flynn_gillian_gone_girl (1) (858987), страница 67
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Iknow this is not the real Andie, because I have followed her in real life. In real life shewears snug tops that show o her breasts, and clingy jeans, and her hair long andwavy. In real life she looks fuckable.Now she is wearing a ru ed shirtdress with her hair tucked behind her ears, and shelooks like she’s been crying, you can tell by the small pink pads beneath her eyes. Shelooks exhausted and nervous but very pretty.
Prettier than I’d thought before. I neversaw her this close up. She has freckles.“Ohhhh, shit,” says one woman to her friend, a cheap-cabernet redhead.“Oh noooo, I was actually starting to feel bad for the guy,” says the friend.“I have crap in my fridge older than that girl. What an asshole.”Andie stands behind the mike and looks down with dark eyelashes at a statementthat leaf-shakes in her hand.
Her upper lip is damp; it shines under the camera lights.She swipes an index nger to blot the sweat. “Um. My statement is this: I did engage inan a air with Nick Dunne from April 2011 until July of this year, when his wife, AmyDunne, went missing. Nick was my professor at North Carthage Junior College, and webecame friendly, and then the relationship became more.”Andie stops to clear her throat. A dark-haired woman behind her, not much olderthan I am, hands her a glass of water, which she slurps quickly, the glass shaking.“I am deeply ashamed of having been involved with a married man. It goes againstall my values.
I truly believed I was in love”—she begins crying; her voice shivers—“withNick Dunne and that he was in love with me. He told me that his relationship with hiswife was over and that they would be divorcing soon. I did not know that Amy Dunnewas pregnant. I am cooperating with the police in their investigation in thedisappearance of Amy Dunne, and I will do everything in my power to help.”Her voice is tiny, childish.
She looks up at the wall of cameras in front of her andseems shocked, looks back down. Two apples turn red on her round cheeks.“I … I.” She begins sobbing, and her mother—that woman has to be her mother, theyhave the same oversize anime eyes—puts an arm on her shoulder. Andie continuesreading. “I am so sorry and ashamed for what I have done. And I want to apologize toAmy’s family for any role I played in their pain.
I am cooperating with the police intheir investi— Oh, I said that already.”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 forAndie.
I literally refuse to believe it.“I am a twenty-three-year-old student,” she continues. “I ask only for some privacy toheal during this very painful time.”“Good luck with that,” I mutter as Andie backs away and a police o cer declines totake any questions and they walk o camera. I catch myself leaning to the left as if Icould 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 thea air? Was I okay? My face is a mask of fury—poor little lamb, my ass—but I can pretendit is because of this betrayal. I nod, smile weakly. I am okay. We are about to leavewhen I see my parents, holding hands as always, stepping up to the mike in tandem.
Mymother looks like she’s just gotten her hair cut. I wonder if I should be annoyed that shepaused in the middle of my disappearance for personal grooming. When someone diesand the relatives carry on, you always hear them say so-and-so would have wanted it thatway. 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 lovesAmy as much as we do. Amy: We miss your warm voice and your good humor, and yourquick wit and your good heart. You are indeed amazing.
We will return you to ourfamily. I know we will. Second, we did not know that our son-in-law, Nick Dunne, washaving an a air 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 bene t ofthe doubt, we attributed this behavior to shock. With our new knowledge, we no longerfeel this way. We have withdrawn our support from Nick accordingly.
As we moveforward with the investigation, we can only hope that Amy comes back to us. Her storymust continue. The world is ready for a new chapter.”Amen, says someone.NICK DUNNETEN DAYS GONEThe show was over, Andie and the Elliotts gone from view. Sharon’s producer kickedthe TV o with the point of her heel. Everyone in the room was watching me, waitingfor an explanation, the party guest who just shat on the oor.
