Broken English (Broken Lives Book 1)

by Marita A. Hansen

  “No, you fuck off, you arsehole. I don’t know why you’re bein’ such a prick to me lately. I’ve done nuthin’ to you, yet you keep bitching at me.” He turned and headed back down the corridor, stopping outside our English class. He glanced back at me with a mean smile, then pushed open the door and yelled out, “Hey, miss, you free after school? Dante is juicing to fuck you.”

  Laughter broke out inside the room.

  “You bastard!” I yelled, rushing for him.

  I shoved him hard, knocking him away from the door. He stumbled back, causing the door to slip out of his hand and slam shut. He glared at me, then turned and stalked away, his heavy tread sounding loud in the almost empty corridor.

  The door flew open next to me, Mrs. Hatton emerging from it. “What the hell, Dante?” she said, looking at me in disbelief.

  “Sorry, miss,” I replied. “This is all on Jasper; I had no part in it.”

  “Then, why are you standing here and not in class?”

  “I wuz talkin’ to him. He got pissy when I wouldn’t do sumpthin’ he wanted, so he retaliated by embarrassing me through you.”

  Her annoyed expression softened. “Okay. Just get to class.”

  I nodded. “Sure.” I headed off, glancing back at her. She was still watching me. I smiled at her. To my surprise, she smiled back.

  21

  CLARA

  I opened my front door, unable to stop thinking about what had happened between me and Dante. Or what had nearly happened, our potential kiss only stopped by circumstance. I still couldn’t believe how things had escalated so fast. I’d been mad at him one minute, grieving with him the next, then wanting to kiss him, risking everything for a fleeting brush of our lips. I couldn’t fathom how he could have such sway over my emotions. It was frustrating, annoying, something I didn’t want, yet couldn’t stop.

  I stepped inside my house, mentally berating myself for being so weak-willed. My anger instantly vanished at the sight of my husband. Markus was sitting on the couch, with his face buried in his hands and his shoulders shaking.

  “What’s wrong, Markus?” I asked, hurrying over to sit next to him, concern wiping out all thought of Dante.

  Markus dropped his hands, his expression distraught. His blue eyes were bloodshot and glistening with tears. “Me old man’s dead,” he said, referring to his father, his grief making his Cockney accent thicker.

  My hand shot to my mouth, shocked by his words. Then I was pulling him into a hug, gripping onto him tight, my heart breaking for him. Markus buried his face into my shoulder, sobbing into it.

  I ran a hand down his hair. “How?” I asked, knowing it couldn’t be from natural causes. His father was... had been a fit forty-eight-year-old; someone I thought would still be running marathons for quite a few years to come.

  “Car accident,” he croaked out. “A poxy drunk driver ran a red light. Me old girl was injured as well, but not critically.”

  I gripped onto him tighter, absolutely devastated, his mother as lovely as Markus. We stayed like that for a while, Markus eventually breaking the connection. He looked so vulnerable, his grief making him resemble a teenager more than a twenty-four-year-old man, someone who needed to be hugged and consoled, to be told that everything was going to be all right. But it wasn’t going to be all right. Like my mother and Dante’s, his father wasn’t coming back, death a finality no one could change.

  “We need to go see your mother,” I stated.

  He scrubbed a hand across his eyes. “We can’t afford to return to England, our credit cards are shot from the move ’ere.”

  “We’ll get a bank loan.”

  He shook his head. “They wouldn’t give us one. We have hardly any assets to bargain with. Maybe if we owned a house, but we don’t.”

  “Then, I’ll ask my father for a loan,” I said, even though I didn’t want to. Despite living next door to him, we barely talked. And if I had a choice he wouldn’t be my landlord, the low rate he’d given me too good to turn down. I couldn’t afford to live in my old neighbourhood on my teacher’s salary, a place I absolutely adored. I’d hoped that after Markus had been working for a few months, we could move out and get another place in the area, but he’d only just started work a week ago and now he had to leave.

  “But you hate your old man,” Markus said.

