Captive Hearts

by Harper Bliss

  “I am very sorry you feel that way.” A lump lodges itself at the back of my throat.

  “Joy may very well be the happiest she’s ever been, but I don’t know, because half the time she refuses to pick up when I call. She doesn’t come around anymore, not even to do her laundry. Are you doing her laundry now, Alice? Are you her girlfriend”—she can’t possibly make the word sound any more vile—“and her mother now?”

  “You know why she’s keeping her distance. If only you could give in a tiny bit—”

  “A tiny bit? And then what? More and more until I actually accept this farce?” She shakes her head vigorously. “You can dream all you want, Alice. It’s never going to happen. I will never accept you and Joy being together and I certainly will never give you my blessing.”

  Are you really willing to lose your daughter over this? I want to ask, but it’s not a fair question. Moreover, I can see Miranda’s pure agony. And it’s not as though she made her own bed of misery all by herself. This is my fault. I am responsible for this.

  “Have you spoken to anyone about this at all? Or are you bottling it all up?”

  “The only one who knows is Jeff. But I certainly haven’t gone around shouting it from the rooftops. The whole thing is way too sordid for that.”

  “I’m sorry you still feel that way.” Apologies are all I have.

  Miranda bows her head to rub her temples, then looks back up at me. “How is she? How is my girl doing?” And I can hear the pain in her voice, the sheer agony of having to ask me, of all people, this question.

  I weigh my response, but Miranda has always been brutally honest with me as far as this subject is concerned, so I may as well be the same with her. “She’s happy and unhappy at the same time, because how can she be truly happy when her mother rejects her?”

  “I don’t reject her.” Miranda sounds close to sobbing. “I don’t even reject her lifestyle… I just… can’t… I can’t even properly say it. And maybe that’s stubborn, or foolish even, but I just can’t, Alice. And it’s not a reflection on you as a person, although I will never see you in the same light again, it’s the simple thought of you and her together. You’re like a sister to me. You have seen her grow up. And she’s so young. I—I…” She shakes her head again. “I’ve tried to open my mind, and to think of Joy as happy with you, but it just doesn’t compute in my brain. The number of times I’ve heard Joy repeat those words in my head: Alice and I have fallen in love. That’s exactly the number of times I have found myself repulsed by the mere notion.

  “And now I’m sitting here, greatly offending you. You, Alice, my best friend. Because this should not be happening. It’s not right. It will never be, no matter how long you give me. Just try… try to put yourself in my position. I know you don’t have children and it might be hard for you to imagine, but just try to walk in my shoes, if only for an hour, and you will understand. You will understand why I can’t be any other way about this.”

  She’s right. I am offended. Flabbergasted, in fact, that Miranda would speak to me like that, like I’m some dirty old man who has snatched her daughter away from her, who has soiled Joy, perverted her, while what Joy and I have is exactly the opposite.

  “And resigning will make that better?” I ask, because I refuse to defend myself any more. I have put myself in Miranda’s position every single day since Joy and I got together, and I feel her pain, and I understand her scepticism, even her anger. But the only way I can make her life better is by ending my relationship with Joy. And I decided weeks ago not to do that. But I can’t sit here and explain to her how her daughter has revived me, how much she has changed me and my life. That would only make matters worse, I’m sure.

  “It’s not the most ideal solution, of course, but at least I won’t have to see you any more.”

  While I’ve put up with all the things Miranda has said to me, and has insinuated about me, in a polite, respectful way up until now, this is the final straw. These words, coming from her mouth, hurt me to my very core. I call on my most icy voice when I say, “Fine. If that’s how you want it.”

  A heavy silence hangs in the room for long, agonising minutes. “It is,” Miranda finally says.

  “Then please get out of my office now.” Because if she doesn’t, I will fall apart in front of her, and I don’t want to give her the satisfaction. Miranda doesn’t deserve to see me cry.

