Kismet

by Sarah Michelle Lynch

  When she agreed to meet me, I couldn’t believe it. I still had a chance! She hadn’t given up on me altogether.

  I loved her and I had to tell her today.

  I jumped into a taxi and everything blurred into the background. All the plans I’d been working on to incriminate my dad and Freddie… everything… none of it mattered anymore. I wanted her not to look sad but happy. I wanted her in my arms and crying with joy, not sadness.

  Fuck the consequences.

  Fuck it all.

  Better to have five minutes of happiness, than a lifetime wondering what if…

  Epilogue

  Four Years Later

  It’s the height of summer and everything smells of roses. Adam is lying on the lounger next to me sipping a margherita and talking on his phone. A few years ago, I showed up at my parents’ house out of the blue and discovered only Adam at home. He’d snuck in during the day to smoke weed in the attic and wank off to porn.

  I took him down the pub that day and told him about everything that’d happened to me in London. He was seventeen as I recalled everything, leaving nothing out except the sordid bits. Once I was finished, I looked up into his tearful eyes and proposed a pact.

  “I’ve got money now, so if you want to escape, just tell someone at school what’s happening at home. They will refer you to social services, maybe even the police, and you can tell them that if you need somewhere to stay, your sister can put you up.” I handed him a card with all my details and he stared at it with surprise.

  “You run a gallery?”

  “Yeah… I love art, always have.”

  His eyebrows rose almost to his hairline. “So do I.”

  “Well, that’s a start, right?”

  He smiled with glee. “I’ve got some bits I could show you. At home.”

  “Really?”

  “Dad says it’s a waste of time.”

  “He would. He’s talentless. All the good stuff we got came from Mum, don’t let him tell you otherwise.”

  That day was the first time I ever saw Adam smile. It made me feel so sad.

  “I’m okay, you know, Frey,” he said, slowly warming up to me. “Dad is a complete monkey butler, but he doesn’t treat me the same as he treated you. I’m not saying he’s, you know, forgiven, or that he’s even an okay guy, ’cause he’s not, he’s a complete cock, but I just kind of get on with it. It won’t be long until I’m in university and I won’t be home much after that. I’ll just tell them I’ve got a part-time job that keeps me busy in the holidays.”

  It made me ache to think of my mother missing out on things just because she was married to Dad, but she’d made her choice and I couldn’t change her mind.

  “So you’re not smoking weed and all that because you’re living in that miserable house?” I gave him a confrontational glare. “You’re doing that, because…”

  “Everyone does it, Freya. Everyone.”

  “Well, if you want to come and stay at my house and hang around with a load of artists, you’ll have to stop tooting that shit and actually get a girlfriend. Know what I’m saying? That stuff doesn’t always help the trouser department.”

  He pressed his lips together, about as embarrassed as a teenage boy could look, each and every one of his pores giving off a fiery red glow.

  “So, you’re not gonna see Mum, then?” he asked, drinking his diet coke.

  “Why, do you think I should?”

  He shook his head. “She’s not allowed to talk about you in the house. He even made her take away all the pictures.”

  “And did she?”

  “She put them in the downstairs loo. He doesn’t go in there.”

  I had to laugh, it was ridiculous.

  “I just came to tell you that life can be fucked up, bro. But I knew a guy once who lost his brother and he made me see that we gotta stick together. Or at least, if you ever need a way out, you can just call me and there won’t be any judgement or any of that.”

  He looked pleased as punch. “That’s cool.”

  “As long as you don’t smoke that stuff near me, we’re good.”

  “Okay.”

  “And don’t let Mum or Dad see that card. Especially Dad. Keep it under the floorboards or take a picture of it and store it on a secure iCloud or something.”

  He handed me the card back. “You have a website. I’ll be okay.”

  “You sure?”

  “There isn’t enough room for another cock in the family. Trust me, he’s got that covered, I’ll be fine. I won’t be here forever.”

