by Jaye Peaches
“No, Master.” I didn’t see the point in lying, I’d no more shame to give. Ridiculously, the desire to be used in that room almost overwhelmed. However, it was time to go, and Jason eased me back up onto my wobbly legs. My skirt dropped down, and I smoothed the ruffles out.
“We’ll leave you in peace, Mark. You should join us for a meal one evening,” said Jason, taking my arm.
I grinned inanely. “Sure, come to dinner.” I’d no idea why I said it, as if it made a difference to have my agreement.
Mark dropped his jaw briefly—we’d surprised him. I concluded my husband had tested him and he’d passed. Mark was going to be his willing participant in his games and join his little circle of protégés. “Thank you, Mr Lucas. I would be honoured.” Mark bounded around the desk to open the door.
“Good. I’m going to take my girl for her lunch, and once she’s come to her senses, she can tell me what a fine accountant you are.” Jason propelled my stupefied form through the door.
In the back of the car, he handed over the knickers, and I slipped them on, letting the fabric soak up my juices.
“Thank you, Master.” I snuggled under his arm, looping it over my shoulders, demanding my post-scene cuddle. He scooped me up onto his lap and rained kisses around my face and neck.
Lunch was pleasant, but there was no sex for afters. Instead, he dropped me back at the gallery then sped off back to work. I was in my happy place all afternoon. Mark had been right—surprising Jason with my submission was a wonderful aphrodisiac.
Chapter 24. Breaking Down
I wanted my parents to attend my gallery opening, especially my mum, who’d tacitly supported my desire to be an artist since childhood, even though she’d pushed me into a different career. The weekend after my unusual encounter with my accountant, Jason, Joshua, and I went to visit my parents for Sunday lunch, enabling me to personally invite them to an early preview and the opening event.
Sitting in the lounge after lunch, I brought them up to date while Jason occupied Joshua on the floor with a few picture books. Josh’s little voice punctuated our conversation: “ball,” “dog,” and “sock,” being the most frequent. An eclectic collection of first words, which he’d learnt over the summer. As I summarised my final preparations, Joshua grew restless and started to empty the shelves of my father’s beloved classical collection of CDs.
“No, Joshua.” Jason shook his head and gave Joshua his daddy cross expression.
Joshua giggled and carried on his task with renewed eagerness. I liked to see Joshua rebel a little—it reminded me of my tendency to be cheeky.
“I’ll take him for a run outside,” said Dad, putting on his shoes. Joshua jumped about, demanding, “Kick, ball, Gradad.”
Mum and I collected up the empty coffee cups and we went to wash up in the kitchen, leaving Jason reading the Sunday Times. He coped with my parents by keeping quiet and focused on Joshua. I’d come to the opinion that the best way for Jason to deal with my parents’ small talk was to shut down and take the chance to recuperate from the demands of his working life—lie back and rest his eyes.
Standing in the kitchen, Mum and I watched Joshua playing in the back garden with Dad. There were pans left over from lunch to scrub, and I ran the tap, waiting for the hot water to arrive.
“You’ve a lovely boy there, Gemma,” commented Mum. “When are you going to try for number two?”
I nearly dropped the saucepan. Mum wasn’t always subtle with her requests for information.
“If you have to know, I’ve stop taking the pill, but it took a while the first time, so don’t get excited.” I sank the pan into the bowl and the suds began to pop and disperse. A ring of scum bloomed across the surface of the water.
“You know, having sex regularly helps,” she said matter-of-factly, shaking out a dry tea towel.
“Mother! Please.” I gripped the handle under the water. Was she doing this on purpose?
“Your dad sells lots of the ovulation-kit things in the chemist. They’re meant to be very helpful with predicting ovulation, you know, when to do it.”
“Mother!” I screeched under my breath. “I know this. I have conceived before.” I didn’t want to explain that even when I wasn’t trying to conceive, Jason and I had sex regularly, frequently, in fact.
She glanced over her shoulder to the kitchen door then leaned towards my ear and whispered. “I know. But Jason is a busy man, and you must make sure he doesn’t neglect you.”
Neglect me! I suppressed a laugh.
“Mum, please! We’re not in a hurry.” I passed her the dripping pan. “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with you. After all of those pep talks you gave me about not having sex.”
She wiped the suds off and frowned. “That was a long time ago. I despaired of you, back then. Hanging around with boys all the time.”
My heart froze a fraction, the last beat shattering loudly. What was she trying to say to me? “I wasn’t! You had John look out for me.”
“Until he left home. I know you slept about after he left. You hid things in your room, but I found them when I put things away.” She continued to wipe the pan, even though it was bone dry. Round and round, she stirred the cloth, her lips pressed tight together.
My hands remained deep in the cooling dishwater, wishing I could wash more than pans—I felt dirty. Things in my room, she meant my vibrator and sex books.
I hung my head down and spoke through gritted teeth. “Mum, it wasn’t like that. I was careful, back then, took precautions.” The last sheen of white bubbles disintegrated, and I saw my hands at the bottom of the bowl, the wedding band and manicured nails. Those hands had been cultivated for Jason, kept beautiful for his eyes. I tried to focus on him.
She snorted, rather callously. “I hope you did, because it felt like nothing I said or did stopped you.”
She opened a cupboard door and tucked the pan away. She didn’t have to say “disappointed.” The huff in her tone proved sufficient. I couldn’t move, and my inability to confront her encouraged her to ramble on.
“I dreaded you going out, darling. I feared you would make a mistake, you know, go with the wrong type, and I would get a call telling me you were in trouble or you would return home hurt, not just dumped, but worse, forced.” She paused, and I held my breath, unable to interrupt. “I thought one of them might rape you.”
