Vanessa received a lot of gifts. Flowers and expensive wine, mostly. Chocolate and fruit baskets, occasionally. And then of course she received beauty products and clothing, sent in the hope of endorsement. Most of those went to the studio, but occasionally someone would do some digging, and find her home address.
Vanessa opened the box and found that it was full of white packing peanuts. She dug carefully inside, and found only a single sheet of heavy, linen-finish paper folded in two. In the centre of the page, written in the same beautiful calligraphy as the card with her name and address, was a single line of text:
I tried to get help, but that was a huge mistake.
Vanessa frowned and turned the sheet over. There was nothing on the other side. She dug into the packing peanuts again, this time allowing them to spill over the kitchen table. Inside the box, tucked in the bottom left corner, she found a small black USB drive. Nothing else.
Okay. Weird. Vanessa looked at the paper again. Was this marketing of some kind? For a TV show maybe? Usually TV marketing came in full gorgeous colour, with a handwritten note from the producer or directors or even a key cast member, if they were really trying. This—a one-line note and a USB drive—was beyond spare, but then, maybe that was the point. Itwaskind of intriguing.
The coffee machine beeped its readiness. Vanessa made her coffee, a long black with a dash of hot milk, and her toast, rye bread with peanut butter, and brought both to the table. Her laptop was already open. She took a sip of coffee and pulled the machine towards her. She logged in and inserted the USB, then scrolled through Instagram while she waited for it to load. This was what life was, nowadays. She moved through her days in a two-screen haze.
Her laptop screen brightened and a video began to play. And Vanessa found that she was no longer distracted. Because this wasn’t just a high-definition trailer for a new TV show. Instead she seemed to be watching footage of a bird’s eye view of her husband, Robert, in his consulting rooms. She was watching him unbuckle his belt and pull down his pants. Watching him smile as he welcomed another woman into his arms. Watching that woman drop to her knees.
And then Vanessa was running. Running for the bathroom, feeling the nausea rising, and knowing that she wouldn’t make it.
Chapter Four
After she’d vomited all over her marble tiles, and after she’d cleaned up the mess, Vanessa went back to the table. She grabbed the note and the USB, and went looking for her husband.
On Mondays, Robert worked from home, writing up case notes on his patients. Or at least, that was what he claimed to be doing. They both knew that he spent most of his day playing tennis, or reading, or, more recently, quietly going to his appointments with his dermatologist. She’d thought that expensive facials were the only secret he was keeping. How incredibly stupid she’d been.
Robert’s study door was closed. She could hear voices coming from inside. Robert’s, raised and angry, and a woman’s, low and controlled.
‘Of course not!’ Robert said, almost at a shout.
The woman spoke again, but Vanessa couldn’t make out what she said. Then it was Robert’s turn, quieter now. Then again, the woman. What was this, a lover’s tiff? Anger flared in her chest, and Vanessa reached for the handle but the door opened before she could grasp it.
A woman stood there, clearly surprised to see her. Their eyes locked. This was not the woman from the video. She was older, for starters, in her late thirties at least, and her hair was cut very short. A buzz cut. She was about Vanessa’s height, but had a more muscular build, and a nasty bruise on her left cheek.
‘Excuse me,’ Vanessa said, automatically.
The woman raised an eyebrow. ‘Excuseme,’ she said, and she walked past Vanessa and down the corridor in the direction of the front door, where she let herself out, shutting the door quietly behind her. Vanessa turned on Robert, anger rising again.
‘Who,’ Vanessa said. ‘The hell. Was that?’
Robert shook his head. He looked clammy and pale, almost dazed. ‘She’s a detective. Judith someone. I let her in. I thought she needed my help. I thought maybe there’d been a suicide. But it wasn’t that at all.’
‘What was it?’
He shook his head. His eyes were unfocused. He was looking past her, through her.
‘Just tell me!’ Vanessa felt like she might scream. Her hands were clenched into fists. The USB drive was a hot, hard presence in her left hand, the paper crumpled in her right.
‘She said that a patient has accused me of sexual assault. A new patient. I only met with the girl on Friday morning. The most innocuous... A college student who was having panic attacks. Anxiety over exams. The usual thing. Obviously,obviouslynothing happened. I didn’t touch her. I listened to her talk. Tried not to fall asleep. These fucking kids. Every tiny challenge is an occasion for a meltdown, every mood-swing is a mental illness.’
‘Robert!’ Vanessa cut across him sharply. It was an old topic of conversation, and one she’d long run out of patience with. In recent years Robert had become more and more disillusioned with his work. That was fine. She understood that. What she didn’t get was why he continued to do it, why he continued to see patients and charge them for his time when he clearly believed they were wasting it, clearly believed he couldn’t do anything for them. It wasn’t like he needed the income. She’d been paying most of their bills for years.
Robert waved a hand at her. ‘I spoke to her about perfectionism. Recommended CBT. She seemed fine. And now this!’ His colour was coming back. The shock of the conversation he’d just had with the detective seemed to be fading, and anger was taking its place. ‘You should have been there. The way she spoke to me, like I was some sort of criminal. She didn’t come here with questions. She was in no way open to any alternative explanation. I told her that I see people who are disturbed individuals. That some of them are capable of developing unhealthy fixations. As if—as if—I wouldeverhave sex with a patient, let alone sexually assault one of them.’
He looked completely innocent. Completely and utterly believable. But shedidn’tbelieve him. He was not the man she’d thought him to be. The entire foundation of who they were had just cracked, right down the middle. My god. Had it always been like this? Had he always been such a good liar? Or maybe the fault was hers. Maybe she was one of those women who refused to see what was right in front of her.
Vanessa took in Robert’s clothing, his carefully trimmed beard, his wildly expensive Lindberg glasses. They’d met when they were both students. Robert had been Rob then. He’d been living in a bedsit next door to a Hungry Jack’s, and everything he’d owned—which hadn’t been much—had smelled of cooking oil. Neither of them had cared, not even noticed, really. But those days were in a distant past that she could barely remember.
‘What?’ Robert said.
She reached for words and couldn’t find them.
‘Vanessa. What?’
