‘Well it should. Life’s too short my little thespian. You weren’t born to be boring. Ask your aunt if you need advice on that score.’
‘Talking of which,’ I said, ‘was I supposed to have had Aunt Olive to my graduation? What do you remember?’
‘Er, as I recall she was having one of her alterations, so to speak. We did invite her but, as with many events she was invited to, it was only half-hearted as she was never around; either an important black tie function she was going to or she was too bandaged or bruised, or whatever it was from her many procedures, to come to anything.
Jason, that woman was under the knife more times than a butcher’s table but, lucky me, the sister who couldn’t afford to go to the dentist, let alone alter my lumps and bumps, I was privileged, as her sister, to be privy to all the intricacies of her procedures, every gory detail.
She had her lips plumped with various products over the years from Gore-Tex (literally the stuff skiing jackets are made of, which apparently doesn’t last) to fat transfer from another part of her body and then injected into her lips; this one she was very pleased with.
She had wrinkle-fillers around her eyes, forehead, mouth, neck and even hands. I confess I was envious of that one as the canyons around my eyes are getting so large that each time I look in the mirror I’m half expecting mountain climbers getting ready to descend down into the facial valleys. So, Olivia’s skin remained smooth whilst mine resembles the London bus route map.’
‘It doesn’t Mum.’
‘Thank you, darling, that said, I was never convinced to smooth away my wrinkles as Olivia was trying to convince me to do as, apart from the cost, I was put off by the idea of injecting a synthetic acid, which was originally used to treat lip atrophy (facial fat loss) for HIV patients and now it’s used to plump the faces of perfectly healthy people to push out their wrinkles. Did you know, it’s made of millions of microspheres which is also used to dissolve surgical sutures? Yes, your father really would not have appreciated the conversation with the bank manager: “Yes sir, my wife used the mortgage money to fill her face with acid used to dissolve surgical sutures.”
‘It didn’t stop there as she had boob jobs, nose jobs, a knee lift I think, er, ooh, she had her eyes lifted, brow lifted. Oh Jason, the list was endless. Monstrous list. I’ll say one thing,’ my mum continued, ‘she doesn’t look her age. She has supped at the fountain of youth, but she certainly paid a hefty sum to dine there, or at least Mark did.’
I heard Mum sigh then she broke off to talk to Dad whilst I was still on the phone.
‘No, I’m talking to Jason. He’s not happy Colin. They’ve cancelled a presentation or some such.’
I heard Dad reply that I should get another job and that my boss doesn’t deserve me.
‘I can still hear you Mum… Mum stop talking to Dad, I’m still here. I’m hanging up Mum!’ I shouted.
‘Oh yes, darling, now remember, tell your boss that this isn’t good enough and he needs to buck up his ideas.’
I put the phone down and I smiled at the innocent idea of telling a man who dictated my working life to buck up his ideas. I decided to continue reading my aunt’s letter instead of doing any work, at least for another hour.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Olivia
Taking control of my appearance almost became a full-time job and why not? Why should I not scrub away the niggling nuances of an imperfect body and face? I was certainly not the only one; many of my lunchtime friends had their surgeon on speed dial and, bizarrely, our comparisons of supposedly secret procedures bought us a tiny bit closer.
These friends were a blessed distraction to thinking about the progress of Jane’s pregnancy. However, Rae Summer Tanner was born in the October and, reluctantly, I went to see her when she was nearly a month old. She was bundled into a lemon blanket and snuggled in her cot. I could feel the pride oozing from her parents. I felt an imposter standing in their living room; I didn’t want to look at her or coo over her the way any other guest did, I just wanted to throw the romper suit gift at her parents and run. Fortunately, it was easy to slip away as conversation with either Jane or James dwindled to the odd stagnated sentence as their preoccupation was on the squeaks, snuffles and shuffles from Rae.
