by Donna Alam
‘I don’t know what you’re going to do.’ My voice is devoid of emotion because that shit? It’s brimming in side. Brimming. Boiling. Ready to burst like a volcano.
‘Where are you going?’ He catches my arm as I turn away.
‘I’m going to bed,’ I say calmly.
‘So that’s it then?’ Flynn’s expression hardens into something I’ve never seen before, his anger barely restrained as I pull free. I turn at the bottom of the pale wooden stairs just as he begins to pace, anger the source and the fuel of his sudden motion. ‘You’ve made up your mind,’ he half yells, dragging his hands through his hair again, making it stand on end. ‘I’m guilty and that is fucking that?’
‘I can’t argue with facts. With proof.’ I can’t think about what Sophia might say—can’t live on that hope when there’s a risk it’ll be for nothing.
Was he always this good at acting? Was she?
‘Fuck proof,’ he spits. ‘I’m standing in front of you—the man who loves you. And you don’t believe me.’
‘Tell me why—why is that video on your phone!’ In an instant, my anger flares. I told myself I wouldn’t do this. I wouldn’t get myself into this state. ‘Tell me how it got there,’ I sob—I shout. ‘Tell me how I’m to believe it isn’t you!’
‘What’s the point,’ he answers flatly. ‘You think you know the truth. And you’re not willing to take a chance. On me. On us.’ The room falls silent before he speaks again. ‘A man goes to his psychiatrist,’ he says, apropos of nothing.
‘Flynn, no,’ I plead, tears tracking my cheeks. ‘Why can’t you be serious—just for a minute. Just now.’
He ignores me.
‘The man says; Doctor, you’ve got to help me. I keep thinking that I’m a well-known psychoanalyst. And the shrink says; how long has this been going on? Well, says the man, it all started when I was Jung.’
‘Am I supposed to be laughing?’
‘It’s the best medicine, babe. But that’s you. It doesn’t take a shrink to see that you keep expecting the worst from people. Expecting them to leave. I reckon you’ve been like this since you were a kid. But at some point you’ve got to grow up. To take a chance on someone. You’ve got to believe that you’re enough to take a risk on.’
‘I fail to see how a video of someone deep throating you could be my fault.’
‘That’s just it, babe. You’re not listening. That’s not me. And do you know why? Because I love you and I would cut off my right arm rather than hurt you.’
I look away as I begin to climb the stairs, my demeanour dignified.
At least until I get to the top of the stairs.
At least until I hear the click of the front door, when I allow myself to finally fall apart.
Chapter 31
CHASTITY
The next day it rains heavily, the skies as grey as the rain-slicked pavements, and a perfect backdrop to my mood.
‘Just a hand?’ Paisley says, her tone careful. She’d turned up about an hour ago, taking one look at me before opening her arms. But I couldn’t cry. I don’t want to be consoled. ‘Nothing else to prove either way?’ she continues in the same tone.
‘Just a white shirt, no watch on his wrist.’ I shake my head, the images alive in my mind for the millionth time. Her eyes. Her mouth. His cock.
‘Does Flynn even wear a watch?’
‘What does it matter? What I’m trying to say is, I couldn’t tell either way. But it was on his phone.’ I rub my hand over my face, so sick of thinking about this. ‘What the fuck am I supposed to think? Tell me—am I wrong? Did I react in the wrong way?’ Because the more I think about it, the more I wonder.
‘I don’t know what to tell you, Chas. If I were in your shoes? I just don’t know. But I don’t think I could say that’s it—I give up. I’d need to know for certain.’
Discomfort hits me in the centre of my chest, a million things still swirling through my head. Isn’t it better to cut my losses now? Chalk up my mistakes to a rush of baby-seeking hormones? Blame the chemical attraction for allowing my heart and head to overrule my brain, constructing a world all of my own where I believed our love was real? Because anything that felt as good as being with Flynn had to be genuine. Enduring. So what if we annoyed the shit out of each other? It might’ve been impractical and a pain in the arse, but love overcomes all things, doesn’t it? Until you’re looking down at a phone, your arm banding your waist because you feel like you’re coming apart.
