2nite TE, as she might write. ‘Tonight, the end.’
Duvall lifted his face out of his hands and checked his watch. He had a couple of hours. There was a pain in his heart; that was Sandy. A small tingling ran along his left temple; that one he wasn’t so sure about. Something like an embolism or aneurysm would be a sure-fire way to have her really remember him the rest of her life: ‘Right at the end I had to call an ambulance and watch them take him away, he was pretty old after all.’
In reality he was sure there was nothing wrong with him. He was simply suffering from sadness edged with tension. Duvall had been naturally healthy all his life, no major incidents at all, and the minor ones had been irritations at most, nothing worth remembering. At the beginning of the year, before filling out his ED prescription, the good Dr Laine had given him an in-surgery medical examination, which included an ECG, and had sent him for a full-spectrum blood test. All fine. After that dizzy spell on the hillside, Duvall had asked for the same to be done again; the second round of results pleased Dr Laine even more. He was confident that Duvall had experienced only a mild attack of vertigo.
‘Good cholesterol up, bad cholesterol down, your resting heart rate is lower than it was at the beginning of the year,’ Dr Laine told him, sixty-six years of age himself, with a protuberant belly and the broken-veined nose of a drinker. ‘Whatever you’re doing, keep it up, John. I wish I was in your shape.’
Duvall opened the top left drawer of his desk and found the blister pack. Popping out one of the pills, he considered cutting it in half as he sometimes did, what with the renewed confidence these little miracles had provided him with. Instead, he decided on the full 40mg. His nerves were at him so he wanted the drug’s full insurance. Instead of swallowing his pill with a glass of water, he snapped the seal on a new bottle of Tullamore Dew. Into his glass he added three cubes of ice. Well, it was an occasion. He didn’t care if he woke the next morning with a headache—and for tonight Duvall had already planned a couple of things he hoped Sandy would like. Not that he knew a lot about champagne, but there was a bottle of vintage Veuve in the refrigerator, plus a platter of cold seafood he’d driven all the way to the bayside fish markets to purchase, produce taken in that morning straight off the trawlers. Would she like these touches?
He cursed his nerves, then tried to laugh.
* * *
When Duvall heard the familiar sound of a cab door slamming he couldn’t contain himself any longer. Nervous as a boy, he opened the front door and stood half-shadowed by the porch-light, chafing to see her. He was dressed in a new cream-coloured cotton sports shirt and chinos. A casual look he hoped she’d like. Sandy had never mentioned any preference at all for the type of clothes he should wear, but he just didn’t want to dress old. He didn’t want to dress too young either; hopefully tonight’s attire was something of a happy medium. He wondered if Sandy would have thought to do or bring anything special for this, their last meeting, then, at the first glance of the elegant shape moving toward the house out of the taxi’s bright searchlight, he thought she must have decided to change her hair. The colour, too. What was that called—a pageboy cut? Sort of Audrey Hepburn-ish, and darkened?
She came up the unfamiliar pathway and approached the unfamiliar home and the unfamiliar old man standing there waiting. The porch-light gave her a good view of Duvall, and Duvall a good view of her.
Duvall’s eyes tried to penetrate the darkness behind her, looking for Sandy.
‘Who are you?’
‘My name’s Britney,’ Britney with the Audrey Hepburn hair and hair colour spoke. ‘You’re Mr Duvall?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sandy asked me to come along tonight.’
Duvall had to get the idea into his head and in a straight line. ‘Sandy asked you? Why? When’s she getting here?’
Now he pictured something completely inappropriate, some sweet idea of Sandy’s gone completely awry, a surprise as misdirected as a missile without a gyroscope. She’d meant to make weight and meaning of this occasion. She’d decided on a very special farewell gift for him. If the thought hadn’t so sickened him in the belly, he would have had to laugh at the irony. Two women for him, Duvall, who needed to rely on big doses of special little pills? He wanted to ring Sandy straight away and try to shake this misdemeanour off.
