by Donna Alam
No choice, the owner had said, calling into the office to give us the rallying troops talk. All hands on deck, my line manager repeated, though I note she isn’t sporting a tray half-full of canapes.
The tray feels slippery in my hands; sweat oozing from my pores due to my fingers’ death grip. I’d thought of everything—the sudden death of a relation, feigning flu myself—but it quickly became obvious if I wanted my job, I was expected to pitch in. And I not only want to keep my job, I need it.
Divorce lawyers aren’t cheap.
So far, I’ve managed to avoid seeing Rory, but for how long? As the future groom, he’ll be here somewhere. How will I feel when I see him? Probably a whole lot more ill than I feel right now. Anxiety begins to swell in my chest making it hard to breathe. With any luck, I’ll faint at the sight of him and won’t need to put on a brave face. Poor, second best Fin.
I push a finger into the neck of my shirt, pulling it away from my skin. I’m so hot, I feel like I’m rotating in one of the circles of hell. I know hell has its own place for me; a piece of floor space in the circle dedicated to the torment the souls of those whose lustful appetites overcame reason in life.
That’s where I’ll be copping a squat in the afterlife.
Fuck people who plan intimate gatherings for one hundred and fifty-seven close family and friends . And, for good measure, fuck people who live in swanky Highgate, both the venue and apparent home of the betrothed.
Sweat trickles down my spine as I push myself and my now empty tray back into the kitchen.
‘I didn’t sign up for this shit,’ complains Jai, the person the event had eventually been assigned to. ‘I’ve got a master’s degree, for fuck’s sake.’
I try to smile in answer, unable to speak. If I open my mouth to utter anything other than mackerel ceviche with an avocado sorbet and pink pickled radish, madam ? I’m likely to scream or sob, and I don’t know which is worse. I guess my smile betrays at least a fraction of that as Jai steps closer, placing one hand against my shoulder, the other fingering his tiny black braid.
‘You feeling okay? Oh, fuck!’ He jumps back with a squeal. ‘You’ve got the fucking lurgy, ain’t ya’!’
‘No,’ I say, swallowing, the tiny word like splintering glass in my throat. ‘I haven’t.’
‘Oh, Christ,’ rasps Savannah, my bitch of a boss, coming up from behind. ‘That’s all I need.’ She huffs loudly, as though I’d contract cholera just to spite her, but it’s an idea . . . isn’t it? She doesn’t need to know I’m not ill. I open my mouth to protest, emitting a dry cough instead.
She curses loudly, adding a rather terse, ‘I can’t spare you, Fin. Not tonight. The staff I have out there are barely a skeleton. Just . . . just stay away from the hors d’oeuvres. Stick to serving champagne. And for God’s sake, don’t cough on anyone.’ As she bestows her final command, she’s already gliding away.
Fuck my life.
‘Yours and mine both, babe. And fuck her. And for good measure, fuck her and the bloke she rode to the top on.’
‘What?’ I belatedly look up from the pink tray in my hands. Pink flowers. Pink food. Maybe Rory’s baby was a girl? Maybe she’s already born? Of all the torturous thoughts—my throat constricts and my eyes start to sting.
Could’ve. Would’ve. Should’ve. Might’ve been your life.
‘FML?’ says Jai. ‘And fuck Savannah. You know she was only promoted because she’s screwing the owner, right?’
‘I try to stay out of office politics.’ Deep breaths; in then out. Try not to cry. Try not to freak out.
‘Only ‘cos I haven’t broken you down. Yet. Have you met him, Pierce, I mean?’ Pedantic Pierce; that’s what Soraya calls him. Apparently, he used to live in Dubai, too. Keeping the tenuous connection to myself, I shake my head. ‘He’s got to be pushing sixty-five. Ancient. He’d defo need Viagra to get it up, unlike him out there.’ He gestures to the door from the commercial style kitchen leading into the main part of the house.
I feel myself physically wince and bite my bottom lip as it begins to tremble.
‘Hard to believe both blokes were born in the same decade,’ Jai says, snagging a morsel from a passing pink tray.
‘That can’t be right.’
‘That’s what I said.’ Jai flicks, what appears to be tapenade, from a tiny piece of pastry, wiping his fingers on his apron. ‘I wouldn’t shag Pierce and I’m not exactly discerning,’ he adds, pointing the canape at me.
