Once dinner was finally over, I returned to my room. I had just thrown a log on the fire and settled down with my notebook when there was a soft knock on the door. I thought it might be Kyle, curious to discover what I’d learned from Jonah Hargreaves, but it was Yvonne, standing on the threshold, barefoot, dressed in a silk kimono. She looked deathly pale, dark smudges visible beneath her eyes. She hadn’t brushed her hair, and without makeup she barely resembled the beautifully groomed woman I’d met only two days before.
“May I come in?” Yvonne asked shyly.
“Of course,” I said, even though I wished she wouldn’t.
Yvonne took the armchair I’d just vacated and folded her legs beneath her. Her skin appeared almost translucent in the golden light of the fire, the flames that reflected in her eyes making her look demonic.
“Would you like a drink?” I asked.
“Do you have any sparkling water?”
Lisa had left bottles of water and juice in the tiny fridge cleverly hidden behind a wood panel, so I got Yvonne a bottle and handed it to her.
“I’m awfully dehydrated,” she said after taking a long swig. “I drank all my supplies.”
“I’m sure Lisa will be happy to bring up more.”
“Not sure I can face her,” Yvonne said miserably. “It’s not Len’s fault, you know.”
I set my notebook aside and sat down across from her. I didn’t want to be on the receiving end of her confidences, but it seemed Yvonne needed to talk, and I was her chosen confessor. She stared into the flames for so long, I thought maybe she’d forgotten what she wanted to say, but eventually she snapped out of her reverie.
“Len was just a tool,” Yvonne said at last. “It was between him and Kyle, but I didn’t think Kyle would go for it. He’s not the type.”
“The type to do what?” I asked, but I could guess what she meant. Kyle had a sort of decency about him. I instinctively felt I could trust him and had no qualms about going off alone with him. I would never have agreed to an invitation from Len, who looked like the type of bloke who’d do anything, break any rule, as long as he was sure he’d get away with it.
“The type to not give a toss about the consequences. Kyle is a thinker; Len is a doer,” Yvonne explained.
I nodded my agreement, and we both fell silent. There were questions I wanted to ask her but didn’t think it was my place. Had it been worth it? Was she worried her husband would find out? Was this the first time she’d been unfaithful? Did she have a substance abuse problem? Was this perhaps research for a new book?
“I’ll be leaving in the morning,” Yvonne said, still staring into the flames. “Got to go to rehab, I say no, no, no,” she sang softly, imitating Amy Winehouse’s sultry voice. She laughed, then the laughter turned into a sob that contorted her face into a mask of agony. “I’m sorry, Nicole,” she said, sniffling. “I shouldn’t lay this at your door.”
I handed her a tissue. “It’s all right. If you need to talk, I’ll listen. Not sure I can help, though.”
It took Yvonne a few minutes to get hold of herself. She dabbed at her eyes with the tissue, blew her nose, then tossed the tissue into the fireplace, watching the flimsy paper disintegrate within moments.
“I lied about still being married,” Yvonne said, her voice barely audible. “I couldn’t acknowledge the truth, even to myself. My husband left me a few weeks ago and took the children. He filed for divorce last week, and he’s seeking primary custody.”
“But you’re their mother,” I said. “Doesn’t the mother usually get custody?”
“Not if the mother is unfit,” Yvonne said bitterly. “I have a well-documented history of substance abuse. Mark put up with my antics for years. For the kids, he said. But his patience has run dry. I thought I could stop using, but I can’t. I’m not that strong.”
“Has it always been an issue?” I asked, not sure I should be querying her about her addiction.
Yvonne shook her head. “For some authors, getting published and finding recognition is a dream come true. For me, it was the beginning of the end.”
“But your book was so well received,” I said, feeling that I needed to say something to prop her up.
“I was happy writing it. It was a form of therapy, a release. People thought it was autobiographical, and it was, to some extent. Except it wasn’t an abusive husband I got away from, but an abusive father. My father was an alcoholic, and boy, was he a mean drunk,” she said, shaking her head at the memory. “No one was safe from his anger. He died shortly after the book was published. Did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Had a massive heart attack, my mum said. Brought on by shame, no doubt.”
She stared into the flames for a long while, and I thought she wouldn’t say any more, but she continued. “For a while there, I was the toast of the town. I was invited to parties, to talk shows, I went on a month-long book tour. And everywhere, there was booze, and, more often than not, drugs. Normally, I’d refuse, but I was nervous, unaccustomed to bright lights and a camera in my face as people asked me very personal questions. So, I accepted a drink. Or two. I took anti-anxiety pills to help me get to sleep and then had more drinks before going on yet another program. It spiraled out of control, and before I knew it, it had become a way of life. Mark asked me to get help, said he’d do whatever it took to be there for me,