Sharon gave me a toobright 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 todisclose and discuss his actions. I’m sorry about the timing, but in a way, it’s better foryou, 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 heardrumors that she’d been a cheat herself and returned to her husband, a very hush-hushinside-journalism story. That was almost ten years ago, but I gured the urge to absolvemight still be there. It was. She beamed, she coddled, she cajoled and teased. She pursedthose full, glossy lips at me in deep sincerity—a knuckled hand under her chin—andasked me her hard questions, and for once I answered them well. I am not a liar ofAmy’s dazzling caliber, but I’m not bad when I have to be. I looked like a man wholoved his wife, who was shamed by his in delities and ready to do right.
The nightbefore, 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 inlife what’s a good thing to do and what’s a bad thing, and I did a bad thing … and thereyou have it.” Damn, the guy was good—he looked sheepish, nervous, so shaky youwanted to take his hand and say, Buddy, it’s not that big a deal, don’t beat yourself up.Which was the e ect I was going for.
I watched that clip so many times, I was in dangerof borrowing a British accent.I was the ultimate hollow man: the husband that Amy always claimed couldn’tapologize 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 excusesfor it. I let myself down—I’ve never thought of myself as a cheater.
It’s inexcusable, it’sunforgivable, and I just want Amy to come home so I can spend the rest of my life making itup to her, treating her how she deserves.Oh, I’d definitely like to treat her how she deserves.But here’s the thing, Sharon: I did not kill Amy. I would never hurt her. I think what’shappening here is what I’ve been calling [a chuckle] in my mind the Ellen Abbott e ect. Thisembarrassing, irresponsible brand of journalism. We are so used to seeing these murders ofwomen packaged as entertainment, which is disgusting, and in these shows, who is guilty? It’salways the husband. So I think the public and, to an extent, even the police have beenhammered into believing that’s always the case.
From the beginning, it was practically assumedI had killed my wife—because that’s the story we are told time after time—and that’s wrong,that’s morally wrong. I did not kill my wife. I want her to come home.I knew Sharon would like an opportunity to paint Ellen Abbott as a sensationalisticratings whore. I knew regal Sharon with her twenty years in journalism, her interviewswith Arafat and Sarkozy and Obama, would be o ended by the very idea of EllenAbbott.
I am (was) a journalist, I know the drill, and so when I said those words—theEllen Abbott e ect—I recognized Sharon’s mouth twitch, the delicately raised eyebrows,the lightening of her whole visage. It was the look when you realize: I got my angle.At the end of the interview, Sharon took both my hands in hers—cool, a bit calloused,I’d read she was an avid golfer—and wished me well. “I will be keeping a close eye onyou, my friend,” she said, and then she was kissing Go on the cheek and swishing awayfrom us, the back of her dress a battlefield of stickpins to keep the material in front fromslouching.“You fucking did that perfectly,” Go pronounced as she headed to the door. “Youseem totally di erent than before. In charge but not cocky. Even your jaw isless … dickish.”“I unclefted my chin.”“Almost, yeah.
See you back home.” She actually gave me a go-champ punch to theshoulder.I followed the Sharon Schieber interview with two quickies—one cable and onenetwork. Tomorrow the Schieber interview would air, and then the others would rollout, a domino of apologetics and remorse. I was taking control. I was no longer goingto settle for being the possibly guilty husband or the emotionally removed husband orthe heartlessly cheating husband. I was the guy everyone knew—the guy many men(and women) have been: I cheated, I feel like shit, I will do what needs to be done to x thesituation because I am a real man.“We are in decent shape,” Tanner pronounced as we wrapped up.“The thing with Andie, it won’t be as awful as it might have been, thanks to theinterview with Sharon.
We just need to stay ahead of everything else from now on.”Go phoned, and I picked up. Her voice was thin and high.“The cops are here with a warrant for the woodshed … they’re at Dad’s house too.They’re … I’m scared.”Go was in the kitchen smoking a cigarette when we arrived, and judging from theover ow in the kitschy ’70s ashtray, she was on her second pack.
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