by Alam, Donna
‘I’m sorry,’ I rasp, words sounding unused. ‘I’m so sorry. You’re just—’ like my fucking obsession— ‘and it makes me feel . . .’
A sudden gust of wind from the coast, and my words are lost; the volume of her peasant dress plastered suddenly to her body.
And it makes me feel . . . confused.
Shock.
Horror.
Fucking delight.
Oh, God. It makes me feel . . .
Like a motherfucking caveman.
‘Is that . . .’ A baby? Too many veggie tacos? ‘Fucking mine?’
My words are delivered like a slap as her hands instinctively cover the roundness beneath her breasts. I slide my hands up my cheeks and into my hair, feet planted like roots to the earth.
Because I want to run to her or run at her.
Take her in my arms, or take her arms in my hands.
All those things and it makes not one drop of sense.
‘No.’ I come back to myself; it seems she’s not the only one getting verbally slapped today. In my defence, I hadn’t reached for hardness; it’s just shock.
She’s pregnant, and I’m . . . But what if this baby isn’t yours?
‘This has nothing to do with you, Dylan.’
Math. Do the math, you fuckwit. How many months? What size of bump?
Her words bring my thoughts to a sudden stop. Like a mallet to the head. Is this the truth or another attempt to get me to leave? There, with the wind plastering the dress to her vulnerability, she stands strong. Resolute. But the way her trembling lips curl in on themselves? And those words—how she said them—hold too much passion, too much depth. She’s hurt, and she’s lashing out, but instinctively, I know I put that baby there.
A baby. She’s having a baby. We’re having a baby.
‘Let’s just get that straight,’ she demands. ‘You have no part in this.’
Just her alone. No one else to be involved. Fucking typical. Despite knowing to the marrow in my bones that she’s carrying my child, my fucking mouth runs again.
‘Who’s the unlucky fuck then, wife?’
She has the audacity to narrow her eyes at me, folding her arms across her chest and accentuating the small bump beneath. Our child. How did I not notice? Even within the folds of her dress, how did I not see? Because I’m an idiot and that’s the reason she’s currently glaring at me. You’d imagine it would be hard to stare down your nose at someone when it’s as tiny as hers, but she seems to be managing just fine.
I struggle to contain my smile, though just barely manage.
‘Really?’ She cocks a hip; a motion that, in the past, would’ve served only as a dare. A cocked hip and folded arms and it’s on. ‘Is it an issue for you, Dylan? You, who’ve had your dick in half of Hollywood.’
‘Like you care.’
‘Like you’d know,’ she responds, shock immediately colouring her face.
‘How the hell am I supposed to know anything when you walked away?’ With each word, my volume increases until I’m surely shouting.
‘Y-you don’t want to know, and you don’t need to know. Just like we don’t need anything from you.’
‘Who’s the we in this picture?’ I grate the question out. Even though I’m certain she means her and the baby in her belly, the cave dweller in me can’t help where his tiny mind lands. ‘You and your new man?’ The thought is pure rage.
‘Yeah, sure.’ Her hands are in the air like the words are throwaway. ‘If that makes it easier for you, absolutely. My new man.’
I take a step toward her, knowing full well what it must take her to stand her ground. Knowing and not giving a fuck in the midst of this pissed-off rage.
‘For once in your fucking life, say what you mean. Tell. Me. The. Truth.’
‘What do you want me to say?’ Plaintive. Her words sound more like a plea. Not an appeal for mercy, but something to make me go away. ‘Why are you even here?’
Why I’m here is for another conversation. Some things are more important than porn and court cases. Some things take precedence, and some things can wait.
‘What does it matter why? I’m here, and you need to tell me about that.’ My eyes dip to her waistline like they’re hypnotized.
‘That? That?’ she all but screeches. ‘That happens to be a two-thirds cooked baby, you idiot. Try referring to y—my child as something other than that.’
My eyes track up her body. Is it the cool breeze or our anger that has her nipples hard?
‘So it is mine then,’ I demand as my eyes land on hers. I know it, but her confirmation is required. I want the truth from her mouth.
‘Just do us both a favour and crawl back to whichever harlot’s bed you’ve rolled out of.’
