Gone Girl

Amy’s dazzling caliber, but I’m not bad when I have to be. I looked like a man who loved his wife, who was shamed by his infidelities and ready to do right. The night before, 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 in life what’s a good thing to do and what’s a bad thing, and I did a badthing … and there you have it.’ Damn, the guy was good – he looked sheepish, nervous, so shaky you wanted to take his hand and say, Buddy, it’s not that big a deal, don’t beat yourself up . Which was the effect I was going for. I watched that clip so many times, I was in danger of borrowing a British accent.
    I was the ultimate hollow man: the husband that Amy always claimed couldn’t apologize 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 excuses for it. I let myself down – I’ve never thought of myself as a cheater. It’s inexcusable, it’s unforgivable, and I just want Amy to come home so I can spend the rest of my life making it up 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’s happening here is what I’ve been calling [a chuckle] in my mind the Ellen Abbott effect. This embarrassing, irresponsible brand of journalism. We are so used to seeing these murders of women packaged as entertainment, which is disgusting, and in these shows, who is guilty? It’s always the husband. So I think the public and, to an extent, even the police have been hammered into believing that’s always the case. From the beginning, it was practically assumed I 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 sensationalistic ratings whore. I knew regal Sharon with her twenty years in journalism, her interviews with Arafat and Sarkozy and Obama, would be offended by the very idea of Ellen Abbott. I am (was) a journalist, I know the drill, and so when I said those words – the Ellen Abbott effect – 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 callused, I’d read she was an avid golfer – and wished me well. ‘I will be keeping a close eye on you, my friend,’ she said, and then she was kissing Go on the cheek and swishing away from us, the back of her dress a battlefield of stickpins to keep the material in front from slouching.
    ‘You fucking did that perfectly,’ Go pronounced as she headed to the door. ‘You seem totally different than before. In charge but not cocky. Even your jaw is less … dickish.’
    ‘I unclefted my chin.’
    ‘Almost, yeah. See you back home.’ She actually gave me a go-champ punch to the shoulder.
    I followed the Sharon Schieber interview with two quickies – one cable and one network. Tomorrow the Schieber interview would air, and then the others would roll out, a domino of apologetics and remorse. I was taking control. I was no longer going to settle for being the possibly guilty husband or the emotionally removed husband or the 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 fix the situation 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 the interview 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 the overflow in the kitschy ’70s ashtray, she was on her second pack. An awkward, shoulderless kid with a crew cut and a police officer’s uniform