  “Okay.”

  He’s twenty-one now, a graduate of art, having studied in Paris. Dad wouldn’t pay for that, so Adam turned and walked out of the door. He hasn’t been home since but we’ve sent Mum loads of cards and presents and an invite to come stay at my house in Nice, whenever she likes. Never once have I received a reply, even though I know she’s usually in when the post arrives—so Dad can’t have trashed everything we ever sent. I have hope that one day, she’ll show. One day, when she’s feeling crazy, she’ll pack a bag and just come. I pray it happens. I pray every day for her and for Ruben.

  He gets off the phone, grinning.

  “Oh god, I know that look.”

  “Got a date later. I’m in there, I reckon.”

  I pull a face. I really don’t envy youngsters and their dating habits these days. It really doesn’t appeal to me whatsoever. Approving some tiny little photo on an app and rating them… and some people want first dates that aren’t actual dates but what they call, a sizing-up exercise or some kind of no-obligation, no-sweat coffee and a chat, then maybe I’ll call you after that. I can’t … it just doesn’t interest me.

  Saying that, I’ve met some lovely gentlemen while living here, and some even gave me a very pleasant night or two beneath their toned and tanned bodies, but I just never manage to find it in me to want the kind of man who’s into yachts and cheese tastings and loafers. Fair enough, I usually pick up these men when they wander into my gallery, but I don’t know, they’re rich and nice and all, but a few luxury nights in a hotel is about the extent of my attention span when it comes to the opposite sex.

  “Better start getting dressed,” he says, hurrying into the house even though it’s still two in the afternoon.

  “You’d better still be at the gallery tomorrow… you promised!” I holler, half-cackling to myself.

  Young people. I don’t envy them. They’re so worried about what they wear and who sees them and what to post on Instagram and if they should post before a date or after in case their date sees it prior and doesn’t like what they’re looking at. The whole thing of it… freaks me out. I never used to give a fuck about what I was wearing when I met men for sex, but then that was probably the beauty of my younger self… she only wanted sex.

  Adam seems to want to line up a bride for himself already.

  I honestly couldn’t think of anything worse than sharing my house and my life with a man and his dirty laundry, hair-sprouting orifices and perverse need for absolute privacy while making toilet. It’s bad enough that Adam stays here in the summer; I couldn’t be doing with him being around all the time. I think even the house and the dogs breathe a sigh of relief when he goes back to Paris.

  Yes, it’s nice sometimes to have a rich man wine and dine me—and normally they put me in touch with some other rich art-buying dudes in the area, who then also want to wine and dine me—because sometimes it’s just nice to float on a yacht for a night. It’s nice to enjoy a butler or a personal masseuse or a free blow dry, perhaps even a champagne breakfast and a helicopter trip over to the islands. I don’t tell these guys I probably have even more money than them, because I wouldn’t want anyone to think I’m better than them, would I? I wouldn’t be able to push all these newbie artists’ work if everyone thought I had something over them—you’ve always got to try and reel them in with a story and make them think you need them—more importantly, allow them to believe they’re getting a g
ood deal. Strange, but that’s how art gets sold, and that’s how artists get discovered. I could probably arrange for Adam to be ‘discovered’, but I’ll allow him to have something of an extended childhood first. No harm in that.

  For a few moments, everything seems blissful. The dogs are at the groomer’s today having everything clipped and washed and preened, Adam’s trying on all his different outfits, and I have a date tonight with a rather delicious Frenchman who didn’t buy any art from me but did have a fun pick-up line. He wanted to know if I had a preference for top or bottom. I told him top of course. I think I know what he meant, but I’m intrigued enough to find out if he meant in terms of who goes on top in bed or who plays master or mistress. Who knows… I might show him who’s top, or I might just lock him up and leave him there, if he turns out to be a jackass. Such fun.

  I close my eyes and contemplate taking a tiny siesta in the shade. Such a hard life. However, my peace is broken when my phone pings with a special news alert. I only ever hear one of these pings when it’s something breaking and dramatic.

