Kismet

by Sarah Michelle Lynch

  “Okay,” he whispers, splashing water everywhere as he quickly lifts himself out of the bath and tugs on a towelling robe.

  Then he’s holding one out for me.

  I follow him downstairs, still damp and with my hair unwashed, though that was half the reason for me getting in the bath tonight.

  There’s a tray of savoury snacks waiting on the coffee table which he must have prepared earlier, plus there’s more wine, too. He refills my glass and tops up his own, then takes a seat in the armchair, as if to let me know he doesn’t want me anywhere near him while he undergoes this horrific experience—this confession I’m forcing him into.

  I begin to pick at some crisps and miniature quiches, only because I’m absolutely starving, having refused to eat even one more of those horrific plasticky meals at the hotel tonight.

  “Who told you?” he asks, biting out the words.

  I refuse to look at him, not when his tone is scathing like this. “Everybody at work knew. I found out this morning. Someone must have recognised you when you dropped me off. In the hotel industry everyone knows everything; there are no secrets, especially when it comes to people like your father. Word gets around. Isn’t that what he wants? For his reputation to be known.”

  There’s silence from him. Good.

  I turn my head to look at him, his face wearing an expression of horror. “By the way, this was after I put my resignation into the inbox of HR. I was all happy, quitting my job to start a new life with my new fiancé, and then I had to stand in a room full of people and hear that my potential father-in-law is a fucking—”

  I dare not say it. Saying it would make it real.

  Saying it might give him the option to contradict it.

  “Only a few weeks ago, everyone was telling me how that place would go to rack and ruin without me at the helm. Yet today, the HR manager seemed happy I’d resigned, even told me to finish up immediately. They said I could finish today with two months’ salary on top. Doesn’t it scream suspect to you? They bloody wanted rid of me.”

  He goes from being angry to biting his nails and nervously kicking his leg back and forth.

  “It’s not my fault,” he blurts. “I don’t have any control over what he does.”

  I stand up and point at him, eyebrows arched, fire in my belly. “No, you fucking don’t, but you can control yourself, including what you say and what you do. You don’t have to lie, you see. That’s an option. Lying isn’t necessary, or a pre-requisite, it’s entirely your own free will as to whether you lie or not. Also, you don’t have to fake it. Not with me. I’ve been walking around all day ever since I got told with this hollow feeling inside of me and I realised it’s like a kick in the gut. That’s what this lie feels like to me, a kick in the fucking gut.”

  Ruben swallows hard and watches as I sit back down. I drain my glass of wine and curl up on the sofa with my legs hugged to my chest.

  “You’ll tell me everything, Ruben.”

  I wait patiently for him to begin, all the while he’s clucking and tutting and squirming in his chair. I keep my eyes focused on the fireplace and suddenly, he speaks.

  “I was in no way born with a silver spoon in my mouth,” he tells me, but instead of looking up at him to judge his honesty, I keep my eyes focused in front of me, absorbing the words rather than the person into my mind. “My mother was an immigrant who came over to find her fortune as an artist, but it didn’t turn out as planned. She got pregnant, then married. She loved my father even when he had nothing, don’t ask me why, I can’t explain it.”

  “Go on,” I encourage.

  “They had dreams, the same as everyone does. Dreams they chased but failed to achieve. Resigning themselves to mediocrity, they cast their gaze upon us, their sons.”

  I want to believe all this, but I’m not sure yet that I do. It’s an entirely different narrative to the one I’ve been fed up to now.

  “Laurent was destined for academia, whereas I excelled in sports and socialising, head boy… an all-rounder in my subjects, but a talent when it came to football. At first it was my own thing. I didn’t tell him about it. Even Laurent didn’t want me to tell Dad. We both had enough pressure piled on us to do well in our exams, we didn’t need anymore. I used my paper round money to do after-school clubs and I kept it under the radar until opportunities like training camps were put forward, plus an offer to sign with a local youth team. That was when I had to ask for more money to pay for extra kit and travel and fees and stuff. Part of me thought maybe it wasn’t worth it, that I should just get my qualifications and do something once I was an adult. Trouble is, I loved football, I flew with a ball under my foot and you have to start young or you don’t get anywhere. An eighteen-year-old nobody who’d never played before suddenly becoming a superstar overnight? It wouldn’t have happened.”

