by J. S. Wilder
What a fool!
How could I mistake the kiss I had experienced for the last eighteen months to be the same as the one that night? Of course it couldn’t be. It had to be Roy. As soon as I see the side table I had stood at, it all hits home—my flirting with him and thinking he wanted me in place of the sophisticated and practically plastic Mrs Sparks.
As I make my way round the books, I look up at the time. It’s six-thirty already, so I head to the dining room. Betty’s sitting there, and then for a brief moment, she looks at her watch as if to emphasize the time. She signals for me to sit down opposite her across the grand table. It feels silly that two people are sitting at the large mahogany dining table, when there are places for six people.
“If you stare at the soup any longer, it will get cold!” Betty shouts from her end with annoyance as the first entrée is served. Gosh, she’s sitting in Mrs Sparks’ seat. She’s changed from earlier into a light blue dress, as if she’s going to a formal dinner. I feel underdressed in my jeans and top.
She has matching pearl earrings, and I wonder if they’re hers or if they were Mrs Sparks’. I look up to see the same chandeliers hanging over the table. The portraits of the family are lined up on the beige wallpaper in their golden frames. My feet sink into the red velvet carpet underneath me as I start to drink my tomato soup, the number one thing I hate in the world.
“Sorry,” I say as I pick up my spoon and start to sip my soup.
“It’s Spanish soup—Gazpacho, rich and full of tomato flavour.”
It’s cold. It’s the only thing I notice. I haven’t eaten all day, but right now, I’m far from hungry.
“You disappointed me.”
I turn around and look to see if she’s speaking to someone else. Nope, just me.
“I thought you were a sweet girl, since you remind me of my niece, but then that night, after the generosity of Mrs Sparks, you took advantage. You slept with Mr Sparks. I thought you were a child, but you’re a gold digger, just like the rest of them, and that is exactly how you will be treated.”
“And what about you, Betty? When did you become Mrs Sparks’ evil twin?” I ask. She lets out a loud laugh, which sounds like a cry as she adjusted her perfectly shaped boob with her hand.
“Do you think you can come here and judge me after the way you behaved?” she asks with a sneer. I’m not going to let her intimidate me. As the bowl is removed by the maid who put it in front of me, I continue to stare at Betty. She wants a war, so she’s going to get one!
“I will have you know, my child, I raised Mrs Sparks from a little girl. I put her to sleep at night reading her a book. I was there when they bullied her at school and when she left to go to university. I was at her family home when she came back, and I helped her when she was married to her first husband, Charles, and had Simon. Having a child proved difficult for her, and then Charles passed away in the accident.”
Hmm, accidents seem to happen a lot in this family.
She takes a moment to control the sadness in her eyes, but just for a brief second before she finishes her lecture. “Her family suggested she marry a family friend. Although Roy was a few years younger, it seemed a perfect arrangement. It was only natural for her to marry again. Someone of her status can’t remain single for too long. I was there. I was there when she died. She left everything to me, excluding this house. I remain the prime interest in the running of the house, which I will continue to do as long as MrSparks requires my services.” She says it all in what feels like the same breathe, not stopping, simply trying to make herself superior to me.
“Tell me, Debbie. What have you ever done for anyone apart from yourself?”
With those words, she intimidates me. With those words, the frightened girl who roamed this house returns. She nods for me to eat, and that is exactly what I start to do, no longer tasting or smelling the food in front of me. It’s probably the finest cuisine in the world, but I no longer care as my inner self cries. I cry so much no tears fall down my cheeks, only on the inside as I slouch in the chair and force the food inside my mouth.
Chapter Twelve
I went to bed that night with a heavy heart. After dinner, I laid down and sleep became my one friend in this house. Saturday morning, I went down for breakfast, which was simply fruits with yoghurt. At first, I looked at it like it was poison, but when the soft, tender, juicy strawberries hit my mouth, the flavour tingled against my tongue. I finished it and asked for more. Betty laughed, and somewhere in the black business suit she chose to wear today, I saw a glimpse of the old Betty, the cheerful Betty I loved. The second my eyes laid on her and relaxed, she told me about the personal trainer.
I think she felt the same way; her attitude toward me was more relaxed. She started to teach me about table manners—no elbows on the table, no slouching. At first, I would have been stubborn and not welcomed the information, but as we talked, there was still a distance, so I started to listen and pay attention. After all, I had nothing else to do. She was my only company. After I finished breakfast, I went to the study to check my email, surf a bit and speak to anyone I could find on Facebook. I was avoiding the one thing I should do, which was send an email to Kevin. I checked, hoping he would send me a message and I could reply. Instead, I found nothing. Instead, I noticed he was no longer my friend on Facebook, no longer following me on Twitter and he probably sent my emails to the bin and blocked me there too.
I should be crying. My boyfriend of eighteen months had dumped me, or I had dumped him, and I should feel sad. The strangest feeling took me over; all I could feel was relief. I had done the inevitable, set him free…or rather, Roy had done that for me.
