All the Things You Are (23 page)

In the car on the way past Camp Randall Stadium, headed for Monroe High, Nora is still thinking about Dee St Clair. Maybe anyone is vulnerable to the badly timed question. God knows, there was one guy in her twenties, if he walked in front of the car now, she doesn't know what she'd do. Run him over, perhaps. She doesn't like to talk about him, gets all hot and bothered, or unconvincingly nonchalant, if anyone brings him up. He's married now, with kids, and she still feels … what? She still is not prepared even to analyze how she feels. It's why all those websites are just
wrong
, Friends Reunited and Facebook and so on. Because it would be one thing if she ran into …
Gary
… she feels a frisson mouthing the word, like a schoolgirl writing her crush's name on her pencil case,
Gary
, God, she is
ridiculous
. It would be one thing if she ran into Gary again in a bar, say, or … well, in a bar is the way she's decided it would happen, a hotel bar actually, for reasons, yes, pretty obvious reasons. And whatever happened, would happen. It would be chance. It would be fate. And we're all at the mercy of that.

It's another thing trawling through your past for everyone you ever kissed and getting in touch with them all and putting yourself in the way of them, like you could rewind your life and start afresh. Last time Nora checked, that was called soliciting. And it never works out, because you can't go back. Dance in one direction only. She knows that if she did bump into Gary (in New York, where nobody knows her, she doesn't care which hotel), within minutes of the second drink, she'd probably remember all the things about him (because he'd remind her of them) that used to get on her nerves, and eventually caused her to dump him in the first place. That's right, she dumped him. And that's that. No second chances. Is that what Claire Taylor wanted in Chicago, a second chance? And what did Danny Brogan want? And did he want it enough to kill?

First things first
, Nora thinks as she gets out of the car and climbs the steps of Monroe High.
Let's establish exactly who got killed here
.

O
n the walk from Twin Anchors to her car, Claire tries to bring her thoughts to order. She needs to get back and be with Barbara and Irene, but they are safe with Donna, so there's that. In the meantime, she needs to find out what the hell has been going on. If Paul Casey thinks she was flirting with him online, what else has she been doing? And who has been pretending to be her? She has already called Dee to ask for – well, technical support, she supposes you'd call it, since Dee is the only person she knows who is really knowledg-able about all of that stuff, but Dee's cell went straight to voicemail. Crossing West Menomonee, she sees the Caprice Internet Cafe half a block up the street, and on impulse decides to see if she can figure it out herself.

Five minutes later, having parted with three bucks for a computer screen with Internet access, and a further three for a cafe latte, she is ready to go.

First step, Facebook. She types the address, and arrives at the page: Welcome to Facebook – Log in, Sign Up or Learn More.

At the top, there's space for her email and password. Her email she knows, but her password? Maybe it's Barbara1 – isn't that what Dee said her email password was? She fills both boxes and clicks the log-in button. Within seconds, a screen pops up, asking her to update her security information. She clicks through email address, her cell phone number, and a security question (what's your youngest child's name?) and finally lands on a page with News Feed at the top, and on the left-hand side, a small photograph of herself. She stares at the information on the News Feed. There are posts from a handful of moms at the girls' school, and from some of the theater people she knows in Madison. The theater people are advertising shows that are coming up, or linking to press articles about productions that have just opened, or, in her friend Simon's case, a bitchy blog, written anonymously under the pseudonym Addison DeWitt, savaging shows across the land.
The moms have posted assorted pumpkin recipes: pie, soup and so on. There's also a mom, Diane Crosbie, who has posted her own review of a novel her book club has just discussed, Lorrie Moore's
A Gate at the Stairs.
The review, which Claire clicks to without even thinking, seems more concerned with spotting the similarities between Lorrie Moore's fictional town of Troy and the real Madison, upon which it is apparently based, than in discussing the novel's plot or characters. Claire shakes her head with irritation, not just at the review, but at the fact that she has clicked through to it, that she has started to read it at all. This is exactly why she doesn't like going online: it's not just that she ends up getting distracted, it's that distraction seems the entire point of the exercise. Mind you, the spicy pumpkin soup recipe Ragna Glenny has up looks kind of tasty.