You’re so well-intentioned, he’d say, but so off the mark! I just want to see you, no one else. Hurry over now, please.
‘Sandy’s asked me to say something to you, it’s sort of a message. And, uhm, I guess that’s what I’ve got to do, is that okay?’
‘No… no, it’s not okay. Who are you and what are you doing here?’
She stood there facing him and didn’t reply because she’d already given him the answers to both questions.
What was her name—Belinda? No, Britney. That’s right, Britney. And she had something to tell him that Sandy, for whatever reason, wasn’t able or willing to do herself: not in person, via a phone call, or by email or text. Extraordinary.
Duvall didn’t want Britney in his house. He wouldn’t let her in. He didn’t want her anywhere near him, and the squirming in his gut told him that he didn’t want to hear what she had to tell him either. He wanted to see Sandy. His gaze again travelled past Britney toward the dark of the street, where he was certain a second taxi was just about to arrive.
‘Mr Duvall, she’s not coming. That’s part of what I have to tell you.’
‘You’re serious?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what’s the other part?’
‘Could we please do it inside?’
‘No,’ he said.
‘Okay, uhm… but Mr Duvall, it’s what Sandy asked me to do.’
He was deflated, displeased—yet somehow still ridiculously hopeful. All it would take would be for the blessed cab to pull up…
‘All right,’ he relented, standing aside, ‘but it’ll have to be quick.’ He indicated the way through the front door with his open palm.
‘I appreciate it,’ Britney said.
Duvall nodded, and couldn’t have cared less. As Britney passed he caught a whiff of classic Channel, and it couldn’t help but turn his stomach even more.
* * *
‘All right,’ Britney spoke from the sofa, hesitating.
She watched Duvall where he was seated in the large armchair opposite her, then she looked down at her white hands neatly arranged in her lap. He could tell she was uncomfortable—and who wouldn’t be in a situation like this?—but was determined to press ahead. She had a nice pert body, he could tell, for the tight blouse she wore and the figure-hugging knee-length skirt, and she was prettier than Sandy would ever be: dark-eyed, dark-haired, beautifully shaped eyes. She wore simple silver ear-rings, something like an amethyst ring on one finger of her right hand, a couple of plain bands on her left, and was otherwise unadorned. The pageboy hairstyle looked natural and unforced, nicely suiting the delicate bone structure of her face and cheekbones. It didn’t seem as if she’d had it done for some special occasion. This occasion. Duvall took her in and found himself despising her; despising her for simply being there in that sofa when it should have been Sandy, with him pressed comfortably beside her, that stupid bottle of Veuve open.
‘Could you please hurry up?’
‘All right, I’ve known Sandy awhile. We’ve become pretty close. She asked me to come here tonight, I know you were expecting her. I know this must be disappointing. She said to tell you that now she was saying it.’
She said to tell you that now she was saying it. Duvall had to run the ridiculously constructed sentence through his mind before he grasped its meaning.
‘Saying it’? Saying what?’ he almost spat.
‘Sandy told me you’d know.’
Duvall was about to hurl something cruel and accusatory at Britney, but immediately had to hold himself back.
Of course. Of course he knew.
If this ever gets uncomfortable for you, just say, I
’ll understand.
One of us says it, Sandy had spoken with a quiet smile, and that’s the divorce.
But this was so unfair. There was no need for Sandy to take a step like this. The thing between them was over because they’d negotiated it so. She was finished her studies and she was heading overseas. He knew she was going. Their textings earlier in the week had confirmed this would be the last meeting. It had been coming a long time, they’d both anticipated it, and now the moment had arrived. What was the problem? Duvall raked his mind for instances where he might have given Sandy some indication that he wanted or expected more. Had he? He honestly didn’t think so. Yes, this ending hurt him more deeply than he’d anticipated, yes his sense of loss was far greater than he’d imagined it would be, but what was she thinking—that somehow he’d keep after her? Pester her forever with his unwanted presence, with a hundred texts a day like some callow youth?
