One Hot Scot

by Donna Alam

  ‘What’s up?’ I return mulishly, hugging the cooling cup to my chest. ‘Is this about the lumberjack?’ Also known as Rory; a part of my past she has no idea of. Oddly, that moment at the beginning of the week was one that made me feel almost human again. Those moments are few and far between these days.

  ‘Why’d you ask?’

  ‘I dunno. Maybe I didn’t behave appropriately.’

  ‘Appropriate how?’

  ‘I wasn’t very widowly, I suppose.’ Following her further into the room, I curl myself against the edge of the sofa as Ivy’s brow furrows, the spoon paused mid-air before continuing to her mouth. Then, with a dramatic roll of her eyes, she slides into the chair opposite while mumbling something that sounds a lot like, ‘notladihamichum.’

  ‘What was that?’ I almost don’t ask, mesmerised by the pink and green pieces balanced on her spoon and the bits of—is that marshmallow?—about to become masticated mush.

  ‘I said,’—she swallows—‘no one’s expecting you to become Lady Havisham.’

  ‘Pretty sure she was jilted, not widowed,’ I reply, placing unnecessary emphasis on the word.

  ‘It’s not the circumstances, it’s the reaction. You can’t mothball yourself away at twenty-six.’

  ‘Twenty-five.’

  ‘Daftie, you’re barely a sneeze away from your next birthday. And while God knows men should be a mile off your radar right now, honestly, I’d be happy if you just popped to the shops once in a while.’

  ‘I go out. I went to the post office on Tuesday.’

  ‘Tuesday two weeks ago. And that was the last time you left the building. Why don’t you start running again?’

  ‘Too cold.’

  She harrumphs, narrowing her gaze. ‘I’m not saying it’s not natural, your behaviour, because grief is a strange and terrible thing. But at some point you’ve got to start moving forward, you know?’

  My words halt because I don’t know. How do you move on when you feel like you’re stuck? Living in some kind of strange limbo, no longer living your life, but some elderly aunt’s instead? It might almost be appropriate to sit indoors in a mouldy old wedding dress, because I feel ancient enough. How on earth do you move on when you just don’t know where to begin? Or who you’re supposed to be?

  ‘It’s time.’ She places her cereal bowl down with the gravity of a gavel. ‘And as much as I appreciate your help in getting the salon off the ground, you can’t live with me forever.’

  ‘What? You’re making me move out?’

  ‘You need to start to make a life for yourself,’ she says, ignoring my panicked expression. ‘And you need to get a job before your skills become outdated.’

  ‘I—I’m taking a breather. Sidestepping, or whatever it’s called.’ I’d read an article about it while manning the reception downstairs. That the article was in Cosmo, I decide not to share. ‘Apparently, taking a sabbatical is the new corporate thing.’

  Judging by her expression, she’s less than impressed, so I try a different tact. ‘Look, if you need me to start contributing to the bills—’

  ‘That’s not it,’ she says, waving away my words. ‘Besides, you can’t afford to.’

  ‘Kick me while I’m down,’ I complain.

  ‘It’s the truth. But you need a job for the sake of your career, not to mention your sanity.’

  ‘I’m not sure I—’ Words cease to be available, because I’m not sure, period. Everything is suddenly frightening; this conversation, the future—all of it. My heart begins to seriously pound, and since when have I needed to concentrate to enable continued breathing? Trapped, I think I feel, as I place my cup down and begin to spew words. ‘I thought about doing that waxing course.’

  Ivy shoots me another sceptical look, unaware of the turmoil soup I’m currently stewing in. ‘I’m sure Nat meant well mentioning it, but it’s not for you.’

  ‘Did you know she’s got her—’ I inhale, unable to bring myself to finish the sentence. Why would I bring up that?

  ‘Clit hood pierced? Yeah, I did.’ The latter comes out in a sort of weary sigh. ‘She’ll have flashed it, I suppose.’

  ‘God, no!’

  ‘Then you’re lucky.’ Ivy sighs, mumbling something about that girl having an exhibitionist streak a mile wide.

  ‘She just told me when we were talking about the intimate waxing course.’

  ‘Do you really want to spend your days looking at vaginas?’

