“That’s what I first thought too. But seven times in a fortnight?”
Veronica tried hard to keep her disbelief out of her voice but it was difficult. “Maybe you should say hello”.
“I did!”
“You spoke to her?”
“Yes. I said ‘Hi, Jessica!’”
“And?”
Diane’s face fell from its heights of suspense to ‘humdrum’ in less than a second. ”She said she didn’t know me.”
Veronica was now convinced this poor woman was not Jessica Dunnant. “So what did you say?”
“I did what any sane person would do: I said, ‘Jessica! Hello! It’s me, Diane. From the first year psych tutorials. Remember? We swotted together in the library basement.’ Nothing, she just stared at me and said that I must have got her mixed up with someone else”.
“And?”
“I said, ‘Jessica, don’t you remember?’ And still nothing.”
Veronica tried to be sensible but kind. “Is it possible she may not be Jessica Dunnant?”
“No! Veronica, it’s her! I know it’s her. We shared No-Doz! It’s her.”
Veronica didn’t quite know where to go from here. “When did you speak to her the first time?” But Diane wasn’t listening.
“No, at first, I wasn’t sure who it was. I certainly knew the face and then when I saw her the second time, it came to me. Jessica Dunnant. That’s when I went up to her and said Hi. She just looked scared. No no! She looked guilty. She definitely looked guilty.”
“Wow,” was all Veronica could say.
“I know you don’t believe me,” said Diane sipping tartly from her wineglass.
“It’s not that I don’t believe you, it’s just that it’s such a … strange story.”
“I know! That’s what I thought. But after the third time, and the fourth, and the fifth, and the sixth, and the seventh, it became obvious. She’s lying!”
“Why would she lie?”
“I don’t know! That’s what’s so strange.”
“Have you discussed this with Max?”
“No. Max has got his own troubles at home, I don’t……” Suddenly Diane’s face turned to stone; her eyes grew to twice their size; and her mouth slowly fell open. She looked as if she was seeing a snake on the floor slowly crawling towards her.
“What? Diane, what?!” cried Veronica worried now what new crazy thought Diane was thinking.
Diane’s eyes waved about as if paging through a long list of possibilities. She was blinking rapidly. “That’s it! That must be it! Why didn’t I see this before? It makes so much sense. Oh my god! That’s who it is!”
“What?! Diane, what is it? What!?”
“It’s her!”
“Who?”
“She’s found out about me.”
“Who?”
“Jessica Dunnant.”
“What do you mean? That was decades ago. Jessica Dunnant was decades ago.”
Diane was piecing it all together. “Yes. Yes, I know. She’s no longer Jessica Dunnant.”
“What are you thinking?”
“Veronica, it all fits.”
“What all fits?”
“She’s married.”
“So?” And suddenly Veronica knew what Diane was thinking. Her horror at what this might mean was impossible to keep from her face and her look was misinterpreted by Diane as confirmation that she was right.
“You see it too, don’t you? That’s it!”
“Diane, you…” Veronica couldn’t find the words; and anyway what was the point anymore?
Diane’s torso slowly gained a straightness, her face slowly adopted a calmness, and her shoulders sank back to their normal position. It was all so clear to her that when she spoke it was with a soft acceptance of the obvious truth: “Jessica Dunnant is Mrs. Swan, Max’s wife.”
4
Among Veronica’s patients, mainly female, Veronica had had one male client of many years, Mr. Pyne. His problem was simple, he could not be physically touched, but its legacy was complex and debilitating. He lived alone, he worked alone, online; he had no friends, no family, well none that Veronica knew about, and he rarely went out of his small apartment. After many years of regular sessions, all of which were about finding ways of touching him, Veronica focused diligently on making it seem that she was doing something completely different: not touching him. On this day a hurdle was about to be jumped, or so Veronica hoped. She understood that it all had to do with his mother, who, although she had died three years ago, still had a powerful hold over him, a hold Veronica was hoping to break.
She let herself into her small city bedsit, her office, dumped her bag on the bed, and booted her computer. She kicked off her shoes, took off her jacket, t-shirt and jeans and laid them on the bed. She went into the bathroom and washed her face of what little make-up she had on. Once dry she applied a very thin layer of pale foundation cream giving her face a matt mask-like look, pale and wan. She checked her computer schedule, times, address, and further appointments for the week, and was pleased there were no surprises. From the small closet she chose a bluish plaid skirt, well below the knee, and a white long-sleeved blouse with a high lace buttoned-up collar, which for the moment, she left undone. The skirt was tight and for a brief moment she thought about a vanilla slice: Veronica loves vanilla slices. She slicked back her hair and pinned it tight to the back of her head. From one of the antique wooden wig stands on the top shelf she chose a short mouse-coloured wig, boyish and unkempt. She put this on, tugged and pulled it into place. Without stockings or socks she put on a pair of brown lace-up walking shoes. She inspected herself in a full-length mirror and considered herself ready. From the bottom of the closet she took out a small, ready packed, suitcase, looked at herself one last time, buttoned up her lace collar, picked up the suitcase and left the apartment.
Two hours later she parked her car outside a small block of flats all well hidden behind a wall of neglected greenery on a quiet street in an obscure suburb called Pemulwuy. Mr. Pyne’s flat was upstairs at the back, at the far end of a shared balcony.
She sat in the car and rehearsed her voice. “It’s Susan, Mr. Pyne. It’s awful outside. You’re lucky to be home.” Her voice was high, clipped, and expressionless but she needed it to be more child-like, with no hint of a threat. “It’s Susan, Mr. Pyne. It’s awful outside. You’re lucky to be home. It’s Susan, Mr. Pyne. It’s awful outside. You’re
