"I mean, I've never seen anything like this." Our financial advisor Simon pauses, lost for words. "Most of my clients improve each year, progressing from one year to the next, eventually realizing their goals. They're on an upward trajectory. You two..." He looks down at our financial records, a paper trail of missed opportunities and shattered dreams. His face is a mix of scorn and pity. "You two are in trouble. This is bad."
I shrink down in my chair. Clive sits calmly, glancing at his watch as though he has a more pressing engagement. I can smell the stink of marijuana from his brown corduroy jacket. It's got leather on the elbows; he thinks if he puts it on, he's still a distinguished professor and people should treat him as such.
Simon handled all our investments at the bank, back when we still had them. Now, they've been liquidated like everything else, and we have come to him, cap in hand, to help us get out of the mess we're in.
My face is inflamed as though I have a fever and my stomach is in full churn. I never liked Simon; he was always a pompous ass, but he gave us good advice back when Clive had a great job and we had money to plan with. Now, I felt like the poor kid again at the back of the class, getting a lecture from the teacher about how I needed brand new shoes for gym class, not scuffed hand-me-downs — didn't they already send the note home?
"Look, we have the plan. We'll cut our expenses down, like we talked about. If we could just borrow a bit on the equity in the house to pay down some debt, that would really be helpful," I say, wanting to end this exercise in humiliation.
He made a 'tch' sound with his tongue, like he was scolding a cat. "I'd like to believe that, really. But it feels like groundhog day with you two. Didn't we have this discussion last year? I put you both on a plan to see your finances improve and you didn't do any of it."
"I assure you; we will do better this time. Won't we, my dear?" Clive straightens his tie and glances in my direction. I want to smack him in the head.
We?
I hear a roaring in my ears, like a train about to come straight through the tasteful, cream walls of the bank. I realize It's coming from inside me.
"...and you don't solve money problems with money," Simon is saying. "Obviously, there's something else going on here." He makes a little tent with his fingers, leans forward. His eyes seem voracious to me, like a vulture waiting to tear chunks of flesh from the roadkill.
"Perhaps it's a therapist you should speak to, not a financial advisor. Really see what's underneath all this financial turmoil. My neighbour's cousin is wonderful marriage counsellor, I could get the name—"
"The equity loan?" I cut him off, I've had enough. I already know the answer, and I'm not sitting through any more of his bullshit to get it.
"I'm afraid it won't be possible at this time. Your income is minuscule Darcey, and I don't see the potential for improvement. Now Clive's got some real earning potential. Just get yourself back in the saddle, old boy. Go back to academia, get another job as a professor and we'll make it happen." He actually winks.
I glance at Clive to see if he's hearing what I'm hearing, but he's grinning at Simon as if they were frat brothers about to clink beers.
"Understood and can do! It's been a pleasure chatting today." Clive is all brisk cheerfulness.
I push my way past him and I'm out the door in seconds. The fog is rolling in off the harbour, thick and cold. It covers me like damp cotton and suddenly, it's hard to breathe.
Why is everything so hard?
"That was very rude," Clive says to me when he finally catches up.
"Why didn't you just kiss him on the mouth on the way out the door, looks like you wanted to," I say. I feel mean, I want to be nasty.
"Don't be vulgar, it doesn't become you." His lip curls into a sneer and I wonder how I ever thought he was handsome.
"Neither does crippling debt, but here we are." I'm usually more patient with him, more diplomatic. I don't like to argue with him. He's smarter than me, and when confronted with something he's done wrong, will engage me in a long philosophical argument until I give up whatever point I was trying to make and go to bed with a migraine.
Sometimes I just want him to take out the garbage without a two-hour discussion of Kant's philosophy on freedom and the autonomy of the will.
I am so tired of this man.
"Look dear, I know you have a flair for the dramatic, but these hysterics get really tiresome." He's looking at his nails, he's due for a manicure.
I rub the side of my head, trying to erase the hot blade of a headache piercing my skull. There is so much that's wrong, I don't know how to begin to make anything right. I'm dimly aware that this is Clive on his best behaviour — "doing everything he can" to keep our marriage together.
"I'm taking the car. You can walk home." I turn from him and open the car door.
"I don't think so!"
