by Ana Simons
I let go of her hand and stay here, frozen, watching her walk away. And it consumes me in a way I no longer thought possible, this feeling that my life has just crumbled into tiny pieces all over again.
ONE WEEK LATER…
15 UNWANTED MEMORIES
THE CURSOR ON THE COMPUTER keeps blinking at me and all I can do is stare. I’m supposed to be working on the restoration project of an art gallery in Edinburgh, yet here I am, obsessing, consumed by thoughts of Olivia.
I’m trying hard to forget what happened, just like she asked, but damn it, I feel my brain has been hijacked. I’m either revisiting distant memories or vacantly gazing through the office window, observing the people going in and out of the Penderel’s Oak, the pub right across our building.
More often than I wish, it’s her face I see in the middle of the busy street.
I close my eyes and rub my temples, feeling totally helpless, with no idea of what to do.
What I do know is, if I don’t manage to gather my wits together soon, my father will storm into this office and remind me that this firm – one he so proudly founded almost thirty years ago and which has a portfolio of important award-winning projects – cannot afford to keep screw-ups who don’t do their job efficiently.
And he’s absolutely right. For a lot of different reasons, but mostly because I really owe him that. Last year’s near disaster took a hard toll on all of us, but not even for a second did he hesitate to stand by me throughout the entire mess.
So, thank God, it’s Friday. I need to go out, clear my head, and get over last weekend. Maybe watch a ball game with Simon and check how he’s doing?
On second thought, the way life’s treating him lately, I’m afraid it’d hardly cheer me up. Maybe I could find some company for dinner and then hit a club?
Resolutely I grab my mobile and search through my contacts.
Beatrice. No, too chatty.
Denise. Nope, too posh.
Joseph– Shit, no! The memory of our disastrous argument makes my stomach turn and I give up on the idea.
The truth is, I don’t want to be with anyone else.
I want her.
“Damn it,” I mutter under my breath as I toss my mobile back to the table, the frustration consuming me, eating me from the inside out.
“You all right?” Millie asks over the rim of her glasses, already on her way out of my office. I didn’t even notice her enter.
“Excuse me?”
“I asked you if you wanted me to go through everything with you.”
“Through what?”
She points at my desk, a look of concern plastered on her face. “The documents you asked for. Next week’s meeting with the Xiaowan Group? Everything all right? Can I get you something, a coffee maybe?”
Her questions remain suspended as I let my gaze fall to the file folder and my mind refocuses on the task I have in hand. Interrupting the awkward moment, my phone rings.
“No, thank you. You can go now.” I wait until she leaves to pick up the receiver. “Anderson.”
“Hey, you didn’t join us for a coffee this morning. You okay, mate?” I quickly scan the floor through the glass walls. It’s Jake, from the opposite office.
I give my shoulder a quick shake. “I’m good. What’s up?”
“Listen, I kind of… I need your advice on something; it’s serious. You up for an after-work drink? Or maybe you already have other plans…”
“Sure. I myself may need a couple drinks too. What do you mean, serious?”
“It’s about Claire, man. I really fucked up this time.”
I raise my head and look at him again. He’s pinching the bridge of his nose as if trying to ward off a headache.
*
“So, what did you want to talk to me about?”
After two pints and forty minutes of bullshit talk about who’s better geared up for this year’s Premier League, Manchester United or Chelsea, Jake should finally get to the point.
He rubs the back of his neck, clearly nervous, before finishing his beer in one pull. “I’ve been kind of… seeing someone else.”
“Oh, sod. And now what? Planning to file for divorce?”
“Fuck, no! Why would I do that?”
“Right.” I nod, unable to avoid the cynical grin.
If there’s something men are usually bad at, it’s at expressing their emotions; it feels kind of unmanly, I guess. But here’s something we always excel at: compartmentalising stuff. Apparently, screwing around is okay, but leaving the wife is a terrible idea.
“The problem is… my… friend says she wants more and I’m feeling kind of trapped. Don’t really know what to do, man.”
“Who’s your friend? Do I know her?”
He lowers his head, fidgeting with the coaster. “Patricia...”
“The Patricia Lockwood? Have you lost your mind?” I hiss. “Wonderful, fucking wonderful! Oh man, that was so stupid!”
Scrubbing at his face, he heaves a long-drawn-out sigh. “I know. But she totally gets me, man. And she’s amazing and wicked smart and–”
Cute and full of energy. And next, you’ll be asking why you wasted so many years of your life with Claire and didn’t notice her in the first place. Then you’ll say the frigging universe must really hate you, for keeping you away from her all this time.
This is basically like one of those classic songs everyone knows by heart, ‘Yellow Submarine’, ‘Jingle-Fucking-Bells’, or whatever. We’ve heard it so many times, we could all sing along.
Sure, she’s hot as hell, she’s got legs up to here, and there’s this huge connection. And the sex? Obviously, it’s mind-blowing and, unlike Claire, she’s into all sorts of kinky fuckery!
I really have a short fuse for this kind of shit and, to tell the truth, I think Jake’s an imbecile. Claire is a brilliant woman.