  Her delivery is far from antagonistic and even though it sounds like a genuine question, I still nearly swallow my tongue. Could I change careers completely--become an aesthetician? Do I seriously want to spend my days dealing with hirsute armpits and legs? Butt fuzzy assholes, instead of corporate ones? Or is this just another way of not dealing with a return to the real world?

  ‘They’re not all created equal, you know.’ Despite the coolness of my tone, I’d been shocked to discover this from Nat. The surreal conversation had left me with the understanding that some women’s undercarriages were decidedly unlike my own. I think her exact words were some look like roast beef sandwiches, made in a really careless café.

  ‘You think the diversity of flesh is enough to keep you stimulated? You with your first class degree and sparkly work history? Or maybe you’ll add a few items to your menu? Spray tanning, maybe?’

  ‘I might,’ I answer, raising my chin, worry turning to chagrin.

  ‘Too bad. You’ll have to find somewhere else to practise your skills. I can’t afford to let you loose on paying customers like the Sweeny Todd of intimate waxing. You’d get me closed down.’

  ‘Maybe I could do a special?’ Fear of the real world begins to creep into my chest again. ‘Attract people in?’

  ‘People to practise on?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Babe, the women around here don’t want cheap. They want the satisfaction of knowing that, when their husband goes down on them for their monthly meal at the Y, the cost of said waxing was almost as painful to the pocket as the process itself. ‘If we get busy and I need to take on a full-time wax therapist, I’ll need to employ someone experienced. I can’t have Little Mister Muff Mangler working for me.’

  ‘Little Miss,’ I correct.

  ‘If the little misses are too hard to wax, the little mister’s back, sack and crack is going to cause you real difficulties.’

  ‘You’re . . . they . . . you’ll do those here?’

  ‘Why not?’ she says with a slight shrug. A slight shrug that somehow doesn’t hide her discomfort. ‘I can’t see sixty-year-old Mister Poletti along at the barbers offering an intimate waxing with a short back and sides combo deal. I’d be silly not to extend my client base into the male demographic.’

  ‘You think Joe Average wants bald balls?’

  ‘I’m not sure there is such a thing.’

  ‘But you just said—’

  ‘I mean there’s no such thing as an average man. Unless you consider them all, one way or another, a bunch of lying scrotes.’.

  ‘Scrotes?’ I interject, mildly scandalised.

  ‘Big hairy ball sacs,’ she replies mulishly. Meanwhile, I’m kind of struck dumb. For one, Ivy always tries to see the good in any person, but she’s writing off a whole gender? And for two, swearing, because, hello! She rarely swears, and never without red-cheeks or a stutter. ‘Anyway,’ she adds, rousing herself once again, ‘it’s not much in terms of outlay, so I expect we’ll find out soon enough if the men of Auchkeld are a bunch of manscaping girls. Girlscaping men?’ She shakes her head. ‘Not that it’ll matter to you. You won’t be here long enough to find out.’

  ‘You know I’m still grieving.’ I immediately hate my pleading tone, not to mention the way my heart rate picks up again, a sheen of sweat dampening the base of my spine. ‘I—I’m not ready.’

  ‘But it’s time, sweetheart. It’s been four months. You have to move on. You’re still so young and I just hate to see you hiding away from life.’

  ‘I
had a life!’ My words are shrill, panic crowding the channel of my throat. ‘I had a life.’ My hands toy with the hem of my Balenciaga shirt, a stray thread providing something else to focus on rather than her. ‘And I know I can’t have that one back, but I . . . I just don’t know how to start again.’ As I raise my head, tears trip and fall from my lids.

  ‘Oh, Fin,’ she says, shifting from her chair to the sofa. She slides her arms around my shoulders, one hand rubbing comforting circles against my back. ‘I know it’s scary, but you’ve got to try. You need to pull yourself out of this funk, lovely. I get it, you know.’ She sets me back, pushing the now damp hair from my face. ‘You’ve never lived on your own. Never had to support yourself.’

  My brow furrows. ‘What has that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Well, you went from living with your mum to living with me for uni. Then, within a few months of leaving, you went and married Marcus.’

  My heart plummets at the sound of his name, weighted like a stone in the pit of my stomach. But I’m not going to cry—I refuse.