Duvall almost felt the urge to pour this out to Britney, to express the utter unfairness of this step, but who was she? Why should she care? And why would he even want to speak his secret thoughts to this utter stranger—an interloper?
‘I understand,’ he forced himself to speak evenly. ‘Though the message is unwarranted. Please pass that thought on to Sandy when you see her.’
He breathed hard through his nose, keeping himself together. The things he was most conscious of, however, were the twin aches in his heart and temple. He already knew that she’d managed to hurt him immeasurably.
He wouldn’t offer Britney a thing. Not a drink or a simple cup of tea.
‘Is there anything else?’
‘She just wanted me to tell you that.’
‘Is there any particular reason a phone call or a note wouldn’t have been enough?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘So, thank you for your time. I hope you have a pleasant evening wherever you’re headed.’ Duvall started to rise. Britney didn’t move.
‘Sandy said you’d be upset. She didn’t want it to be like that.’
‘Upset? It’ll pass. Now—’
‘Sir? May I speak with you a little longer?’
A lifetime of politeness toward others made him have to slowly sit back down in the armchair. He didn’t quite lean forward to listen, but even now, tonight, the way things were, he found it difficult to be rude.
‘All right.’
‘Sandy and I, we’ve become friends, like I said. And she’s spoken about you… she told me you’re a very nice man, very kind. A really great companion.’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘Sandy suggested I should take her place. She wanted me to come here so that we could start to get to know one another. Uhm, Mr Duvall, Sandy knows how much she’s meant to you. She said she hated the thought of you being sad—’
‘I will not be sad.’
‘—or lonely—’
‘I will not be lonely.’
‘—and I know I could never replace her, but, uhm, here I am, sir.’
Duvall felt his breath a little hard in coming. God. So this was it. This was the game. Sandy’s game. Britney’s game. Their game. He was a lonely old man of means, so why not make the most of him?
‘You’re a prostitute, I take it?’
‘No—I’m just like Sandy.’
‘Studying? And you just need an easy way to get by.’
‘It’s a little different.’
‘You said you were just like Sandy.’
‘I mean, what I want is. And what I can offer. I don’t study. I do work part-time. I have a little girl. She’s three. Tonight she’s with her aunt. That’s my sister. And my sister is looking after her more and more because it’s hard to find good work and it’s hard to make ends meet.’
Duvall noted that Britney’s eyes had started to glisten. Was this an act? Even if it wasn’t, why should he care? He felt an unfamiliar coldness rise up inside him, something that was hurt and angry, and—unbelievably—might even edge toward violence.
He needed to grip his hands together.
‘So you’re prepared to sleep with someone like me and indulge my pleasures in return for a good wage, and this will help you pay the rent and feed your darling little daughter. I understand well enough.’
Britney didn’t speak.
‘Well?’
‘Mr Duvall, I—there’s no need to react this way… Sandy thought—’
‘Sandy thought? Or did you think? Did you think there’s a carriage of the gravy train going empty, so why don’t I find my own seat? Correct?’
‘Sandy never told me…’
‘Told you what?’
‘… she never said you were like this…’
‘Oh I am, you silly girl. And my needs are monstrous. I’m like a satyr, you’ll be on your back and on your knees and standing on your head your every waking moment, and even when you’re asleep I won’t leave you alone, all those gorgeous little holes to fill.’
For a moment Britney was stunned silent. She stared at him, lips parted. Then she whispered, ‘… just horrible…’
‘Then why don’t you go? Get up and go if you feel so affronted. But sluts don’t become affronted, do they?’
‘… I’ve never, ever, been called that…’
Britney lowered her head and started to weep. The hurt seemed so shocking that she couldn’t move. She wasn’t wearing much mascara, but what she did have started to run.
