by Alam, Donna
He no longer wants me, and he never really needed me. And I surely don’t deserve him after what I’ve done. But there’s one thing left to do for both our benefits. It’s the thing I’ve been trying to do since I left. Stop being this lying psycho fuck-up and move on; only this time, do it honestly.
I pull myself to sit and rub my eyes with the heels of my palms. I feel wiped out. Empty. Like I’ve cried for days.
This is why I don’t do tears, per se.
The room is bright, the curtains open, and it’s not helping my tear-weary eyes. Birds sing from the trees outside as I shuffle to the side of the bed, my stomach suddenly rumbling. I can’t remember the last time I ingested anything other than alcohol. I swing my legs over the side of the mattress, ignoring the tattered remains of my knickers clinging to the covers like some kind of . . . fucking flotsam.
Kind of appropriate, I think. Appropriate to how I feel; like the tiniest of current could carry me away. Insubstantial. Wrecked.
Regardless, I can’t take to my bed—this bed. Hell, any bed. Blessed or cursed, with a liberal dose of stoicism, I’ve also a fair helping of common sense. Believe it or not. It’s obvious some sort of cleaning crew will hit this place sometime today, which means I need to not be here.
My shoes lie at opposite ends of the room, and I try to recall how that happened. Did he throw them? Did I kick them off? My dress lies in a forlorn puddle at the bottom of the bed, looking decidedly sadder than something cast aside in passion. I hop down and begin to gather my things, as naked and as ungainly as a newborn foal. I almost topple forward as I bend to grasp a shoe from the floor, and I’m still a little dizzy as I straighten in front of a large silver mirror, wishing quite suddenly I hadn’t.
My reflection . . . it’s a mess. The side of my neck is a spider web of angry bite marks, and as I turn, it only looks worse. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he did this on purpose, knowing I’d be making my way out of here in a backless dress. Immediately as this occurs to me, I’m dismissing the thought. Dylan was always more at home with his animal self, consumed by the moment without thought for anything else. And last night was . . . all I asked him for it to be. A pulse had pounded between my legs, blood rushing through my veins, and I was sure he could hear my heart beating in my throat. So sure, I’d moved my head to one side as he slid his way up my body, taunting him to bite. To make it hurt. These marks on my body? I’d asked for them. With my body. With my actions. With my words.
With my desperation.
We fucked. We didn’t make love. He doesn’t love you. Not anymore.
With my belongings clasped to my stomach, I glance down at my thighs. The pattern repeats in the bruise of his hips and in his angry red fingerprints. Marks that will no doubt deepen in colour before the end of the day. In the mirror, I finger the panda streaks under my eyes, distracted by the sense something isn’t right. Beyond what I’ve done and what I’m feeling, I mean. All at once, I become aware of the source of my disquiet. The gold chain I wear around my neck, the one that holds my wedding ring, is gone.
I’ve demeaned myself. Fucked up. And now I’ve . . . I’ve . . .
Lost it all.
‘I’m such a fuck-up!’ I yell to the empty room—to my reflection.
Beyond my distraught expression, something catches my attention on the console by the bed. A sheaf of white papers, folded and worn.
‘No.’
I know what this is, even as I’m trying to convince myself it’s something else.
‘No, no, no!’
In a few steps, I’m clutching the paperwork—my paperwork—to my chest, my clothing forgotten. Everything I asked for is there; Dylan’s signature next to every marked x. My legs slide out from under me. Seems I’m not done crying today.
Chapter 18
Ivy
‘I’m no’ the hair expert, but are you sure you’re supposed to add that much bleach?’
‘What? Oh, fuck.’ I tip the bottle upright, staring into the purple tinting bowl and the waste of product I’ve just distractedly half-filled it with. It’s happening a lot lately; my zoning out, lost in the memories of LA. It’s almost as though I’d left a small piece of myself there. It’s been six weeks since I woke in that cottage. Six weeks since Dylan fucked me then left me without another word.