This woman. So modest. At least, that’s what she’d like you to think.
‘Harlot?’ I raise one taunting brow. ‘You mean like Cindy? Or maybe Liza from the salon?’ My tone is benign, even if both names are aimed to rub old hurts. These aren’t girls I’ve fucked, but girls—colleagues of hers—who’d hit on me at one time or another, much to her distaste. Yeah, the wife no one knew about—at her insistence. The one who gave me a hard time over their interest anyway. ‘Or Lissa, the dog walker? Or are we talking about Georgia here?’
Arms folded again; her nose begins to twitch. It shouldn’t be cute, but it is. Cute and satisfying as it’s a sign that she’s losin’ it. Here it comes. The jealous streak. The green cascade. My Poison Ivy. And I love it.
‘Fucking slut!’ she bellows. Fists raised like she’d just love to clock me one, she stomps a tiny sandal-clad foot. ‘Why don’t you just fuck off back to whichever blonde bimbo’s hole you slipped out of last!’
‘She wasn’t blonde.’
And that’s the truth because Ivy was the last woman I was in. Not that there’d be any point in telling her, or any chance of her believing because I can hardly believe it myself. I’ve been off the booze and celibate for five or six months . . . six months. I can’t stop the smile creeping across my face. So that’s what six months pregnant looks like. Beautiful. And angry.
‘What are you fucking smirking at?’
‘Six months.’ Well, fuck me sideways.
‘How does your fiancée feel about your non-blonde slut?’
‘How does my wife feel? And slut shaming, Ivy, tsk-tsk. Do those girls really deserve to be called such names?’
‘Don’t wife me, you . . . bastard. And I meant you—you’re the slut!’
It’s all in the delivery, I suppose.
If her words are well-aimed barbs, they’re also poisoned with the truth. I feel raw—flayed—and turn away, unable to bear the weight of her accusing amber gaze. I am a slut. And a fuck up. And—
‘That’s right, Dylan. Just walk away,’ she crows from behind. ‘Maybe if you go back to the party, you’ll find someone to suck your dick. Don’t worry, I won’t tell your fiancée; she’ll learn for herself soon enough because that’s what you do, isn’t it? Ruin and hurt. Raze love to the ground.’
I stop in my tracks, forcing deep and even breaths through my chest. ‘Are you kidding me right now?’ I say, turning back to face her. ‘You spend months letting me believe you fucked someone else, and you expect me to—’
‘You let you believe, Dylan. And then you made damn sure into the bargain we were through.’
‘This right here is the problem.’ I’m pointing, I realise belatedly. More importantly, my eyes are glued to the swell of her stomach that, but for the earlier occurrence of a stiff breeze, I might’ve never have known about. And she would’ve done that to me. Let me go on through life without ever knowing what that night in L.A. cost her. What we made.
I put that there. My heart lifts. Life sprung from the midst of anger and punishment. The second thought is not so welcome and causes my stomach to churn.
‘This child won’t ever be your problem.’
She won’t look at me and has misunderstood. Again. My fault. Again.
; I shake my head and direct my gaze away.
‘No, that’s not the issue here, wife.’ As I say this, I know this is absolutely true. It’s frightening and fucked up and all kinds of wrong, but am I unhappy she’s carrying my child? I should be. But I’m not.
‘Don’t call me that. You don’t get to call me that.’
‘Fine, Mrs. Duffy, let me help you understand. The only wife I’m interested in is the one standing in front of me.’ She exhales a puff of breath that hits the air like a bullet. ‘And you’re pregnant. Well, guess what? So am I.’ She opens her mouth to disagree, and I cut her off. ‘You gonna tell me you’ve been fucking someone else? No, I didn’t think so,’ I add, reading her expression, her mind—fuck, her distaste. ‘That’s my baby you’re carrying—half of me. That means you don’t get to make all the decisions. Not anymore.’
Her eyes blaze like fire, tears only intensifying the effect. She inhales again, breathing out from her diaphragm this time.
‘How’s that meditating working out for you these days?’ A blow as low as a downward dog, and I don’t give a damn. ‘Because you don’t seem that chill, babe.’