Besides, I also think there are boundaries that cannot be crossed. Like this one here: with so many women out there, why would you want to shag your wife’s best friend? Those are precisely the kind of complications you should avoid like an Ebola outbreak.
Anyway, I’ve got so many other things on my mind right now I’ve already pulled the plug on my attention. Out of male solidarity, I’m just letting him talk. He’s getting it off his chest and looking for some validation. The circle is getting tight and he needs someone to assure him he’s only half guilty. Half psychotic and running on adrenaline, more likely, but I’ll do him the favour and give him a consoling pat on the shoulder.
While waiting for another round of beers, I lean against the counter and let my eyes wander around the room, assessing if I want to hang around a while more or go home and sulk on the couch.
Eventually, my gaze fixes on a cute brunette in a tight top sitting a few tables away from us. I grin inwardly, smugly satisfied with the fact she’s been flirting with me in a rather obvious fashion, but not convinced it’d do me any good.
The moment I’m pondering if I should go invite her and her friend to join us, a light touch on my shoulder intrudes into my thoughts.
“Brian, what a coincidence! How nice to see you here!”
A shudder moves through me and for an instant I’m unable to react.
“Don’t look so surprised!” Moving past the awkward silence, Mary gives me a quick kiss.
“I’ve never seen you around here before.”
“I’m with a few colleagues from work, we won a major case today. Just came over to say hello.” She jerks her head towards a table at the bottom and smiles, beamingly. As if nothing had happened.
And to me, it hadn’t.
“Hello, then.”
She rests a hand on my arm, her intense blue eyes riveted on mine. “You’re looking great. Hope everything’s fine with you.”
“It is.”
“We haven’t talked in a while. Maybe we could catch up sometime...”
Another tense, awkward silence falls between us. We’re both aware neither of us has forgotten our la
st encounter. Her unexpected visit and what happened before I left the house in a fury.
“Look, your drinks have arrived, you’d better go. Enjoy your evening.”
I turn back to the counter and don’t even bother waiting for her to leave. But I do watch her head back to her table out of the corner of my eye. Her flawless face. The way she’s always so impeccably dressed in her skirt suits, which only enhance the sophisticated attitude that makes her stand out from the rest.
Five years of your life, that’s how much she cost you!
My stomach churns at the multitude of unwanted memories rushing to the surface.
Invariably kind and balanced, everyone loved her. The small-town girl who came to the big city to become a brilliant lawyer, to move at ease within the higher circles and social gatherings my father never cared about, but his business partner was always so willing to introduce her to. In hindsight, too perfect, too good to be true.
Am I over her? Getting over someone who disappointed you like that is rarely a quick and easy process. But yes, I’m over her. The thing is, she’s not just any ex-girlfriend. She’s the one who was bright and perfect, someone I had on a pedestal, who everyone worshipped as if she were the Lord’s gift to our family.
Until she cheated on me, shamelessly and repeatedly. But not with some random guy. For fuck’s sake, she had to do it with Peter Rogers, my dad’s associate! And more, his best friend. A man I’d respected and admired my entire life!
Unlike my father – the brilliant creative mind passionate about the essence of architecture and with an incredible eye for detail – Rogers is made up of a different fibre. He not only makes sure everything is always on track and everyone is working to their full potential, he’s also a tough negotiator with a killer business instinct. Thanks to my father’s vision and talent and Rogers’s gut feeling and ambition, their business thrived to levels they probably hadn’t imagined when they started out almost three decades ago.
Eloquent, and with a charming personality, Rogers has long perfected the fine art of getting into as many knickers as he wants, we all knew that. Women have always been his soft spot. Three wives. Three nasty divorces.
With Mary he was all fucking smiles too, but I was like a son to him – or so I thought – so how could I have ever seen that coming?
Mary and I went our separate ways, my father was forced to call off a thirty-year-old partnership and take over the firm all by himself.
But what a stiff price he had to pay to get him out of our lives.
With no partnership agreement or predefined dissolution strategy, the greedy son of a bitch wouldn’t settle for the independent valuation and refused my father’s offer for the buyout which he himself imposed. Based on his expertise and industry contacts, he should have a bigger cut, he insisted. Wanting to avoid a long, drawn-out court battle, my father went into debt and gave him what he wanted: a ridiculous amount of money and our family property in Cranleigh.
I feel my jaw tightening. The idea that a place that means so much to us was handed over on a platter still burns through every fibre of my being.
That and the image of my father, lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to machines and IVs, recovering from a heart attack.
After we had an argument.
I accused him of being weak, of caving in to the demands of a demented maniac without putting up a fight for what was right and just.
I regret it to this day.
All he wanted was to protect us. Protect me.
16 WAITING FOR LOVE
‘FUCK LOVE,’ I tell myself as I set the glass down with a decisive click.
Obsessive thinking. Separation anxiety. Bad surprises. Sleepless nights. Rebound hook-ups. Who the fuck needs this shit?
Running into Mary today calls this unpleasant feeling to my mind of how much love sometimes sucks. It is pretty much like walking on a mine-riddled field: you may not make it out alive. I survived, it’s true, but the time it took me to lick the wounds, heal the scars, and get back on my feet again sometimes makes me wonder if it’s worth it.