‘No, I mean the age thing can’t be right.’
‘It was in The Guardian , in an interview. And Hello magazine in that spread on his country estate. You see it?’
‘Pierce, you mean?’
‘No, numpty. The fiancé. Jonathon Reeves, property magnate extraordinaire.’ Jai swallows the measly mouthful, grimacing. ‘Blurgh. I fucking hate olives.’ He gives a slightly camp though whole body shiver. ‘ It gave his age and everything. And unlike Pierce, he’s a real silver fox. Him I’d do him, rich or not.’
‘The groom to be?’ My voice sounds high and reedy, my synapses sluggish and dull.
‘Yeah, the fiancé—keep up. You’re not usually this slow. Oh, fuck, you really are coming down with something. Here.’ Taking my elbow, he pushes me into a chair by the wall. ‘Ignore Savannah. If you give this lot the flu, there’ll be a shit storm. Tell her you fainted if she asks.’ Without waiting for my answer, he frowns and snatches the empty tray from my hands. ‘Lou,’ he calls further into the room. ‘This one’s ill. Don’t give her anything to do. She’s been quarantined.’
Lou, the woman in charge of the kitchen this evening, begins cursing and banging what sounds like garbage lids, not that I care. I’m too busy processing.
A silver fox. I imagine fatherhood is trying, but I can’t see Rory aging that quick. But what else can it mean? Are they not together? Is her fiancé—the older man—a rebound? Has she made the same mistakes as me—marrying a man after Rory used her, too? No, that’s not fair. That’s not what happened to me. My marriage is on no one but myself.
Hands balled into fists, I try to swallow back the rising tide of emotions before I drown in the swell. Anger, pain, hurt—all down to my own childishness and stupidity, and here I go again. I didn’t need to be here this evening—to put myself through this. I should’ve just told Savannah. Told her I’d rather go to hell.
‘I’m not doing this.’ I stand so quickly the kitchen chair squeaks against the pale bamboo floor.
I give up. Give in. What am I thinking even being in the same zip code? Even if Rory isn’t marrying Beth, I can’t be here. Can’t stay here . I begin to make my way through the kitchen, my feet moving faster and faster as I reach the back door. I pull the handle, telling myself I’ll text Savannah and say I vomited. Fainted. Caught the bubonic plague! Whether Rory’s single or not, I have to leave.
Thirty-Nine
Rory
I have no idea what I’m doing here tonight. I wasn’t invited, that’s for sure. It’s not even like Kit is here. For the good of the business, he’d said, we politely decline. That she might not have been lying; that she might really have lost the baby. But he doesn’t know her like I do. She’s certifiable and only dropped her psychotic plans when it became obvious I wasn’t playing along.
That night and many, many other times following, I’d told her I’d step up. That I’d father our child, but that would be the extent of our relationship. Next thing, she’s calling me from a fucking restaurant telling me the baby is no more. That’s it—not lost or terminated just, leave it Rory. You’re off the hook . What the hell am I supposed to make of that, other than she’s callous as well as fucked in the head?
Then a couple weeks ago she announced her engagement to some other chump. She fucked me over. In more ways than one. Drove away the only woman I’ve ever loved, but I’m not here, skulking in her garden for revenge. That would make even less sense, because no way I want to be a target again. I just want . . . God, I don’t fucking know! Maybe I
’m here to make her to suffer a little of what I did when she turned up at the house?
I followed Fin, of course, ran after her, only to see Kit bundle her into his car. The bastard gave me a look as dark as the devil before climbing in himself. He refused to answer his phone and fucked off to London afterwards. He wouldn’t even say where he’d left her—refused to tell me for weeks—until it became obvious I was a mess. Fin’s face that night, I can’t get it out of my head; the anguish and betrayal. Do I want to make Beth’s fiancé feel the same? Kit may say a lot of things, and most of them to piss me off, but he was right about not coming here tonight. Whatever the fucked up reason, I shouldn’t be here. I think I’d rather have a root canal, or a prostate exam from a proctologist with huge great sausage fingers than ever see Beth again. In fact, I’d rather rim a fucking—
‘Oof.’ As I turn someone catches me right in the guts. The ball of something that’s partially winded me murmurs an apology, attempting to pull her elbow from my grasp. ‘Where’s the fire, hen?’
