The Juliette Society(60)

‘What do you want to say to your son, Charmaine,’ Sachs says. ‘Now that you know what he’s done. Now that you know that people have died.’

And now Sachs is looking for the big pay-off, that killer piece of footage that will end up being syndicated to every news show on every single TV channel, where it will run near-continuously as a two-second soundbite to trailer the story.

They cut to Charmaine and she’s looking straight into the camera, or rather where she thinks she should be looking. She’s looking at the cameraman, addressing him and not the camera, and so it seems on TV like she’s staring off into the middle distance, like she’s not really with it, not really there at all. And her glassy eyes are welling up with tears, her lips are quaking like she’s about to cry, and she says, in a voice cracked with emotion:

‘Mommy loves you, Bundy. Mommy loves you.’

You can almost see the smirk on Sachs’ face because he knows he’s got what he’s wanted. And as I’m watching all this unfold, I realize it’s turning into one of those tragedies you see on TV but never ever think you’ll play any part in. Blanket coverage, round-the-clock, day-in, day-out. These lives, or deaths, celebrated for a brief moment in the frenzy of a news cycle. Or if they’re really lucky, maybe three or four. Maybe celebrated isn’t quite the right word – fetishized. Then just as quickly forgotten. Becoming just another nameless, faceless victim of a tragedy that probably could have been avoided in the first place.

And, at this point, I decide I’ve had enough too. I tell Jack to change the channel and he’s all too happy to oblige. We catch the end of the same campaign ad for Bob DeVille again, and Bob’s still talking about how he wants people to see the real him.

‘Bob’s invited us to spend a weekend at his house,’ Jack says, his attention still fixed on the screen, on Bob.

‘He has?’ I say, surprised, but delighted.

‘I thought we could spend some time together there,’ he says.

I’m beaming inside. It sounds like an olive branch, like he’s giving us another go.

‘I’d like that – when?’

‘This weekend,’ he says.

And I’m secretly delighted because it’s Columbus Day weekend – a long weekend, the last public holiday before the election – and we’ll be together for an extended period of time. And I’d do anything for that, even if it means playing the dutiful girlfriend to Jack in front of his boss.





18




During the journey up to the DeVilles, it feels like Jack and I are driving away from all our troubles and heading towards a new horizon, and I want to put everything behind me and start afresh. A few times, I even catch him glancing over at me when he thinks I’m not looking.

Bob DeVille and his wife Gena live in this magnificent open plan, split-level ranch house built onto a hillside, with a terraced garden, acres and acres of land, a deck and a swimming pool that overlook a long, lush valley with a river running along the bottom and mountains in the distance. All you can see from the deck is this vast landscape that seems to stretch on uninterrupted for miles with just a handful of other houses visible to the naked eye.

When Bob takes us out on the deck to show us the view, soon after we’ve arrived, I’m overwhelmed.

‘I want to live here,’ I whisper to Jack.

‘Here?’ he says.

‘A place just like it,’ I say. ‘Just you and me, isolated by beauty.’

‘I guess I need to make something of myself, then,’ he smiles.

I don’t doubt he will and I want to be with him when he does.

‘This place is incredible,’ I add. ‘I knew Bob was wealthy but I didn’t realize he was that wealthy.’

‘He’s good at his job,’ says Jack. ‘One of the best. He litigates for oil companies.’

This is the first time I’ve actually met Bob in person. The closest I’ve ever got to him before are those photos of him on the giant campaign placards that plaster the front of the office. Posters that look like commercials for a hygiene product. Airbrushed to perfection. And Bob, he looks rugged and handsome and slick – as if the Marlboro Man was advertising Crest – but it’s all image, because he’s not at all like that in person. He’s so stiff that he’s kind of goofy and he’s a bit of a klutz as well and it makes me warm to him a little bit more.

Gena is a Southern Belle with a gentle grace and bearing that could only have been the product of a private education. She looks like a relic of ’60s glamour; her blonde hair is styled in a flip, as if it never went out of fashion. She’s wearing a turquoise pantsuit, the kind of thing you always see Hilary Clinton wear, a look that’s distinguished and stylish at the same time.