Ruined

by S. A. McEwen

  But Catelyn also knew how quickly that could turn.

  And in the long run, aligning himself with Brian would only ever lead to ill.

  31

  Melb Aaron: How about an exchange? The painting for a date? ;)

  The time stamp is 1:32 a.m.

  Me: You’re a night owl, I see. Did you by any chance notice how much older than you I am? You should take someone more energetic out for a drink. Someone who can reply to your messages at 1 a.m.

  Natalie is used to men wanting to date her. Often, they are clients. She wonders what it is. Why do clients want to date an escort? She’s heard stories of escorts dating clients who eventually make them give up escorting. Do they just want the goods for free? Or is it the perfect image that they get used to? The plucked, waxed, made-up, blow-waved flawlessness that she’s selling?

  But no one can keep that up full-time. Sooner or later, the ordinary woman is going to show through.

  Sometimes, Natalie wonders if she’s doing women a disservice—promoting the idea that women are like this. Perfectly presented, insatiable for sex, accommodating men’s every whim. She likes to reassure herself that the good clients—the ones she goes the extra mile for, and is happy to see again and again—are smart enough to know that it’s just a service. They know the boundaries and they don’t press against them.

  It’s the stupid ones you have to worry about.

  She dismisses Aaron for the time being, turning her attention to a more troubling text.

  Griffin: Morning, Ivy. I’m in Sydney a day early. I’d love to see you. I know this is a very difficult time for you. I just want to see your face. We’ll do whatever you want to do. Please?

  She hasn’t actually seen or spoken to Griffin since Letitia died. She doesn’t seriously think Griffin is capable of hurting her or murdering anyone, and waves a hand in front of her own face dismissively when she thinks of her agitation over the past few days.

  How silly, she thinks.

  Still, the complex thoughts and feelings about the pregnancy, the wondering if perhaps being in a relationship might be worth it after all, seem empty and pointless again. How is a man, let alone a white man, ever going to understand how she feels about this?

  She feels desperately lonely. Letitia is the one who would have understood, and she can’t talk to her. The devastation every time she remembers that is crushing all the motivation clean out of her. She can barely force herself to eat, let alone converse with people. But while she recognises her loneliness, she doesn’t recognise that her retreat back into solitude doesn’t solve her problem. That what she’s protecting herself from is not pain, but vulnerability. And you have to get close to people for them to support you in the way that she longs to be supported.

  She doesn’t see herself as a herd animal, wired for connection.

  She thinks she’s strongest on her own.

  Feeling like it’s all pointless anyway, she goes to send Griffin a message telling him she doesn’t want to see him anymore. What’s the point? is all she can think. But just as she goes to click on the message icon and compose something short and to the point, she sees she has ten new notifications in Facebook. She opens that app instead.

  People have commented on her question.

  She’d forgotten all about it.

  As she scans their answers, her heart starts to sink.

  32

  Eventually, Natalie phones Detective Casey.

  She’d ummed and ahhed, pulled her phone out, put it away. Pulled it out again and read Griffin’s message fifteen times.

  But she can’t think clearly, and she doesn’t trust herself to make a sensible decision.

  After greeting the detective and an awkward pause, she launches into her concerns.

  “I met someone recently. I know it sounds crazy. But I just want you to check him out. I know it sounds paranoid. But—”

  Detective Casey cuts Natalie off gently. “Tell me what happened.”

  Her heart is beating too fast in her chest, her underarms clammy. She had half expected to be brushed off. Being listened to is making her even more nervous.

  “A new client made a booking with me a few days ago. He told me on arrival he didn’t want sex, he wanted to date me, and he showed me a painting he’d done of me. He’d seen me staring at a portrait in the Sydney Gallery. The painting was excellent. He’s very talented. But when he was telling me why he wanted to paint me, he used the exact phrase that the guy I’ve been seeing used to introduce himself. That he’d seen me staring at the portrait of Jack Charles, that I looked like I wanted to morph into the painting. And that just seemed so odd.”

  Natalie’s voice is high, her words rushing together, but she wants to get it all out before she’s cut off. Despite the detective’s gentle tone, she expects her status as an escort to reduce her credibility. And this story to reduce it even further, no matter what her gut says.

  “And I realised, looking at the painting, that Griffin—that’s the guy I’ve just started seeing—had introduced himself when I was dressed for a work appointment. With a wig on. So, long hair. All done up. Makeup. The full works. And in the gallery, I had no wig. My hair is very short. I had no makeup on. Something just doesn’t add up. I just thought they might all be connected. It seemed like a chance encounter but…I thought…”

  Natalie’s voice trails off. It sounds threadbare at best. But the detective doesn’t dismiss her.

  “Look, it’s not a lot to go on, you’re right. It doesn’t really warrant looking into him. But it does sound odd. So let’s just see if anything jumps out at me. Do you have his full name and date of birth?”

  “Griffin Edwards. That’s all I have. About my age, so about 1980.”

  “No middle name? Or month of birth? What about an address?”

  “No. Sorry.” Natalie suddenly feels stupid. Griffin is an unusual name, but still. It’s not a lot to go on.