Her reply is incomprehensible noise made through gulping breaths. The words might be garbled, but the voice? The voice I know.
It can’t be, can it? It has to be my mind playing tricks on me again. It’s been weeks since I’ve chased her ghost through the street only to find some other girl’s elbow in my grasp. Why the fuck would she be here? It’s like some fucking conspiracy.
‘Please,’ she whimpers. ‘Let me go.’ Her voice brings me back to the moment, though I do the exact opposite holding that particular joint so tight I know it must hurt.
‘The fine fucking Finola.’ My words are more than merely hard edged and her body stiffens under my grasp.
‘Please.’
She gasps as I drag her closer, pulling us both under the glow of some kind of garden light. Her hair is a little longer and a little darker, pulled tight to the nape of her neck, her once blunt fringe now pinned back. Other than these small differences, she looks the same—feels the same—other than maybe the paleness of her face.
‘So you do remember?’ Her expression morphs through shock and mortification to something angry and resolute.
‘I wished to God I didn’t.’ Full of piss and vinegar, the phrase jumps to mind. It’s a pity her voice doesn’t follow through. Because it’s reed thin.
‘Ah, there she is. My little viper.’ Someone choke me—choke the words right out of my fucking throat. I’m hurt, yes. I’ve hurt for months, but if I carry on like this, I’ll blow it for good.
‘I . . .’ Her chest begins to heave, her breaths matching my own. We’re both emotional—fuming—but I’ll take being fucked before I let her go this time. ‘Rory . . .’ To hear her call my name again. ‘Rory, I . . . I’m going to . . . barf.’
She twists in my arms, a stream of vomit raining down and narrowly missing my shoes.
‘Ah, Jesus! Are you pissed?’ I jump well back from the upchuck. Hands braced on her knees, she doesn’t answer, her body suddenly wracked by huge great sobs. I step closer, tentatively laying my palm on her upper back. When she doesn’t stop me, I begin to rub small circles against her shirt when she suddenly stares up at me from under her lashes, and this isn’t as sexy as it sounds. Her eyes are watery, her lashes wet and spiked, but none of this diminishes the glare she’s giving me. Let’s just say, if looks could kill, I’d be feeling more than a mite unwell myself.
‘Yeah, pissed,’ she repeats, still glaring. ‘But not in the way you mean.’ Pushing herself upright, she jerks her shoulders from under my hand, her body swaying like a jakie—like a drunk. Oh, fuck. She looks about to faint.
‘Fin?’ I pull her against me, threading my arm around her waist. I wished to God I could take it all back; press rewind. Begin this encounter all over again. ‘Are you not well? Jesus, you’re burning up.’
‘No . . . shit,’ she manages between small gulps of air.
‘Where the fuck have you been?’ It’s like I can’t help myself, but though my question is harsh and angry, my fingers reach out to curl a loose tendril of her hair. ‘What are you doing here?’
In answer, she plucks apathetically at something pulled across her thighs. An apron?
‘You—you’re never a waitress?’ Why?
Fin barks out a laugh bending forward quickly, beginning to retch again. I rub her back again, more forceful this time, keeping to myself the fact that I’m a sympathetic vomiter. But for the fact that I haven’t eaten since lunch, I think I’d be joining her.
Second round over, she pulls away with less violence, sliding her back against the stucco wall of the house.
‘Please, Rory.’ She tips her head to the darkened sky, her words weary, and understandably, hoarse. ‘Please, just leave me alone.’
‘How can I?’ Fists balled at my side, I step closer, for no other reason than to see her better in the light spilling from the kitchen window. At least, that’s what I tell myself. ‘How can you ask me to go?’ Doesn’t she know how I’ve searched for her?
She holds her arm out as though to ward me off, her trembling hand suddenly—tentatively—cupping my cheek. ‘A jealous boyfriend?’ she asks, her voice wavering in a poor imitation of a laugh.
‘You tell me.’ I smile at the contact, even though it still hurts. Her touch. My cheek. The massive great shiner I’m sporting. ‘This is what your friend calls Scottish hospitality .’ Her gaze clouds with confusion. ‘I think he’s none too fond of my weekend visits. ‘Cos this time I came back with more than a tin of shortbread.’ At least they’re not all hating on me; the old lady gave me a kiss on the cheek and a scone a couple weekends ago.
