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“Did she seem worried about anything?”
“Nope, not that I could see.”
“Did she seem depressed?”
“Depressed? No, not at all.”
“There was nothing unusual about her, then?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“She didn’t seem preoccupied? She wasn’t acting in any way that seemed odd? She wasn’t nervous?”
“No, no and no. She was perfectly relaxed.”
“What about your husband? You said your husband and Ms. Wilcox were friends?”
“I said they worked together.”
“You said they were close.”
“Yes, I see, actually I think I said theygotclose, as friends, yes. They worked well together. He was friends with her fiancé, too. His name is Patrick. They called each other buddy, he and Luis, I mean. Like, ‘Hi, buddy!’ So he wasn’t just friends withheris what I’m trying to say.”
He was taking notes and now he looks up at me. It’s the way I said ‘her’. I couldn’t help myself and it came out with the tiniest stress of scorn on the syllable. As soon as I said it I knew I’d screwed up. My cheeks feel hot and I wonder if I’m blushing. I get up again and open the window a little more.
“Have you spoken to my husband yet?” I ask.
“My colleague is doing that as we speak. Is there anything else you can tell me about her? About her relationship with Mr. Patrick Fowler?”
I shake my head. “No. I only met him once briefly. God!” I rearrange my pens in the holder. “This is really shocking news. I just can’t believe it.”
“What about your husband?”
“I thought we just went over that.”
He checks his notes. “Not yet. How was their relationship?”
“It was normal. Professional.” But my heart sinks. The police will know soon, if they don’t already. It’s not like there’s no record of their affair. There are texts, for one thing.I can’t stop thinking about you.There are probably lots more by now. I wonder what they say?
I’m pregnant. Are you happy?
Deliriously. I can’t understand why Anna hasn’t noticed.
That’s because she’s boring and dull. You two have nothing in common.
You’re so right. I long for you. You’re the only one who understands me.
Everyone will know. It will be plastered across the world wide web in one big fat masthead: Beautiful Curator had Affair with Up And Coming Installation Artist.(More details on every single page of the internet.)
Everybody will know he was unfaithful. They will ask,Which one killed her, do you think? The wife? Probably the wife, it’s always the wife. No, it’s the husband. It’s the husband who killed her.
No, it’s the wife. Because the lover was pregnant.
I taste blood and realize I am biting my bottom lip. I roll it out between two fingers. Pat at the tender spot.
“You okay, Mrs. Sanchez?”
I don’t say,It’s Dr. Sanchez, actually.I say, “Yes, thank you. It’s just such a shock. Poor Isabelle. Yes, she and my husband were friends, friendly, as she must be—must have been, I should say—with a lot of her artists. It’s the way they do things in that world, you see. I can’t imagine myself asking my husband to cook dinner for my colleagues—I see them often enough as it is, truth be told.” Chuckles. “But no, I have nothing to add on that score. Nothing I can think of, sorry.”
