When Russian met Señor Pink she just couldn't believe her luck – that a guy like him (charming and funny, very elegant in those suits of his, very hard-boiled) had come into her life, that a guy like him would so much as look at her.
Yeah, right.
Looking back now she can see the things she's overlooked all lined up for review, a damning collection of excuses made on his behalf: his frequent absences (for his job), his reluctance to meet any of her friends (he was shy), the seemingly endless funds that had bought their marriage, their home (he was successful).
Looking back now – god but she's been such an idiot.
It was raining then, too. The day they met.
At the time, she'd believed it to be luck: just two people stuck under the same awning. Now she has to wonder how much of it was random chance, and how much was careful planning on his part. She has to question this, because when a man has lied to you about such fundamental things you can no longer assume you know him at all.
So, their first meeting in the rain. Was it really the first time they'd seen each other, or was that just her? Had he noticed her before? Had he been watching her – walking down the street, chatting with her friends? When she started talking to him he'd seemed so surprised (he was shy), but –
This whole time, he had been so kind, so thoughtful, apologetic when he was gone (for his job), tender when he was home. This whole time, he had been lying to her.
Her parents had been reticent, at first. Pink had no family of his own, except for adopted siblings he spoke of fondly, though she never got to meet any of them (they lived too far away). That had worried them.
"How can you trust a man when you don't know where he comes from?"
She had dismissed their concerns; thought them narrow-minded. And they had given him a chance in the end. She had talked them into it. They had even come to love him – Pink is like that. People want to love him.
She still hasn't found it in her to tell them they were right all along.
She's trying to remember the day Gimlet was born. Those few precious weeks. She had been so happy, and she thought he was, too.
Was that also a lie?
What kind of father just up and leaves like that? What kind of father can't be here for his son when his son needs him most?
When Gimlet's fever wouldn't break and the doctor had rushed him to the hospital, all she had been able to think about was how awful she was – as a mother, as a wife. Her husband had given her everything: a beautiful marriage, a beautiful house, a beautiful son. Her husband did so much, always working (liar), always gone (liar), all so he could give her that quiet, comfortable life she had always yearned for (liar!). All he asked of her in return was that she take care of their son, and she couldn't even do that right.
"You should call your husband," the doctor had said.
"Just in case," he had said.
Pink's work often takes him to faraway places, so his personal frequency is always hit-or-miss. When he is traveling, he calls her. It's simpler that way.
Yeah. Right.
She had thought the bank was her best option. She had thought, someone there has to know where he is, someone there has to be able to get in touch with him for such an emergency.
They didn't know where he was. They didn't know him at all.
Neither does she, apparently.
The thought chills her to the bone. Who is this man she invited in her house? In her life? In her bed? What kind of man is her husband? The father of her son?
Where did all this money come from? What bloody work paid for her marriage, her home, her quiet, comfortable life?
Only one person can answer those questions, but how can she believe any word he says, after that?
How can she believe anything at all?
All week, she waits for him to come home.
Gimlet's death is a grief she cannot comprehend, an endless chasm trying to pull her in, but Pink's betrayal brings out an anger that burns through everything else.
She's thought about destroying his things, his pictures, his precious suits. She's thought about going back to her parents: let him come home to an empty house and a dead son. It was a cruel thought, but it seemed like a small cruelty compared to what he's put her through.
But she has loved this man, for years she has loved this man – loves him still, maybe, underneath the anger – and she doesn't have it in her to be afraid of him now. She owes him a proper ending. He owes her answers, and many other things besides.
The storm rages outside. Russian puts her forehead down on the table top and waits, and waits, and waits.