That morning, I’d cried myself dry before realising I had no one else to blame and no one to make it all better. I had to pull myself together and get out of there. I’d slipped on my creased dress and stepped out into the bright California sunshine without knowing where the hell I was. Or what I’d find. My shoes dangled from my fingers as I’d walked barefoot through the gardens, my free hand crushing my divorce papers and purse to my chest. The birds chirped, and the world carried on as normal, yet I’d felt no more substantial than mist. I was empty of everything; my focus has been depleted—as though being filled by Dylan as he’d fucked me had drained me of everything. I was empty. Spent. But how I’d felt and how I’d appeared were two different things, something confirmed as I’d found the cleaning crew. The way they looked at me? I knew I looked like a hoor—a whore, a hooker—for sure.
But kindness can be found in the most unusual of places. As I’d reached the pool, arranging my hair as best as I could to cover the bite marks I could feel on my neck, shoulders, and back, the crew’s chatter came to an abrupt halt. And there among the abandoned condom wrappers, empty glasses, and discarded bottles of lube, I’d found someone who was willing to tell me the exact address and call me a cab. I was treated with such concern and care; I think maybe they thought I’d been abused in some way.
If only they knew.
I’d arrived home—back at Dylan’s house, I mean—to find the place empty. I couldn’t even say goodbye to my dog because wherever Dylan had gone, he’d taken Nigel. I’m certain I’m allowed to hate him for that, if nothing else. Robbed of my dignity, I can take, but of my dog for a second time? No chance.
But if Nigel had been there, what could I have done, short of dog-napping him? Even to do that, I’d have had to borrow the freight money from Mac, and I’m sure he’d need all kinds of shots and maybe a pet passport? No, I wouldn’t have gotten away with it, but it would’ve been nice to have one more cuddle. One more walk.
At least the dog walker seemed to like him. She seemed to like Dylan, too.
‘Fuckers,’ I mumble.
‘Excuse me,’ says an indignant Nat. ‘Did you just say a swear—twice?’ My gaze swings to her. I’d forgotten she was there. I sigh in the face of her what the fuck face. ‘If you’re gonna start swearing regularly, we might as well sponsor one of them micro-economies, not just one kid.’
The salon currently sponsors a child on the proceeds of a swear jar, mostly filled by Nat. It’s a failed exercise to curtail her language but with a charitable upside. I’d thought it’d help her understand how bad her language is. Instead, it seems I’m joining her.
Unable to hold her questioning gaze, I turn and tip the contents of the bleach and tint soup into the bin. ‘Your ears work just fine.’
She tsks, adding in a quiet voice, ‘What on earth happened to you in LA?’
I had a wake-up call. ‘Nothing.’ Other than I had an epiphany, one where I discovered I’m not as nice a person as I’d like to think.
‘And this?’ She holds up a bag from the bakery. The one holding the remains of a chocolate donut. Just a smidge of chocolate icing, really. ‘I bet it was fried in animal fat,’ she taunts.
I don’t deign to answer; my back still to her as I begin to wash my hands. It wasn’t—fried in animal fat, that is—because I’d asked. The strange thing is I think I’d have still rammed the thing down my throat if it had been in animal fat and inside a beef pie. That was a donut I’d craved so badly this morning, along with the cappuccino with extra sugar. My mother would call it eating my feelings.
‘It’s like I don’t even know you.’ Nat’s eyes do an obvious up then down sweep of my body. ‘And if I saw you
on the street, I don’t think I’d recognise you these days. Where’s your fucking spark?’
I laugh. Hard.
No, I mean, my laugh is hard.
‘I’m serious. Since you came back, you’ve not been the same. Quiet and grumpy—you don’t even do your hair!’ My hand goes to my messy bun self-consciously because she’s right. ‘You’re a shite advert for this place. Put some bloody lippy on—reintroduce your hair to the GHDs.’ She pauses, her lips pursing as she looks at me with a sudden intensity. ‘Is this about Fin?’
I breathe quite suddenly, relieved at the direction of her assumptions. Nat may be brash and loud, but sometimes, she’s emotionally astute. Yeah, sometimes.
‘Fin is fine,’ I mumble, grabbing a dishcloth to dry my wet hands. ‘Or at least she will be, so long as she doesn’t find out about that . . . that bum hole turning up all the time.’