‘Fine show of concern,’ I think she mumbles. ‘My blood pressure will be through the roof.’
‘What? Have you had problems—are you okay?’ My concern is immediate as is my regret.
‘No.’ I exhale, a relief that’s short lived as she adds, ‘Not that it has anything to do with you. I assume you’re here about the divorce, but Scottish law isn’t the most straightforward thing, and—’
‘I’m not here for that.’
‘Then why?’
I can’t . . . I can’t tell her about this fucking video. The court case, the circus that it’s bound to induce because all that is nothing compared to what stands before me.
Ivy.
My wife.
And how she’s trying to shut me out. From the jut of her chin to the firm line of her mouth, she’d keep me at arm’s length from her life. From my child’s life. Realisation of her betrayal almost weights me to the spot, but I won’t stand here. I won’t let her do this again. I take a step closer, the wind from the ocean billowing under her dress. She slaps at it, grabbing the short hem, flustered for a moment and not realising I’m in front of her until the tips of our shoes kiss.
‘You’re a fucking thief,’ I growl, staring down at her. ‘Stealing time and choices—robbing me of fucking fatherhood.’ My eyes fall lower, my hands rising as though magnetized. ‘Would you ever have told me?’ My voice cracks as my eyes rise to meet hers once again. ‘Would you have?’
‘I tried,’ she whispers, her eyes watery and contrite. Less defiant, at least. ‘And then you were getting married, so I decided—’
‘You decided? And on what fucking planet would I be getting married after what you put me through?’
‘You’re everywhere—Gylan, the celeb super-couple.’
‘What?’
‘That’s what they call you on the internet. The news—you’re everywhere. Even on Andrew Broughton’s show, you said—’
‘I don’t give a fuck what they call us—there is no us between me and her. And you know better than that. They pull stuff out of thin air—I can’t buy a coffee without being accused of boning a barista! They know shit about what’s going on in my real life, so don’t give me any of that bullshit. You know—you lived that life. Don’t kid a kidder, babe.’
Fuck this. Fuck her excuses, and fuck her. I’m not swallowing any of this.
‘But I didn’t,’ she whispers. ‘I didn’t live that life with you. We spent our marriage in a bubble—a bubble that burst.’ Her gaze sinks to the ground, the motion creating ink spots of moisture against the white of her dress. But I don’t step back, and I won’t take her in my arms. I have no pity or understanding in me. I have only fury, even as she gives me her wet gaze once again. ‘And then you didn’t say, you didn’t deny it on the TV—’ A hitch in her breath, and the rest of her words barely make sense. ‘An-an-and I c-couldn’t take that away from you. Don’t you see? I couldn’t tell you I was pregnant. I couldn’t take away your second chance.’
‘Yet you’re still a thief.’ The insult is dragged through the shards of broken glass lodged in my throat. ‘And a liar. You don’t get to make decisions for me . . .’
A pinch at my elbow and I glance down at blood red, pointed talons.
I blink. Exhale. Reach out to loosen them, the world around me coming back with a whoosh.
‘I don’t give a flying fuck who y’think you are.’ I register blonde hair and lashes that are unfeasibly black and long before I do her growl. ‘But you can fuck right off with your famous self. Would y’look at the girl!’ The fingers unfurl, the tall blonde pushing past me and enveloping Ivy in her arms.
‘So it’s himself, then.’ Turning her head over her shoulder, her gaze does a thorough though disdainful sweep of my body, face to toes, before pulling away. ‘I don’t care who he is,’ she says to Ivy, who I strain to see. ‘Or how big his cock is because it’s clear the Good Lord gave him nothin’ but shit for brains.’
Who the fuck is this?
‘Listen,’ I begin, ‘whoever you are, this has nothing to do with you.’
Her angry gaze flicks over her shoulders once again. ‘Why don’t you go back inside? I’m sure there are a couple of more pregnant women y’can go upset for kicks. There are a few oldies in there, too. But I’d avoid the silver-haired one in the pink cardi. That’s ma’ granny, y’ken? Upset her, and me and you will be havin’ more than words.’
Pink cardigan and silver hair; so this is June’s granddaughter? And it seems, Ivy’s friend? By the description, I wouldn’t have pegged her for this Amazon.
