Ruben who has never done me any wrong… Ruben who has only ever been here for me and made me happy… loved me.
“Bub,” he groans.
“Go back to sleep, baby. I love you.”
“I love you.” He kisses my hair and falls right back off.
***
It’s a few days later, we’re on our way to the Savoy to meet some of his friends. I guess the only good thing about London is that it’s busy and so full of people, I’m hardly likely to bump into any ghosts of the past (at least, I hope). There’s a very good reason I’ve never really watched or followed football besides the game seeming tedious to me—you see, back in the day, I actually fucked quite a lot of footballers who wanted convenient sex with no strings, no comeback, all confidential and safe and perfectly transactional. I always thought being the girlfriend or wife of one must be great, mainly because all the footballers I encountered were fit, smelled great and had clearly made women come lots of times before. How ironic I’m now in a relationship with one. I absolutely would never have become friends with Ruben if he’d told me the first time we met, “Yeah, I’m a footballer,” purely because I have no desire whatsoever to be pictured on someone’s arm and featured in a WAG magazine or anything like that.
However, it has to be said that as a working girl, the best gig to get was a footballer in denial—they accepted the gift of an escort for the night from one of their teammates as part of a birthday present or something, but once we got behind closed doors, they just wanted to chat about how in love with their best mate they were—even paid extra for my silence. It was a varied profession to say the least. Let’s hope none of Ruben’s friends are footballers, or if they are, let’s hope they are partnered and were forgettable, not regrettable.
“I’ve booked a room for us,” he murmurs in my ear, brushing his nose through my hair, “thought we’d want to relax and drink a few, then hop upstairs… you know?”
I turn to eye him quizzically. “We have a perfectly good bedroom at home for that.”
“Come on,” he groans, “you know how good it is in hotel rooms.”
“Hmm, yeah, I suppose.”
I allow him to kiss me but even with my eyes closed and my mouth under attack, my brain is still functioning and I can’t help but think that Ruben is still trying too hard. I know that’s all part of a new relationship, and maybe I should live in the here and now too, but perhaps once he learns about the realities of being with a woman—such as bad periods, PMS, acne breakouts, unexplainable mood swings, a desire to sometimes be alone and relinquish sex (the list goes on and is unlimited depending on many internal and external factors)—he may think twice about marrying me. Loving a woman is far from as simple as hotel rooms and sex on the stairs. Even I know that.
I wipe lipstick off his mouth and grin into his eyes. He seems happy so let’s leave it at that for now (as long as he eventually realises that I’m no longer a pussy for hire and there will be complications down the line).
We arrive at the bustling drop-off area and Ruben pays the fare while I eye the fancy interior beyond the polished windows. I already hate everyone here and everything about it all. It’s meaningless. Frippery. It’s a world I used to inhabit and was glad to escape—alleged high-class people with their low-class minds. Ruben doesn’t know me yet—that I’d prefer to be hiking up a Welsh mountain or wandering an air-conditioned art gallery in Southern France. I suppose one of these days he’ll meet the real me, maybe.
He opens the cab door for me and helps me out, but rather than head straight inside, we somehow end up standing on the pavement for a minute, gazing into each other’s eyes. When I sense someone close by, then hear the flash on a huge camera, I turn and discover a paparazzo taking our picture. I turn back to Ruben to check his reaction, but he’s grinning like a Cheshire cat.
He didn’t hustle me straight inside. He knows photographers hang around outside places like this. He’s glad our photo was taken. He wants people to know he’s taken. He wants the headline to read: Kitchener Off the Market! Party Boy… Engaged?
The only way they would know we are engaged is if Ruben had told them, because he hasn’t bought me a ring yet and we haven’t told any of our family or friends (at least I haven’t). So why wouldn’t I put it past him to have leaked it already? Maybe I’m paranoid, or perhaps I just know him too well already. It sometimes feels as if he chose me because he knew his parents wouldn’t like it.