  “I don’t hate him,” I replied, realising he’d misinterpreted my behaviour. I hadn’t told Markus why I hardly talked to my father. Instead, I’d shut him down every time he mentioned my father to the point where he didn’t ask anymore. Maybe I should’ve told him why I found it so hard to talk about the man who had meant the world to me. But what I should do wasn’t always what I did. Regardless, Markus needed me right now and I had to do right by him, which was asking my father for a loan, whether I wanted to or not.

  I cleared my throat, knowing that once I spoke I couldn’t back out. “And my dad will give us a loan. He’ll probably jump at the chance to get back into my good graces, and since you need to be with your family, it’s our only option.”

  “I doubt I can even go. I’ve only just started my new job. I don’t know if the principal will hold my job open for me.”

  “Don’t worry about that, being with your family is more important.”

  “You’re my family as well, Clara. Do you think you can get some time off?”

  “I’m sure I can, the principal is really nice. It’s just a matter of whether my father can cover our costs. I’ll go see if he’s home.”

  I went to get up, but Markus grabbed my face, stopping me. He placed his forehead against mine. “You’re the perfect wife, you know.”

  I didn’t answer, knowing he was wrong.

  ***

  I walked down the path to my father’s door, the brick and tile house identical to mine, just with a prettier garden. Small, well-groomed trees and bushes lined the property and the driveway, accompanied by a colourful array of flowers and herbs, a concoction of floral scents permeating the air. I glanced at my own place, which had no fancy arrangements, only a well-kept lawn courtesy of Markus, my gardening ability non-existent.

  My father had built both houses so he could be close to me once I was ready to leave home. He just hadn’t banked on me running off to England after the death of my mother in an attempt to put distance between us. But I also didn’t count on how much I’d miss my home, England too grey and gloomy for me. I loved the bright, intense New Zealand skies, not the overcast days that London was laden with. I’d also missed the stunning beaches, the pleasant weather, and the fact I could live in a house instead of a tiny apartment. New Zealand was the breath of fresh air I’d desperately needed. But now I was choking on it, my relationship with Dante making me wish I was still under the overcast skies of London. Relationship! Could I even call it that? Because we weren’t together—and never would be.

  I stopped on my father’s front porch, hesitating for a moment before knocking, my nerves bunching up tighter as footsteps approached the other side of the door. A moment later, it swung open. My eyes narrowed at the sight of my father’s lover. Sinh was in his late-twenties, which was a couple of decades younger than my dad. He was dressed in tiny black shorts and a red tank top, the tight material accentuating his slim physique. He brushed his jet-black hair off his face, which was the same colour as Dante’s, the only similarity between the two. Unlike Dante’s masculine beauty, Sinh was feminine-looking; his androgynous features a perfect fusion of east meets west. He was half Vietnamese and half Italian/American, the man a product of the Vietnam War.

  He smiled at me, looking surprised I was standing in front of him. “Hi there, Clara,” he said with an American accent. “You want to see your dad?”

  I nodded, not saying hello back. Although Sinh was always nice to me, I didn’t feel comfortable around him. It wasn’t because he was incredibly camp, even more than Alexander Perry from Queer as Folk, it was because I’d walked in on him giving my father a blowjob. But what had made it d
oubly horrifying, was that my father had still been married to my mother, who’d been fighting cancer at the time. Because of her ill health, I’d kept what I’d seen to myself. But after she’d passed away, I’d made him pay for his affair, pushing him out of my life. To an extent, because five years later I’d extended an olive branch, asking to rent the house he’d originally built for me. Still, it didn’t make our interactions any easier.

  Sinh opened the door wider. “Come on in, I’ll go get him for you.”

  I stepped inside, closing the door behind me. As Sinh disappeared through the passage doorway, I headed for the lounge couch. Although the layout of the house was the same as my place, the interior looked vastly different. The walls held a plethora of ethnic art, while every nook and cranny had some sort of humanoid sculpture lurking within, ready to pounce on me. My gaze landed on what looked like an African tribal statue, an oddly shaped carving of a person holding a blunt, wooden spear. It had a protruding stomach and a colourfully painted face, with a spike through its nose. I screwed up my own nose at it, thinking a robber would get the bejesus scared out of them if they snuck in during the night.