‘I shouldn’t have gotten involved,’ I mutter vehemently. ‘Then I wouldn’t be feeling like this—looking like this.’ I jump up from the couch, clutching my grimy T-shirt as though to prove my point.
Twenty-four hours and I’m still stuck in yesterday. I want to call him. And I don’t. But either way, my mind has gone there plenty. I’ve had silent conversations where I’ve ripped him a new arsehole, then moments when I’ve begged him to just hold me in his arms. I’ve planned whole new lives for myself and our phantom child, picturing his regret as I tell him I don’t need no man.
I wonder if he’ll get in contact over the next few weeks to see if I’m actually pregnant. I’m not. I did the numbers and to cap it all, this morning I got my period. Yay for hormones. But still I wonder. Would he have proven to care? Been compassionate or combative?
‘You do look like shit.’
‘Thanks, Paisley.’ I blow out a long breath, my rage over once more for the moment. ‘That really helps.’ Like a hole in the head, actually.
‘Friends are supposed to tell you the truth.’
‘Am I wrong?’ I repeat; is that what she’s saying? ‘Tell me, because if you’ve got any advice on helping me not feel like this, spit it out.’
‘Actually, I have,’ she says, sliding her phone out of her purse. ‘Go and shower, tie up your hair, and put on a little mascara, for God’s sake. We’re going out.’
~*~
‘This wasn’t the kind of solution I was expecting.’
‘Oh, honey, this isn’t a solution,’ Paisley chuckles. ‘This is more like a Band Aid.’
‘One that’ll hurt like a mofo tomorrow morning as you peel your head from the pillow, wishing you could rip it off.’ Hills and Paisley clink their glasses, rowdy shouts of, You tell it, sister! coming from the table behind. I’m not sure if theses words are for Hillary or for the heavyset drag queen belting out Respect, Aretha Franklin style. The sisters on this particular table are fierce in heavy makeup, big-hair, with one or two sporting full beards.
The place is loud, the décor gaudy, and the tunes being belted on the stage for open mic night a little too much for my mood. But otherwise, I’m glad Paisley forced me out of the house. Even if I initially put up a fight.
We’re at Stella LaFella’s, Hillary’s new favourite hangout given that Avery, the new person in his life, works behind the bar several nights a week.
‘I’m so fucking stupid.’ My head thunks on the table. It’s safe to say, buzzed was two drinks ago.
‘I used to be fucking stupid,’ says Paisley, her tone a touch trivial. ‘But then we broke up, thankfully.’
‘Oh, God,’ I groan, sitting straight again. ‘I need less comedy act and more reassurance that I’ve done the right thing.’
‘Your ex is that famous singer—the ginger one, right?’ ask Hills, clearly ignoring my cry for reassurance. I think they might be a little tired of this question tonight.
‘One and the same.’ Paisley raises her glass as though toasting the waste of space. ‘Good bye to bad men!’
‘Was Flynn bad?’ At my plaintive tone, the pair fall quiet before Paisley turns her slightly hazy gaze to mine.
‘Only you can be the judge of that.’
‘He was awesome in bed,’ I say with a sigh. ‘I’ll miss that.’
‘Relationships have to be more than good times in bed. And more good times than bad, come to that.’
‘What she said,’ adds Hills. ‘I like my men to be good in the kitchen, too.’
‘He was good in the kitchen. That one time. Really fucking good.’ Elbow on the table now, I prop my chin on my fist as I sigh.
‘He cooks?’ Paisley tilts her head enquiringly.
‘Not that I know of. Kitchen fucking on the other hand . . . ’
‘Right,’ she replies. ‘When he turned up dressed like Mellors.’
‘All sweaty and dirty. And let me tell you, he really does know how to handle a hoe.’
Paisley sniggers as Hills screeches, ‘He role plays in the bedroom? And you let him get away?’
‘Don’t try to make my sex life seem special,’ I say, pointing my finger his way. ‘Not when you’re dating a man who’s comfortable wearing red sequins. And Flynn looks like Henry Cavill!’
‘Honey, I think it’s time to stop your drink.’
‘I had the best orgasm in months, right there in my kitchen. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to eat there again.’
‘Me either,’ replies Hills with a queasy look.
‘I’m going to smash Sophia’s face when I see her next!’ I might not ever orgasm again. God, what a depressing thought.