  ‘I went travelling after college. I mightn’t have been living on my own, but the whole experience took courage. And I haven’t forgotten you were supposed to come with me, dropping our plans at the last minute. And I still did it—still went on my own.’ That has to count for something. Belligerence, maybe.

  ‘I see you come still wearing grudges.’

  ‘Balenciaga, actually.’ I don’t bother telling her bearing is the optimal term. Shrugging her hands from my shoulders I say, ‘I’m sorry. I understand you had to go.’

  Ivy had moved to London when she was offered a traineeship at a top salon. It’s an experience that’s led to jobs all over the globe, even working for movie stars on all kinds of blockbusting movie sets. But back then, we’d had plans to go travelling together after my graduation, only I couldn’t let her turn down her dream job. Especially as she’d gotten to breathe the same air as the fine Chris Pine. It was her dream and it certainly seemed like she was doing what she was meant to. But now she’s back here saying she’s done with all that, and it all seems very strange, giving up a job she’d adored.

  ‘Ivy, why have you come back?’

  ‘I told you. I was tired of such a vacuous industry.’ Standing, she takes herself back to her chair, brushing invisible lint from her pyjama pants as she sits.

  ‘So you’ve opened a beauty salon?’ Because that makes sense.

  ‘Hair and beauty. And I was tired of living out there. What? Why are you looking at me like that?’

  ‘Seems a bit odd, is all.’

  ‘Odd says the girl hiding from the world while sleeping on my sofa. Odd from the girl whose dozen pairs of Gucci boots litter my hall.’

  ‘Two pairs,’ I mumble. The other pair are actually Choos. ‘And I’m sleeping in your spare room, in case you haven’t noticed. Why don’t you just say it? You want me out.’

  ‘No, you eejit,’ she says wearily. ‘I want you to start living again.’

  ‘I am living. In fact, I’m thinking about going travelling again.’ The embryonic thought is out of my mouth before it’s even half-formed.

  ‘Running away,’ she says, throwing her hands up in a gesture of frustration. ‘Because that worked out so well last time.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘You were supposed to go get drunk for a few months and have fun, not come back with a husband ten years older than yourself.’

  ‘So, by that you mean what? That I’m not capable of making my own decisions? I can’t be trusted alone?’

  Her expression and tone hit a raw nerve. I’d always thought she liked Marcus; back then, he was so much more sophisticated than either of us. A little nicer, too. She’d seemed so impressed when she came to visit in Singapore. And Dubai. Skiing with us in Saint Moritz.

  ‘No, you need to learn to be alone. And you make rash decisions. You always have.’ Ivy’s tone is plaintive. ‘Just look at the waxing course.’

  ‘But we’re not talking about a course that’ll cost me a few dollars.’

  ‘Two hundred and fifty pounds!’

  ‘We’re talking about my marriage. About me.’

  ‘I said for you not to go—or to at least wait for me.’

  ‘I wanted to go travelling. Not on holiday!’

  ‘But what with your mum . . .’ Her words trail off; she means when Mom decided to sell the house, concluding I was old enough to look after myself. ‘It was bound to be an emotional time. You were adrift.’ She speaks softly, her tone almost a plea . . . until her expression changes and she’s back to angry again. ‘But no, you wouldn’t listen. Typical. Next, you’re married!’

  This is all true. I did meet Marcus while I was travelling; on a private beach in Koh Samui, actually. Me and Ella, a Swedish backpacker I’d met, had slipped into a party he was hosting. We’d gotten a little buzzed and then a lot busted, but as we were being frog-marched to the gate, Marcus stopped the security guard and told him we were part of his group. Us with our dirty braids, Haviana’s and batik sarongs. We looked so out of place, hanging out in his beach house with his Eurotrash pals.

  He always did have terrible taste in friends.

  ‘It’s not like I planned it.’ And it’s not like we hooked up or anything. After Rory, there was no way I was going there again. I just happened to keep seeing him around. First time was a few days later in the nearby little town. Then in Pattaya the following week. I was flattered; because it was obvious he was following me, arranging these crazy sort of meet-cutes. I was dazzled, in truth. Who doesn’t want to be desired after being used, then spurned? At least, that’s how I considered it then.

