The Flow

by Effrosyni Moschoudi

  At last we have it, mused Laura but she didn’t speak.

  “I was hoping to bring him over for dinner one day. He was asking me only last week when you might perform again. He actually said he’d do anything to see a decent show, and to listen to your ‘ethereal voice’ again, as he put it.”

  “Perform again? Is this what our little conversation last night at the restaurant was all about?” She shot a thunderous glance at him, her eyes narrowing.

  “I do admit . . . I’ve been thinking how lovely it would be for you to go on stage, and in the process, please Mr Porter too.”

  “Oh, now it all makes sense! You planned the whole thing! The night out was all part of it, wasn’t it? Taking me to a show, whetting my appetite for the theatre crowd I used to long for, and making this the ideal topic of discussion for the dinner that followed. Fancy choice of restaurant, by the way! You spare no expense when trying to set the scene in order to lure someone into your trap!”

  “What are you talking about? What trap? I was only saying how good it would be for you to perform again. I know you miss it, and the money would be nice. We have a family now.”

  “Family? Now you remember you have a family? Is this the best you can do to sustain me and our child? Instead of seeking an honourable position, you chase one pathetic business idea after another. And now, just because your latest victim is an admirer of mine, you expect me to play a part for you?”

  “Well, why not? If you could do your bit it would be most honourable of you!”

  “Honourable? What do you know about honour? You’re a devious master of manipulation! Why couldn’t you just come up to me like a normal person and ask me directly instead of setting up this charade? To think I apologised to you last night for not telling you about turning down Mr Mills! To think you made me feel guilty for snapping at you at the restaurant! I knew then that something wasn’t right. My instinct has never failed me. Don’t you ever forget that! Don’t you ever try to fool me again, or else!”

  “Or else, what?” he dared her, his eyes glinting.

  “If you think that you own me just because you gave me a gilded cage to live in, a life of luxury and a pointless, meaningless title, then you’re badly mistaken!”

  “Are you threatening me, woman?”

  “I’m only saying there’s only so much I can take before I decide I can take no more! To think that last night it actually crossed my mind you and I could ever be a normal couple!”

  “And why not?”

  “Because you’re unfathomable! Because you’re cold, calculating, and relentless! And you know something, Charles? I’ve had enough of you!” She turned to go.

  “Don’t you think you can ever leave me!” he retorted, rushing behind her. He grabbed her by the arm and spun her around, then shook her by the shoulders. “You are my wife and you always will be!”

  “You make it sound like a prison sentence,” she huffed, defiance making her eyes sparkle like precious sapphires in the sunlight.

  “Call it what you will, as long as you realise you can never leave me!”

  Laura darted daggers at him. “Mark my words, and mark them well, Charles! If you ever manipulate me or try to threaten me again, you will turn around one day and I’ll be gone! Along with our child!”

  He scoffed and loosened his grip. “Darling, what a hypocrite you are, calling me devious! Don’t you see? You and I deserve each other!”

  Laura saw it in the glint of his eyes then. It was unmistakable. He knows! “What . . . What do you mean?”

  “Don’t take me for a fool. You know perfectly well what I mean.” Deep in his eyes, albeit just a glimmer, it was evident. He knew, and of course, he was upset.

  Without a word, she pursed her lips and stormed off, leaving him behind. He made no effort to catch up with her. Instead, he ambled behind her with a bitter smile on his face, both hands buried deep in his pockets.

  Laura didn’t need to look over her shoulder to know he had no intention to catch up with her. He had every right to feel angry and had made it clear he couldn’t bring himself to talk about it. Still, this pretty pickle had never been her own fault.

  Chapter 37

  Later in the evening, the air was thick with tension in the grand household. Not a word was spoken between the man and the lady of the house, as they lounged in the drawing room by the fireplace. Laura sat back in an armchair engrossed in a book while Charles sat on the sofa opposite her.

