Gone Girl(137)

She smiles a weak, embarrassed smile, and the press corps chuckle encouragingly.

“Poor little thing,” says the redhead.

She is a little slut, she is not to be pitied. I cannot believe anyone would feel sorry for Andie. I literally refuse to believe it.

“I am a twenty-three-year-old student,” she continues. “I ask only for some privacy to heal during this very painful time.”

“Good luck with that,” I mutter as Andie backs away and a police officer declines to take any questions and they walk off camera. I catch myself leaning to the left as if I could follow them.

“Poor little lamb,” says the older woman. “She seemed terrified.”

“I guess he did do it after all.”

“Over a year he was with her.”

“Slimebag.”

Desi gives me a nudge and widens his eyes in a question: Did I know about the affair? Was I okay? My face is a mask of fury—poor little lamb, my ass—but I can pretend it is because of this betrayal. I nod, smile weakly. I am okay. We are about to leave when I see my parents, holding hands as always, stepping up to the mike in tandem. My mother looks like she’s just gotten her hair cut. I wonder if I should be annoyed that she paused in the middle of my disappearance for personal grooming. When someone dies and the relatives carry on, you always hear them say so-and-so would have wanted it that way. I don’t want it that way.

My mother speaks. “Our statement is brief, and we will take no questions afterward. First, thank you for the tremendous outpouring for our family. It seems the world loves Amy as much as we do. Amy: We miss your warm voice and your good humor, and your quick wit and your good heart. You are indeed amazing. We will return you to our family. I know we will. Second, we did not know that our son-in-law, Nick Dunne, was having an affair until this morning. He has been, since the beginning of this nightmare, less involved, less interested, less concerned than he should be. Giving him the benefit of the doubt, we attributed this behavior to shock. With our new knowledge, we no longer feel this way. We have withdrawn our support from Nick accordingly. As we move forward with the investigation, we can only hope that Amy comes back to us. Her story must continue. The world is ready for a new chapter.”

Amen, says someone.





NICK DUNNE

TEN DAYS GONE


The show was over, Andie and the Elliotts gone from view. Sharon’s producer kicked the TV off with the point of her heel. Everyone in the room was watching me, waiting for an explanation, the party guest who just shat on the floor. Sharon gave me a too-bright smile, an angry smile that strained her Botox. Her face folded in the wrong spots.

“Well?” she said in her calm, plummy voice. “What the fuck was that?”

Tanner stepped in. “That was the bombshell. Nick was and is fully prepared to disclose and discuss his actions. I’m sorry about the timing, but in a way, it’s better for you, Sharon. You’ll get the first react from Nick.”

“You’d better have some goddamn interesting things to say, Nick.” She breezed away, calling, “Mike him, we do this now,” to no one in particular.

Sharon Schieber, it turned out, fucking adored me. In New York I’d always heard rumors that she’d been a cheat herself and returned to her husband, a very hush-hush inside-journalism story. That was almost ten years ago, but I figured the urge to absolve might still be there. It was. She beamed, she coddled, she cajoled and teased. She pursed those full, glossy lips at me in deep sincerity—a knuckled hand under her chin—and asked me her hard questions, and for once I answered them well. I am not a liar of Amy’s dazzling caliber, but I’m not bad when I have to be. I looked like a man who loved his wife, who was shamed by his infidelities and ready to do right. The night before, sleepless and nervy, I’d gone online and watched Hugh Grant on Leno, 1995, apologizing to the nation for getting lewd with a hooker. Stuttering, stammering, squirming as if his skin were two sizes too small. But no excuses: “I think you know in life what’s a good thing to do and what’s a bad thing, and I did a bad thing … and there you have it.” Damn, the guy was good—he looked sheepish, nervous, so shaky you wanted to take his hand and say, Buddy, it’s not that big a deal, don’t beat yourself up. Which was the effect I was going for. I watched that clip so many times, I was in danger of borrowing a British accent.

I was the ultimate hollow man: the husband that Amy always claimed couldn’t apologize finally did, using words and emotions borrowed from an actor.

But it worked. Sharon, I did a bad thing, an unforgivable thing. I can’t make any excuses for it. I let myself down—I’ve never thought of myself as a cheater. It’s inexcusable, it’s unforgivable, and I just want Amy to come home so I can spend the rest of my life making it up to her, treating her how she deserves.