaler close to him, or another couple in the bathroom but—" Patient X falters "—we couldn't find them. We searched and searched...by the time the paramedics arrived it was all too late."

Me: "I'm sure there was nothing you could do."

Patient X looks down, chews their lip.

Me: "You know it's universal, this feeling when you witness a loved one dying in a situation like yours. We would do anything to save them but it's all beyond our control so we punish ourselves, continually ask what if?"

Patient X doesn't reply.

Me: "So what happened next?"

Patient X: "I stayed with him, watched him struggle for his last breath until the paramedics arrived. By then, of course, it was too late. Only...there's something else, too..."

Tears well up in my eyes, my throat burns. I try at first to conceal my response, to think of Janet. Stay focused, objective, use what you're feeling, don't get absorbed by it.

Patient X glances at me, puzzled, confused. "What's the matter?"

Me: "Give me a moment, I'll be fine." I wipe my cheek with the heel of my hand.

Patient X moves forward in their seat, offers me the box of tissues. "You're upset?" They lean forward and gently place their hand over mine.

I only have time to read a couple more pages, an intense, overwhelming dread overtaking me as I read about the night of my father's death. It's all in here, all my secrets spilled in these lines. To anyone reading this, the identity of Patient X would be unmistakable. Nate obviously doesn't know it even exists, or he'd never have hired me.

I freeze. A shiver of movement outside the door. I quickly close the journal and shove it under my jumper, gripping it close to me with my arm across my waist. Quickly, I glance at the bureau to make sure everything's in place, no sign of intrusion.

"Nico," I call, in a singsong tone. "Ah, there you are."

I pick her up from the bed where she's still curled up, as if I've just found her. Just in time.

"What the hell do you think you're doing in here?" I turn to see Jade standing in the doorway, the cat draped over my shoulder.

"I'm so sorry. I was going to the washroom and saw her dart upstairs. I followed her up. I remembered what you said about the bedrooms, how much Nate hates her escaping upstairs?" My face snaps into a smile. She doesn't return it. "What happened to the lunch?"

"Mom had to leave early so I thought I'd come back and catch Nate. Maybe it's lucky I did," she says, archly, walking over and sweeping Nico from me. She motions me to leave. "Go on, Nate's just got back. I'll tidy this up," she says, sweeping nonexistent cat hair off the bed with her free hand.

As I leave, I catch sight of myself in Eva's ornate full-length mirror by the door, my face flushed, my pupils dilated. I look exposed, different somehow. Is this the real me? Scurrilous and guileful, stealing from Eva and lying to Jade. I walk away, haunted by what I've read, haunted too by my own reflection, as if I've unexpectedly met a ghost, someone I used to know.