  My father appeared through the passage doorway. He was dressed in casual clothes—khaki shorts and a loose T-shirt. He was an older, male version of me, our resemblance striking. He had the same gunmetal eyes and high cheekbones, as well as honey-blonde hair. We both dyed our hair, though, he did it to hide his greys. When I was younger, I’d been annoyed that I’d gotten my mother’s mousy-brown hair instead of my father’s natural blond locks. I’d begged my mother at the age of fifteen to let me dye my hair like his, and ever since I’d been religiously using the same colour, people not even realising I wasn’t a natural blonde.

  And now I shared something else with him, something that I’d never thought I would, nor ever wanted to.

  We had both cheated on our spouses.

  Though, what I’d done wasn’t really cheating, since I hadn’t kissed Dante.

  Although, I would’ve if that ball hadn’t shattered the moment.

  I forced the thought down and rose to my feet, hoping my father didn’t hug me, because if he did, I knew I’d cry, the wall I’d built between us not an easy decision. I had idolised him in my youth, always striving to do what he did, my passion for the English language stemming from him. He was a university professor and a published author of several books, all of which I’d bought without his knowledge. Even though I’d pushed him away, I couldn’t completely let go. I’d never stopped loving him; I just didn’t know how to handle his cheating.

  “It’s lovely to see you, Clara.” He lowered himself into the seat across from me, the turquoise colour of the couch a shade darker than his shirt. “What brings you here?”

  I sat back down. “Markus’s father was killed in a car accident—”

  Before I could finish my sentence, my father jumped up and came to me. “I’m so sorry, love,” he said, his voice full of sincerity. He sat down next to me and pulled me into a hug.

  I went stiff.

  He instantly let go, no doubt feeling my discomfort. “How’s your husband doing?” he asked, the fact he hadn’t used Markus’s name telling. I hadn’t introduced them yet, something I now regretted.

  “Markus is devastated.”

  “As expected.” My father went to touch my hand, but stopped himself. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  I lowered my gaze, my unease rapidly increasing. It had been hard enough asking if I could rent his house, let alone approaching him for a loan. And it wouldn’t just be for a few hundred bucks, around ten grand closer to the mark. I massaged my temple, realising I hadn’t thought this through, the sudden shock of learning about Markus’s dad’s death having scrambled my senses, because there was no way I could expect my father to hand over that kind of money, especially after the way I’d ignored him.

  What was I thinking?

  “What is it, Clara?” he asked, sounding concerned.

  I kept my gaze down, unable to look him in the eye. “Markus wants us to return to London so he can be with his family.”

  “For good?” he asked, sounding upset.

  I looked up, his expression mirroring his tone. “A month at the most.”

  Relief lit up his gunmetal eyes, making what I was going to ask even harder.

  I cleared my throat. “The problem is...” I paused for a moment, running over what I was going to say in my mind before vocalising it, hoping he didn’t misconstrue my intentions. “We don’t have any money left. Our credit cards are also ruined from the move to New Zealand. We’d planned on clearing them quick, but Markus’s documentation took longer than anticipated since he has a criminal conviction.”

  My father’s eyebrows shot up. “For what?”

  “It wasn’t his fault. A guy was sexually harassing me. Markus lost his temper and punched him. He only got community service for it, but it still went on his record. Because of it, he had to get a character waiver to come here, which was why things were held up.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “Which means we can’t afford to fly back to England.”

  “What are you going to do, then?”

  I forced myself not to look away. “I told Markus I’d ask if you could help out.”

  His face dropped. “So, the only reason you’re here is for money?” he replied, appearing offended.

  I looked down, feeling ashamed.

  My father exhaled loudly. “I guess I deserve this.”