  El Chapo of London Dead – Full Report

  I’m shaken to my core. Too many emotions flood me all at the same time. It’s not just that he’s dead that has me in shock, but the trauma I have attached to that time of my life feels so real again when I’m faced with reminders like this. I remember, it was all over the news about the court case and then he was sentenced to serve at least twenty-seven years. I’d lost Ruben for the second time and was elbow deep in fried chicken and Ben & Jerry’s. One day I looked in the mirror and knew I needed to change. So I did. I bought a bicycle and lost weight and found a way of reconnecting with myself once more. Adam then came to stay one summer and I realised just how many people’s lives I could change through my gallery, and ever since, I’ve focused on art therapy for addicts and scholarships for young artists. I even had to buy more gallery space and a little office for my growing band of helpers.

  I read the article and discover Freddie died of cancer. I was expecting more… something about a beating or a break-out gone wrong or something like that. Cancer? He wasn’t even very old, not much older than Adam really.

  Unless cancer is the line they’re going with and the truth is that Freddie somehow managed to top himself and the authorities didn’t want the world to know London’s El Chapo got out of serving prison time that easily.

  The article mentions: Freddie is survived by his wife and two young children.

  Sick stuff.

  I switch off my phone and vow not to look at it again today. Stupid people with their stupid idiot lives. I’m doing much better now. Forget them, I tell myself. That’s all in the past.

  Adam left the house for his date wearing the tightest white shirt I think I ever saw. I was forced to sit through a range of jewellery combos and help him decide which looked best with his shirt, but I don’t think she’ll even be looking at the necklaces… she’ll be too hung up on the pecs bursting out of his clothes.

  A taxi drops me off by the seafront in Nice and I wave when I see Rafi, sitting at a table for two at a restaurant right on the beach. Waves rush in the direction of the beachside restaurant but never overrun it. Lovely.

  “Hello, Freya. You look so beautiful.” He kisses me on each cheek and dazzles me with his megawatt smile.

  “You look great, too. I like your shirt.” It’s stripy, with massive cuffs and an oversized collar. The man has taste and it suits him. He has lovely thick hair curling into his neck and big strong arms.

  “Thank you, I have my favourite cufflinks on, too.” He shows them off, brandishing little gold easels, one on each.

  “Oh, my goodness.” I can’t help but clench my teeth and wonder what I’ve got myself into.

  “I know, sorry, I know… corny… sorry,” he says, “I was nervous about tonight.”

  I give him a genuine smile. “That’s sweet, really.”

  “Good. I’m glad. And the restaurant? Do you like it?”

  “I do, it’s lovely.” I shan’t tell him I’ve been here before and know it quite well. That’d kill his mood for sure—that it’s nothing very extravagant for me to come here. (I bring Adam here whenever we want tapas and a drink before bed. We ride our bikes down and it’s even more fun trying to get them home while tipsy.)

  “And I hope the food is good, too. Let’s try it, shall we?”

  I watch him open his menu and peruse it, biting his lip at the same time. I must be making him nervous. It’s almost unbearable to watch. I’m only human, too (I want to tell him). I came here to relax, eat, share some chitchat and go home with a warm glow and a little bit of a buzz.

  Taking a deep breath, I start the conversation off even though for me, this is a non-starter. “Tell me what business you’re in.”

  “Oh, I’m in the business of chartering private jets.”

  He starts telling me all about what he does and that I should let him know if I ever want to travel private, because he’ll give me a discount.

  I switch off after a while and order a drink as he keeps on nervous-chatting. It’s horrible but I’d just like to go home now. A jaded ex-Londoner is what I will always be, deep down, and sometimes in this neck of the woods, it’s difficult to discover a man who likes to talk dirty, appreciates my morbid sense of humour and isn’t sweating over trying to impress me.

