Blood Loss

Gary looked up. ‘Are you OK?’ he said. ‘Did I say something?’

‘No,’ said Ren. ‘I’m fine.’

But Helen had beautiful shoes.

Paul Louderback stuck his head in the door.

‘Ren, could I have a word, please?’ he said. ‘If you don’t mind, Gary. I just have to clear something up.’

‘Sure, go ahead,’ said Gary. ‘We’re done here.’

‘Hey,’ said Paul, when she walked out, ‘as we will shortly be parting company, would you like to go for dinner tonight?’

‘Ooh,’ said Ren. ‘I would. Here? Would that be wise?’

‘Wise now that I know your boss is traveling to Denver tonight.’

Ren smiled. ‘Dinner it is, then.’

Her cell phone rang on her desk.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Paul.

Ren ran over and grabbed it.

‘Agent Bryce, it’s Kevin Crowley from The Lowry Hotel in Boston — I just sent you an email — the details you wanted, if you’d like to take a look at it.’

‘Thank you,’ said Ren. She hung up, and opened the email and clicked on the attached files. There was one PDF, and six JPEGS. She started with the PDF. It was Mark Whaley’s bill from his stay.

For three nights. Even though his last meeting was on Friday, he stayed on in Boston Saturday night.

She looked at the photos. In the first, a short, smiling blonde was leaning over The Lowry’s reception desk.

Ren clicked on the next photo. It was the lobby bar on the same night. A man was sitting on a sofa in the corner with the same smiling blonde. Her coat was off, and she was dressed in a short, dark-colored, low-cut dress.

‘Gary,’ said Ren. ‘You need to see these.’

Gary came over to her desk.

‘It’s Mark Whaley,’ said Ren, pointing. ‘In The Lowry Hotel in Boston.’

Gary leaned in closer to the screen.

‘So there is a hotel-room precedent with Mark Whaley,’ said Gary. ‘Underage blondes.’

Nail. Coffin.

Paul Louderback was waiting for Ren at a table upstairs in the furthest corner of Modis on Main Street. He stood up as soon as she walked in. He kissed her on both cheeks, and pulled out her chair for her.

Manners. I love it. ‘Thank you,’ said Ren.

‘I’ve taken the liberty of ordering a bottle of Bordeaux,’ said Paul.

Ren raised her glass. ‘Here’s to the first time I’ve ever heard that sentence anywhere other than in a British mini-series.’

Paul made a sad face.

She smiled. ‘Aw, your crest has fallen.’

‘I didn’t want to sound lame right away,’ said Paul. ‘I was aiming for somewhere in the middle of dinner.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Ren, ‘feel free to take wine-related liberties at all times and go on to tell me about them in quaint ways.’

He relaxed back into his chair. ‘So …’ he said.

‘Mark Whaley … can you believe it?’

‘I can,’ said Paul. ‘Especially after those Lowry photos.’

And they were off, talking about work, and movies, and books, and music, and shoes.

Eventually, after a lull, Ren looked across the table at Paul.

‘So,’ said Ren. The question I hate asking, but feel bound to. ‘How’s Marianne?’

Your wife of twenty-four years, the mother of your two daughters.

Paul drained his glass.

‘Oh, some comedy glass-draining,’ said Ren.

‘She left me,’ said Paul at the same time.

Ren waited for him to smile or laugh or say, ‘just kidding’ — anything that would stop him from sensing the visceral reaction that had just rocked through her. ‘Oh my God,’ she managed.

‘She walked out, and took the girls with her,’ said Paul.

‘When?’ said Ren.

‘Three months ago,’ said Paul.

‘Why didn’t you say?’ said Ren.

‘Because I wanted to hear you talk about shoes.’

‘I’m … mortified.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, I’ve had the most fun I’ve had in … I can’t tell you when.’

‘But you should have told me at the time,’ said Ren. ‘I would have-’

‘Confused me,’ said Paul.

Uh-oh.

34

Ren’s heart was pounding.

I could do without the complication.

‘But … why did she leave?’ said Ren. ‘What did she say? Do you mind if I ask?’

‘Are you surprised that she left?’ said Paul. ‘Really?’

Yes. Kind of. No. ‘Yes,’ said Ren.

Paul laughed.

‘I can’t believe you laughed at that,’ said Ren. ‘I am surprised. But … I suppose … maybe … I will now stop speaking.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Paul. ‘I’m not in total denial. I know the kind of husband I was. I love Marianne because she is the mother of my children. I don’t know in the end if I loved her as, you know, my lover. And … well, I guess she found someone who did.’

No-one should use the word lover. ‘Oh …’ said Ren.

‘Yes,’ said Paul. ‘She met a man who is my polar opposite. Hurtfully so, if I’m honest.’

‘I’m curious as to what you consider your polar opposite,’ said Ren.

‘Someone attentive,’ said Paul. ‘Someone relaxed, fun, loving, optimistic.’

‘There’s a barman in Gaffney’s who calls that kind of talk “hindshite”,’ said Ren. ‘Hindshite: looking back on things and distorting them, seeing everything in a negative way. I understand how everything looks like crap right now, because you’re going through something terrible. But there is no way Marianne got married and had two beautiful daughters with a man she thought was inattentive, uptight, or boring.’

Paul shrugged.

‘I don’t buy that,’ said Ren. ‘If this new man’s all that-’

‘He is,’ said Paul. ‘I swear to God. I have no problem with the guy. Can you believe that?’

‘He had an affair with your wife,’ said Ren.

‘Nope, that’s the kind of stand-up guy he is,’ said Paul. ‘He fell in love with my wife. And respected her too much to destroy her marriage, and our girls’ lives, and all the rest of it. So he walked away. He told her if she ever changed her mind, she knew where to find him. This was two years ago. He waited for her all that time.’

‘Wow,’ said Ren.

‘And Lord knows, she tried to make it work with us,’ said Paul. ‘I can see that now …’