  She gets up, unsteadily. “Look, Alice…” I detect the slightest hint of regret in her voice. “Some things are said—”

  “Just get out, Miranda. Just leave me be.” My voice is crumbling already. “Just go.”

  She casts me one last glance, and I can’t tell if it’s a contemptuous one, or a pitiful one, or one filled with rage, because I avert my eyes when she looks at me. I’m guilty, too. I’m most guilty of all.

  I only look up when I hear the door slam shut, and I’m grateful it’s closed because the tears come again. I used to be one of those women who hardly ever cried because I had become so used to bottling it all up, to let the tears dry up before they had a chance to roll from my eyes.

  “God damn you, Alice,” I say to myself. “God damn you.” Because this is not a love without grave repercussions, and Joy’s waiting-game plan seems to be failing miserably.

  * * *

  I hadn’t planned on seeing Joy that evening, but I’m so upset I ask her to cancel her plans with Marcy and come to my house.

  “It’s not working,” I say to Joy in a level voice, because I’ve cried my tears by then, and I’ve expelled the rage from my voice. “Your mother isn’t going to budge.” I tell her about how Miranda all but called me a pervert, and about how she wants to retire from the firm so she doesn’t have to look at my smug face anymore.

  “Jesus, Alice. She’s really losing it,” Joy replies. “She has really gone and lost her mind.”

  “We have done this to her,” I say.

  Joy ignores my comment. “The woman you have just described is not my mother. That is not the same person who raised me, who told me every day I was the most precious thing in her life, and who hugs me so tightly sometimes, I have to peel her off me. I don’t know what, but we’re going to have to do something. Maybe talk to Jeff.”

  “It’s not you she has the issue with, Joy. It’s me. She misses you so much. She told me so.”

  “Maybe I should talk to her. However badly Mum is feeling, perhaps this is the moment we’ve been waiting for, and it can go either way now.” Joy’s tone brightens. “I should go to her now. She’s cracking. Maybe she’ll be open to, at the very least, talk about it with me, which would be huge progress.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe you should let her cool off some more. If you go over now she might feel as though I sent you—and she will certainly get the impression we’ve been talking about her.”

  “Of course, we talk about her. Everything she has said since we told her warrants a long discussion.”

  “Good grief, Joy. Is there a manual somewhere about this that we can consult? Can we Google the solution to this problem?”

  This brings a tiny smile to Joy’s face. “Fuck it, Alice. I’m going over. I’m going to talk some sense into my mother.”

  If only it were that easy, I think. “Good luck with that.”

  “I’ll be back.” She kisses me hard on the lips before heading out the door.

  All I can do is wait. And ponder, once again, if it’s all worth it. I reprimand myself instantly for even thinking that, because I know, above all else, that it is.

  * * *

  Joy returns not even an hour later.

  “Mum was asleep. Apparently she took a sleeping pill. So I had to deal with Jeff,” she says laconically. “He was quite a good sport about it, actually.”

  “What did he say?” I slide to the edge of my seat.

  “Well, he did start by stating he thinks she’s close to a nervous breakdown. Because she feels so torn. She has told him that the last thing she wants is to push me aw
ay, but the second-last thing she wants is me in a relationship with you.”

  I sigh, because it feels as though it’s going to be like this for the rest of time. “Does Jeff have an opinion on all of this?”

  Joy quirks up her eyebrows. “When does Jeff not have an opinion?”

  “True enough.” If we can’t mock Jeff a little now, just to make ourselves feel better, when can we?

  “But, he was very non-Jeff-y about it, actually. He said things like, ‘I understand you can’t sacrifice love to make your mother happy’. Can you imagine these words coming from his mouth? It was a bit surreal.”

  “People can surprise you when you least expect it.”

  “He’s going to tell Mum I stopped by and I promised to pick up when she calls me.”

  “How are you feeling?” I ask, shuffling to the side of the sofa and gesturing for Joy to come sit.