  The wireless played dance music at a low volume, but neither of them seemed to be paying any attention to it. Charles had only turned it on in order to listen to the news that was to be broadcasted a bit later. He was smoking a cigar and didn’t feel inclined in the slightest to start a conversation with his wife. Instead, he appeared lost in thought, as he watched the puffs of smoke slowly rise in thick swirls into the air with every exhalation.

  Little Freddie was sprawled out on the carpet by their feet, his cheeks reddened by the fire that was blazing in the hearth. Its angry flames were reaching up like writhing snakes. A stack of playing cubes lay scattered by the child’s feet, but he had abandoned them long ago in order to play with his favourite windup toy. It was a mechanized bunny that skipped and played a lively melody when a button was pressed. For the last five minutes, he’d kept pressing the button over and over again, delighted by the bunny’s short performance. Laura was so engrossed in her book that she barely registered the toy sounds.

  Yet, for Charles, the last five minutes had been a silent torture. The repetitive toy music and the mechanical sounds had slowly started to push him towards the end of his tether. As it was, the events of the day had been too much to bear. By now he felt like a caged animal, gasping for fresh air. Without realising it, he started to grasp the fingers of one hand one by one, cracking the joints. It was a habit Laura had always found unnerving, and yet, it soothed him whenever he felt uneasy. He’d been doing this since childhood; it was a deeply rooted habit that he could never break even if he wanted to.

  As the cracking sounds went on, he watched Laura wincing, finding it difficult to keep reading. Suddenly it dawned on him. She didn’t wish to speak to him either. She’d always scolded him for doing this, but not today.

  Normally, he cared when he’d cause her any discomfort; he’d apologise and try to stop himself. Of course, today he enjoyed his habit with gusto. In the silence, the irritating sounds went on, mixing strangely with the crackling of the fire.

  “Do you mind?” asked Laura finally, shooting him an exasperated glare. “You know I hate that!”

  “And you know I hate stuff you do, and yet you don’t stop. Like mocking my business ventures for instance!” he retorted, his expression alight with resentment.

  “Clearly, this is a day when you decide to be the second child in this house!” She shot him a fiery glare and then returned to the bliss of her reading. Silently, she felt relieved that her complaining had finally stopped him from making the skin-crawling sounds.

  Charles swallowed hard and scowled at her, as she kept reading. This was all too much to bear. The walls of the room started to close in on him and when the child pressed the button of the toy one time too many, he simply exploded.

  “Enough, boy! Enough with this God-awful racket!” he yelled with exasperation, darting his eyes at him. Freddie’s excited squeals ended abruptly. He just froze, staring at his father, his huge blue eyes twinkling with myriad stars as they reflected the angry flames on the hearth. His father had never yelled at him before, and even the little boy could tell the novelty was strange. His disbelief was so great that he looked almost expectant, as if he anticipated his father to break into laughter again, like he always did in his presence.

  “Come here, darling!” burst out Laura, jolting upright. Patting his head lovingly, she took the toy from the boy’s hands. “Daddy’s tired, that’s all. You can play again with this later in your room.” She knelt on the carpet by him and picked up the scattered cubes to place them on his lap
. “Here you go!” she said brightly, forcing herself to sound excited. “Let’s play with these together.”

  A faint smile appeared on Freddie’s face, and she smiled back at him, caressed his hair, and then shot her husband another fiery glare. His expression was equally thunderous.

  “There was no need for that,” she muttered under her breath.

  “I am in my own house! I can shout if I want to. The boy was driving me mad!” Charles exploded again, unable to contain his frustration any longer.

  “Don’t call him, boy,” she said, lowering her tone. It had sounded like a request. “He isn't a servant. He is your son,” she added, her voice trailing off.

  Charles gave a smirk, raising his brows. “Really? Is he now?”

  “If you’re going to be like this, I don’t have to witness it,” she said, taking Freddie in her arms. “Let’s go and play in your room, my love. Daddy is tired and wants to have some time alone, all right?” She smiled at her little angel and took him in her embrace, breathing in the scent of his velvet skin, a mixture of jasmine and talcum powder that comforted her. She stood up and closed her eyes for a moment, desperate to shut out the vibrating, menacing energy that still emanated from Charles, just a heartbeat away from them both.