  Maybe everyone here does know I’m rich…

  At the end of the night, he offers to drive me home but a queue of waiting taxis is just over the road. Knowing which option I’d rather, I tell him, “Oh, no, no, I’ve got a big day tomorrow and my brother’s helping me out so I’ve got to set an example. I’ve enjoyed tonight, though.”

  “Yes? Really? My English was okay? You liked the salmon?”

  I put my hand on his arm. “I’m still getting over someone, but thank you anyway.” Anything to get him out of my way of getting in a taxi.

  I watch him gulp and I feel terrible. “I see, Freya. No problem.”

  “Thank you, Rafi. Sorry. Thank you, though. Really.”

  He walks away almost trudging and I watch him cross the street and jump into his Ferrari.

  What a shame. That Ferrari would look so good with a personality in it.

  Deciding what the hell, I return to the restaurant and take a chair facing the ocean. The attendant Lucille comes over to serve me.

  “Bad date, huh?”

  I shake my head and shrug. “Just trying too hard. Little bit silly, really.”

  She throws her head back laughing. “He was pretty.”

  “Yeah, but he was probably a weeper while… you know.”

  “Your usual preference?” she asks.

  “Bring the bottle,” I decide, “I can take it home.”

  “No problem.”

  I felt so bad about not really wanting to be on that date with Rafi, I was careful not to drink too much, especially as he had already insisted on paying. It would have felt like stealing his hope right from under him, if I drank loads and then said, “Sorry, dude. Off back to my place legless… alone… where I’ll enjoy touching myself so much more than having you do it.”

  God, I’m in bitch mode tonight.

  Lucille returns with a bottle and opens it in front of me, knowing she can pour me a glass without a taste because I always enjoy this same rich Bordeaux, whenever I come here.

  “Need some company?” she asks, looking around at the empty tables.

  “I’m okay, I think. Unless you need company?”

  “Just checking. I mean, Mr Weepy… that’s trauma right there.” She smiles like she understands.

  “Oh, I’ve had worse!” Believe me… much worse.

  She leaves me to my own company and I watch as the black waves roll in and out, in and out, over and over again.

  I do wonder if people make it more difficult for themselves sometimes. Maybe if everyone went around not looking for love, eventually love would find them. It’s sad how it’s getting so hard to find love. Not that I
want that for myself, I don’t. I never did. It gives me the heebie-jeebies. I much prefer a man who’s wandering the earth, enjoys his pleasures, then moves onto the next. Less strain that way, and if love somehow flourishes even when it started off casual, great. When they throw all in from the start, that’s the one sure-fire way to put me off.

  I throw back a large mouthful of wine and consider texting Adam to ask him how it’s going… but that would seem sad and mumsy, wouldn’t it? A bit weird.

  The sea air rushes at me and I feel a chill even though it’s still twenty degrees at least. It’s like someone just walked over my grave.

  “Freya,” comes a voice from behind me, then a hand against my bare shoulder.

  I don’t have to turn and look. I don’t have to hear or smell him, either… just his proximity brings me out in gooseflesh and chills, even in this warm air.

  I can only think of one thing to say, even though I’d say a million things right now if I could.

  “You took your time.”

  “Can you ever forgive me?”

  “No, but you could try to make it up to me.”

  I turn and look at him, his hair back, beard too. Thirty-five and I’ve never seen a more beautiful thing in my whole life… just a bloke in black jeans, a baggy grey t-shirt and flipflops.

  “Let’s see if we can’t start right now then.”

  He hoists me to my feet, kisses me until there’s a heart attack on the horizon, then pulls away to look into my eyes and hold my hair in his hands.

  “I’m free tomorrow night,” he says, “how are you fixed?”

  I narrow my eyes. “What for?”

  “A little bit of dinner, a bit of dancing, a ride on my motorcycle… a hidden cove… some stargazing.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to keep it together. Then I spot his motorcycle across the road. It’s the same one we got away on that time.