  She can hear tapping at the other end of the line. Detective Casey doesn’t speak for a minute.

  “Hmmm, you’re in luck,” she says eventually. “Unusual name. I only have three in Australia. Let’s have a look. No, that one’s too young, 1999. I have one born in November 1975. That would make him…forty-two. An address in Brisbane. Does that fit?”

  Natalie turns this over in her mind. “He said he owned a house in Melbourne, but he travels a lot for work. Lives out of hotels a lot. Wait, his phone number, would that help?” Natalie taps through her phone, then reads it out.

  “I have nothing with that number coming up. Look—I need to go. But leave it with me. I’ll look at the files of the other homicides against that number. What were their names?”

  Natalie gives the detective the details she has gathered on the other escorts. She hesitates, then ploughs ahead.

  “There’s one more thing. All the dead escorts.” Her voice catches in her throat. She struggles for a second, feeling like she can’t breathe. Finally, she manages to get it out: “None of them were white.”

  There’s the briefest of pauses. Natalie isn’t sure whether she imagined it or not. All Detective Casey says is, “I’ll have a look. See if anything fits. In the meantime, if you’re worried, don’t see this guy for a while, or stay in public places, at least. Keep safe. And keep in touch.”

  33

  Despite this advice, Natalie calls Griffin.

  I’d know if he was a nutter, she reassures herself. I’ve met enough of them to be able to pick them in my sleep.

  Still, she tries to remember the details of their meeting. The Uber prang—you couldn’t fake that, she’s almost certain. Sydney is too busy. There’s too great a chance of getting stuck in traffic, losing sight of her. And what Uber driver would agree to it?

  Then again, was Griffin in an Uber? She had assumed so, but perhaps he had a friend driving. He seemed to have enough money. Maybe a minor prang and the associated costs were peanuts in his world.

  But even considering these ideas makes Natalie feel like
she is losing her mind.

  It’s been a stressful few months, she tells herself. The pregnancy, the self-doubt. The abnormalities.

  Grant Boyd moving back to Linfield.

  Letitia.

  It doesn’t seem unreasonable to think the strain of it all has gotten to her. Her work means that she’s always on edge, to some degree. That’s how you stay safe. Escorts can’t afford to be complacent.

  What’s not to say that it all just hasn’t unhinged some screw in my mind somewhere?

  But “morphing” into a portrait is a peculiar, particular phrase.

  She keeps coming back to the fact that she hasn’t heard anyone else utter it in the last twenty-odd years. Probably not since studying some obscure text in high school. It seems too unlikely that two men—both enamoured with her—would use it to describe her in the exact same scenario, no matter how readable the expression on her face.

  Something is wrong, and she doesn’t know what.

  But doing something is certainly better than doing nothing.

  She can’t wait around to see what a busy detective comes up with.

  Also: she trusts her gut. Whatever’s wrong, she doesn’t think Griffin might hurt her.

  It’s too preposterous.

  He’s too thoughtful.

  And the only way she can assess the situation further is by contact. So against the detective’s good advice, she calls him anyway.

  * * *

  “God, I’ve missed you,” is all Griffin says when Natalie opens the door to him. He pushes her into the back of it as she closes it behind him, his hands coming round her waist, his lips finding hers.

  He looks tanned, and fit, and hungry for her. All Natalie’s plans to talk go immediately to hell.

  Afterwards, panting amidst tangled sheets, her brain tries to catch up.

  She had such good plans. To keep her distance. To ask some questions. A flirty question about his birthday, at least.

  But just like that first time, his sex appeal turned everything upside down.

  She just couldn’t think around this man. He was too sexy, too commanding, too normal to want to resist him.

  And now, looking over at him, his grin wide, his eyes warm, she just wants to snuggle into him and let him take control of all things, not just sex, for a while.

  She feels incredibly, incredibly tired.

  “What shall we do this afternoon?” he asks, reaching for her, running his fingers across her stomach, lust already lighting up his eyes again.

  “The gallery?” Natalie asks. “A walk in the park?” All the thoughts of the past few days have left her too agitated to be still. She wants something to do, something to look at. Something to discuss.

  * * *

  In the end, they go to the gallery. But Natalie realises it’s a nice segue into talking, anyway.

  “How did you recognise me, after the Uber prang?” she asks, glancing at Griffin. “I didn’t have a wig on in the gallery, when you saw me looking at Jack Charles. I was all dressed up, with hair and makeup, when you saw me on the street.”

  Griffin looks surprised, and doesn’t miss a beat. “You still look the same,” he says, watching her curiously.

  “So I needn’t bother with the makeup, then?” she teases, not entirely satisfied. Her makeup is very…thorough.

  “No, you needn’t! Not for my sake. You don’t need it,” Griffin says, still watching her closely. He looks earnest. “You’re stunning without a trace of the stuff. Although I do like a bit of hair to tug on.” He grins, suddenly pulling her close and tugging on her hair to expose her neck, which he kisses lightly.

  Natalie swoons immediately, opening her neck up to him further.

