He cried. She didn’t. They both knew the marriage was over in that moment. Poor Henry. He was a good man, but they brought out something terrible in each other, like allergic reactions.
Her mind wandered off down the road of her long and complicated relationship history. She’d shared her relationship history with “Paul Drabble” and he’d shared his. His had sounded so real. It must have had some truth to it? So says the novelist who makes up relationships for a living. Of course he could have fabricated his relationship history, you idiot.
She kept talking. Better to talk than to think.
“I honestly thought I was more in love with this man than any other man I’d met in the real world. I was quite deluded. But then again, love is just a trick of the mind, isn’t it?”
Just shut up, Frances, she’s not interested.
“Anyway, it was all very …” Her voice trailed off. “Embarrassing.”
The therapist was completely silent now. Frances couldn’t even hear her breathing. It was like being massaged by a giant-handed ghost. Frances wondered if she was thinking, I’d never fall for something like that.
The sharpest knifepoint of her humiliation was this: before, if Frances had been asked to pick the sort of person likely to fall for an internet scam, she would have picked someone like this woman, with her bulky body, buzz cut, and questionable social skills. Not Frances.
Frances said, “I’m sorry, I missed your name before.”
“Jan.”
“Do you mind me asking, Jan, are you married … in a relationship?”
“Divorced.”
“Me too,” said Frances. “Twice.”
“But I’ve just started seeing someone,” offered Jan, as if she couldn’t help herself.
“Oh. Great!” Frances’s mood lifted. Was there anything better than a new relationship? Her whole career was based on the wonder of new relationships. “How did you meet?” she asked.
“He breath-tested me,” said Jan, with a laugh in her voice.
The laugh told Frances everything she needed to know. Jan was newly in love. Frances’s eyes filled with happy tears for her. Romance would never be dead for Frances. Never.
“So … he’s a policeman?”
“He’s a new cop in Jarribong,” said Jan. “He was bored sitting on the side of the road doing random breathalyzers, and we got chatting while he waited for another car to come along. It took two hours.”
Frances tried to imagine Jan chatting for two hours.
“What’s his name?” asked Frances.
“Gus,” said Jan.
Frances waited, giving Jan the opportunity to wax lyrical about her new boyfriend. She tried to imagine him for herself. Gus. A local country cop. Broad-shouldered, with a heart of gold. Gus probably owned a dog. A lovable dog. Gus probably whittled. He probably had a tuneful whistle. He probably whistled while he whittled. Frances was already half in love with Gus herself.
But Jan had gone silent on the subject of Gus.
After a while, Frances continued talking, as if Jan had actually shown interest.
“You know, sometimes I think it was almost worth it, the money I paid, for the companionship over those six months. For the hope. I should email him, and say, Look, I know you’re a scammer, but I’ll pay you to keep pretending to be Paul Drabble.” She paused. “I would never really do that.”
Silence.
“It’s funny, because I’m a romance writer. I create fictional characters for a living, and then I fell for one.”
Still nothing. Jan mustn’t be a reader. Maybe she was just embarrassed for Frances. Wait till I get home and tell Gus about this loser.
Gus would give a long low (tuneful) whistle of surprise and sympathy. “That’s what happens in the big smoke, Jan.”
Frances managed to stay silent for a few moments as Jan kneaded her knuckle into a spot on her lower back. It hurt in a glorious, necessary-feeling way.
“Do you work full-time here, Jan?”
“Just casual. When they need me.”
“You like it?”
“It’s a job.”
“You’re very good at it.”
“Yup.”
“Extraordinarily good.”
Jan said nothing and Frances closed her eyes. “How long have you worked here?” she asked sleepily.
“Only a few months,” said Jan. “So I’m still a newbie.”
Frances opened her eyes. There was something in Jan’s voice. Just a shadow. Was it possible she wasn’t quite sold on the Tranquillum House philosophy? Frances considered asking her about the missing contraband, but how would the conversation progress?
“I think someone went through my bags, Jan.”
“Why do you think that, Frances?”
“Well, some things were missing.”
“What sort of things?”
She was too ashamed and too vulnerable without her clothes to confess.
“What is the director like?” asked Frances, thinking of the reverence with which Yao had looked at that closed