Tuesday nights were sort of ruined for Annalise. She’d lost her momentum. Too many interruptions and she just couldn’t get back into her usual routine.
On this Tuesday night though, no one was stopping her. Annalise started to change into her gear to go train alone as normal but then she stopped. There was a bottle of red on the benchtop and it was calling her name.
Fuck it, she thought. I can drink on a Tuesday night if I want to.
It didn’t help that she and Poppy were fighting. Annalise had skipped the Monday-morning meeting yesterday, sending one of her staff to take her place instead, and at soccer last night, she and Poppy had pretty much ignored one another. Elle had tried to ask her what was wrong at the end of the game; in fact, she was a lot gentler than usual – she didn’t even pull Annalise up on a fumbled pass that cost them a goal. But Annalise had faked a headache and taken off.
Yes, okay, she had lied, Poppy had a right to be annoyed, but that didn’t mean she had the right to interrogate her.
Annalise changed into pyjamas. She poured herself a drink and ordered pizza. When the knock on the door came, for a second she thought it was going to be Beth as she hadn’t buzzed the pizza guy in. But someone else must have let him in downstairs.
She paid him for the pizza, and before she shut the door she caught herself looking across at Beth’s door, wondering if it was going to open. Wondering if she was going to appear. If she was going to ask for her help again. Of course Annalise would tell her no . . . but she still stood waiting. Wondering.
Beth had slipped ninety dollars under her door the morning after she’d babysat. Annalise had picked it up and shoved it into her wallet. But she hadn’t spent it yet. It had stayed tucked away and hadn’t been touched again. She couldn’t say why. Or maybe she could say, but she didn’t want to be tempted. Because if she went there, there was no coming back.
Beth didn’t come out. And eventually Annalise took her pizza inside.
When she finished eating, she went looking for her notebook. She hadn’t written in it for a while, which was unlike her. She checked her bedside table, her kitchen bench, her handbag. She couldn’t find it and she started to panic. Where had she seen it last? She couldn’t think straight. She spotted the backpack she’d taken in to work the other day and searched through the contents. The notebook was stuffed between a folder and a clipboard with crumpled delivery slips. Thank God. She opened it up, turned to a blank page and began to write.
30 May,
Do you want to know something that worries me sometimes? You probably don’t. You probably want me to stop this. To leave you be. But I need to talk to you. I think you know why.
Here’s the thing that worries me – that I might have been doing something really basic in completely the wrong way for my entire life. And I think, what if someone notices one day? What if they spot me doing this really simple thing – like making pasta or filling a car up with petrol or offering someone a hug or a kiss on the cheek when I ought to be shaking hands – and they give me this look, like, what are you doing? And slowly I realise, I’ve got it wrong. I’ve always had it wrong, but I never knew. And how could I not have known?
It’s because of the way I was brought up. I wasn’t taught any of those basic, ordinary, everyday things, was I?
No. Instead I was taught about worship. I was taught to worship him. And I was taught how to keep secrets. Filthy, disgusting secrets.
And I was taught to hate. I was taught to desire one thing only: escape. I knew I should take others with me. I knew that I shouldn’t go alone. But how was I supposed to make it happen? How was I supposed to do the right thing?