I looked at my watch and noticed it was time to get changed. I had two gym sessions with a personal trainer, Peter. The first one at twelve was simply to take my BMF, my height and determine my ideal weight. Peter was tanned, tall and had muscles in all the right places. He would have been a man I would have fantasised about as a little kid. He was down to earth and easy to get along with as we discussed my history. I told him about my weight, and he commended me on losing a stone and a half in a year. It was an achievement I was proud of, and the fact I had maintained it made me feel even better. He commented on my fitness level and I welcomed a jog around Hyde Park at five, just before dinner.
We talked openly about fitness and nothing else. I thought I was the ideal weight for my size, and I also couldn’t think where else I could lose weight. Sure, my breasts were now a 32C, but they were still full and I had only gone down one back size. My thighs were toned like the rest of my body. I tended to run more than use muscles, because it was the form of exercise I was comfortable with, especially during exams or study periods. Leaving campus and having a jog around the woods or in times of frustration would be a sprint serving a purpose. It made me feel whole…until I would reach my room again and could hardly move. There’s something about jogging that is great for the soul; yoga is too. Great exercise for times of stress. He revealed I needed to be at least five pounds lighter, and with his help and instructions, I would be that weight within six weeks.
As the words escaped his mouth, the only thing that entered my mind was six weeks. Grandma said Roy told her I would be home on Monday. So, why was he giving me instructions for six weeks? I asked him and politely told him I would not be here for that long. He never replied. Instead, he said vaguely, “Fitness and diet is not about whereabouts. You can do this at home in Tulse Hill. I am just giving you a schedule to be your ideal weight; that is all. I trained Mrs Sparks, and Betty too.”
Then, it hit home about Betty’s weight. She had lost weight, and that’s why her whole wardrobe had changed. She was now an executive lady. I smiled at the idea she could have possibly been to the plastic surgeon and had her breasts implanted or reduced. Who knows? She did look different, but I knew deep inside her was the old Betty.
On the outside, she was no longer the five foot, two inch chubby lady I met three years ago. She was slim,
probably a size ten lady who had greeted me at the door as if I had arrived at her house, not a house she served in.
“Time for your lunch,” Peter said as we returned to the house. Time for me to change and go back to more lessons about all the things I do wrong at the table.
Great!
***
“You took note at breakfast, well done,” Betty said as I sat down and greeted her at the table. I wore my knee-high cream dress, a dress I had planned on wearing at graduation. If I graduated. Everything was a mystery at the moment, apart from how to conduct myself at the dinner table.
We exchanged words; she talked about how the house was quiet since Mrs Sparks’ passing, which meant no one was left from her side of the family. Her father and mother had passed two years prior to that.
Strangely enough, they all seemed to die in a car crash. Betty said it was ironic Simon and Mrs Sparks had the same fate. Really, could that be classed as fate, or too much of a coincidence? Plus, the only difference between the autopsy reports of Mrs Sparks’ father and theirs was he was intoxicated when they died. No one understood, including Betty, why he jumped into the car and drove his wife home after a celebration dinner at this house. It was beyond everyone’s comprehension. He had a driver, but he gave him the night off. Everyone was nervous about them going home, and for good reason.
Mrs Sparks lost her spark losing her parents like that. They were a cold family, according to Betty, but the Dodges, which was Mrs Sparks’ maiden name, were very guarded and held many secrets. Every once in a while, Betty would let it slip about the family, and as she did, she would look at me and refrain from talking anymore.
Her tongue loosened as she drank more red wine, and tightened whenever she drank water in-between. I watched her eat green salad, followed by roast beef provolone and finally a fruit salad. My portion was half the size of hers, and I made sure I did not leave a piece of meat on my plate. I needed to eat after the jog; I was starving. I was half-hoping she would excuse herself and go to the toilet so that I could nick a bit of her food.
Yep, I was hungry, and after my personal training session, I was no longer allowed to sneak to the kitchen. Gosh, Peter has a big mouth. He had to go and tell her about my five pounds. I mean, that is not even half a stone. I did ask him where I could lose the five pounds, and he pointed to both my thighs, saying, “One and a half pound from each, half a pound from your arms and a tiny pound from your stomach.”
He really is a personal trainer. Okay, I am not exactly obese. I do have meat on my body, but not so much I thought I should be shedding any. I comfortably fit into a size twelve, and when I am feeling like showing off my figure, which normally does not stem away from wearing fitted jeans, then I do wear a size ten.
I felt like a dog who buried his bone but couldn’t remember where he placed it as the empty plates disappeared in front of me. I tried to listen to Betty, but I was too tired and hungry, and no amount of water was replacing the hunger. I decided the only thing to do was to sleep.
As we ended lunch, I thought I would go to the library and read a book, but between the hunger and the tiredness, I decided as much as I hated being here, nothing could beat lying down in the silk sheets under the golden bedspread, which were calling my name in the room upstairs.
Chapter Thirteen
Roy is expected to arrive just before dinner at six-thirty, and my desire, frustrations and every single emotion I possess come into reality. I had denied the feelings for this man for so long, because at exactly five-thirty, I’m still in my room debating about what to wear, what to smell like and how to do my hair. I want to look perfect and nothing less.