  I turn my head to catch his eyes, but he’s staring at the picture of him and Laurent on the mantlepiece, tears in his eyes. I look away quickly as he continues…

  “Dad made it his sole purpose in life to control me after that. He got me to do things like scrub the entire house top to bottom, and in exchange he’d buy me new kit or whatever. I didn’t mind, really. I didn’t. But there would always be the warning: ‘Make sure you remember who got you there when you arrive.’ Anyway, on my eighteenth birthday I left home and bought my own flat, having signed a contract with West Ham a few months before. I got myself out and left Laurent behind. He told me to go. He told me to get out. He said he’d be right behind me, that he’d get himself a place at Cambridge and it was because we’d stuck together that we were the people we were. Dad was my motivation to be independent, out from under his control… free from him reminding me who owed whom and what would be expected in years to come.”

  Ruben goes very quiet and I wonder if that’s the end of the tale, but it can’t be.

  “You didn’t go without when you were growing up, though?”

  “We went without a lot of things, the same as I’m sure you did, Freya. What with a mother trapped in a hateful marriage, a father absent and cold.” He looks across at me. “Dad passed the London Knowledge and was a cabbie. That wasn’t a lie. His dream had always been to own his own business, but it didn’t happen, not until we were grown up anyway.” He shakes his head, trying to rid himself of some thought or feeling. He looks down into his lap and murmurs, “Laurent and I always suspected he was involved in crime, but we didn’t know for sure.”

  I watch the weight of it leave him, astonished he just came out with it like that.

  “When did you get confirmation?” I ask, even though I’m fairly certain his brother’s death was no coincidence.

  Ruben covers his mouth with a hand. “I didn’t know anything for sure until after Laurent died. I had absolutely no idea he was caught up that deep. You think you know someone, you’re sure you know where they’re getting their money from, but sometimes, you don’t. Laurent and I thought he was using his taxi to deliver drugs or whatever, but it was so much worse.”

  “So, what happened?” I ask, aghast.

  “The funeral,” he murmurs, “there were all these guys who turned up, ones Laurent never would’ve hung about with. They were there to support Dad, I realised. I’d been away in France by that point, remember? Playing in Paris. Stuff had gone on while I was gone, clearly. Then there was a collection for some charity at the end of the funeral and there were rolls of £50 notes stacked up inside this fucking wooden bowl, this fucking humble fucking wooden bowl holding all this disgusting dirty money.” He rubs his face, shaking his head with shame.

  “And your mum?” I ask, wondering how someone like her might become so… trapped.

  “She’s been under his control for so long, who knows if she’d ever be able to integrate back into society now. She’s practically housebound, too afraid to come out, just the way he likes it.”

  There are a lot more details he’s not telling me, but for now, let’s believe what he’s saying. Let’s belie
ve his holey narrative and go with the flow.

  “When you started your career, what did he demand?” I ask Ruben, because I know that Fred wouldn’t have let his son go out into the world a free man.

  “You know, when it’s abuse, people look from the outside in and think ‘How could you not have seen? How did you not say no?’ They don’t understand because they’ve never been abused.”

  “What did he make you do?” I demand.

  “I did clean the house… but then…” His eyes squeeze shut, and he winces. “His demands got worse. When I was thirteen, he brought home a woman for me and made me do it while he watched.”

  My jaw sets and I swear, if I ever see that bastard again, I’ll neck him. I’ll do it. Sod the consequences.

  Ruben’s chin wobbles but he smiles, as if it’s ridiculous, really. “He told me he’d keep getting me women if I promised to give him my first million.” Ruben turns to look at me and a single tear falls down his cheek. “I agreed.”

  “So, Fred took that million and he… began for real.”