‘I’d like to speak with my wife.’
Her expression registers shock. Fleetingly, at least. She cocks a brow, her response thoroughly unimpressed. ‘Is that so?’ As for the half smile subsequently plastered across her face, I’ve no fucking idea what that could mean.
She turns away and begins whispering to Ivy.
‘Ivy, we’re not finished here,’ I warn.
The friend’s shoulders move once in the semblance of a pissed-off snort.
‘You might not be done, but she is.’ She turns with Ivy’s form tucked under her arm like a child. A small, distraught child, I realise. One who can barely breathe for tears.
Why can’t I keep my big gob shut?
‘Babe, listen. I didn’t mean—’
‘What? You didn’t mean to make her cry so hard she can’nae speak? Or is it that you did’nae mean to impregnate her wi’ your superstar sperm.’ Natasha brushes past me, her charge wrapped and protected under her arm.
‘Ivy! Ivy!’ I plead as the pair stride past, but Ivy’s gaze remains glued to the ground. ‘But she left me!’
‘Have your people call mine,’ Ivy’s keeper responds without turning back. ‘We’ll mark a date on the calendar for you to get on ma’ tits with your whining some more.’
‘She’s my wife,’ I yell, desperate.
‘Find someone who gives a shite. Fuckity bye!’ she calls, her fingers releasing Ivy’s shoulder . . . in order to flip me off.
No, that’s not it. This isn’t ending like this.
I make to follow as a hand is planted solidly against my chest. A big hand from a big fucker; one of the suits from inside. Chestnut hair and a wry grin—about my height, but built like a brick shit house.
‘Baby daddy?’ he asks amiably in an accent heavier than my own. Discretion being the better part of valour, whatever the fuck that means, I nod in response, just once. Tersely. ‘Congratulations, but a word of advice, if you’re inclined.’ His hand drops away, and I nod again, noticing the very decent bottle of malt and the pair of tumblers he holds in his other hand.
‘Never get between those three,’ he advises, his gaze following the path of my wife to where Ivy is now bracketed between two blondes; the Amazonian with the gob, and now a woman with shorter hair. ‘Not if yo
u want to keep your sanity.’
I frown, willing Ivy to turn just once. Turn around, goddamnit.
‘Leave well alone because there’s also a big brother who has a nasty right hook. I mean I’m no’ exactly small, but Mac? He’s built.’
‘What? Mac who?’ What the fuck is he talking about?
‘The brother. Ivy’s brother, more specifically. And he had less cause to punch me than he does you. Not that it stopped him, by the way.’ My companion looks up at the cloudless sky, absently rubbing one side of his face. ‘I thought for sure I’d be needing dental work.’
The brother, right. Ivy has a brother; I know that.
‘She’s my wife,’ I grate out again, like this excuses or explains my behaviour and her tear-streaked face. Christ knows why I keep saying it—she wants a divorce, but it’s the only thing I can find to say.
‘Aye, well, see the wee lassie on the right? She’s the love of my life and, as of today, my fiancée. But between Ivy and Nat, they hid her away; I didn’t see hide nor hair of her for months—fucking months! If those women think you’re here to harm, you’ve got no chance, pal.’
I stare at the backs of the three women, including the one called Nat. She doesn’t look like a gnat. She’s more like a brightly coloured butterfly. Or a horsefly. Yeah, more appropriate; a big fucker with a nasty bite.
‘They can’t keep me from her.’
‘Aye, you’d think,’ he says pleasantly enough, ‘but you’d be wrong.’ He shrugs, rubbing a thumb along his jaw, which makes me want to do the same. This fucking beard; I’m so sick of it. ‘But between them, and Ivy’s brother, and me and mine.’ His expression hardens, serious now. ‘You make Ivy cry like that again, and you’ve a chance not to get off this island, y’ken.’
‘Which part of wife did you not get?’
‘Oh, I get it all right.’ Jekyll and Hyde, he’s instantly back to agreeable again. ‘I’ll also not be gettin’ it if Ivy’s upset.’ As clear as his words are, I don’t understand. I guess that’s evident from my expression as he carries on. ‘I just proposed.’