I had been kidding myself. I called Grandma again to find out how she’s doing. Again, she’s busy, but this time, it was because of Mum’s birthday. How could I forget my own mother’s birthday? In hindsight, for the last three years, I had blocked her out of my mind—until that phone call last week, which was the first time in three years I thought we could reconnect. Up until that point, there was no hope.
The first time she called me was five minutes after I left home, to ask me if I had the gas meter card, because she was running out of gas in the flat. I called her back after seeing her missed call, hoping she was calling to find out if I arrived at the Sparks’ safely. Instead, when I found out why she was calling, I decided I would never speak to her again, not without an apology.
She had caused too much pain in my life. I studied hard for my exams. She put false information on my financial statement, which resulted in not being given a government loan or grant. She had written my dad, who walked out the door fifteen years ago and was happily married with a new family in Ghana, telling him I was still living with her. She never hesitated; she hoped by doing that, she would win him back.
She thought he would come back and try to resolve the matter, or he would see how he had failed his daughter all those years and see sense. She was wrong, because one thing I learnt about that man was he didn’t care. He never cared anything about me. So, why would things change now?
Last week, she called and said she was looking forward to me coming home. At first, I didn’t recognize her voice, but as we spoke, not only did I realise who it was, but it created a warm feeling inside me. It was the first time I’ve ever had my mum show any emotion or affection toward me, and I loved it.
Now, I was going to be face-to-face with this man I should hate. I shouldn’t even want him anywhere near me. Instead, I am going through all the possible outfits, wondering how much he has changed over the years, fantasising about him, dreaming about him and thinking about him.
One thing came to my mind though, and that was Kevin, and it was followed swiftly by guilt. Since I left uni, Kevin—my boyfriend, the one I believed one day I would marry, someone I left only two days ago after being in a relationship with him for two years—hadn’t really crossed my mind. What kind of person am I? More importantly, what kind of person have they made me into?
Chapter Fourteen
With my olive skin, I choose my black crossover dress. I’m going for sexy. I want him to see what I have become and lust over me. I have to resist and not let him come anywhere near me. I have the three-coloured gold bracelet Kevin gave me on our first year together. I wear it to remind myself that although we are apart, I haven’t officially broken up from him.
I tie my hair in a bun, which is a hard task with my African heritage; my hair can be coarse. In the end, I manage to slick it back by making my hair wet and tying it up. My neckline’s fully exposed, and as much as I love this dress, I know it’s a little short. I know if someone’s standing at the bottom of the stairs, they’ll see my thong, and for that reason, I wear a thong. I want him to see how much my body has changed, and I have the confidence to not let him anywhere near it.
I hardly wear makeup, but tonight, I’ve put on a bit of rouge and sprayed Paco Rabanne on me from head to toe. I have a necklace made of thin gold beads from Ghana in my things. I recall my father sent it to me once on my birthday.
I gaze at it for a brief moment, because I haven’t seen it in years. I don’t remember ever wearing it at uni, yet here it is in my things.
Weird.
It’s a perfect fit as I stare in the mirror. It hangs round my neck, and my breasts are on full view, my body shaped like a woman. I’m curved like the number eight, so Kevin complimented me on it several times, loving my thin waist and full hips.
I take one deep breath as I gaze in the mirror once more, and then I leave the room—the room where I had left my virginity to the man I’m going to meet once more.
***
I start taking deep breaths. I’m getting too nervous. I start to sweat a bit and cling on to the wooden stair as I make my way down to the dining room. I try to control my breathing even more with the distraction of my heels, which I only wear on special occasions. I start to concentrate on just getting down the stairs without breaking my neck. The stairwell seems even more elongated than the many tim
es I’ve descended them before, and as I finally reach the bottom, I let out a heavy sigh of relief.
I don’t even think of composing myself before entering through the dining room door. I open it, and there he is, sitting there like it was only yesterday…only yesterday he introduced himself to me and I melted. I’m taken aback, but I hold my gaze steady as he keeps his only on me.
I can’t hear what Betty is saying, and I don’t care as I stare into his emerald eyes. He’s slightly older looking with fine lines of age, or maybe they were there before but I never noticed them. I take in all his features bit by bit, and I open my mouth to speak, but all that enters is air, and nothing leaves, only silence.
He stands and it all comes flooding back to me. He has on a black shirt, which is fitted like the trousers, only slightly loose around his body. It emphasises his muscles and I want to rip off his shirt. My hands release the door and Betty brushes past me to shut it.
He opens his mouth to speak, and the same silence embraces him as he draws near. I realise his hair is longer than before, but is still the same jet black as he guides his hand through it—a thing he used to do before out of nervousness. Some things don’t change.
He stands before me and traces his finger softly on my face as if he’s seeing a long lost friend or lover. When his finger meets my mouth, he leans forward, presses his lips to mine, and as his tongue enters, I melt like I did before…over and over again.
Saying goodbye to the confident Debbie.
Saying goodbye to the one who was going to resist him.
Saying goodbye to all my emotions and surrendering them to him.
Chapter Fifteen
