Page 16 of The Wives of Murder Club
Bernie adjusted herself on the lounger so she was facing Celeste. She lifted her own sunglasses up and rested them on her head. “Four years. I’ve been her neighbour for over four years. You’ve been upset with me about something since this morning, so please stop beating around the bush and speak plainly. What is your problem with me?”
Celeste glared at Bernie. “I know all about you and Harry.”
17
BERNIE
Bernie reflected that she probably shouldn’t have made those comments about Harry while playing Never Have I Ever; clearly, they’d struck a nerve.
Her first instinct was to laugh it off, but it seemed Celeste would not react well to any form of humour in this moment. Instead, Bernie shook her head seriously. “What do you mean, you know about me and Harry?” She reached over and selected a couple of Twizzlers from the bag that Imogen was cradling. These were the pull-’n’-peel kind, so she started playing with one, tasselling its ends. “I don’t know what this is about, but I can see that you’re upset. Let’s talk about it.” She used her most reasonable voice—the one she employed when she needed to cajole a nurse into doing extra work for her, the one that drove her ex-husband crazy when they fought.
“You know.” Celeste crossed her arms over her chest and glared.
Bernie looked around at Imogen and Marta, who were watching this exchange with wide eyes. “Celeste.” Even more gently. “I really don’t. You obviously have something you need to say to me, so just say it. I promise I won’t be mad.” Everything was in sharp focus for Bernie as she concentrated on Celeste’s body language and expression.
“Youwon’t be mad? Oh, okay. Good, as long asyou’renot mad.” Celeste was red in the face—a combo of too much sun, wine, and emotion—and mottled roses were blotching up her neck. There was nothing that Bernie could think of that would have prompted this sudden outburst. Because there was absolutely no way that Celeste could know.
“I know about the affair.”
Imogen gasped and Marta let out a yelp as though someone had pinched her.
Bernie almost laughed, but caught herself, biting down on her left cheek. She shouldn’t let the others think she was making light of the situation.As if I’d shit where I eat.“You think that I had an affair with Harry?”
“Iknowyou had an affair with him. All those odd meeting times . . . it was right there this whole time. I can’t believe you have the nerve to sit here like you’re my friend when . . . youbitch.” Celeste slammed back the last of her rosé and clunked the empty plastic wineglass down on the armrest of her lounger in a move that she probably thought would be more dramatic than it was. “You were sleeping with him. You were sleeping with him, and you can’t deny it.”
Bernie was a champion gaslighter, but she didn’t have much practice defending her position when she was telling the truth. It was a strange feeling. “But Iamdenying it. Celeste, I promise you that I was not sleeping with your husband. Harry and I were work friends, nothing more. Maybe you’re projecting.”
“Project— What isthatsupposed to mean? Stop deflecting!” Celeste pointed at her again. “I have the proof. I have Harry’s old phone. They gave it to me after . . . they recovered it from his body. You know something? The passcode was the date of our wedding anniversary, so you should know that whatever happened between the two of you, he only ever lovedme.”
Bernie was getting agitated and struggling to keep her cool. But she couldn’t afford to alienate Celeste. “There is no ‘whatever happened’—I’m telling you the truth. Nothing. Happened. You’ve gone through his phone, right? Then you should know there are no sexy messages, no racy photos of me. I wasn’t sleeping with him.”
Celeste continued as if Bernie hadn’t spoken. “Last night, I was on his phone and I was rereading the text messages he sent me over the years. I wouldn’t expect any of you to understand.” Bernie flicked her eyes over to Marta, whose mouth tightened at that statement. She doubted that Marta was rereading any messages from Derrick. “I realized that none of his hospital colleagues were in his text message history, so I checked the other apps.”
God, she is milking this.Bernie wanted to move it along. “Yeah, all the doctors at Sunnyvale use WhatsApp.”
“When I saw your message thread with him, I felt sick. I knew there was something wrong. They started off innocent, but then they got really strange.” Celeste reached into the pocket of her shorts and pulled out Harry’s device. Bernie supposed this was meant to be a big reveal, but Celeste fumbled the phone with her wine fingers and nearly dropped it on the dock. “I’m going to read some of them and everyone else can be the judge. Him: ‘8 p.m. after surgery, second-floor break room.’ You: ‘Thirty-minute break at 3:15 p.m.—showers.’ Him: ‘Pre-rounds? 7 a.m. third-floor storage.’?” Celeste looked around victoriously, as if expecting the other women would rally to her side. “It’s the blueprint of an affair! And here’s another thing: I never told anyone this before, but he wasn’t wearing his wedding ring the day he died. Was he in the habit of not wearing it at work to make you feel better about yourself? You’re disgusting.” Celeste hissed the last bit at Bernie.
Now Bernie had to decide how to play this, and she was momentarily angry at herself for not having a plan. She never imagined that anyone would go through Harry’s messages after he died. Not that she’d ever put anything incriminating in writing, she was very sure of that. She decided to skate as close to the truth as possible.
“Harry had an opioid addiction.”
Celeste made a choking sound that sounded like “no.”
Bernie continued, “Did you not know? I would understand if you didn’t. I got the sense that he was very good at hiding it from everyone. But at the end, I mean . . . did you really not know?” From the look on her face, Celeste had known more than she was saying, but Bernie could not tell how much Harry had shared with her. “I was not sleeping with your husband, but I was trying to help him.”
Celeste looked like she was about to cry. “Why were you meeting in random rooms at random times of day?” The fight had already gone out of her voice. “I don’t believe you. Do you think I’m stupid?”
Yes.“Of course not. We couldn’t have those kinds of conversations in the general break room. We needed to be able to speak privately. I was like his unofficial sponsor—he refused to go to NA because, anonymous or not, he was worried about it getting out somehow and affecting his career. I’m only sorry that I wasn’t able to do more for him.”
“But his ring?” A last gasp from Celeste.
“He was a surgeon, Cee,” said Bernie softly. “I take my jewellery off at the beginning of every shift—it’s just easier that way. I bet he did too, but I never really noticed. It probably got lost in the shuffle in his locker or the doctors’ lounge.”
Everyone was quiet as Celeste breathed wetly then let out a juddery sigh. Bernie relaxed her grip on the arm of her lounger. She was in the clear.
“An addiction, oh my god, is that true?” Imogen interjected, leaning over to refill Celeste’s glass to the top with rosé. “You never said anything to me about Harry using drugs. I thought we were closer than that—how could you keep a secret like this from me?” Bernie bit back a smile—of course Imogen would find a way to make it about her.
Wordlessly, Celeste lifted her glass and drank half her wine in several audible, gulping swallows.