I left after less than an hour and drove back to Mark. When I saw him at home he was huddled behind his desk concentrating on his computer screen. I yearned to run up to him, hug him and to feel the same tender kisses on my forehead that Jane had from James. But I didn’t dare to step into his office, instead I waited at the doorway watching him work.
‘What?’ he said with his eyes still locked onto his screen.
‘Oh nothing, really,’ I said timidly.
‘Then get lost, I’m working.’
I retreated to the kitchen and sat on a stool for over an hour watching the light dim to a blackish grey. My mind was numb with the odd niggling criticisms of the familiar whispers from my devil’s voice reminding me how pathetic I was. Eventually Mark walked into a dark kitchen and put the light on.
‘What are you doing in the dark you weird woman?’ Mark chuckled to himself as he reached for a beer in the fridge. ‘I have some friends over tonight and a few will be staying,’ he said. I nodded a heavy head and said nothing.
I knew these friends, they were loathsome, leaching, lecherous men who used my home as a drink and drug den. I would serve them, clear up after them, listen to their crude jokes and accept their cruel jibes about me. Mark said very little to defend his wife as he was often too drunk to care about his guests’ crass conduct.
‘I really don’t want them here,’ I meekly muttered, ‘just not today, not this weekend. It’s just that I’m feeling quite down and…’
‘Ahh here we go again. What is it this time? You feel lonely? You feel worthless? You saw someone with a baby and now you’re depressed? Heard it all before, Olive, get over it.’
‘Please Mark…’ Mark tutted and left me sitting in the kitchen.
Within the following hour, the first of his friends bombarded my living room. I had changed to greet them from grey tracksuit bottoms and vest, the perfect outfit for a whimpering, feeble woman sitting in her kitchen, to a vibrant lady dressed entirely in Chanel, complete with a painted smile etched across her face.
As the evening progressed they started their familiar questions. These were designed to humiliate me, in particular my sexual preferences. I slipped past their bullying and forced my smile to remain on to hide my desire to scream.
Just before midnight I was sitting in the kitchen when I heard female laughter. I shuddered as I knew this evening my living room had taken another step towards a depraved dirty cellar. In this hour, money was used to deceive my old guests that they were virile, desired, young handsome men whom beautiful women yearned for. It is the same deception women have played since we were created and decided to take revenge on men who have tried to deceive us, since time began, that we are lesser human beings because of our gender.
These women were in control and raped my husband and his friends’ wallet under the guise of desire. This fact would always make me smile but instead, tonight, I felt more alone than I ever had as all I could think about was the sweet innocence of James’ and Jane’s household. Within their warm cottage was held an abundance of love and within mine was held sordid, sad and putrid old men. The contrast accentuated my loneliness as I knew I did not belong where I lived.
I decided it was better for me to silently slip away to my bed, but before I could stagger up the stairs I heard my name being called. I forced my smile back on my face and stood in the doorway of the cellar. There in front of me was a typical sight of about five women teasing ridiculous men out of their clothes and ultimately their money.
Jason, I won’t elaborate on this scene as although I am sure you are wise enough to guess at what I saw (and it was a scene I had witnessed many
times), but that night the cellar was full and my eyes drifted around the room and my mouth curled in revolt. Usually on a night like this my mind would focus on the need to get my cleaners in as soon as practical, but that night I wanted to abandon my house and move away.
In the corner by my marble fireplace sat my husband in a wingback chair. He was staring at me across the room and his eyes had an evil smirk about them. Beside him on the floor was a twenty something girl, she had her back to me so all I could see was her flowing red hair draped around her shoulders with a few static strands attached to Mark’s leg.
‘Olivia, join us,’ he said across the room.
My disgust made my body twist. I focused on Mark who was the only one dressed and I shook my head. I knew he could see my revulsion but instead he laughed at me.
‘You are my wife and I would like you by my side, so come.’
‘No!’ I said.