"I didn't ask," I say, turning the key in the ignition. He holds onto the door before I can slam it shut.
"You're going to see that priest, aren't you?" His face twists as he says it, making it hard and ugly. "I saw you two the other day, when I was driving by the warehouse. You were sitting on a bench out front looking very cozy."
"Yes, how scandalous. I believe the topic was a shipment of turnips," I say, wrenching the door from his fingers and closing it in his face.
He continues to talk to me through the glass. I can barely make out his muffled voice, but I can piece together what he's saying.
"What is it about you and your 'friendship' with that guy? It's not natural! It's weird, just ask anyone in town. Everyone is talking about it; you should hear what they're saying! It's embarrassing."
This can't be true but the injustice of it infuriates me, the crass attempt to sully an innocent and supportive relationship. He has to ruin everything good, this man. I put the car in reverse and floor it, spraying him with crusher gravel as I peel out. It was accidental but I can't say I was sorry to see him jump out of the way and nearly into a puddle.
I need somewhere to go for a cup of tea, to chill out and talk about nothing. With Audrey at a friend's house and Mom at her boyfriend's place, there's no way in hell I'm going home with Clive.
I see a billboard along the highway advertising the national lottery. "Your ticket to dreamland." It shows a woman holding a scrap of paper in her hand, images of luxuries swirling around her head — cars, boats, trips, a mansion. Wouldn't that be nice, I think, thinking about the first thing I'd do with the money if I won.
Freedom is the word that flashes in my mind. One call to a divorce lawyer and a few thousand dollars and I'd be free. I imagine waltzing into Simon's office, his face when I present a cheque under his sharp nose — enough to pay the mortgage and clear all our debt. What fun it would be, watching his demeanour change from arrogant ass to ass-kisser.
I stop into a corner store just before my sister's house, remembering I bought a ticket for last night's draw. I hand it over, waiting for the loser noise from the machine — the only tone my lottery tickets ever make. To my surprise, there's the ding of a bell, followed by a little 'whoo hoo!" I won something. "Free ticket," the bored teenager says, before handing it to me.
Maybe it's a sign that things aren't as dire as they seem. Maybe my luck is changing. The thought cheers me, just a bit. I always look for signs.
When I get to my sister's house, the fleet of cars usually in the driveway aren't there — her girls and my brother-in-law must all be out. Only her Volvo sits off to the side. I'm glad she's here, I didn't bother to text first.
"Heyo," I call, letting myself in without knocking and throwing my coat over a chair. Her little white Pekinese Mitzi comes flying out at me, jumping, and scratching at my shins to be picked up. I lift her and nuzzle my face in her fur. I always joke that I'm going to sneak in and steal her in the middle of the night.
I love dogs, all animals really. I can never have one of my own because Clive is allergic. It's another sacrifice. They're beginning to add up, and I'm tired of the tally being so heavily weighted on my side of the ledger.
"Want a glass of wine, or a cup of tea?" My sister comes into the kitchen from the living room, where I see she's been watching a true crime documentary. I'll never understand why the two of us relax by watching ghastly murder mysteries or horror movies, the more gruesome the better.
She's trim and fit with a messy bun on the top of her head. My sister doesn't need a lick of makeup, she's naturally pretty with dark blue eyes that change depending on her mood or what she's wearing; from grey to navy and even violet.
"Tea's fine," I say, and she puts the kettle on.
"What's going on with you? How's Clive?"
"Fine," I say. I don't want to talk about my husband. I don't want her to know how bad things are. Instead, I tell her about the disastrous bank meeting.
"Ugh, I hate that guy. Simon used to handle our money too, until I told Grant to take all our pension and investment funds and put them somewhere else. Simon talked to me like I was five years old! The guy's arrogant. I mean, who does he think he is? I bet his wife hates him."
I laugh at that. Every three months or so, he sends a twee card to his clients with a smiling family photo on the front and a recipe on the back — Christmas cookies in winter, apple cider in fall. I hate these cards, they take the happy, financially stable life I'll never have and shove it in my face.
I realize my sister is about to pick up the phone and call his office to tell him off; I only have seconds to stop her before the call goes through. She's smaller but more assertive than I am. Her husband calls her a tiny ball of rage.