  “Exhausted,” Joy says as she crashes down next to me. She puts her head on my shoulder. “This is not how it’s supposed to be, Alice. We’re in the honeymoon stage of our relationship. We should be having sex on this very sofa right now instead of worrying about what Mum thinks of us.”

  “Mmm,” I murmur. She’s right. After the things Miranda said to me today, and after hearing her mentioned in a sentence referring to our sex life, the last thing I want to do is push Joy down and kiss her until the morning light.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  As days bleed into weeks, it becomes increasingly more difficult to adhere to my split personality of trying to block out all emotions at work, and being my new passionate self after hours. Miranda hasn’t said anything significant to me, nor has she elaborated on her plan to retire. Until one day, from the open door of my office, I see her leave the building for the night without so much as saying goodbye to me again—hellos and goodbyes have become a rarity; we only exchange niceties in front of clients now—and I realise I miss her. Being in the same building with her from Monday to Friday makes it much worse. I wish she’d already retired. I fully understand the sentiment now. If this is how things are going to be between us, it is just too hard.

  “Something’s going to have to give at some point,” I say to Joy on a Friday evening after a day during which I’ve barely seen Miranda. The few times I did, it felt as though her initial rage had transformed into a deep, unspeakable sadness. In the break room that afternoon, when I walked in to fetch a cup of tea, she stood there gazing in front of her, leaning against the fridge with her hip, and I didn’t meet the usual condescension in her stare, only resignation—as though she was coming to terms with the inevitable. She didn’t say anything, though, just straightened her spine and walked right past me.

  “I miss her so much. She’s my mum,” Joy replies. The conversations we have seem to repeat themselves on a daily basis. “We used to speak at least every other day. Even when I was in the US.” I remember the astronomical phone bills—of which I never said anything to Miranda—at Jones & McAllister well enough. “And now, even when we do speak, it’s just not the same. We dance around the subject, like we’re walking on a tightrope. And I can sense that she’s trying, but every time the subject could possibly drift towards you, there’s this silence. This unbreakable wall.”

  “I know.” We’re at Joy’s flat, getting ready to go out—even though I’m tired and I’d much rather stay in after the draining week I’ve had at work. I, too, miss Miranda so much. I miss her energy around me. The way we used to discuss every tiny detail of our business, not because it was necessary, but because we enjoyed doing it. Because it made us feel proud and accomplished. “It’s ridiculous how, every time I check our joint calendar, I’m relieved to find she’ll be out of the office for a few hours.” Earlier this week I noticed Miranda had a gynaecologist appointment scheduled for this morning—being angry with me hasn’t curbed her over-sharing tendencies. Although she has been adding less personal appointments to the calendar, and it could be that this particular doctor’s visit has been scheduled for months.

  “Okay.” Joy turns to me. “We’ve reached our limit for today.” She taps her fingers against the palm of her hand. “Time out starts now.”

  “Deal,” I say, looking at myself in the mirror. “Tell me why exactly we have to go to this exhibition again after we’ve already attended the opening three weeks ago?”

  “Because Bobby is my friend—our friend—and we want to support him on his closing night.”

  “I’m too old for this, you know?” I chuckle, because I know what’s coming next.

  “Nu-uh, you don’t get to play the age card.” Joy walks towards me and pushes me against the wall. “Because if you’re too old to go out with me to a very upstanding, civilised, early activity, you are surely also too old for this.” She nuzzles my neck. “And this.” She sinks her teeth into my earlobe. “And for what I bought for you.”

  That’s a new one. “What did you buy?”

  “You’ll see. Tomorrow. If you’re good.” Her body is still pressed against mine, her hot breath on my face.

  “If I’m good? I’m always good.” I curl my arms around her neck and gaze into her eyes. Every time I look into her eyes like that, I’m reminded of the astounding transformation I have gone through by falling in love with her.

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” Joy says, before kissing me, and smearing my lips with her freshly-applied lipstick.

