said, “I’ll tell you this, Varg Veum, just so you’ll know.”
“Okay. I’m listening.”
“I’ve read all of the long-dead authors like Fitzgerald, Faulkner, Steinbeck, and Joyce. But I also read crime novels written by Norwegian author Gunnar Staalesen.”
I nodded in return. She had me cornered. And she knew that she had me cornered.
She said, “You’re a bad liar. A very bad liar.”
“I’m a damn good liar. I’m just a bad actor.”
She asked, “Married?”
“I just left my wife.”
“You left abruptly.”
“What brings you to that accurate conclusion, my dear Sherlock.”
“No one would move in during the middle of the night in the rain.”
She motioned in a kind yet firm way and I sat down at the dining room table across from her. Isabel reached across the table and took my right hand. She pulled her lips in and looked at my bruised knuckles, stared at each one, read each bruise as if it was a horrific chapter in my life.
“The wife?”
“Not the wife. Didn’t touch her.”
“With whom did you have a row?”
“The guy she slept with.”
“She had an affair. Not you.”
“Her. Not me.”
She patted my bruised knuckles, and then she let my wounded hand go.
She said, “No matter what you do, or what she did, Varg, don’t put your hands on her.”
I nodded. She said that like she’d been through more pain than I’d ever imagine.
She asked, “Mind if I sit here and read for a while?”
“Sure. Have a seat.”
She read while I unpacked. I opened my iPad 2 and MacBook Pro. I unpacked the screenplay that I was working on.
Boy Meets Girl
. That was the next film, the one that I was writing for Regina Baptiste. It was a love story. And now it felt like I’d constructed a well-written lie. Not long after, there was another knock at my door. It was Mr. Holder. He was coming to check on me too. When I invited him inside, he was surprised to see Isabel reading.
He told Isabel, “You’re cheating on me already?”
“Tell that to that child who lives with you, Chet. You have three babies in your home.”
“Sweet Isabel.” Mr. Holder chuckled. “Where are you coming from looking that fresh?”
“Changing the subject, are we? Are we being polite in front of Varg Veum?”
“Yes, we are.”
Moments later, there was another knock at my door. Again my nerves were on edge.
I’d left my estate in search of solitude and landed in the middle of Union Station. This was why people lived behind gates and had bodyguards and Dobermans. Not for protection, just to keep people from ringing their fucking doorbell and dropping by whenever they felt like it.
I opened the door and it was a smiling young woman who looked like she was old enough to be in college, but her face still belonged in high school. She had two kids with her, one walking and the other in a stroller. The one walking looked about three and the one in the stroller a little over a year old. The young girl had the body of an exotic dancer and a church-going smile. There were two plates of food resting on top of the stroller.
She said, “Varg, right?”
She had shoulder-length hair dyed shocking pink, same hue as her nails.
“Yeah. I’m Varg.”
Mr. Holder stood up when he heard her and her kids outside my door.
Mr. Holder was surprised to see them. He smiled, but his eyes told the truth.
She said, “I’m Vera-Anne Trotman. Guess he didn’t tell you about me.”
“He was just talking about you.”
The giggling had ended and she set free a smoky, mature voice that sounder older and wiser than she appeared. Before me stood a dozen wonderful, sensual contradictions.
I stepped back and she and her children came inside. She spoke to Isabel. No hugs.
She told Mr. Holder, “I didn’t know how long you’d be up here, and you haven’t eaten since breakfast, so I cooked and brought you some dinner. I brought you a plate too, Varg. Miss Isabel, I can go back and get you one. I didn’t know that you were up
“Okay. I’m listening.”
“I’ve read all of the long-dead authors like Fitzgerald, Faulkner, Steinbeck, and Joyce. But I also read crime novels written by Norwegian author Gunnar Staalesen.”
I nodded in return. She had me cornered. And she knew that she had me cornered.
She said, “You’re a bad liar. A very bad liar.”
“I’m a damn good liar. I’m just a bad actor.”
She asked, “Married?”
“I just left my wife.”
“You left abruptly.”
“What brings you to that accurate conclusion, my dear Sherlock.”
“No one would move in during the middle of the night in the rain.”
She motioned in a kind yet firm way and I sat down at the dining room table across from her. Isabel reached across the table and took my right hand. She pulled her lips in and looked at my bruised knuckles, stared at each one, read each bruise as if it was a horrific chapter in my life.
“The wife?”
“Not the wife. Didn’t touch her.”
“With whom did you have a row?”
“The guy she slept with.”
“She had an affair. Not you.”
“Her. Not me.”
She patted my bruised knuckles, and then she let my wounded hand go.
She said, “No matter what you do, or what she did, Varg, don’t put your hands on her.”
I nodded. She said that like she’d been through more pain than I’d ever imagine.
She asked, “Mind if I sit here and read for a while?”
“Sure. Have a seat.”
She read while I unpacked. I opened my iPad 2 and MacBook Pro. I unpacked the screenplay that I was working on.
Boy Meets Girl
. That was the next film, the one that I was writing for Regina Baptiste. It was a love story. And now it felt like I’d constructed a well-written lie. Not long after, there was another knock at my door. It was Mr. Holder. He was coming to check on me too. When I invited him inside, he was surprised to see Isabel reading.
He told Isabel, “You’re cheating on me already?”
“Tell that to that child who lives with you, Chet. You have three babies in your home.”
“Sweet Isabel.” Mr. Holder chuckled. “Where are you coming from looking that fresh?”
“Changing the subject, are we? Are we being polite in front of Varg Veum?”
“Yes, we are.”
Moments later, there was another knock at my door. Again my nerves were on edge.
I’d left my estate in search of solitude and landed in the middle of Union Station. This was why people lived behind gates and had bodyguards and Dobermans. Not for protection, just to keep people from ringing their fucking doorbell and dropping by whenever they felt like it.
I opened the door and it was a smiling young woman who looked like she was old enough to be in college, but her face still belonged in high school. She had two kids with her, one walking and the other in a stroller. The one walking looked about three and the one in the stroller a little over a year old. The young girl had the body of an exotic dancer and a church-going smile. There were two plates of food resting on top of the stroller.
She said, “Varg, right?”
She had shoulder-length hair dyed shocking pink, same hue as her nails.
“Yeah. I’m Varg.”
Mr. Holder stood up when he heard her and her kids outside my door.
Mr. Holder was surprised to see them. He smiled, but his eyes told the truth.
She said, “I’m Vera-Anne Trotman. Guess he didn’t tell you about me.”
“He was just talking about you.”
The giggling had ended and she set free a smoky, mature voice that sounder older and wiser than she appeared. Before me stood a dozen wonderful, sensual contradictions.
I stepped back and she and her children came inside. She spoke to Isabel. No hugs.
She told Mr. Holder, “I didn’t know how long you’d be up here, and you haven’t eaten since breakfast, so I cooked and brought you some dinner. I brought you a plate too, Varg. Miss Isabel, I can go back and get you one. I didn’t know that you were up
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