‘Why? She didn’t have sex in your kitchen, too, did she?’ Hills asks.
‘Have you not paid attention to anything I’ve had to say?’ I know it’s after hours—that he’s no longer on the clock but come the fuck on! Pay attention to your boss in her hour of need, please.
‘Of course I’ve listened,’ he says, counting items on his fingers with an air of supreme disinterest. ‘You shagged in the kitchen. You’re drunk. And you found a video on your new boyfriend’s phone of someone who may or may not be him—’
‘What?’
‘That’s the way it looks to me,’ he answers with a shrug. ‘But I still don’t know what Sophia has to do with it.’
‘Because she’s the one on the recording,’ Paisley answers for me. I can’t answer for the blood pounding painfully between my ears.
‘Oh. Really?’ He takes a mouthful of his mangotini looking thoroughly unconvinced. ‘Have you spoken to her about it?’
‘She’s not answering her phone,’ I growl through gritted teeth.
‘Shall I call her now?’ He picks up his phone from the table. ‘I spoke to her yesterday. I must say, it doesn’t seem likely,’ he says, swapping his glass for his phone at the same moment I try to snatch it from his hand. But Paisley is quicker and even Hills complains. ‘Watch it! That’s a new phone!’
The phone disappears under the table before she takes both my hands in hers.
‘Not now,’ she cautions. ‘Not when you’re overwrought and a little drunk.’ Smashed. I’m totally smashed. ‘Tomorrow,’ she adds, her firm gaze sliding to Hills. ‘Tomorrow, we do this together.’
~*~
Not satisfied with punishing me by sending me the hangover from hell, the universe fills the sky with brilliant sunshine the following day. Birds sing, bees buzz, and blossom blows in the breeze. Meanwhile, I sit in my office in the studio, wrapped in a large cardigan and feeling as attractive as a hungover Ebenezer Scrooge. With the flu.
Strangely enough, I get three visitors, too.
The first is Paisley. There’s nothing for her to do here, and she isn’t scheduled to work today. Yet she insists she’s inventorying, which isn’t even her job. I mean, what’s she counting? Anal beads? The truth behind the excuse is that she’s my support network of one. She wants to be here when Hillary turns up with his phone and Sophia’s number.
Maybe I should’ve just called Sophia last night, drunk or not.
‘So, this is where it all goes down?’
I’m in the kitchen fighting with the coffee machine when Keir’s voice tugs at my attention, and the thing splatters coffee-coloured milk all over my pale cardigan. Shit.
‘I think it’s fair to say there’s a reasonable amount of going down that goes on in here.’ He smiles, almost studying me—whether for cracks in my exterior, or the stains on my clothes, who knows. ‘What are you doing, Keir?’ He doesn’t normally come into the studio. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him here before, and he’s certainly never sought me out like this at any other time.
‘Paisley’s car is in the shop for a service,’ he answers mildly, tugging on his ear.
‘I know. There’s a courtesy car parked out front.’
You can hardly miss it; it’s the same colour as baby poo. He refuses my offer of a coffee, not that I blame him, so I turn and make my way in to the studio, though note how he’s a little slow to follow.
‘She’s in the store cupboard.’ His gaze lifts briefly and he nods though makes no effort to ask where that is. ‘And you don’t have to keep your eyes glued to your shoes. There’s no one here today.’ Apart from Paisley and me.
‘Oh,’ he answers mildly, his shoulders relaxing. Guess he was worried about seeing things. Naked things? Like that’s all we do here. I know from Paisley Keir isn’t at all a prude. Maybe he was trying to be respectful.
‘Well, I never was a very good liar,’ he says firmly. ‘I’m sure you’ve already guessed I haven’t come to collect Paisley, so I’ll get to the point. I’m here about Flynn.’
‘What about him?’ My first instinct is to ask if he’s okay. But I won’t. Instead, I put my cup down on the windowsill and lean back against it, crossing my legs at the ankle.
‘Well, he’s currently walking around like he’s been punched in the guts.’
That doesn’t make me feel any satisfaction at all.