She's back at the News Feed page. Along the top right-hand corner, she sees three options, Home, Profile and Account. Clicking home simply refreshes the screen she already has. Account brings her a pop-down menu of settings. Profile brings her to a page with her name at the top. This is what she needs. There's her date of birth (but not the year – thanks, Dee). But the date of birth is wrong. It says November 12, but Claire's date of birth is November 24, or at least that's what the Taylors always told her. Well, she's not going to get bent about two weeks. What's more alarming is the information that she's single, and that she's interested in men. Jesus, Dee. That's just not funny. There are four photographs of her along the top taken relatively recently, by Dee, she assumes; she can't remember, but Dee is always snapping things on her phone.

On the left in a sidebar comes the news that she has forty-seven friends – of the ten they show, Claire would classify four as acquaintances, and the other six as not even that: people she might just about wave to in the street. Above that, there's a menu, one of whose items is Photographs (7). That's three more than are visible on this screen. She clicks through to a page marked Claire Taylor – Photos, and the pit of her stomach lurches. The four she's already seen are there. The other three are of her and Paul Casey, from their theater days: young, and high on love and art. They were all taken the same night. The photos are in a box in her hide-out in the house on Arboretum. She has never shown them to anyone, not Danny, not Dee, no one. She doesn't look at them herself, either. They are … memories. Her memories. Someone has taken her memories and shared them with the world. But who would want to do that? The same person who said she is single and interested in men? Dee may have set up the page, she might even have depicted her as a lonely heart, but she'd never go through her personal stuff and put it out there. That crosses the border from mischief to malice. No, this must be courtesy of the same people who killed Mr Smith, who killed Gene Peterson. She's read about websites being brought down by geeks with a grievance. If they can hack into Visa and Mastercard, they can hack into Claire's Facebook page.

She clicks back to the News Feed page and scrolls down. Paul said there were messages she had sent him, and his replies. But she wouldn't have done it in full view, would she? She looks left and finds the sidebar with her name and photo. Below, highlighted, is News Feed, below that, Messages, which she selects.

There is a photo of Paul Casey, and the first line of a message. She clicks it, and sees a five-message exchange entitled ‘Between
You
and
Paul Casey
', and her stomach lurches again. The messages are all dated during the ten days or so before she went to Chicago.

Claire Taylor
October 16

Hey Paul, it's your past catching up to you. I'm going to be back in town for the first time in, well, an age, and would LOVE to see you. There's so much that has happened … and so much I wish hadn't happened … and so much I'd LOVE to happen. Looking pretty steaming in your mugshot, by the way. I arrive October 23. Claire xxx

Paul Casey
October 18
Report

Hey there stranger, accepted the friend request and thought it best if you made the next move. Leave it to Claire, it's a spectacular. Well, I will be in town that week, and I would LOVE (we are all upper case now) to see you, and am INTRIGUED by what you might consider a ‘happening' … speaking of mugshots, you must have locked yours in a lead box in the attic. You look AWESOME and younger than you did when we were dating (although that could be cause you're relieved of the stress of a) Theater and b) me). Can't wait to see you, Claire. Paul xxxxx

Claire Taylor
October 18

Hey you, am sitting up late with third enormous glass of sauv blanc, thinking of something else that's pretty enormous and wondering if I'm going to get to see it at close quarters in Chi-car-go there that's my attempts at subtlety pretty much blown I could go back and erase it and say something all coy and when I got there you would be guessing and drumming your fingers on the bar top and tapping your feet the nervous way you used to have and I hope still do my gorgeous boy but there will be no need i xxx you very very much indeed and have often thought about what we used to do and wished that we could do all of it some more lots more and don't worry if you married or ‘in a relationship' don't want to steal you away or boil your bunny just want your xxx must stop before i make even bigger fool than have already made hope not scaring you away drunkgirl xxx