He then got up and walked over his friends to the opposite corner of the room, to where I was standing. I flinched as I was waiting for a barrage of abuse but instead he grabbed my arm and pulled me into the room.
‘Please, I don’t want to be here Mark, please let me go.’
Mark said nothing so I began to pull on my arm which caused me to stumble over a pale, fat, investment banker called Andrew. His stomach bellowed in and out like a Scottish bagpipe as he shuffled his 115 kilo body away from me. Thankfully I avoided falling upon him entirely as Mark yanked me away and dragged me to his corner.
‘Please Mark!’ I pleaded and I began to cry. Only then did he stop and look at me. We stood for only moments but these sordid seconds shifted time to feel like hours. Around us lay sweaty men entangled around faceless women, their sodden bodies slipping off one another as they slid to their next prey.
‘Then go my love, my wife. Then go.’
Mark continued to stare at me and I could see his huge pupils absorbing the colour of his iris to make his eyes entirely black.
‘I said go,’ he calmly repeated. ‘Go!’ His voice rose an octave to a shout: ‘Go!’
This one word was deliberate and strong and still I stood in fear, unable to move. Mark resolved my paralysis by grabbing on my arm once more and yanking me back across the room. This time, when I again fell over Andrew, Mark did not try to pick me up but instead dragged me across the floor with my feet dragging behind me.
He continued up the stairs and into my bedroom and there he pushed me onto my bed. The room was dark except for the moonlight peering into my room. It bathed Mark’s face in silver and white moon beams making him look as though he was a 1930s’ film star. For the briefest of time I sensed reluctance in him to move and for that moment I thought he might melt in the moonlight and move to my bed and hold me within these silver beams. Instead this film star flinched when this scene whispered ‘cut’ and he ran off the set closing my door behind him.
This one scene together stopped my tears and I sat on my bed tired with a thumping headache. I felt confused but my exhaustion forced me to flop on my bed and stare into a hollow space in my bedroom. I covered my ears and I allowed myself to sleep.
In the morning I pulled myself from the position I had fallen asleep in and I grabbed my aching head. My headache had not left me from the previous evening so I decided to stagger downstairs in search of water and some tablets. When I got to my bedroom door I found it to be locked. I tugged at the door handle but it was firmly shut. I called out to Mark to open it but I heard nothing except for my crackling voice and the rattling door. I banged on the door for most of the remaining part of the morning and I only stopped when I finally heard Mark.
He was not in the house but outside. I rushed to the window to see my husband get into his car with the red-head from yesterday. I didn’t see anything more than her hair as she slipped into his sports car and they drove away. In vain I banged on the window. He wasn’t going to hear me as his Ferrari sped down the drive way but I had nothing else to offer. I didn’t have my phone with me nor was there a phone in my room to call for help.
I was helpless and I was angry. I was angry at Mark for locking me in my room with nothing to eat and I was angry at myself for being here; for being a feeble, pathetic woman that allowed my husband to drag me from my living room and lock me in my bedroom. In that room on that day I lambasted myself for being married to Mark.
I had been angry many times before but, as always, this strength did not last as by mid-afternoon, as the sun hid behind greying threatening clouds, the devil whispered in my ear once more to remind me that I was worthless and I deserved little more than to lie on the carpet and feel nothing but hunger and loneliness. His voice was far stronger than mine, and so by early evening I had set up home under my duvet on the floor and sobbed myself to sleep.
Throughout the night I wallowed in self-pity, drifting from sleep to panic that no one would come and help me and that here I would die from starvation. I calculated that I could last possibly two weeks in my room before death arrived. I imagined my lifeless body being discovered by Mark and I fantasised about the guilt he would feel at allowing his wife to die in her bedroom.
It was an indulgent thought as I knew that in the morning my cleaner would arrive and it would be a matter of waiting for her to get to my room to clean it. This occurred at around 10.15. When she opened the door she was startled to find me. She stopped listening to her iPod, pulled her earphones out and said, ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, I didn’t know you were here!’