  “You don’t have to go on my account,” he said in a tired voice, standing and moving to go. “Stay by the fire if you like, I’m going out.”

  Laura arched her brows. “You are going out?”

  “Yes! Why so surprised? I’ve had a bad day. I think I deserve a drink!” He was shouting again.

  “Is this really necessary? We can get out of your hair if you find our presence too much to bear. We’ll go upstairs, we’ll be fine,” she answered, a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded, getting hold of her arm as she made to go. The child, still in her arms, sensed the tension between them. His face crumbled, and he started to wail. It wasn’t the first time his parents had argued, but there was something really frightening in his father’s eyes today, something the child hadn’t seen before.

  “Look what you’ve done! Are you happy now that he’s crying?” She tried to break away from Charles’s grasp in order to comfort Freddie, but to no avail.

  “I asked you a question!” he growled, as the child continued to cry. “Were you hoping I’d never realise? Do you take me for a fool?”

  “Let me go! I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she yelled, finally breaking free. “Come, darling, you can play all you want in your room. I’ll get Jen to light the fireplace in there for us,” she comforted him, kissing the top of his head, as she hushed and caressed him on her way to the stairs.

  Fuming, his eyes ablaze like live coal, Charles rang the bell to summon James. When he felt frustrated, there was no better place than The Black Cat. The fault he’d just found in his life with Laura meant he no longer had to pretend to be someone else, to try to be content and play the part of the devoted husband. He had changed his ways to get married and settle down, but it was evident it wasn’t working out for him. He’d never really stopped visiting his favourite dive on rare occasions to enjoy the company of those exquisite dancing girls, but now it seemed he’d wasted far too much time, thinking Laura could ever replace those girls as a means of fun and pleasure.

  At first, once the initial shock of this morning’s revelation had subsided, he’d thought perhaps he could raise someone else’s child . . . for Laura’s sake . . . but who was he trying to fool? His wife despised and derided him; she had no love and no respect for him, and what he’d found out about the child, had been an even bigger slap across the face, the very last straw. No. He could see clearly now. It was high time for him to reunite with his old self again, time to be the only man he could ever be, a man who roamed free for fun and knew where to get it in abundance.

  Chapter 38

  Brighton, September 1988

  Sofia was sitting in the back of a private taxi as the driver manoeuvred the vehicle with effortless skill around city traffic. A couple of hours earlier, she had arrived at Heathrow airport. After a ride down a perfectly straight motorway that had seemed to end nowhere, she was now peering through the window, marvelling at the city of Brighton, drinking it all in. This was her first visit to England. Brighton seemed terribly charming, with its mixture of magnificent old buildings and quaint cottages, and with its wide expanses of green, especially on its outskirts.

  They were already in the city centre, a stone’s throw away from Sofia’s destination, which was the campus at Grand Parade. Sofia’s mother had made all the travel arrangements at the agency where she worked. As Sofia carried with her no less than three large suitcases, it had also made sense for her to arrive in Brighton by a private, pre-booked taxi, as it would have been impossible to handle her luggage on the train.

  The taxi turned one last corner, and finally, there it was, Grand Parade standing on the edge of a large fruit and veg market, its columned façade magnificent and welcoming. As soon as the taxi pulled to a stop, she got out, eager to take a better look at the building and to breathe in the crisp, sea air. She felt rejuvenated and somewhat dazed too, hardly registering the words of the kindly driver, who offered to carry into the building all the suitcases for her.

  Just fifteen minutes later, he was paid and gone, and she was registered at the secretary’s office and shown to her room. Two eager young boys carried her luggage for her upstairs, answering the call of the softly spoken, middle-aged secretary, who had summoned them to do so.

