by Coco Houston
We get dressed to go; Brad demands of me to appear stunning. Shaking, I have to have my nails, hair and tan perfect. He not only wants to make sure he makes his point by having me there with him as his mother insisted but he also intends to show me off at the same time. He informs me that the only reason I was asked to stay away in the first place was just out of pure jealousy in case I stole her thunder, which Brad states I am very much sure to do. I stand in my designer coat, which alone cost three thousand pounds, with the rest of my clothes priced over the same. The jewellery I wore was taken from my safe and is insured for sixty-five thousand pounds. It was a very extravagant birthday gift from extremely rich friends, who consider me to be an adopted member of their family. No gypsy trinkets tinkled on me. I feel uncomfortable as today isn’t supposed to be about me, but Brad I guess had his own reasons for making that an issue. Brad and River also dress in designer attire as we leave to go to the crematorium. Brad informs me his mum would have loved the drama of all this, the fact that against all odds I am still going to the funeral with him taking me fucking spirited style, not only that but I am dressed in the rich rags of Vogue magazine. I laugh at Brad’s description of my clothes, which he had once got from my father. Dressed in those beautiful rags this witch stops laughing though when Brad tells me he refuses to go in the family funeral car. I am shocked as well as extremely upset by this. I feel so sorry for him; he has done nothing wrong and look what it is costing him to stand by me. Yet a long time ago apparently the same sister once told Brad if he ever needed to talk about the affair, then she would always be there for him. He also said something about a pot calling a kettle black on her dishing me for sleeping with him whilst he is married. He informed me, yes, he was married but when I slept with him, I was not; therefore, she definitely had no stake on that matter. Brad held his ground firmly and chose instead, in a very self-respecting manner, to go to his mother’s funeral driving his own car, in which sat River and me.
On arriving the place is very busy as a lot of people have turned out for the ceremony and to give commiserations to the family and even more so to pay their last respects to his mother. All three of us stand where we were requested, noble as if royalty, we hold our heads up high. I had kept my word to Brad’s mother, just as Brad standing proud beside me had assured his. Brad’s mother’s nature was one of understanding; if only she had known what had taken place that day, she would have stood by her son in his dignified decision, not only was she strong but she was the wisest and fairest of them all.
Brad makes sure that we stand as far to the back of the building as we possibly can, so we are the very last people in the queue to go in; therefore, in that order we would be very last people out. Brad turns to me then River and says, “Let’s go,” just as soft music begins to play and the velvet curtains start to shut around the beautiful coffin in which an angel lay. We head behind us towards the back where we had entered, an undertaker standing nearby notices us leaving early and follows suit, probably wondering about the circumstances of our sudden departure and our chosen route. On noticing Brad’s face stained with tears, he nods despondently at me then unlocks the door and sadly lets us out. I acknowledge that Brad is a very proud man and I contemplate how he had just made a total cunt of his sister in front of everyone, because everybody there knew what she had requested this of me out of pure jealousy. Brad’s actions clearly stated to them all, “Fuck you!” as Brad chose to leave his own mother’s funeral using the back door so we are the first out. Brad tells me, “She knows why I have done this, as does my wife along with the fucking whole of his hometown who are standing there, and I shall never ever forgive her for this today, Coco, if I live forever.” He means every word he says as he swears on his mother’s soul. River and I say nothing. River touches Brad’s shoulder and takes my hand as we walk to the car. Brad drives past the glass doors at the front of the crematorium just as the family and Matts’ wife comes out; Brad sees them, and they see us in Brad’s car as he just keeps on going.