  * * *

  At the gallery, I mainly talk to Justin. Joy teased me and said I like him so much because he’s closest to me in age, but he’s just a very easy person to talk to, despite the number of expletives that leave his mouth a mile a minute.

  We’re chit-chatting next to, according to what I’ve been told, a picture of Justin, although you can’t see Justin’s face in it, and the contorted shape his body is portrayed in isn’t recognisable to me at all.

  “This one isn’t for sale. Only for artistic merit,” Justin says, as he gazes at it. “Bobby wanted my face on it, but I managed to convince him my old mug is too ugly for a beautiful picture.” His gaze shifts from the picture to me. “Now, you though, Alice. I bet you photograph really well. You have this whole aristocratic thing going on. That patrician nose, those cheekbones, that naughty glint you get in your eyes sometimes. I mean, I can surely see why Joy is so crazy about you.”

  By now, I’ve got used to Justin saying things like that to me. The first time he complimented my looks, I blushed all the way up from my shoulders to my scalp. “Why thank you, young sir,” I jest, feeling more flattered than embarrassed.

  “I’d like to introduce you to some friends of mine, if you don’t mind.” He starts waving at two men who are examining the picture next to the one of him. One of them must be my age, I suspect. He’s wearing a suit and his greying hair appears quite thin. The other one looks more like a teenager than a grown-up, leading me, at first, to believe that he is the older guy’s son. “These are Jeremy and Tim. Jeremy is one of my oldest friends, and he just got back from jet-setting around the world, where he encountered this gem of a man.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Jeremy offers his hand, and I shake it. “Don’t believe a word this one says, by the way. I was working very hard in Singapore for five years, where I did, indeed, meet Tim.”

  “Hi.” Tim is less formal in his greeting, and seems to sport one of those carefree American accents.

  So this is what it feels like for perfect strangers when they meet me and Joy, I think. Because even though I might have briefly considered that Tim was Jeremy’s son, that doesn’t mean I didn’t instinctively know they are, in fact, a couple.

  “I’m Alice. Very pleased to meet you.”

  “Alice is Joy’s partner,” Justin says while he points at Joy who is standing a few feet away.

  “Oh, I spoke to her earlier. What a lovely girl. You seem to have picked up some friends who are much posher than you while I was away, Jussie,” Jeremy says. “Are you finally growing up?”

  “Nah,” Justin replies, “
I just got tired of hanging with the trashy likes of you.” They banter back and forth, while Tim and I become less and less involved in their old-chums conversation.

  “So you moved here from Singapore?” I ask Tim, because I’m curious to find out about their situation.

  “Yes. Quite the temperature difference,” he says. “Is it always so cold here?” He paints the sweetest smile on his face.

  “I’m afraid this is nothing compared to what’s yet to come.” From behind Tim, I see Joy making her way towards me, and I’m suddenly very aware of how far removed from my old life I find myself, talking to this young man I don’t know at a photo exhibition in Hoxton where all the pictures are, quite frankly, extremely homo-erotic and not to my taste at all. “Winter is coming.” I have to suppress a chuckle as I say the phrase, because I only picked it up after watching a horrendously bloody and violent TV show with Joy where that seems to be the phrase de rigueur.

  “Do you watch Game of Thrones?” Tim asks me with a sparkle in his eyes, and I find myself wondering if he and Jeremy watch it together, and whether Jeremy thinks it’s ghastly as well.

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “Hey,” Joy says when she joins us. “Hi again, Tim.” Her arrival seems to snap Jeremy and Justin out of their private conversation.

  “Are you all coming back to our house to celebrate Bobby’s successful show?” Justin asks.

  “Sure,” Jeremy says, without consulting Tim, and I fervently hope Joy won’t do the same and speak for us both without checking with me first. It’s ten o’clock. I’m tired. And I’m not the kind of person who goes back to someone else’s house this late in the day.

  Justin eyes Joy expectantly.