I take a deep breath and smile, the actress in me at work. He takes my hand, grips it tight, then kisses the back of it.
“You look so beautiful,” he remarks, but part of me feels this whole thing was choreographed—especially because we’re dressed up for the occasion.
Maybe I am jaded, or maybe I have seen and done it all, therefore I’m pretty clued up when it comes to reading people and situations. Nothing would surprise me, not even Ruben trying to annoy his father by forcing him to read about us in the Sun tomorrow.
Our fancy shoes clack along polished chequered floors as we’re shown to the restaurant area by a member of staff and seated in a lounge just off.
“The usual, Mr Kitchener?” he’s asked, and Ruben nods. No need for wine lists or a run-through of what’s in the liquor cabinet these days. He’ll have the usual because that’s probably the best.
I’m surprised when the usual turns out to be a bottle of highly expensive champagne and six glasses. Two flutes are topped up for us, the remaining four glasses left empty while the champagne goes on ice. So, at least I now know there are to be six of us this evening. Okay, only four more people to contend with. Four. What harm might four people do? I guess it depends on the dynamic of their relationship with Ruben.
“To us,” Ruben toasts, and we coil our forearms together, drinking like real lovers do.
I shall continue to let him have this, even though it’s meaningless to me. Give me dirty sex and burgers in bed over fancy dinners any day. I wasn’t brought up in this world and I don’t belong here.
Pity he hasn’t mentioned hot candlewax or spanking since our late-night confessions at the beginning of the week.
“Hey, hey, hey!” It’s some guy behind me, and Ruben’s out of his seat before I’ve even turned around. I hear the slapping of backs, so at least the first guest is male. I can deal with men.
“So sorry I’m late, cuz. So, who do we have here?”
I turn around and stare into the eyes of the tallest, most beautiful black man I’ve ever met. Seriously. He’s prettier than me and is wearing large diamonds in his ears.
“This is Freya, my fiancée.”
The words have me in shock, but thankfully I’m able to contain my intense disdain for being announced as his fiancée by focusing on the beauty of Ruben’s friend instead.
“I’m Anthony,” the god says, “pleased to meet you… Freya.” He speaks my name with some trepidation, as if he’s not sure this is actually real. Or maybe I evoke romantic notions in similarly naïve men.
“Anthony. Pleased to meet you,” I gush. “And how do you know Ruben? Are you…?”
“God, no. I’m a physical therapist in the football world. Me and your man go way back. Can’t believe you never told me you got engaged, bruv?”
We’re all seated and Ruben pours champers for Anthony.
“It’s recent. We’ve known one another for a while, but then… things took off… and when you know, you know.”
Anthony betrays himself as forward when he reaches out for my hand, rubbing my empty wedding finger with interest. “He hasn’t even put a ring on it.”
“Ruben’s having it made,” I insist, hating the way this stranger is daring to question the genuine love between us with his insinuation that without a ring, the whole thing means nothing. “He was too impatient to wait before asking. It was just… one of those things, right hun?”
“Impulse,” Ruben says, finishing for me.
Does Ruben know the difference between me acting and reacting yet? I do
ubt it.
This is going to be one of those nights!
“Oi, where’s that bell-end we ain’t seen in ages?!” It’s the voice of our latest guest, apparently.
I turn around and see three more people. Another guy, this time with a woman on his arm, plus a lone man who looks familiar. I realise I don’t know the latter personally, but that he’s famous. It’s the guy who captained England in their last World Cup… and remains captain, as far as I know.
Fancy connections, huh?
I’m suddenly very aware that I’m wearing a slutty red jumpsuit with a lot of cleavage on show (I had to have Ruben help me tape it all down before we left the house).
There are more slaps on the back and a kiss for the radiant Amazonian redhead who’s staring at me with intrigue.
“This is Aaron Walsh, my oldest friend from schooldays,” Ruben announces, gesturing at the black-haired guy with the Amazon on his arm. “And his girlfriend Jessie.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I manage, almost stammering. They look like a power couple if ever I met one.