In this instance, the bum hole in question is Rory Tremaine; the man who’d given my bestie the run around while I was in LA. The pair had been hooking up—casual, she’d said, and still maintains it was—until it became something entirely else. Something heartbreaking, it turns out. Which is exactly why I’d warned her against becoming involved in her emotional state. Finding out your dead husband had been cheating . . . and then all the other stuff. As it was, Fin discovered recently that Rory’s about to become a father; whether by an old girlfriend or a current one is less clear.
I clasp the dishcloth tightly between my fingers. Poor Fin. While plenty shocking, these aren’t even the most deplorable of her recent discoveries. No, that accolade would belong to Fin finding out that her less than darling husband had plans beyond a suicide. Plans that were so wretched, I can’t even speak of them without wanting to rage.
Dead? Right now I could kill him myself.
‘He seems serious about being in Auchkeld every weekend until he finds her.’
‘What?’ Nat’s words bring me back to the moment.
‘That bloke, Rory, and what he threatened last weekend. He’s gonna keep turning up, isn’t he?’
‘He can please himself—come until he’s as sick of this awful driecht weather as we are because I’m not telling him a thing.’ Since my return, the weather has been like a Morrissey tune. Bloody miserable. ‘He doesn’t deserve to know where Fin is after what he put her through, whether he realised he made some woman pregnant or not.’ I shake my head angrily. ‘She’s been through enough.’
‘It might not be all his fault, Ivy. Maybe he didn’t know.’
I raise my head from my second attempt at mixing tint. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re not taking his side, are you?’
‘I’ve been glared at by much scarier people than you,’ Nat answers, her words bland. ‘I’m not on his side. I’m on hers, but she also didn’t tell him about being a widow.’
‘Yeah, well, turned out she wasn’t, was she?’ It’s as confusing as all buggery.
‘That’s not the point. They were both keeping secrets, and that’s not healthy for any relationship. Ivy, that man has it hard for her. Can you no’ tell? I mean why else would he be bothering us when he could be out doin’ someone else?’
‘I don’t give a stuff who he does, so long as he’s nowhere near Fin. And I’ll damn sure keep her away from Scotland until he takes the hint.’ I’ve even booked train tickets to travel to London next weekend to visit. It’s where she’s working now.
‘It’s not your place to make decisions for her. At some point, she’s gonna work out you’re trying to keep her out of Auchkeld.’
‘Yeah, well, by that time, she’ll be over him. She’s in no hurry to return to a place she has no ties.’
‘You’re her ties, Ivy. We’re her ties.’
‘Good job I’m booked on the train to see her soon then, isn’t it? I suggest you do the same.’
‘So that’s it? That’s your big plan? What about stopping him from being here and calling week after week? With the big house near to opening, he’ll be around plenty.’
‘I might have to ask Mac to have a word with him.’ My responding tone is grim.
‘You mean you’ll ask him to do the big brother thing.’ When I don’t answer, she adds, ‘You’re gonna get Mac to threaten him?’
‘If that’s what it takes.’
We stare at each other, neither one willing to budge an inch, when the door to the kitchen opens. We both turn our heads.
‘Ivy, your client out here will be needin’ Nat’s waxing skills if she’s to wait any longer.’ My brow furrows at Ted’s expression, which immediately turns to a withering glance at the ceiling. ‘She’s been waiting so long she’ll have grown a beard as full as mine.’
‘Will she need colour to hide the grey, too?’ Nat responds, saccharine sweet.
‘You know what, Natasha?’ Ted asks, stepping into the tiny kitchen now. ‘You’re a troll.’
Nat scoffs, folding her arms as she rests her hip against the countertop. ‘At least I don’t look like one.’
Ted begins to huff. And flounce a little. ‘You’re a cheeky besom! You take that back.’
‘Okay, okay—enough of that now. You can’t keep going around rubbing each other up the wrong way.’
‘I would’nae rub anything up against that girl. You don’t know what you might catch!’ Before the final words are out of his mouth, he stumbles back in response to Nat lurching forward.
‘Ha! You wouldn’t have any idea what to do with me, you big girl’s blouse.’
‘M-maybe not,’ Ted stammers back, now standing his ground. Well, once he’s realised Nat’s movement was all bluff.
‘Come on—knock it off now before you’re both out of a job. I mean it.’ I point the soggy tinting brush at each of them in turn. ‘It’s like having a couple of kids. I’ve had it up to here,’ I say, bringing my hand to my forehead. ‘Now, apologise, both of you.’