  “I think so, from what I’ve gathered. I mean, I know so, because that must be how it happened, right? When I embarked on my career proper and moved into my own place, I left behind the life we’d shared in a shabby terrace in Brixton, but by the time I was on my way to France, they were living where they are now and Laurent was about to go up to Eton—as if their fortunes had reversed, by magic.” He folds his bottom lip together between his thumb and forefinger, reliving this past life with dread. “I know Laurent would never have blamed me, in fact as I said he pushed me to escape, but it feels to me like I abandoned him to deal with that alone. It wasn’t just that I left home, then left the country, it was that I detached mentally, maybe even emotionally, like I couldn’t think of the life I used to live… and Laurent would send me emails and cards and letters saying how great everything was at Eton and how well he was doing… but deep down, he must have been so desperate. He must have felt alone… and hopeless… to have got to that place he did, at the end. The guy I knew stayed up late reading and studying, not snorting lines only to pass out and defecate his own bed.” Ruben cries out in pain, as if he’d happily die right now. “I escaped. WHY ME? Why did I get out, but he didn’t? I still can’t… and I don’t want to… believe it.”

  I run to him and throw my arms around him, letting him fall to pieces in my arms as I try to hold him together.

  “Survival makes animals of us, Ruben. Animals.”

  He nods his head before weeping openly in my arms.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Confessions

  Ruben ceases crying and I allow myself to sink against him, curling up on his lap in the armchair. I start playing with his hair and kiss the back of his hand, but I can feel him shaking it all off, readying himself for the next portion of tonight’s entertainment.

  “It’s your turn,” he whispers, still with so much emotion in his voice. “Your turn. You said…”

  His vulnerability and brokenness in this moment has made me feel powerful and protective. I want to close my arms around him and never let go.

  “I’m not going into details tonight—”

  “Freya,” he demands.

  I lift my head off his chest and face him. “No, Ruben. I’ll give you the short version if you like, but I’m not going into great detail. You’ve exhausted yourself telling me about your family. I’m not going to make you even more upset right now.”

  There’s that classic Ruben frown and a pair of puppy dog eyes to match. He only told me his problems because he wants to know mine. I get it. He was the one to go first. Now he feels weak and on the backfoot.

  “I’m protecting you,” I murmur, “I’ve always been protecting you from what I am. I could have seduced you in that church and had you in the confessional if there was one… and you know it.”

  He pulls me close and kisses me. “Tell me everything. Tell me now or I’ll leave, I swear it. I’ll leave, Freya.”

  There’s an anxiety rash on his neck and several veins in his forehead have popped out. Does he think I couldn’t be alone again? If so, he doesn’t know me at all. Hating yourself means you know what you deserve and being alone is more than I deserve. Having Ruben is beyond anything I should’ve experienced, because this love is real, and yet it’s somehow been handed to me anyway.

  “When I was seventeen,” I begin, “I was doing my A levels and had a plan. I was going to go to university… I was all set to escape… to leave… and live the life I’d always wanted, free of the abuse at home. Not just physical, but mental… bullying… being treated like a second-class citizen while Adam could do no wrong and didn’t know any better.”

  Ruben blinks several times, breathes deeply, and nods for me to go on. He looks grateful to be given something else to think about.

  “Then, everything changed,” I sigh, my face sagging just at the thought of it all. “It was pretty standard really. I met this guy on a night out with friends in London and we were instantly in each other’s pockets. He had a flat in London and I used to spend entire weekends there. I began failing at everything: my studies, friendships, even my relationship with Mum. When he said, ‘Babe, just move in already,’ I grabbed my stuff and that was it. I left everything behind. Here was this guy offering me, a teenager, a new life. I jumped at the chance. He had money and seemed as obsessed with me as I was with him.”

  “What was his name?” Ruben asks.

  “That’s not important,” I insist.

  Ruben looks like he’s going to argue with me on this, but shuts his mouth suddenly. He’s not going to look the guy up and take revenge. It wasn’t like that, anyway.