Her eyes flare, an expression quickly smothered as she exclaims, ‘Nat did this! Why?’
‘I wished to fuck it had been her.’ I scoff. ‘Because the meat head’s got a punishing right hook.’ And I didn’t retaliate. Not this time, at least. It was his one and only shot, as I’d told him . . . once I’d made sure I still had all my teeth. ‘I’ve been there every week since you walked out on me.’ As her hand falls away, I want to grab it. Pull her to me and never let go.
‘I didn’t walk out on you. I left because you already had your hands full.’
‘If only you knew,’ I return bitterly.
‘It seemed there was quite a bit I didn’t know.’
‘Right back at you, titch.’ I can feel the sneer on my face. Shit, yeah, I’m angry, but not about this—her supposed divorce and widowhood. Not about everything that followed. I’m fucking seething that she ran. Didn’t give me a chance to explain. Didn’t give us a chance.
The fabric of her black shirt rasps against the wall as she straightens, her eyes flashing furiously. ‘You left me in the salon. Told me find you, but I found you with Beth instead. Did you plan it that way?’
‘What? Fuck, no! Did you plan for the reporters to be there?’ I retort.
‘You know I didn’t.’
‘Do I? Only a few hours before you were a widow and I didn’t fucking know about that!’
‘In your own time,’ she almost yells back. ‘That was what you said. Meanwhile, you . . .’ Suddenly she halts, tilts her head and closes her eyes again. ‘But none of this matters. Not now.’
The way her fists are clenched say otherwise. I want to take them, prise them open, and slide them around my waist. But I don’t. She looks so fragile, and yeah, ill, but still so beautiful. The urge to touch her is almost overwhelming. I slide my hands into my pockets, fighting it.
‘I agree. None of it matters.’ The only thing that does is what happens now. ‘So, what have you been up to?’ I ask blandly. Keep calm; keep it casual. Keep her here.
‘Really? You want to do small talk?’
I reply with one savage nod.
‘Working,’ she says, the word expelled in a sigh, like she can’t believe she’s even talking to me. ‘Moving on.’
‘Fuck that.’ I laugh bitterly, because that fucking burns. ‘It’s not what this looks like. No one hides because they’ve moved on.�
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‘I wasn’t hiding—’
‘Not true and so fucking wrong! So what if you didn’t know about my visits? You didn’t bother to wait around—to ask me. What about me? What about the truth?’ My voice rises along with my temper, my hands pushing through, what must be now, hair as wild as I feel. As wild as my heart beats. ‘When were you going to tell me you’d let me go?’
‘I never had you, Rory,’ she replies, soft and earnest. ‘And I was never yours.’ Gentle voice, cutting words; they slice through me—through skin and rib bone, piercing my heart.
‘This is about him, then? The bastard husband. The one who, turns out, isn’t dead.’ More’s the pity. I get an odd sense of satisfaction from her shocked expression. ‘Yeah, I watch the news.’
She lowers her gaze, her shoulders doing the opposite. ‘Then I’m surprised you’re even talking to me,’ she says. And again, I want to swallow my words—take her in my arms. ‘All those awful things they said.’
‘Tabloids newspapers print shit all the time,’ I mutter through a clenched jaw.
‘We’re getting divorced,’ she says quietly. And that short sentence feels like a blanket of relief. ‘Kind of ironic, really.’ She raises her head, her smile sad. ‘When you think about it.’
‘Moronic, more like.’ She physically recoils as though kicked. ‘Him, I meant. Because he must be a total fuckwit to have left you, in any form.’ As I step closer, her body withdraws even more. ‘Because I’d never leave you, titch. I haven’t given up.’
‘Please don’t.’ I reach out wiping her single tear with my thumb, almost giving license to those that follow. ‘You don’t know me,’ she says, tears tracking her face. ‘You don’t know the stupid things I’ve done.’
‘We’ve a lifetime to discover what kind of fuck ups we are.’ My knuckles scrape across bare brick as I wrap my arms around her waist. ‘Like I told you in that God-awful café, you’re it for me, whether you like it or not.’
