Gone Girl

JULY 5, 2010

– Diary entry –

I won’t blame Nick. I don’t blame Nick. I refuse – refuse! – to turn into some pert-mouthed, strident angry-girl. I made two promises to myself when I married Nick. One: no dancing-monkey demands. Two: I would never, ever say, Sure, that’s fine by me (if you want to stay out later, if you want to do a boys’ weekend, if you want to do something you want to do) and then punish him for doing what I said was fine by me. I worry I am coming perilously close to violating both of those promises.

But still. It is our third wedding a

I am being a girl. I just thought it’d be a tradition: All across town, I have strewn little love messages, reminders of our past year together, my treasure hunt. I can picture the third clue, fluttering from a piece of scotch tape in the crook of the V of the Robert Indiana love sculpture up near Central Park. Tomorrow, some bored twelve-year-old tourist stumbling along behind his parents is going to pick it off, read it, shrug, and let it float away like a gum wrapper.

My treasure-hunt finale was perfect, but isn’t now. It’s an absolutely gorgeous vintage briefcase. Leather. Third a

Dad phoned to wish us happy a

Except for tonight. I know, I know, I’m being a girl.

It’s five a.m. The sun is coming up, almost as bright as the streetlights outside that have just blinked off. I always like that switch, when I’m awake for it. Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I’ll pull myself out of bed and walk through the streets at dawn, and when the lights click off, all together, I always feel like I’ve seen something special. Oh, there go the streetlights! I want to a

Here’s what happened: Nick got home just after four, a bulb of beer and cigarettes and fried-egg odor attached to him, a placenta of stink. I was still awake, waiting for him, my brain ca-thunking after a marathon of Law and Order. He sat down on our ottoman and glanced at the present on the table and said nothing. I stared at him back. He clearly wasn’t going to even graze against an apology – hey, sorry things got screwy today. That’s all I wanted, just a quick acknowledgment.

‘Happy day after a

He sighs, a deep aggrieved moan. ‘Amy, I’ve had the crappiest day ever. Please don’t lay a guilt trip on me on top of it.’

Nick grew up with a father who never, ever apologised, so when Nick feels he has screwed up, he goes on offense. I know this, and I can usually wait it out, usually.

‘I was just saying happy a

‘Happy a

We sit silent for a minute, my stomach knotting. I don’t want to be the bad guy here. I don’t deserve that. Nick stands up.

‘Well, how was it?’ I ask dully.

‘How was it? It was fucking awful. Sixteen of my friends now have no jobs. It was miserable. I’ll probably be gone too, another few months.’

Friends. He doesn’t even like half the guys he was out with, but I say nothing.

‘I know it feels dire right now, Nick. But—’

‘It’s not dire for you, Amy. Not for you, it never will be dire. But for the rest of us? It’s very different.’

The same old. Nick resents that I’ve never had to worry about money and I never will. He thinks that makes me softer than everyone else, and I wouldn’t disagree with him. But I do work. I clock in and clock back out. Some of my girlfriends have literally never had a job; they discuss people with jobs in the pitying tones you talk about a fat girl with ‘such a nice face.’ They will lean forward and say, ‘But of course, Ellen has to work,’ like something out of a Noël Coward play. They don’t count me, because I can always quit my job if I want to. I could build my days around charity committees and home decoration and gardening and volunteering, and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with building a life around those things. Most beautiful, good things are done by women people scorn. But I work.

‘Nick, I’m on your side here. We’ll be okay no matter what. My money is your money.’

‘Not according to the prenup.’

He is drunk. He only mentions the prenup when he’s drunk. Then all the resentment comes back. I’ve told him hundreds, literally hundreds of times, I’ve said the words: The prenup is pure business. It’s not for me, it’s not even for my parents, it’s for my parents’ lawyers. It says nothing about us, not you and me.

He walks over toward the kitchen, tosses his wallet and wilted dollars on the coffee table, crumples a piece of notepaper and tosses it in the trash with a series of credit-card receipts.