  God, this is ridiculous, she thinks. It’s only been an hour, and I already want him again.

  But she doesn’t have time to think further, because he’s edging her toward the toilets.

  “We can’t!” she squeaks, mortified. “People will see!”

  “You should be more worried about them hearing, with the things I want to do to you,” he growls in her ear, his voice so sexy, his desire for her so arousing that she actually can’t help herself—she lets him direct her without resistance. He glances quickly each way outside the disabled toilet to check that no one is watching, then pushes her inside.

  34

  Catelyn wasn’t allowed to drive the ute. Brian considered it a farm car, and insisted he might need it at any moment. On that day, though, she had eased into the shed, her shoulders hunched, her head lowered deferentially.

  Instinctively, she knew that looking small and weak was safer for her.

  “I need to take Brody to the doctor before school,” she’d said quietly, eyes downcast.

  “You hear that?” Brian had said to the boy, nudging him, all buddy-buddy. “That’s the sound of whining that you’ll have to get used to if you ever want to get yourself a wife.”

  The boy had nodded, latching on to the bond that Brian was offering him, believing, of course, at eight years old, that if he was on his father’s team, he’d be protected.

  “I’m taking the ute. I’ll be back within an hour.”

  Brian had only grunted in response.

  “Darling?” She had addressed the boy, pleading with her eyes. “You’ve missed a lot of school recently. Will you come?”

  He had shaken his head at her. He thinks he remembers that day more clearly than any other day in his life.

  “I’m helping Dad,” he’d said. “He needs me.” He remembers not looking at her. He still doesn’t understand that it was easier to not care about her that way.

  He doesn’t know how Catelyn felt that day, because he never asked her.

  He didn’t know that his brother was waiting in the ute, holding a handkerchief to his broken nose. Though taking the ute was an unusual enough request that he must have understood that he was hurt.

  Probably, though, he was focused on winning his father’s favour, not on the well-being of the brother stupid enough to provoke him.

  He doesn’t remember that she tried again, though. Softly. Pleadingly. Willing him to understand.

  “He shouldn’t miss too much school?” she asked, turning back to Brian. Trying. Wanting to take him with her so badly.

  The boy had never noticed that she always made her statements questions when his father was in a violent mood; that she had found questions less likely to provoke him.

  “You heard him, he’s helping me!” his father had shouted, nevertheless. “Pay attention to what he wants, woman!” He’d thrown a bolt at her, not hard, but enough to make her flinch. “Silly bitch,” he’d muttered, to no one in particular.

  He does remember that she didn’t take anything with her, anything that would have alerted them to the fact that she was going farther than the doctor.

  He doesn’t know that her plan—one she’d thought about and dreamed of a million times before—always featured three children with her. Never two.

  He doesn’t know how she hesitated with the key in the ignition, the battle that raged within her.

  Is it okay to leave one child behind, to save the other two?

  He doesn’t know that she cried all the way to Sydney, the ute left outside the doctor’s clinic, where they don’t stop. She doesn’t have much time, and there’ll be doctors at the other end.

  He doesn’t know that he is in her thoughts, every day, for the next three years.

  He doesn’t know that she is consumed with plans of how to go back for him, or send for him, or send someone to just take him.

  He doesn’t know how terrified she is every night, images scrolling behind her eyes, of all the worst things she imagines happening to him. How she tortures herself, every single day they are apart.

  All the man remembers is that she left him.

  She took the others, and left him behind.

  35

  Back in her apartment, Natalie feels uneasy. The intensity of the toilet sex is making her squirm, and sh
e can’t quite figure out why.

  At the same time, she feels horny as all fuck.

  Griffin has insisted on coming home with her, saying, “You haven’t replied to me in a month. Now that I’ve got you, I’m keeping you nearby for as long as possible.”

  They’d had dinner out, and sex again as soon as they were inside the door.

  Again, panting in tangled sheets, Natalie tries talking.

  “That was really hot in the toilets today,” she starts, and he opens his eyes and rolls toward her.

  “You have no idea how many times I’ve jerked off to images of taking you against a door like that over the last month,” Griffin replies, smiling lazily. “There’s something so hot about being somewhere illicit.” He pauses for a bit, then adds: “There’s something so hot about you. I’ve been pining for you. You have no idea. In fact,” he reaches over and grabs her hips, pulling her flush against him, “I’m going to fuck you again in about ten minutes. I hope you weren’t planning on leaving this bed any time in the next twenty-four hours.”

  Natalie laughs, despite herself.

  “So is it just sex you want? Because we don’t know anything about each other. But the sex is working for me, as it happens. I just felt pretty terrible after Letitia died.” Even as she says the words, she can feel something inside her shutting down. Her face closes off, the sensation of feeling present and connected in the moment with Griffin, suddenly obsolete.

  “Let’s get to know each other, then,” Griffin says, solemn. “What do you want to know?”

  “Tell me about your family.” Natalie snuggles into his chest, mainly so she doesn’t have to look into his eyes. She feels guilty for trying to do some detective work, and tells herself it’s just to help clear him so things can go back to normal. Whatever normal is for her.