So, instead of risking getting blown to pieces again, maybe I should just enjoy life in a less complicated fashion. This evening, for example. Instead of sulking, I could have some fun with that cute brunette.
She’s right here, in front of me, shaking her curvy bum, sending me all the buying signals. Besides, I have the feeling she’s looking for a quick fix, so I wouldn’t even have to sweat that much to pull this one away for a little one on one.
And that seems like a good plan to you?
No, it’s a fucking terrible plan.
“Damn, she’s hot,” Jake says, fixing her over the rim of his glass. “Not to mention, there’s ‘shag me’ written all over her face.”
I give an uninterested shrug and take another sip, my mind torn between flashes of the woman who doesn’t want anything to do with me and the fact I need to get her out my system.
“Hey, listen!” He puts one hand to his ear as if straining to hear some far-off sound.
“What?”
“Can’t you hear it? Her pussy screaming? ‘Fuck me! Fuck me hard!’” Jake punches me on the arm. “What are you waiting for? You’re a goddamn wuss now? If you don’t man the fuck up, I’ll do her myself!” he adds, his eyes travelling up the length of the brunette’s body, devouring her.
“Yeah, do that, you moron. Because you don’t have enough problems already.”
“I’m into deep shit, aren’t I? What the fuck am I supposed to do now?” Jake drops his face into his hands.
“Okay, mate. Let’s analyse this. You love her?”
“Who?”
“Your wife, you idiot.”
“Of course.”
“Right.” I give him a cynical look.
Jake sags deeper into the chair.
“In that case, you know what you need to do.”
His brow furrows, there’s utter despair in his eyes. “But I can’t leave Patricia.”
“Think straight, mate. One thing is bonking, shaking the sheets. But then there’s that other thing, love or whatever. You’d-give-up-your-left-kidney-if-she-needed kind of thing, you know? Come on, you can’t possibly feel the same thing for both of them.”
“I can’t, because she’ll blow the whistle. If I leave her, she’ll tell Claire. And I’ll lose everything...”
The beach house, the convertible – and Claire’s father, whose prominent position in the world of high finance sure has brought him a lot of perks along the way.
“Yeah, it’s a total bummer.” I nod, with feigned sympathetic understanding. “But I suppose you have to man up and admit what happened. What else can you possibly do?”
“Either way I’m fucked, aren’t I?” Jake lets out a heavy sigh, the realisation there’s no way he’ll get out of this in one piece dawning hard on him.
“You are. You’re knee deep in shit and I can’t be of any help to you on this. Sorry.”
I stand and tap him on the shoulder, in a hopeless gesture. Then I head to the counter and sit on a stool while waiting for another two pints.
Avicii’s ‘Waiting for Love’ invades the club and the screaming crowd begins to undulate enthusiastically. I find the dark-eyed brunette in the middle of the dance floor, which is now packed with writhing, gyrating bodies, moving in sync to the throbbing beat of the loud music. She’s jumping and spinning with her eyes closed, both hands waving in the air, her hips swaying wildly, her braless breasts bouncing freely.
I observe her for a while, dancing and laughing, following the contagious vibe. But then, suddenly, in the middle of the flashing lights and all that psychedelic frenzy, she turns around and a rush of energy takes over my body.
I’m seeing someone else. The woman with long golden-brown hair who’s been filling up a lot of my thoughts lately.
Damn it, it’s happening again! I just can’t get her off my mind. It feels like a bloody drug, I think about her every ten seconds. No, every 5.5 seconds. Th
e other 4.5 are spent on ways to forget about her. And on sex. Always with her.
In an effort to shake off these thoughts, I turn back to the counter to check if our beers are here already. I’m still changing position when in the tiniest fragment of time and through the narrow gaps between all those bodies in motion, I find Mary’s eyes boring into me.
Curious, I reciprocate the gaze.
She flashes a smile and begins to run a hand through her hair, then play with her earlobe – in a far too sensuous way to make it a casual gesture. After sipping her drink, she licks her lips and bites her lower lip, teasing me. Then she lets out a small chuckle.
I scowl.
What exactly are you trying to accomplish with that?
There’s nothing amusing about it.
Spinning around on the stool, I turn my eyes and mind away from the sad scene.
Moments later, when I’m about to grab our beers and head back to the table, I feel a light hand run down my back.
“How about if we catch up today?” Mary’s voice resonates through me.
“Excuse me?”
She rests her hand on my thigh and comes closer to breathe into my ear, “How about if we go elsewhere? Just the two of us?”
“Sorry, again? The music’s too loud, can’t hear you.” I act nonchalant, pretending I don’t understand her advances.
Her eyes twinkle with mischief and her lips form a slightly crooked smile. “You know,” she insists, her hand sliding up my leg, her knuckles surreptitiously grazing my groin, “I’ve been watching you. And what I’d like to do with you right now is actually a criminal offence if done in public.”
I catch her hand immediately, stopping it from moving any further. “Listen to me, what happened the other day was a mistake. It’s not going to happen again.”
She covers my lips with a finger and comes closer, to whisper in my ear, “I’m feeling so horny right now...”