“And of course, Jamie Friars… we played together in France.” Only the England captain. I mean, it’s just another ordinary day… meeting these people and all…
“Enchantée,” Jamie says, mimicking the accent poorly, probably to make me laugh. However, his kiss on my hand tells me he’s deadly serious. “So, this is the Freya he always talks about? He always went on and on, telling us forthrightly, ‘Nah, we’re just friends.’ We all knew better.”
Jamie, Anthony and Ruben all seem in on the joke and laugh, but power couple Aaron and Jessie look at one another as if mystified.
More champagne is poured and the old schoolfriend Aaron sits to my left with his bride-to-be. Unlike me, she’s wearing a huge sparkler.
“So, what is it you do, Aaron? Everyone else here seems to have connections with the football world.”
He lifts his eyes and blinks as he surveys my face. He’s angular and with narrow eyes, his features symmetrical and exact. I’m devising what he does for a living when his precisely cut suit catches my eye, giving away his profession. But before I can say that, he strops, “I’m a model. Jessie was too. Except she’s a designer now. I’m her muse, you might say. She’s got the talent. I’m the walking clothes rail.”
Again, they share a look. If looks could kill… perhaps they would kill Ruben right now. The power couple is communicating a million things without words and I can’t pick out a single thing they’re saying, except that they are not impressed with Ruben.
“And you knew Ruben at school? How far back? Primary? Secondary?”
Aaron looks awkward and seeks Ruben’s eyes, but my fiancé is busy chatting to single guys Anthony and Jamie on the other side of our lounge table. The schoolfriend is seeking guidance as to what he’s allowed to say.
“Primary,” he mumbles.
“Oh, so when neither of you were wearing Prada?” I’m only guessing, but Aaron scopes out my high-street outfit and seems impressed I can still pick out a mohair Prada from every other suit in this overdressed establishment. Plus, Ruben’s wearing black Levi’s and a custom-made velvet jacket tonight, but let’s not split hairs over labels…
Going by the look on his face, Aaron knows precisely what I’m getting at anyway.
“We knew one another when we had nothing, yeah,” he admits, in that brusque way cockneys speak when directly questioned.
“Ladies and gentleman” —a uniformed man appears as if from nowhere— “your table is ready now your party is complete. Would you like to follow me?”
Two fleet-of-foot waiters scoop up the champagne bucket and glasses dotted around, rushing off to make sure they arrive at the table before we do.
Ruben offers his arm to me as we’re led to a large, circular table for six.
“How is it so far?” he asks, proudly walking beside me.
“Surprising,” I tell him.
Knowing him, he hasn’t even noticed the constant looks of astonishment passing between the other couple in our party tonight. It’s as if Jessie is communicating that something isn’t right, but Aaron knows it’s not the right time to mention that—yet her loyalty to her sex is at odds with his need to maintain decorum.
Once we’re all sat around the table, our drinks topped up again, Ruben knocks a knife against his glass gently and clears his throat to signal a toast. “We wanted you guys to hear it first… it’s not official or anything yet… but yeah, the reason we got you here tonight… reason why we’re celebrating… we’re gonna get married. She said yes!”
Jessie squeaks in a way that is neither surprised, elated or shocked—just robbed of all air by the sounds of it. Aaron and Anthony share disconcerted looks, while Jamie throws his hand across the table to shake Ruben’s, then everyone kind of joins in with “congrats” and “wow” and “oh my god”, when what they’re really thinking is “too soon” … “who is she?” and “what happened to him?”
It’s almost as if we’re here tonight so that Ruben can prove something to himself, because nobody else here is fooled. I also told Ruben specifically that we wouldn’t have an engagement or any celebrations, and yet he’s done this anyway—gone over my head and done as he pleased, using this night to show off and display to the world how together and reformed he is now.
A few minutes later, as we’re perusing the menus, Aaron to my right mumbles in my direction, “Does Fred know yet?”