The pair mumble insincere apologies, making me wonder what was the point. I have no idea what the issue is, other than I assume Nat thinks he’s a waste of facial follicle and Ted’s probably jealous of Nat’s height. I may have employed the man, but I wasn’t here for his first week, meaning I’m not privy to what went on, but by the time I got back, it was already obvious they were never going to be friends. At this point, I’d settle for them ignoring each other because if they can’t get along, I don’t know what I’ll do. I’m beginning to think they enjoy being mean to each other.
‘Yeah, I’m sorry, Ted,’ Nat says. ‘I didn’t mean to imply you were a troll.’ I narrow my eyes at her as she pushes past the man in her effort to flounce out the door; I know she’s not done. ‘Because I totally meant to say garden gnome.’
Chapter 19
Ivy
Last time I visited Fin in London was just after I’d flown back from LA. She had a new job down there but wasn’t expected to start for a few weeks. However, inadvertently finding out the man you love has another woman pregnant can make a girl change her plans pretty rapidly. Accordingly, I’d changed mine, too. Nat and June assured me they had everything under control at the salon, so I’d booked a connecting flight to London timed within two hours of my long-haul flight touching down. We’re close, Fin and I. We spent our teenage years dashing in and out of each other’s bedrooms, crushing on the same boys. Got drunk together our first time, and even shared a flat at one time. But then, as they say, we put away childish things. We went our separate ways and, in the process, started hiding things. We’re still as close, but our friendship has changed in its dynamic. Maybe due to a kind of preservation or, in my case, maybe more a selfishness. But whatever the reason, we’ve hidden things—my marriage and, up until recently, Fin’s sadness in hers. Maybe neither of us was prepared to listen to the other—the voice of reason in the face of the troubles we’d made for ourselves.
But my past is milk already spilt—milk that has soured on the carpet. I wished I could say I was still crying over it, but I haven’t shed a tear since I woke up in the bed with Dyla
n gone. That’s not quite true; I did cry once, and the embarrassment from a stem of tears and snot I couldn’t slow was enough to make me promise it’d be the last time. No more tears from this girl. Business as usual, I’ll keep my feelings locked up.
It’s too late for me to confide in her. What good would it do? I unburden myself and make her worry, but for what? My reality would remain unchanged. I couldn’t do that to her; she has enough to deal with herself. And, Jesus Christ, I’m so angry about all that on her behalf—hasn’t she gone through enough already at the hands of another man, her feckless husband—without being screwed over by Rory, the man she loves?
The truth, if I cared to examine it at any length, would be I’m glad I’m heading to London. That I’m happy to be there to support her because while I’d do anything rather than see her unhappy, focussing on Fin’s heartbreak might prevent me from examining my own.
I was doing my best to ignore anything relating to Dylan. To what I’d done. And I probably still am. Even now as I sit on the train, on my way once again to visit Fin, several weeks later. Last time, she was understandably devastated but has since spent hours reassuring me she’s fine—that she’s moving on. But I know she still hurts. I can hear it in her voice when she calls. And I know because I hurt, too. Love and pain, pain and love. These things don’t disappear overnight. So while she’s all positive affirmations over the phone, I know better. I know loss twists in her chest like a knife. Not regret over Marcus, her bastard of a husband—a man who deserves none of her regret—but for Rory. For taking a chance. For falling in love. I know with certainty that every time she thinks of him, her heart constricts, the barbed vines wrapped around it tightening.
Again, I know because it happens to me.
Scenery blows past the window as I reflect on how much time I have to think these days, especially now that she’s no longer living with me. During the day, I’m busy with the business, same old, but evenings, I seem to spend a lot of time wondering. I know I was unfair in my apportioning of blame. Don’t get me wrong—Dylan did plenty wrong, but if it hadn’t been for my cowardice that night I let him believe something that wasn’t true, I might never have found myself on the way to a divorce. These days, I no longer think of him with malice. Instead, I have . . . regret. And a sadness I try to hide from. Regrets. Like the song says, I have a tonne of them. I regret the choices I’ve made and the hurt I’ve caused. Most of all, I regret leaving Dylan.