"It's not Simon's fault we fucked up," I say, after I get her to hang up. "It is what it is."
"God, I hate that saying, 'it is what it is.' You know, I could lend you some money..."
"No way," I say firmly, shaking my head. "No way in hell, nuh-uh. We won't be doing that. But thank you." My sister and her husband do very well. He has a successful dental practice, and she opened her own gym five years ago and now owns a chain of them across the province. She made it on her own and I'm very proud of her. But I would never take her money. Sure, I've borrowed twenty bucks here and there on occasion, but she always gets it back promptly on payday. I hate owing anyone anything.
Having grown up without a cent, I don't know much about money, but I know one thing: it doesn't mix with family.
"Anything you need, let me know," she says, handing me a mug of steaming hot tea. We go into her cozy living room, the dog trotting along behind, wanting to get in on all the gossip. Mitzi jumps up onto the couch for a snuggle and I pull her into my lap, feeling instantly better about everything. How do dogs do that?
"So, what do you think this big family meeting is about in Inverness?" She blows on her tea before taking a cautious sip.
"I have no idea. Mom's really excited, but I don't know what to think."
"What does Clive say about it?"
"Clive thinks Uncle Rob wants to sell us time-shares in Florida," I scoff. "I told him he's crazy, Uncle Rob is a solid guy."
"Exactly," she says. My tea is still too hot for me, so I put it on the coffee table to cool. "I called Uncle Jack about it," she says.
"Oh? Do tell. What does Uncle Jack say?" If anyone knew what was going on, it would be our elder uncle.
"He's just as baffled as the rest of us," she shrugs. "Maybe Kat is pregnant, and they want to share the good news with the whole family."
"That would be nice," I say, thinking it must be something like that. It would be just like my uncle to push the boat out — really have a huge celebration. After all, he has the money. "Although, I'm not sure what his adult kids would think of that. Isn't Kat his second wife?"
"Third," Julie says, sipping. "How did he make all his money anyway?"
"I guess he got in on the ground floor of computer engineering at IBM in the 80s after he graduated from MIT. He's a smart cookie."
"Mm hm," she agreed. "Jack says we're not to put a hand in our pocket Saturday night. Rob's paying for everything — rented out the Skye Inn just for us, food, the finest wines, entertainment, accommodations — he's paying for everything! So, pack your bag – he said he wants us to 'tear it up!'"
"Really?" I thought it was just going to be dinner and I was trying to find enough room on my credit card even for that. I brighten. An overnight party with the fun relatives at a swank resort — free? Sign me up. "Wow."
I pick up my tea and take a slurp. Perfect. Somehow, tea that someone else makes for you always tastes better.
"Let me ask you something," I say hesitantly. I know that my sister will tell me the truth, no matter what. "My friendship with Jake. Do you think it's weird?"
"No," she says without hesitation. "Why?"
"Oh, just something Clive said. He finds it strange. He says we're the talk of the town, something for the gossips to talk about over their teacups. Is it really that scandalous to have a male best friend? It's not like there's anything that could happen between us. He's a priest, for God's sake."
"Yeah, but a priest that looks exactly like a cross between Johnny Depp and Henry Cavill."
"I guess." Even if Jake wasn't a priest, I wouldn't think of him like that. I know he's charming and handsome and we have a strong bond, but he's not in that category for me. I can't think of him like that. All I know is that from the first time I met him, I felt like I knew him already. We're good friends, end of story.
"I doubt people are talking about it," she says, shrugging. "Father Jake's a great person. You attract good people to your life, there's nothing wrong with that."
Huh. I never thought about it that way. "And that's rich coming from Clive," she continues, wrinkling her nose. "He's just projecting. Everyone in town's talking about him cheating on you, not you having an innocent friendship with the town's most unavailable hunk."
I laugh. My sister always tells it like it is.
"Forget about your shitty husband. Come party with the Douglas clan Saturday night," she says with a wave of her manicured hand. "Leave your troubles behind and have fun for once. I don't know what's going to happen, but whatever it is promises to be interesting. Plus, free food and booze. Deal?"
I clink my mug with hers and settle in for a night of relaxing murder and mayhem. "Deal."