I shake my head even though Ruben is discussing wines with the sommelier and completely oblivious to the stress he’s causing me right now.
“Make sure it stays that way,” Aaron warns.
A stranger… warning me… doesn’t bode well.
Yet the man I love is seemingly willing to throw me under a bus.
“Why?” I ask, my tone firm, letting him know I need a truthful answer—that I can take it.
Aaron leans in and whispers, “Ruben’s heir to the throne. Fred won’t let the heir marry whomever he pleases. He’ll try to break you apart before it’s even begun.”
I feel like saying he already tried to do that, but I don’t want these people to know about that part of my life.
Then it clicks.
“Ruben gets everything?”
Aaron nods slowly. “Everything.”
The responsibility of running a criminal empire awaits my future husband… whose only job since quitting football has been fannying around with a half-arsed charity project.
Appearances, eh?
I’d be marrying into a gangster family then, suddenly expected to be as fully implicated as Alexia, but simultaneously come across as plain ignorant.
After introductions and so forth, dinner passes in a blur. I eat the most delicious food I’ve ever tasted like it’s the most distant experience of my life—as if none of this is really happening to me. I laugh and nod at the right moments, grin and fire off cute little anecdotes about my whimsical (fictional) childhood in Old Windsor, then let them crack the jokes, spill the drinks and tell stories about wild weekends in European capital cities, as well as Las Vegas, New York and Monte Carlo. When I’m questioned about my career, I spout facts about how many people I was in charge of, how many guests we processed daily and how many weddings ended with the bride being wheeled away in an ambulance. I seem to make them laugh, make them nod and agree with Ruben that I’m really something, holding down a real job and all. I tell them about my plans to open something bijou somewhere outside the UK… and Ruben mumbles he wouldn’t be averse to getting out of town. Whether that means for good or for now, who the hell knows?
I notice Jessie looking agitated as she peers down at her phone in her lap. Someone’s looking for updates on how it’s going tonight, maybe? She keeps trying to hide it from Aaron so he can’t see who she’s texting. At one point her phone seems to be flashing, but she quickly throws the thing into her bag and zips it shut. I watch, fascinated, for a minute or two before she excuses herself from the table and leaves.<
br />
Perhaps it’s work… or an ex… or a very annoying mother.
I turn to Ruben and whisper in his ear, “I’m going to powder my nose.”
“Off you go, then. Women! Off to gossip in the bog,” my lover exclaims, going right back to laughing loudly with Anthony and Jamie over something inexplicable. Seriously, is this even the same guy?
Aaron on the other hand looks worried I’m about to follow and interrogate Jessie in the ladies.
He’d be right.
I enter the super posh bathroom and slip my feet out of my heels, dashing across the floor and entering a stall soundlessly when I hear Jessie on the phone, sat in the only other occupied stall in here.
I catch what appears to be the middle of a conversation.
“…I swear, I didn’t know anything before today,” Jessie insists, “but at least now you know, right? Now you know, you can move on. You never wanted that life anyway.”
There’s a lot of noise on the other end of the line, and all Jessie can do is get in the odd, “I know” or “yeah, I mean…” or “girl, come on…”
“Fiona, mate. I’ll ring you later.” Jessie tries to get off the phone but fails.
There’s a lot more noise, and what sounds like screaming or wailing, even.
“I know, I know,” Jessie says, having to listen to more of the same.
Silently, I leave the room and put my shoes on once I’m outside in the corridor. Taking some deep breaths, I try to calm myself down before going back to the table.
As soon as my mind slows down, though I’m able to recall who Fiona might be. I go back over a conversation I had with Ruben years ago about a certain girl who gave him whatever he wanted, hassle-free…
In response to this realisation, red daggers of despair, betrayal and fear overtake me and begin to swallow me whole. My mind races and I decide I need a way out. This is all too much. It’s one thing after another with him, all stacking up… too heavy.
Jessie will be in there for ages… and Ruben may not even notice the girls are spending so much time in the bathroom.
Kismet Page 21