  “I didn’t have a job. I’d quit college and all I did all day was watch TV and wait for him to come home. It quickly got boring. After a few months the sex wasn’t as exciting and he started working late a lot. By this point, I was in a quagmire of depression, stuck in his flat, afraid to go out. I’d got myself into a corner, weighed down by guilt and uncertainty and desperation. I’d allowed myself to be overrun by obsession and now it had fizzled out, I had nothing left, no prospects, no family, just this boyfriend who was never home and had got bored already.” I look up at Ruben and he seems unsurprised. “Then, he brought home this girl one night and asked if I wanted to join them. He was older, I knew he’d had threesomes before, but I’d already told him I wasn’t into that. I couldn’t escape and had to listen as he did what he wanted with this other girl in our bedroom. I had to sit in the living room and wait while he got it out of his system.”

  “Dickhead,” Ruben sighs, still with that frown.

  “It was one of those things, you know? Looking back now, I can see how it all happened… why it happened… but back then, I was trapped. I couldn’t see straight.”

  “So, then…?”

  I take a deep breath and blow it out. “He wasn’t interested in satisfying me anymore, all I’d become was the woman who made his meals and washed his clothes. So, I decided to find people who were into me. While he was out at work, I’d chat to men online. I’d send them pictures; they’d pursue me until begging to meet up. I’d invite them over, during the day of course, and a couple of times I thought I even liked one or two of them.”

  Ruben’s shaking next to me. I knew he wouldn’t cope well with this. He doesn’t understand who I am or what I am. He sees only what he wants to see.

  “Freya, I don’t know what to make of it. I don’t…”

  He doesn’t have the temerity to say what he thinks, but I know what he would say if he did. He’d say that I must have been very ill, not that I was actually just wishing for my boyfriend to come home early, find me in a state of undress and punish me how I deserved to be punished.

  “Then there was this one guy…” I pause, take a breath, even laugh a little. “He was good-looking and cute. We had enjoyable sex. He made me come. But after he was done, he put some notes on the side and told me to fix myself up. He said my hair neede
d styling, my bush needed a trim and I needed new underwear. That’s when I first got the idea. If he was willing to pay, maybe others would be, too. I took the guy’s money, packed a bag and checked into a hotel. I bought clothes, did myself up and went down to the hotel bar. Within a few minutes, I had my first client.”

  I look into Ruben’s eyes and see shock and horror. However, that’s not what I felt at the time.

  “It was the most exhilarating thing I ever did in my whole entire life. When he paid me money and then drilled me like a man possessed, something in me came alive. Something dark and rotten and depraved, but I enjoyed every second and didn’t feel used or manipulated. I was in control, finally. I was the one doing exactly what I wanted. For the first time in my life, I was free.”

  Ruben’s face screws up and his eyes look suddenly even more bloodshot than before. He’s disgusted by all this, clearly.

  “So, then what?” He wipes a tear away, shakes his head and tries to breathe. “How did you end up back home?”

  I have to leave his lap for this one, so I walk to the fireplace and stare at the picture of him and his brother together. What they had was beautiful, a real connection that not all siblings have, something I coveted for myself, once upon a time.

  “I ended up in hospital. Then they came for me and took me back home again.”

  Ruben starts crying all over again, head in his hands, shoulders shuddering.

  “I got what I wanted. I got their attention.” I keep looking at the photo, trying to imagine what Ruben must have felt for his brother, something innocent and pure, strong and true. “I guess you could say I was brought up to be dependent. My father never wanted me to have my own life. As a teenager I’d spend hours getting ready to go out, but he’d tear me down with one barbed comment and it’d make me feel like I may as well have not bothered. He’d make me feel tiny so that I believed nobody would want me. So, when I had all these guys wanting me, guess what, it felt great! Until it didn’t.” I lift my head and stare into his tear-filled eyes, confused by the emotional reaction I’ve evoked in him, especially because I feel nothing. “I returned home and slipped back into old routines. We never talked about my time away from home in the city and they never asked me if I was okay. But I’d learnt something. I’d learnt that I was a needy person and I vowed never to get involved with a man again. I vowed to steer clear of that sickness inside of me and only to use men for sex after that. So now you know, Ruben. Now you know.”