Every few days, she called her mother and got her voice mail. She never left a message.
The home theater was complete by Christmas, so they spent the holiday watching a marathon of Quentin Tarantino movies, enjoying other peoples’ witty banter and cartoonish violence.
They hadn’t discussed Oona’s “memory condition” much since the engagement, but with her impending leap a week away and Edward’s attention rooted in Clary’s Pub, she had to remind him about it.
“It always happens at midnight, and it’s going to be jarring, because I won’t know who you are. That letter I gave you will help, though. Make sure I read it right away.” Recalling her 2004 leap beginning on the subway, she added, “And let’s not get separated around the countdown. Don’t let me wander off.”
Though the build-out was unfinished, Edward decided to throw a big New Year’s Eve party at Clary’s, and two days prior, he hosted a dinner to thank key people involved in the restaurant. Oona and Francesca were there, as were the construction and kitchen staff. The furniture and light fixtures had yet to be delivered, so they set up planks of wood on sawhorses. Table linen and silverware that had arrived days before provided elegant touches, and nobody would’ve guessed the clusters of white candles in tall glass cylinders acting as minimalist centerpieces were purchased from a local bodega.
Everyone around Oona talked shop—the structural details of the restaurant, its menu and concept, the local food scene. She had little to contribute, so she ate slowly to have something to do, and drank too much wine. At one point, in the middle of a heated debate on the French school of cooking, Oona dropped her fork. When she bent under the table to retrieve it, she saw Francesca’s yellow stiletto standing absent of its owner. She followed the line of her stockinged leg down to her foot, which was in Edward’s lap. Revulsion flooded Oona as she scurried back up.
“French food is like the little black dress,” Francesca said, eyes glinting. “It’s timeless. But I think California cuisine is poised to have a moment.”
“I think you’re right.” The corners of Edward’s mouth twitched. “I’m going to take Alice Waters’s lead and incorporate more local and organic fare into my menu.”
The animated chatter around her grew louder as Oona stared at her plate. She’d left her fork on the ground. It didn’t matter. She was no longer hungry.
All she could do was sit there, unable to move, unable to speak. When dessert was served, she excused herself, citing the onset of a migraine. Edward called her a taxi and promised he wouldn’t be home too late. As soon as she got outside, she threw up in the gutter.
Oona didn’t mention what she witnessed to Edward, not that night. No doubt he would’ve found a way to brush it off or deny it. No, she needed more solid evidence to confirm whether what she saw indicated a larger betrayal. They’d still be married the following year, so how was it possible? Another part of her wondered how it could be anything else. Either way, she had to know for sure before she confronted Edward and warned 2004 Oona with a new letter. Rash judgment had already caused her to detonate her mother’s love life; she’d learn from that and proceed with caution before taking a sledgehammer to her marriage. She wouldn’t accept the bleak reality of Edward’s cheating until she had proof.
So she did what many suspicious spouses have done before her: she went snooping. First stop: his dresser drawers and pockets, which yielded no evidence.
His electronic devices were next. The following night, she waited until he fell asleep, crept out of bed, and took his cell phone and BlackBerry into her study. The phone didn’t take long to check. Edward wasn’t one to save texts, so there weren’t many to examine, and none were from Francesca.
The BlackBerry took hours to get through. As she skimmed hundreds of subject lines and emails, nausea churned through her. She focused on messages from Francesca, searched for any flirtatious traces or romantic subtext. Yet she found nothing incriminating.
Edward’s laptop was trickier; it was at the restaurant’s office, in a locked drawer. He kept a spare set of keys at home but would be waking shortly to spend the day at Clary’s working and preparing for the New Year’s party. Ah, but she’d be there that night. It was cutting it close, but she’d find a way to sneak off and search his computer.
That evening, after grabbing Edward’s extra set of keys, Oona called for a car to take her to Clary’s, aiming to get there around nine, but the holiday demand for cabs caused a delay and she didn’t arrive until nine-thirty.
Still plenty of time. I just—what is this?
She stopped dead in the restaurant’s entrance. Strung throughout the interior, a web of white Christmas lights.
“Do you like it?” Francesca greeted her, brimming with glee. “Edward was stuck on a last-minute way to jazz up this place for the festivities, and I suggested fairy lights. He’d mentioned some party you raved about where the room was covered in them, so I thought it would be a perfect solution here. In a way, I should be thanking you for the idea.” The spaghetti strap of her beige silk gown slid down her shoulder, but she made no move to adjust it.
Resisting violent urges, Oona coerced her mouth into a grin. “You’re very welcome. Where should I put my coat?”
“The storage room down the hall.”
How appropriate that Francesca played the party co-host and Oona a mere guest.
Once in the back room, she was frozen in place. Wasn’t anger a fire? Her skin should’ve been glowing red and hot to the touch, yet she stood in the dark, shivering.
An electronic jangle announced a text message from Edward asking where she was.
Please let me be wrong about this.
Time to join the party.
“There you are, love.” Edward beckoned her over to a cluster of guests. “Let me introduce you to the missus,” he said to them.
A series of names and extended hands followed, which she shook. But she made no effort to remember the names; she’d forget them all in a matter of hours, anyway.
“How do you like them?” Edward motioned to the Christmas lights.
It was more theft than homage, but she lied and praised the decorations.
“Do try the Scotch eggs,” Edward urged. “It’s a new recipe, and if they go over well tonight, I may add them to the menu.”
As she stood around making polite chitchat, it was as if a fog rolled in, surrounding her, dimming the voices around her, reducing her to smiles and nods.
More guests arrived, and Edward went off to greet them. This was her chance. She excused herself and checked her phone for the time: 10:05 P.M.
When she was sure nobody was looking, Oona stepped away.
Upstairs, she unlocked Edward’s office and, with one final backward glance, slipped inside. She set her phone down and sat at his desk. Her hands hovered over it like a piano player poised to start a challenging piece. Why direct so much effort to discover her marriage was a lie? She could let it be and spare herself this pain. After all, once the clock struck midnight, this Oona would leap again, while 2004 Oona would remain clueless about the preceding months. What would the truth solve, anyway?
Nothing. The truth would be its own reward—or punishment. It was New Year’s Eve, and if she didn’t learn the truth about her marriage to Edward today, she’d never know if he’d deceived her. She had to know.