Since discovering last night I can contact Sophia, I’ve been like a bear with a sore head—a bear with a sore head, dancing on hot bricks. And I don’t care if I’m mixing my metaphors or similies or whatever because I feel like the truth is in reach. I’m antsy and angry and worried how this will play out. If it was Flynn in the video, and I find this out definitively, I’ll feel the absolute devastation again. And if it wasn’t, then how that will change things I’m not entirely sure. How would I feel in his shoes? Betrayed. Angry. Hurt. In no place to forgive. But there’s also a third possibility; Sophia might lie. And a fourth, I suddenly realise; maybe she’ll tell the truth and I won’t believe her anyway.
This is the current mess that is my brain.
‘I like Flynn,’ Keir says, coming to stand in front of me, his expression concerned. ‘He’s a solid guy. But I can’t see him doing the dirty on anyone, let alone someone he loves. Someone he’s willing to change his life for.’ As I open my mouth to speak, Keir holds up a forestalling hand.
‘But I get where you’re coming from, too. I’ve been on the other side of infidelity and that shit hurts.’ Of course; Keir was married before, but I didn’t know him then.
‘You and me, we don’t know each other all that well. What I do know is, last year you took Paisley in when that fuckwit of a fiancé hurt her. You barely knew her, but you set her on her feet and in a way, you sent her to me. Look, I doubt Flynn would appreciate knowing I’ve been here, but I just felt compelled to say I think you’re selling him—and yourself—way short. Whatever happens, you can’t pretend you two didn’t mean anything to each other.’
~*~
My third visitor comes as a bit of a shock. I’m expecting Hillary. And I’m trying to be very understanding while waiting. Waiting. Stressing. Aching. But Avery, or Stephen this morning I suppose, worked late last night. He and Hills are probably still sleeping. That I understand. What I don’t understand is when Sophia knocks on my office door.
Actually, she doesn’t knock so much as say, ‘Knock-knock.’
‘Sophia!’ Paisley notices her first and at her exclamation, my heart sinks to the pit of my stomach . . . before rising again, my blood pressure along with it. ‘Thanks for popping in.’
There are so many puns I could go for here. Understandably, I’m not in the mood .
‘I wasn’t expecting you.’ I’m surprised how even my voice sounds.
‘Hillary. He explained what had happened, and I had to come and see you to explain
. To apologise. I didn’t know he was your boyfriend, Chas, I promise!’ I thought I was hurting before. I was wrong. ‘He didn’t tell me until after . . .’
‘After he came down your throat?’ My jaw begins to ache from the pressure of staying composed.
My boyfriend. My love. My torturer. My fucking hate!
‘I can’t believe I did such a thing,’ she continues, the lilt of her Spanish accent peeking through. ‘It’s not an excuse, but I’d taken strong pain medication. I strained my back last week and I was uncomfortable wearing such ridiculously high shoes. So I took a couple of pills, not intending to drink more than one glass or two. But I was having such a nice time, and he was so attentive.’ I wonder if it’s acceptable to punch her, even though it appears she did no harm willingly. ‘He kept filling my glass, and I kept drinking it. Which was stupid, but do you know how hard it is to meet nice men in this line of business?’
‘I think I might have some idea.’
She has the good grace to look chastened at my reply. I take a seat behind my desk because I think a heavy lump of wood between us might be a good idea right now.
For at least one of us.
‘You didn’t seem to be interested in him,’ she says in a quiet tone, her eyes now on her shoes.
‘What?’ From the heat of my anger, my blood suddenly turns cold. The absolute gall of this woman! I grip the arms of my chair, willing myself not to respond. Physically, at least.
‘I thought he was single.’ She shuffles backwards as though afraid of my sudden change in tone. ‘N-not your boyfriend,’ she adds quickly. Her dark eyes are almost beseeching as they find mine again. ‘I know I have sex for a living, but that doesn’t make me immoral.’
‘No one’s accusing you of anything,’ Paisley interjects, her voice calm. ‘Just tell us what happened. Chas needs to hear your side of things.’ From beseeching to calculating, Paisley’s gaze has other things to say. Wait. Listen. Don’t throat punch her just yet.
‘We were laughing,’ she begins. ‘And drinking. And then he went outside to smoke a blunt. I might have taken a couple of tokes.’