Brad drives for a while through country roads as we all sit in in the car in complete silence. Each of us deep in thought, then a little while later as he turns the car around, Brad backtracks down the road we come up to the old-fashioned inn where the post-funeral reception is being held. On arriving some of the family come outside to greet us. They are so glad Brad has come after all. On entering the premises, Brad has no intentions of sitting near the family as to avoid a negative atmosphere or confrontations. Megan, however, is having none of it; she came to greet us crying and drags us over to where they all are seated. She insists that we sit down amidst them at the family table. Brad’s wife isn’t there so at least that is something. The food is delicious, bravely we ignore the certainty I am far from welcome at that table. The sister sat opposite with her husband turning his back to the whole table. How rude. Brad said the sister was staring at me, taking in everything about my appearance. He said the jealousy written over her face was not the colour of one green tree, but a fucking forest full. The full reason I was not allowed anywhere near her in the first place. I was once mistaken for being a little fat woman with short hair, on the sister being informed by other members of the family this was not the case, she turned coat very quickly after inviting Brad to talk. Brad said she hated the fact I was slim, Italian looking with extremely long and thick dark hair. Apart from that, all the family loved my personality. The nieces loved my style and makeup and nails. The jealous one thought she was the beauty of the family, wrongly so. Her face was very much haggard, I was stunned by her appearance, Megan could easily wipe the floor with her. There is some lightness though that breaks through the heavy air that hangs over me, as Brad’s niece is over the way, she smiles at me. I know she can’t come to speak to me due only to the fact of who else sat nearby. It would get her into trouble. She waves to me mouthing, “Love you!” Megan is very, very close to me whom I refer to as my sister and she doesn’t give a fuck who it suits or doesn’t suit rather. Brad said, apparently because of this, I steal more stars from Brads’ sisters’ jealous sky. The rest of the family say the same to me, even Brads’ brother, “It is pure fucking jealousy of you Coco, and now you can see why!” Her problem. When my son, River, and Megan’s grandson offer to buy her and her husband a drink, they are also very rudely ignored then informed to go, so they do very much to the tables affront. Honestly how pathetic. Earlier on some sunshine had shone through the dark cloud as Brad’s best friend Liam and his wife arrived to attend the funeral. Brad noticing them getting out of their car, took me over to greet them. I met them for the very first time under the most awful circumstances; Brad introduced me to them as ‘his Coco’. I especially loved that phrase; Brad’s mother had also referred to me as ‘Brad’s Coco’.
That evening after the day is eventually over, I feel only emptiness. As I sit with Brad in my dark lounge, I speak softly to him, “Brad, we promised your mother to make this relationship work, so let’s try. We owe her that much, besides I love you.”
He smiles, “Yea, I know, Coco, I love you more.”
Today we have said goodbye to an amazing little woman, she was one of a kind. I whisper “Goodnight” to her as I light the candle she bought for me. I lie in Brad’s arms watching the flame flickering, wishing she could be here with us right now, just like she had been on so many winter nights before. Wishing she could have still been here to see my wedding day. I smile at the memory of the look on her face as I told her I was getting married to Brad in Sherwood Forest in my bare feet, wearing no bra and no knickers. I described to her how all the forest would be lit with tiny sparkling lights and candles and among them we would all dance until dawn, along with the fairies and elves. I also whispered to her that my wedding dress, which lay half made, was jet black and would be covered in glistering jewels and I would wear snowdrops and black roses in my dark hair, on my mouth, black shimmering lipstick and black glitter eye shadow with deep purple jewels under my eyebrows just above the black eye makeup… H
er expression you could see was one of disbelief as horrified, she tried to picture it. Yet she just smiled, nodding her head just sufficiently in the right places, just enough to convince me that she agreed with my plans.
“That will be nice,” she said. “Yes, that will be very nice Coco!” she repeated when clearly what she was thinking was fuck sake! definitely not the same as what she was saying.
I come back to the present and cuddle up to Brad as I say out loud, “Yes, perhaps it would have been nice, very nice back then. With my cake designed in the style of a trifle with the base made of a real butter sponge soaked in brandy, with a blackberry flavoured liquor jelly, covered in thick fresh cream and topped with wild berries from the forest.” Fuck traditional wedding cake, been there, done that, besides this was more my kind of thing really.