  The room was airy and more spacious than Sofia had expected. Alone in it now and with the door shut behind her, she went to the open window and stuck her head out, closing her eyes and drawing a deep breath. She then simply marvelled at the view and couldn’t believe her luck. Not only could she see a tiny strip of the sea at the end of the road up ahead, but she also had a beautiful view of a lush park. Over the leafy treetops, the oriental minarets atop the Royal Pavilion glinted in the sunlight.

  Back in Athens, her mother had brought her home a few leaflets from Brighton to look at, just to give her an idea of what’s to do and what sights to look forward to. Although Sofia only longed to rest her eyes upon the West Pier, indifferent to anything else, she’d simply gawked at the pictures of the Royal Pavilion. Its Indian-style architecture and grand halls had made her change her mind to explore Brighton further. She couldn’t believe she could see the minarets from her room. This had increased her elation even further.

  Without further ado, she set about to unpack, thinking she could then go out and explore a little, getting a snack too in the process. Of course, the first thing she intended to do was head for the seafront and look for the West Pier. Judging from the rudimentary maps in the leaflets she’d seen, it was within a short walking distance away.

  As she removed clothes, books and toiletries from her suitcases, placing them in the small spaces of her wardrobe, she realised quickly enough that she would have to choose. Not everything was going to fit in, especially as half of the space in the wardrobe had been claimed already. This was no surprise to her, as the secretary had duly informed her that her roommate, a girl from Sweden, had arrived just a couple of days earlier.

  Just as she contemplated packing all the remainder of her clothes in a single suitcase, the door swung open and a young girl walked in with urgency. The first thing Sofia noticed about her was the wild hairdo and the striking colour of her baggy trousers.

  “Oops!” said the girl, registering Sofia’s stunned expression. “So sorry. I wouldn’t have barged in like that had I known someone was in here.”

  “That’s okay,” said Sofia smiling at her.

  The girl mirrored Sofia’s expression and strode over to her, then offered her hand in a confident gesture. “Hi, I’m Annika. I am from Sweden. I can tell by your accent that you’re not English either.”

  “No, I am Greek. My name is Sofia, pleased to meet you,” she said shaking her hand.


  “Oh! Yassou! Efcharisto!”

  “You speak Greek, I can’t believe it!” Sofia’s eyes turned huge.

  Annika gave a frantic wave and Sofia noticed her wrist was heavily adorned with leather straps, thin like shoe laces, entwined around her wrists and tied crudely in knots here and there. She hadn’t seen that before on anyone else, but tactfully, she said nothing.

  “Trust me, that’s all the Greek I know!” said Annika in a booming voice that was an octave or two lower than the average girl’s. It also rang heavy with her thick, Scandinavian accent. “But I’ve been to your country twice. In Rhodes and in Crete. Loved them both. Paradise!” she said, emphasising the last word with widened eyes.

  “I’ve been to Rhodes too,” said Sofia. “I live in Athens. And you? Where in Sweden do you live?”

  “I’m a city girl too. I’m from Gothenburg, but no Acropolis where I come from,” she said with a sweet smile, causing Sofia to feel flattered.

  “What are you going to study?” asked Sofia.

  “Art and Design. You?”

  “The very same! That’s brilliant!”

  The girls carried on talking amicably, finding they had a lot to say. Sofia continued to unpack, while Annika helped her by making more room for her in the drawers, wherever possible, and by handing the odd hanger to her.

  She was an odd kind of girl. Kind and polite, but at the same time, quite different to all the girls Sofia had ever met, be it Greek or English ones. For one, she was very tall and rather butch, as if she did weight training or something similar, but Sofia didn’t think it would be tactful to ask her about that. By now, she also ached to know why she chose to wear those tacky leather bracelets on her wrists. Just to boggle her even more, she wore a single leather strap snugly around her neck too, and wore her hair in a boyish cut with a superfluous fringe on one side that fell generously over her brow. On the back, trimmed asymmetrically, her hair reached down rather long, to the base of her neck. She wore orange baggy trousers and a T-shirt that read ‘Oslo’. It had the Norwegian flag emblazoned across the front and a gaping hole on one sleeve. Clearly, she loved that old tattered t-shirt too much to part with it just yet.