  At the time, he was a perfect gentleman and it wasn’t long before Ella and I stopped staying in the awful back-packer hovels to hang out with him. Five star hotels, champagne, and parties on massive yachts with the older, more sophisticated man. But I didn’t sleep with him. Maybe that’s what appealed to him. He referred to me as his princess. At least, in the beginning. And by the time Ella had flown on to Australia, he’d asked me to marry him.

  I realise Ivy’s still speaking, though yelling might be more appropriate.

  ‘—you need to live. Twenty-one and married! You’ve never lived by yourself—never had to support yourself! You don’t know anything about paying bills or balancing a bank account or any of those things.’

  ‘You make it sound like such a cliché. Like he was my sugar daddy or something.’

  ‘That’s like saying Goebels was slightly racist!’ She slaps her head, a bit more dramatic than her usual tact. ‘He was the ultimate sugar daddy! Yeah, sure, he was hot, in that tanned, sophisticated older man deal. And loaded. He took care of you, though not always in a way like a husband should.’

  ‘He was barely thirty when I met him! And he loved me. He treated me like a princess.’ She murmurs something under her breath, something I don’t catch. When I ask her what, I wish I hadn’t.

  ‘I said like fucking Rapunzel, locked away in an ivory tower!’

  ‘That’s not fair—I had a social life. I worked!’

  ‘In his circle where he could keep an eye on you. Fin, you never came home. Never visited me, not while I was here, or in America, or on location. I only ever visited you.’

  ‘I thought you liked to visit?’

  ‘Of course I did. Staying in the lap of luxury was the icing on the cake, but did you never stop to think why you never kept in contact with your friends from uni? Why you never travelled anywhere without him?’

  I instantly feel disloyal, because of course I did. Especially after our honeymoon year, but speaking ill of the dead just doesn’t seem right. It sounds so pathetic, but at the time I couldn’t help be endeared—to be loved so much he couldn’t bear to be parted from me. Later, maybe not so much. Later it seemed, at best, like a lame excuse. At worse, a lie to control.

  ‘I thought you liked him,’ I say quietly.

  ‘No, you liked him. Love
d him, whatever,’ she says with a dismissive twist of her hand. ‘That was enough for me to keep my mouth closed. I tolerated him, kept my words and thoughts to myself because I love you and he was your choice. But I hated how condescending he was to you. It was almost like you were walking on eggshells around him. I hated how quietly controlling he was. Hated it, Fin.’

  ‘We fought about it plenty,’ I mutter, unable to meet her gaze. ‘It was just so much easier to live his way. Look,’ I say, my voice stronger now. ‘I wasn’t some bullied wife.’

  This isn’t the first lie I’ve made in his defence, but Ivy’s expression is so unyielding, I make a confession of sorts.

  ‘He was manipulative, I know. But in all successful marriages, compromise is key.’

  The truth is, I think in all relationships one partner compromises a little more than the other and that happened to be my role.

  I instantly feel ill; playing the grieving wife when I’ve no right to be. It’s not that I don’t grieve, because I do, but my grief is nothing compared to the guilt that weighs me down daily. And now I feel guilty that I never confided in Ivy. To tell her that I’d begun to see these very things. Guilty that I continue to have such disloyal thoughts, even though he’s gone.

  ‘And even now, you want to hang onto that line? That love? Even after everything he’s done?’ Incredulity fills her face and her tone.

  ‘You don’t know for sure.’ My heart rate peaks again. I don’t want to talk about this—it’s not like it’s not there in the back of my mind every day.

  ‘I’m not talking about his suicide.’

  ‘Please don’t say that.’ I come up from the sofa as though pulled by invisible strings. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. ‘No one knows that, not for sure.’ No one can know—it could’ve been an accident, and if no one knows, maybe I can convince myself it wasn’t my fault.

  ‘Oh, babe,’ Ivy says softly. ‘You need to face the facts.’

  ‘I do face facts—everyday! I examine the probability of him taking out his yacht, weighed against the clothes left on the deck. Did he go for a swim, get a cramp and drown? Did he have a heart attack? Or did he—did he do it on purpose? Did he—did he . . .’