“Coco, what the fuck are you talking about?” Brad inquires at my random statement as he moves back on the sofa to look at me; I lift my eyes to his face.
“The past, thoughts of the past spoken out loud. But you wouldn’t understand. Once upon a time our love was rare like a Briar Rose, soft and delicate, a spectacular beautiful fragile flower, with only the time of the season before it dies. Now beneath its jagged thorns, it is slowly wilting away and I don’t think its roots are strong enough anymore to hold through the winter until it’s time to bloom again. The trees of the forest can wait though; they will always be for a hundred years or more. But storms, however, may blow them down or man may cut them to the ground, but they stand strong until then and that can be for a very long time. But the roots of the roses, they risk being suffocated and starved of oxygen by the awaiting trees as perhaps their roots will grow around about them? We should have embarked on our journey earlier, and then maybe the rose planted in the forest would be strong enough to last the voyage and search for light and air in the darkness. Maybe it was the right time back then with me wearing a long black dress, standing in my bare feet and bare arse, perhaps it was the nice time, the nice time for a wedding trifle with berries from the forest, but not for wedding cake, definitely not traditional wedding cake,” I answer with a strange sadness in my voice.
"Knowing my inner voice was informing me that could not be really, would not have taken place, even in those bygone days, because Coco after all, he was already married. So the other make believe wedding ceremony you shared taking place at the pond, in the forest at midnight with him standing mesmerised as you both make vows to love each other forever, with you stood only in your bare feet wearing nothing except buttercream silk underwear would have to do for now." I remember that night afterwards we shared champagne in a candle-lit bath. We made love as Mr and Mrs in our world. In the morning he went home to his real wife.
“No, Coco, not just for now, maybe do forever,” I repeat, talking to myself audibly, copying what the friends in my head had silently yet clearly stated.
“Coco, what the fuck are you talking about?” he distinctly asks me for the second time
“I don’t understand you!” he says, appearing even more confused than before.
“No, you don’t, I already told you that,” I say, getting up, going off on my trail to make some coffee. As I pass Brad hobbling with only one slipper boot on, he notices and I am uncomfortable as my other foot feels cold on the tiled floor on reaching the kitchen. On searching along the way back, I find the other boot lying in the hall, which I must’ve already walked past. I pull it on, continuing my short journey to the lounge with an air of self-control. I smile thinking there is a solution to every problem, I recognise you just have to find it, like I had just done; I laugh glancing down at my feet.
Later whilst back in my kitchen whilst baking a witches, cake , I think back to the phrase his mother used, referring to me as ‘Brad’s Coco’. Everyone agreed with her that he was besotted with me, he worshipped me, and I was the best thing that had happened to him and him to me. Him to me? Eh! What fucking planet are they all on? They are disillusioned – I am fucking even more so Brad Blake on wishing, on even thinking it at one time, how wrong was I? For a long time on and off I was so disillusioned you were my hero.
Chapter VIII
Wakening from a Fantasy Slumber
The rest of January and February is filled with a bad karma between us. February arrives with it bringing one of the witches’ Sabbats. A major one, Imbolc, pronounced Im-bulk, also referred to as Candlemas. It begins 31st January and ends sunset, February the 1st. I don’t go to the coven meeting to celebrate, which is a really big thing for me not to attend. I light candles to celebrate the Goddess of Fertility. I consider casting a spell to bring love and harmony back, as in taking out the old, bringing in the new. I just leave it. He is not worth it then again, I am not sure if this is exactly what I want with him now anyway. I half-heartedly decide, smirking, perhaps I should take my broom but not to sweep the magic circle as in “sweeping out with the old”, not to sweep the old, hurt out the door but to sweep him out fucking door, down the path, out the gate and sweep him right out my life for good. The rows escalate despite my good intentions at the beginning of the year. I hate Brad one day, and then I love him the next. We argue even when I am only trying to comfort him in what he is suffering on going through this heart-breaking loss. We both try to fill the void left in our lives on losing his mother by using our own coping strategies. Brad wanders about in a trance, as I speak to him, he doesn’t listen. I exercise non-stop while the voices in my head spoke to me, I did listen, and I didn’t listen. I did listen to them telling me this is not working with Brad Blake. Then I didn’t listen to them as it is just lies they tell me. So I blocked them out because ultimately they spoke the truth to me, Stupidly I then decided that they didn’t, not really. The tension in the house is becoming violent and very destructive. We physically fight, with him slapping my face in anger just because he doesn’t want to acknowledge the truth in what I said about us. That is just Brad. My reaction is hitting him back even harder, usually with some sort of heavy ornament; that type of retaliation would leave him bleeding, with me devastated. He always hit me first but I always drew first blood.