‘That’s fine Debbie, I was just having a mid-morning snooze with the door shut,’ I replied, whilst straightening the bedclothes to distract my cleaner away from the musty smell of the room and the fact the door had been locked from the outside.
I had listened to her sing George Michael for over an hour before she came to my bedroom, which had spurred me to shower and change out of the evening clothes I had been wearing for thirty-six hours before she unlocked my bedroom door. As I watched Debbie dust the room and strip my bed I knew she was feeling embarrassed at invading my privacy. I do not normally stay in the room she is cleaning but I wanted to tell her that she had saved me and if she had not come then I would either have to wait for Mark to release me or wait for her to come again three days later. It was lunacy that I was unable to say thank you and instead I had to pretend that I had an indulgent, privileged snooze. It occurred to me that she was probably envious of the idea that she was cleaning for a woman who had leisure time to take random naps.
I left Debbie to vacuum where I had been sleeping most of the previous day and night. I went downstairs feeling envious of her working all day then returning home to her tiny house to then prepare dinner for her husband and two teenage boys. This envy led me to pick up the phone and call Carolanne instead of taking any headache tablets.
When I heard my friend say, ‘Hello,’ I began to sob. However, I was now so bored of crying or sobbing or whimpering that I hit my head with the receiver to try and make myself stop. I had spent so many days, weeks and months in this state of self-pity that I had begun to not notice that my eyes were often sodden with tears. I would no longer stop whatever I was doing to cry over something, but instead, I continued to cry and I got on with reading a magazine or preparing lunch or reapplying my makeup whilst crying so, when I heard Carolanne and again the tears started to flow, I heard the devil voice say, ‘Not again! Olive, shut up.’
When I hit my head in anger, I thought I heard a clacker sound, like the sound of a director’s clacker board indicating ‘cut’ to end a scene. This sound shook me and I was able to say to Carolanne with icy clarity. ‘I need your help, I need to get out. I think I’m going mad.’
‘Olive?’ she questioned. I had not replied to her ‘hello’ and so her confusion was understandable but I felt a ‘hi, it’s me’ to begin the conversation was superfluous to this telephone call.
‘Mark is killing me and I have got to get out. Help me, I ne
ed to go.’
I did not wait for her reply as this was the first time since I had met Mark that I had decided I must go and my desire to leave had made me impatient, which swept away any niceties of a conversation with my friend whom I had not spoken to in over three months.
‘Er, of course, I’m in the supermarket at the moment but I can leave Toby to get the rest after work and I’ll leave now. It will take me at least forty-five minutes to get to you but I’ll be there my sweet, as soon as I can.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Sweetie, has he hurt you again?’
‘No, but I have to go, I’ve got to go. I’m going mad.’
It took my friend fifty minutes to get to me in her Vauxhall Astra. I could see through her back window, her shopping poking out of the boot space. Carolanne had put on weight over the last few years and her hair was now cut to her shoulders, which she wore in a ponytail. Her jeans were worn and her cardigan old. She no longer wore heels but comfortable trainers. She had aged but her blue eyes and warm smile was still as intoxicating as the day I met her nearly twenty years ago.
I had packed a small suitcase and I was waiting by the front door. In the time I spent waiting for her it occurred to me that Mark was not due to return home until the following weekend, nearly five days later. It also occurred to me that he did not know when Debbie came to clean my house or even if we had a cleaner. These facts helped me to dry my eyes, pick up my suitcase, hug my beloved friend and get into her car to drive away from my prestigious address.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I stayed in Carolanne’s spare room which was filled with boxes that hadn’t been opened since the day she moved in. The room had not been decorated and it still had the mirrored fitted wardrobe from the previous owner. The house was strewn with cat hairs, dog hairs and any other animal that freely wandered the house. After a few days I was searching for the vacuum cleaner and I even considered calling Debbie to spritz their house in exchange for not cleaning mine for one week.
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