Paul Casey
October 20
Report

Wow, Claire. I mean, WOW! Had a few cold ones myself to try and do my reply justice, but not sure I can compete with yours. Which is not to say I'm not up for it, totally, the thought of you still makes me hot on a cold Chicago night. Tell me when and where, with a little advance notice, and I'm all yours. Pxxx

Claire Taylor
October 22

Don't take anything back but a bit embarrassed by my ravings above. PLEASE do not allude to this exchange when we meet, or I will probably come apart at the seams (drink is evil). That does not mean I didn't mean every word, just don't want to be reminded of them (this is a strict condition; I know, I am nuts, but then, I always was!) Will be in Old Town Ale House Tuesday night see you then c xx

The worst thing, Claire thinks, after she's taken five minutes to stop shaking, and blushing, and practically hyper-ventilating, and get herself a cup of peppermint tea (her heart is already beating so fast, another cup of coffee and she'd explode), the worst thing is she
could
have written those messages. She has thought that way over the years. Not every day, or every month, but from time to time, she has had her regrets, and her wishes, her dreams that maybe Paul was the one. She has sat up late in her nook, hiding from Danny and the kids and drinking too much white wine and thinking X-rated thoughts about Paul, running selected scenes through her private screening room. That is how she sounds and how she gets when she is drunk: whatever polish and sophistication and self-control she thinks she possesses simply evaporate on a cloud of booze. And she does then go firmly into denial, embarrassed, and ashamed even, about what a sewer her mind can be, while knowing perfectly well that if she had bumped into Paul Casey in Madison, she might well have flung herself at him. She pretty much did, when she got the chance in Chicago.

What a lot of time and energy wasted. Because when it came to it, nothing happened. Or rather, a lot of things might have happened, and nearly happened, and she certainly did not resist temptation, but … with a little luck, she thinks, a little
grace
,
even though she didn't deserve any, she didn't do anything that can't be undone. And she misses Danny now, right now, as much as she ever did. She knows some people would say, if you have thoughts about other lovers, and then
act
on those thoughts, then you're not entitled to a second chance – you should walk out, you should break free, you should be true to your discontented heart. But Claire thinks that is as rigid, as fanatical, as saying you shouldn't allow yourself to have the thoughts in the first place, that they are in themselves wrong. Maybe sitting up in her sanctuary steaming it up on white wine and thinking of how things used to be is
unwise
, but no situation is completely satisfying. No life ticks all the boxes. And she knows from lunch today in Twin Anchors, what she was looking for wasn't Paul, but some dream of Paul, Paul-when-she-was-single-and-free, some passport to a fantasy version of her own past that wouldn't include the mess they had together, the fights and the career disappointments, all the reasons they split. What she was looking for was an escape she knows now is an illusion.

What she wants now is her life back.

Who the fuck has done this to her? Someone who knows about her and Paul, her and Danny, someone who knew she was going to Chicago.

It's a short list: Danny and Dee.

Neither of them are going to do this. Who else is there?

Could it have been Gene Peterson?

Without thinking further, Claire types Google into the address line, and when the window opens up, inserts Gene Peterson's name and waits for the results. The first ten results are devoted to Gene Peterson the Australian jazz drummer. She adds Chicago to the search terms and tries again. This time there's a doctor, a choir director and a sportswear manufacturer. Sportswear. She's pretty sure Danny said that was his line. She clicks on Peterson Sportswear, and a page with brightly colored sports tops, track pants and rucksacks appears. At the top, there's a headshot of a square-jawed guy of about fifty with sandy hair and a dimple in his chin. Wrong Gene Peterson.

Start again. Gene was one of Danny's childhood friends. They went to school together. Name of the high school? Monroe High.