There were several times I thought that the relationship should be ended immediately. He had to go, leave; it would be the best thing to do for both our sakes. He was always going to leave tomorrow in the morning, but tomorrow morning never comes. The mental torture I suffer lasts, I keep repeating things over in my head due to the awful things said by both of us. Words we shouted at each other haunted me for days and nights, way beyond the time it took the flesh wounds to heal. Brad couldn’t let it go either, so in jealous rages about my past, which to me were invalidated but he would question me on yet again. Whereupon the answers I truthfully gave to his stupid interrogations would enrage him further, thus causing the fights to start all over. It seems the mental games we played held no winners or losers as we both mentally fucked each other over time and time again. I also questioned whether Brad was staying with me because he wanted to, or because it was one of his mother’s final wishes. Nobody but him knew the answer to that.
Valentine’s Day came and went, leaving behind no romantic meals this year or him being tied up to the bed while playing sex games with food, no licking cream off his hard-on under twinkling red heart-shaped lights. No bottles of champagne and no boxes of chocolates. No rose petals sprinkled all over the bed. No definite sign of a hero dressed in a fucking pilot suit carrying me upstairs to bed, slowly making love to me, teasing me so much until I was begging him to please put his cock up me. We never argued on the day though, so I supposed that was something. Brad kissed my cheek, handed me two bottles of expensive perfume, and then just walked away. An envelope lay on the kitchen counter with my name written on it. I opened it to find a beautiful card which read ‘To my wife on Valentine’s Day’. How fucking sweet, I thought sarcastically. I sat the card on the dining table but I put it bottom up as that is what I perceived my life to be, crazily spinning upturned out of control. I felt as if I was a rocket NA
SA was trying to send to the moon only I was upside down going through space watching the world disappear. Little did I know though at this point that was exactly what was going to happen to me in my world on the twenty-eighth of this month. Or perhaps maybe I did, I felt something was seriously wrong, otherwise why else would I sit the card the upside down other than because my fucking instincts had told me to do so and this time it would seem I had listened to them.
28th February
It is a cold, bleak February day. The icy wind racing through the bare trees in the garden create soft tunes, a melody which I close the door to shut out. I am in the comfort of my lounge with hot chocolate, lost in thought about nothing particularly just the weather and what was happening in my day ahead. Brad is at the doctor’s; he would be back soon surely, as by now he’d been gone some time. Just at that the door opens, bringing in the cold, and then Brad bangs it shut. Brad is on edge as he comes in looking stricken as well as cold. He is shivering as he sits down beside me.
“Coco we need to talk; I’m going back to stay with my wife. I need to go into the hospital next week for an operation on my foot. I can’t manage on the stairs here, so I need to go back there as all rooms are on ground level. I love you. I am coming back to you, Coco. I promise she means nothing; it means nothing; this means nothing. I will be in the back bedroom sleeping again in the bed in there. I won’t be sleeping with her. I won’t be able to drive either. I will come back as soon as the plaster is off, as soon as possible,” he struggles out his explanation.
