By lunch we’d bought rings—his a platinum band inset with a ruby, mine a simple platinum band. And we’d filled in all the requisite forms. By that evening Martin and I stood in front of a legally ordained wedding officiant, as promised by the Second Chance Chapel website. Our “rush package” included a “fresh floral bouquet,” which I clutched in front of me. A photographer snapped photos, which he would give to us in “high-resolution JPEG files with a copyright release” so we could easily print them off to frame later. We opted out of the live online broadcast, preferring to break our news to friends and family in person later.
“Forasmuch as you, Ellie Tyler and Martin Cresswell-Smith, have consented to join in wedlock, and have before witnesses and this company pledged vows of your love and faithfulness to each other, and have declared the same by joining hands, and by the exchange of rings, I now therefore, by the authority vested in me by the State of Nevada, pronounce you wed. Congratulations! You may now kiss the bride!”
We kissed. The camera flash popped. Silver confetti rained down from the ceiling and swirled around us with the aid of a fan. I laughed. I felt deliriously happy.
Just after midnight we boarded a red-eye for Canada as husband and wife, a new marriage certificate in hand and plans for Australia in our hearts. I’d already sent an email asking to meet with my dad’s lawyers.
THE WATCHER
A red dot pulsed on the computer monitor. The app installed on the cell phone was broadcasting their GPS location. They’d landed at YVR. The Watcher stared at the dot for a few moments in the dimly lit room, a glass of whiskey in hand, then leaned over and clicked on a desk lamp.
A halo of yellow light fell upon a pile of news articles that had been printed off the net. Amazing what a well-rounded and intimate psychological profile the World Wide Web could yield if the target had not been overly careful, or had lived a relatively public life. In this case—for a period—it had been a very public life.
Hartley Grandchild in Fatal Drowning Accident
Hartley Heiress Suffers Mental Breakdown
Daughter of Sterling Hartley Stabs Husband in Restaurant
Ellie Tyler Arrested
Hartley Heiress Divorces
Some of the raunchier tabloids featured photos of an overweight and disheveled Ellie Tyler covering her head with a jacket as police led her out of a Vancouver restaurant. Blood spattered the jacket. Another showed an unflattering image of a haggard and very overweight Ellie Tyler under a headline that read:
Court-Ordered Addiction Counseling for Hartley Heiress
Trust-Fund Daughter Spirals into Booze, Pills, Depression
One tabloid had captured Sterling Hartley and a Swedish girlfriend rushing through an airport after hearing that his daughter had been hospitalized.
In a kinder Vogue magazine feature titled “A Mother’s Grief,” Ellie Tyler spoke about recovering from the drowning death of her toddler. She was candid about her mental health and the need to destigmatize mental illness and the addictions that arose around it. And yet . . . the stigma dogged her.
Next to the pile of news stories was a file folder titled ELLIE. It had come from a PI who had also quizzed Doug Tyler’s new wife. Another file folder was titled MARTIN.
The dot began to move. They were leaving the airport.
THEN
ELLIE
Over one year ago, October 25. Jarrawarra Bay, New South Wales.
The small prop plane dropped as it slammed into another wall of turbulence. I gritted my teeth and clutched the armrests. I was flying on my own to meet Martin, who’d gone ahead of me three months ago, once our financing had come through. I’d been traveling for more than thirty-six hours over several time zones, and I felt sick and dehydrated from too much wine and too many lorazepam pills taken in an effort to quell my anxiety. The air vent above my seat was not working. And now the storm. And the plane was too tiny. My claustrophobia was tilting toward panic.
The plane plummeted again. We were beginning a descent. Something fell with a dull thud at the back of the cabin. The object rolled down the aisle and came into view—a bottle of water. My thirst was suddenly fierce. The bottle was out of my reach. I thought of the Ativan in my purse. Another bump and rattle and the wings rocked. The clouds seemed closer. Denser. Darker. Lightning jagged through the blackness. I lunged for my purse under my seat. Hands shaking, I hurriedly rummaged in a side pocket, found the container, and popped a sublingual pill under my tongue. I closed my eyes and put my head back, waiting for it to dissolve. Sweat pearled on my brow and dribbled down the sides of my face. I struggled to breathe in, counting to four before I exhaled slowly, purposefully. A soft fuzz gradually began to soothe the sharp edges of my panic. I took in a deeper breath, exhaled more slowly. Calm began to wrap around me like the familiar arms of an old friend. I yielded to the drug. My muscles softened. My mind eased, and to help further distract myself I glanced around at the other passengers. They seemed unperturbed.
Most were casually dressed—shorts, flip-flops, T-shirts, summer dresses, jeans. A couple in more businesslike attire. All deeply tanned. Some more weathered, sun-spotted, sun-bleached than others. A range of ages. They fit with Martin’s description of Jarrawarra Bay—a rural seaside hub, historically a center for local sawmill operations and wattlebark production, dairy, beef, and oyster farming, as well as “epic” deep-sea fishing. He’d said the locals either worked in one of these industries or fell into a camp of telecommuters, retirees, holidaymakers, and second-home owners. Even Nicole Kidman, he’d claimed, owned an estate just north of Jarrawarra in one of those secluded, scalloped bays where lilly pilly trees grew tall and attracted flocks of lorikeets in startling rainbow colors.
Despite my malaise, or because of my meds, happiness began to bloom