  I looked back up, not liking his hurt expression. “What do you mean?”

  He glanced at the kitchen doorway, the sound of a pot clanging coming from within, Sinh probably cooking dinner. “Although I love Sinh with all my heart, I regret what we did, because it resulted in me losing you.” His eyes glossed over with unshed tears, turning them into liquid silver. “I love you so much, Clara. Don’t you think you’ve punished me long enough? I want to be a part of your life again.” He took hold of my hands. “Please let me back into your life.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, unable to stop the emotions he was provoking. I did want to forgive him. I truly did. I just hadn’t known how ... until now. Maybe if I’d walked into his office before Sinh had dropped to his knees, I might have stopped what had happened—like the banging of the ball had stopped me from kissing Dante.

  I opened my eyes, the tears on my father’s cheeks reflecting those on mine. I pulled a hand free and wiped them away, giving him a nod.

  Hope crossed his face. “Does that mean you’ll let me back in?”

  I nodded again.

  He pulled me into a hug. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he said continuously, his voice choking up.

  “You shouldn’t thank me,” I said, gripping onto him too. “I don’t deserve it.”

  He pulled free. “You do, darling. I not only betrayed your mother’s trust, I betrayed yours. I’m so sorry for everything I put you through.”

  “What’s done is done, and... I now understand why you cheated on Mum.”

  Confusion pulled at his brow. “Why would you say that?”

  Because Dante’s my version of Sinh.

  “Sinh’s very attractive,” I said instead. “Actually, he’s beautiful. I can see why you were tempted by him. Plus, you must’ve been under a lot of stress with Mum always being in the hospital—”

  “I was, but it still doesn’t excuse what I did. Though, I’m happy you don’t hate me anymore.”

  “I never hated you, I was just hurt. I’d thought of you as this perfect person... Actually, you were more than a person to me. I idolised you like a god, and when I walked in, catching you and Sinh together...” I stopped talking, feeling more tears well up.

  He squeezed my hand. “I’m so sorry, so, so, very sorry.”

  The tears came, the divide between us having been so hard, and now, I felt as though I needed to apologise too, but not just to my father, to Markus. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.

>   My father pulled me into a hug again. I didn’t know how long we stayed like that, but when we finally pulled apart, my heart didn’t hurt so much, the barrier I’d built between us finally gone.

  “I don’t want to ask you for the money,” I said, wiping my eyes. “I really don’t, and I understand if you say no, but even if you do, I still want to see you again. I can’t hold a grudge against you anymore,” not after what I’ve done. “I love you, Dad.”

  He smiled so wide I could see his missing molar. “You don’t know how long I’ve dreamt of you saying that to me again. And I’ll be happy to pay for your flights to London.”

  I went to thank him, but stopped at the sound of Sinh’s voice. He was standing in the kitchen doorway, looking deeply uncomfortable and a touch upset. “You can’t afford to pay for her trip, Eric,” he said, so quietly I almost didn’t hear him.

  “Yes, I can,” my father replied. “I have plenty of cash.”

  Sinh winced. “No, you don’t.”

  My father bolted to his feet. “What have you done?”

  “I didn’t know you’d need it.”

  My father walked around the coffee table, heading for Sinh. “Tell me what you’ve done,” he growled.

  Sinh covered his face. “I thought I could pay it back before you found out, but my book didn’t sell well.”

  My father stopped in front of him. “What did you do?”

  Sinh kept his hands over his face. “I lied about getting a publisher for my book. I paid for everything.”

  “You mean, I paid for everything,” my father snapped. “How much did you spend?”

  “I don’t want to say.”

  “Tell me!”

  “Eight—”

  “Hundred? That’s fine. I have ten grand in the bank, more than enough to pay for the flights.”

  “You didn’t let me finish.”

  My father went stiff, the realisation that Sinh meant eight grand making his mouth drop open. “You didn’t?” he gasped.

  Sinh nodded.

  “What the hell, Sinh!” he yelled. “You threw eight grand away on a book!”