Page 99 of We All Live Here
“Cerulean Blue?” The man appears beside them.
Jessie turns, as if seeing him for the first time. She looks hard at his large, florid face, then whips the list out of his hand. She strides over to the shelf, and, almost without looking, plucks out twelve different colors, eliciting a mutteredI sayfrom the man. She walks back to the till, rings them up, and holds out her hand. “Fifty-nine forty-five.”
“Fifty-nine pounds? That’s an awful lot for a bunch of paints.” He reaches reluctantly for his wallet.
“Think of it as investing in your wife’s mental health. And, believe me, if it’s that easy to keep her happy, you’re a lucky man,” Jessie says. She is not smiling.
He looks a little worried then. He hands over his credit card, accepts the proffered bag, and leaves. They stand in the little shop in silence, watching him stride briskly down the street, casting backward glances as he goes.
“Fucking hell,” Jessie says, slumping. She looks like she wants to cry.
“I know.”
“Does he know you know?”
“Not yet. But he will.”
“Damn it. I can’t leave the shop.” Jessie presses her palms to her face. Her shoulders give a single shudder that seems to travel through her whole body. Lila feels a stab of sympathy. Then Jessie lowers her hands, and wipes briskly at her eyes. “Ugh. Ugh.”
She looks up, and her face sags with disappointment. “You know the worst thing? I was doing fine before I met him. I was just rolling with my life, woke up happy most days, just me, the kid, my shop…We were doing okay. And he knocked me right off that perch. Made me ecstatic for about five minutes, then question myself all the time, made me feel empty when I wasn’t with him. It was like I was living on a roller-coaster…happy, sad, anxious, ecstatic. Now…now I just feel like an idiot…And for what?”
•••
She will writea letter, Lila thinks. No, two letters. She will pick up Violet, then go home and write a letter to Jensen, with a much more abject and sincere apology. Then she will write to Gabriel, telling him what she knows, and laying bare the hurt he has caused to two decent women who had genuinely liked him and hadn’t deserved any of it. She will write a letter so that she does not have to have this conversation in public, in full view of Philippa Graham and Marja and the rest of them, and then she will never acknowledge him again. But he will know what he has done, because she will not shy away from spelling out any of it: her hurt, Jessie’s hurt, the horrible, insidious way he has made two women feel worse about themselves.
She walks the twenty minutes to the school, her thoughts lost in what she will say, the exact turn of phrase that will force him to look at his own behavior, cause him to question himself, in the way she and Jessiehad done. She will channel Estella Esperanza—discreet, focused, deadly. She will make her move without anyone around her even being aware of what has happened. She is still thinking about the best way to express her disappointment when she does a double-take walking past the Crown and Duck, the gastropub beside the chemist, which has a sprinkling of tables outside. It is an overcast day, and at this time of year only half the tables are occupied. But it is the end table that draws her eye. Because there, sitting with a woman, his hand resting casually on the tabletop in front of him, is Gabriel Mallory.
Something in her solidifies, roots her briefly to the spot. She watches as they laugh at something. The woman is in her thirties, dark curly hair and a black polo-neck. Her large eyes are soft and adoring when she looks at him, and she reaches out and lightly touches his arm, as if she cannot bear to be that close and not make physical contact. He peers at his watch and says something, pointing in the direction of the school. It is the woman’s expression as he speaks to her that makes Lila wince: her acquiescent smile, the slight ruefulness at their imminent separation. Lila crosses the road and walks over to the table. “Hello, Gabriel,” she says brightly.
There is barely a flicker on his face. He looks as if he might be pleased to see her, in the slightly distant, pleasant way one might greet a neighbor. He half rises from his seat, puts a hand on her arm. He is wearing the blue cashmere jumper she had particularly loved. “Lila! How lovely to see you.”
“On your way to school pickup?”
“Yup. Just finishing up a drink. I managed to get away early for once, so I thought I’d give Lennie a surprise.”
The woman is gazing up at Lila, wearing the kind of bland smile someone wears when they’re not sure what your relationship is to the person they’re fixated upon.
“Lila’s daughter is at Lennie’s school,” Gabriel says, turning to the woman, as if in explanation.
Lila considers this description of her presence for a moment. “Yes, I’m Lila. Lovely to meet you,” she says, holding out a hand, which the woman takes. “And you must be…Divina?”
The woman’s smile falters. “I’m sorry?”
“Hmm. Let me guess. Maybe Gorgeousa? Is that a word? Perhaps it’s an English version. Beautiful? Sexy?”
The woman’s gaze flickers toward Gabriel and back toward Lila. Gabriel’s smile has fallen away.
“Oh. Sorry.” Lila wiggles her head, like she’s done something daft. “It’s just that, according to Gabriel, I’m Bella. As in beautiful. And recently I accidentally ran into Gabriel’s other special friend Carina—that means cute, by the way—and she and I exchanged notes and now we’re just curious about who else is in our exclusive little gang. Perhaps alittleless exclusive than either of us realized at the time. But hey-ho! Have a lovely rest of your drink.”
She gives a cheerful little wave and starts to walk away. Then she stops and turns, holding up a finger. She drops her voice to a cartoon whisper. “Oh. And if you’ve made it past the intermittent texting stage, you might want to get tested. He’sreallybad at condoms. Bye!”
It turns out Lila cannot be bothered to write two bloody letters. There is only so much emotional labor a woman can be expected tohandle.
Chapter Thirty-three
Jensen,
I’ve started this letter eight times and I’m still not sure I’m going to get it right. So I’m basically just going to say this: I’m so sorry. I made a huge error of judgment and lost sight of who I was, and I didn’t mean to hurt you in doing those things, but I did, and that’s something I’m going to have to live with. I get that you’ve moved on—and I truly hope you’re happy—but I just wanted you to know that I won’t be publishing what I wrote about you. None of it. I’m canceling the whole book. And I’m sorry if the flippant way I described a night that was actually very lovely caused you pain. You have shown me and my family nothing but kindness and I repaid you in the worst way possible.