‘So if you’re such a lovely prize that I’m going to be paying my good money for, let me see what I’m getting. Come on.’ Now he ungripped the tight hold of his own hands and leaned forward, and he felt as if he had a knife, and sentence by sentence he was plunging it more deeply into Britney’s flesh. ‘Your blouse, unbutton it and take off your brassiere. Shimmy your skirt up to your hips and do open your legs, would you, a man likes to know what he’s buying.’
Britney’s shock was now interlaced with fear.
‘… cruelty… such cruelty… I’ll… go…’
He saw her hands trembling. Her bottom lip. Spittle had gathered at the corner of her mouth. She finally got herself to her feet but couldn’t seem to go further, couldn’t seem to make herself back away from him sitting forward there in his armchair. It was as if some animal instinct told her that if she tried to break and run he would lunge forward and bring her down. The features of her face had broken, and now one hand covered them. Her shoulders shuddered, the sobs like great rents in the fabric of the room.
Duvall perceived all of this, and he perceived himself too, and a great wave of sorrow had him standing next to her, pulling Britney close with his arms around her shoulders, and she resisted, tried to struggle away with wordless cries, expecting the worst.
‘My God,’ he said, ‘I’m so sorry…’
She fought against his arms, hard, but he was stronger. Too strong, even at his age.
‘I’m so sorry, my God I’m so sorry, you poor girl… I didn’t mean a word, what came over me, please I beg you to forgive me, like a monster, I didn’t mean a word—’
She managed to pull back.
‘I apologise, with all my heart I apologise, let me make you a drink, I’ll give you anything you want—’
Britney looked up at his face, one hand now free, and she slapped him hard, but she also saw how genuine his sorrow was, his own alarm and utter disgrace at himself, then she seemed to lose strength completely, and her cheek went onto his shoulder, and there she wept and shuddered for all her years that were so wrong, and Duvall felt the great fall inside himself for his own years gone wasted, and he was sobbing too.
* * *
Duvall spent the days in his home, mostly with the curtains closed and without any need or urge to go out. He slept a great deal and also lay in his bed or sofa and didn’t sleep a great deal. He picked at the food in the pantry and the refrigerator with no particular hunger and neither drank alcohol to excess nor completely avoided it. He was existing, and that was the sum of things. Sometimes he h
eard his harsh and hating words again, and sometimes he saw Sandy crawling naked into his bed, extending her arms to him with the sheet pulled to just below her navel, the gorgeous swells of her white breasts and pink nipples waiting for him to lay his face and lips against them. Sometimes she was serious, sometimes she was smiling, and sometimes she was Mary too.
If he had one most prominent activity, it was inspired by the short exchange of words he’d had with Britney after they’d both calmed down and she’d let him make peace with her, just before he called for a taxi to come collect her.
‘How did you become friends with Sandy?’
‘We were signed up on a dating site. We saw that we’d both gone out on a date with one particularly horrible guy. Real sadist, couldn’t even hide it over a first cocktail. Sandy IM’d me and we ended up chatting online a few weeks, then we met for a drink. The friendship struck up from there.’
‘What dating site?’
So Duvall had signed himself up to sugarandmoneyandhoney.com, and once his account was active he was free to search for whatever type of woman he wanted in whichever hemisphere, country, geographical location or postcode he most desired, the age range she should be, her weight, height, body shape and proclivities, what she should be able to offer and what her requirements were from him as prospective financial supporter. He sent messages to absolutely no one, but he received at least ten to twelve requests for further information about himself on a daily basis. These requests were from pretty young women and far more mature women, and usually had a photograph or two attached. There was a lot of nudity, smudged faces, and a great deal of innuendo or direct solicitation. He had no idea if these profiles were real or not, whether the emails were computer-generated scams or the real thing, and he didn’t care to find out.
Review of Australian Fiction, Volume 2, Issue 5 Page 5