The nausea enveloped the back of my throat. It had been induced by the smell of dirty dishwater, the unwashed pans and plates, which gave off a pungent aroma. My feet glued to the spot, I sucked air through my nostrils, attempting to calm my rising sense of panic.
How little I had understood her. I’d been convinced she’d kept a tight leash on me because she wanted to spoil my fun and, above all else that she hadn’t trusted me, except she had. She’d fretted over her inability to the control actions of the unknown youths who followed me about and wooed me.
I’d assumed she would blame me for my rape. I never told her because of my shame and the circumstances of my relationship with my rapist. I reeled in my memories, re-living those spurned phone calls and visits, my constant excuses when she’d rung, and the lies I’d given her countless times in the weeks after my assault. My continuing denial had been born out of that deception—lying to my mother—and once I’d learnt the art of lying to her, everything else came easily, especially lying to myself.
I bolted out of the kitchen, charged upstairs, and retched into the bathroom toilet. Thankfully, Mum didn’t follow me upstairs. Instead, she called out for Jason.
He held me until I had nothing left to bring up. I sweated buckets, feeling the perspiration pool on my brow, upper lip, and armpits. I battled the desire to faint. Jason lifted me up, carried me to my old bedroom, and laid me on the creaky single bed.
“Keep taking deep breaths.” He squeezed my hand.
I tried to sit up, but he pushed me back down. I concentrated on breathing and focusing my eyes on the contents of the room—my chi
ldhood bedroom, which lacked my adolescent decorations and ornaments, creating an unfamiliar appearance. Even the bed was situated in a different location, and the wardrobe had been re-varnished at some point to cover up the stains.
“She foresaw my future,” I croaked. “My rape....”
Jason’s pallor was unusually pale, and he sighed heavily. “Gemma, we’ve done the blame game. Don’t seek to blame yourself or your mum.”
I propped myself up on my elbows. “I know it’s not about blame. I’ve lied to her for years. If anything were to happen to Josh or whoever comes next, how would I feel if he never told me or didn’t share the crap things in life. It would hurt and isolate me. I never gave Mum the chance to comfort me because I was busy playing the shame and blame game. Throughout my childhood, she kept me safe and tried to protect me, which I resented, and I repaid her with lies. All that time, she saw danger lurking, and I assumed she didn’t trust me. I took a path and it ended—”
“No, Gemma, will you stop with the fate and destiny. He targeted you, as he did the prostitutes and the student and others, maybe. Prostitutes don’t go to the police about rogue punters. They went because they knew he was dangerous.” He helped me sit up. “You assume she will judge and blame you, because that is how you see it. Why don’t you find out? Talk to your mum.”
“I can’t tell her, Jason.” I dropped my voice lower, cautious of the bedroom door being ajar. “I don’t want her to know about us.”
Jason rose and nudged the door shut before sitting next to me, perching on the edge of the bed. “Us. There is no us in what happened to you. You were held captive by a man who beat and raped you. She doesn’t need to know any more details than what you tell her. Your dad, too. Don’t forget your father in all of this. He may be the quiet, stoic type, but that doesn’t mean he’s uncaring.”
I rested my head against his chest for a while. In the silence, the warmth calmed my frayed nerves.
“Gemma?” The door muffled Mum’s voice. “Darling, are you all right?”
“Come. I’m with you, babe,” Jason said, holding my hand.
Returning downstairs, we found Joshua dashing about in a maniac fashion, like toddlers do when they’re overtired. We decided to put him down for a nap. Strapping him into his pushchair, I rocked him in the kitchen, watching my son fight then give in to sleep. Creeping away, I joined the others in the lounge.
“Are you unwell, Gemma?” asked Dad. “Mum said you were sick.”
Sitting next to Jason, he put an arm around my shoulder. I cleared my throat. “I’ve something to tell you.” I thought of countless painful, nerve-racking things I had done that were easier than sitting in my parents’ house and telling them about my rape.
Mum sat rigid with horror as I told her how one day, over five years ago, I had gone to a man’s house. A man whom I’d slept with many times. I whispered how he tied me up, beat me unconscious, and raped me. I left out the nature of our relationship—that he’d spanked me on other occasions with my consent—and I made no mention of how he covered me with blood, nor did I describe his verbal abuse or the threats to my life.
“Where is the bastard!” raged Dad, leaping up with clenched fists. “Why isn’t he in prison, why no police or court case?”
My mother’s transfixed gaze didn’t leave my trembling body as she assimilated my abridged account. My husband’s face remained impassive—he had heard my tale many times and hid his anger.
A small tear trickled down my cheek, and I hiccupped “Afterwards, I felt ashamed and believed no one would believe me. He wasn’t a stranger, and I thought I knew him. I was wrong.”
“Five years ago,” repeated Mum. “You haven’t told me for five years. When did this happen?” She seemed to counting back in her head, nodding with each passing year, and before I could answer, she remembered. “Those weeks you pushed me away. When you didn’t visit or ring me. That was five years ago. Oh, darling. Why?”
“You said yourself in the kitchen—that I put myself at risk. You were right, and I couldn’t bear you being disappointed in me.” I looked at the carpet, tears dripping off the end of my nose.
“Disappointed! Gemma, please, you’ve never disappointed me. I wanted so much for you back then, and it was unfair of me. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you.” Her voice broke, and I glanced up. Her face had aged into a line of grey wrinkles and puffy eyes, and in her lap she clasped her fingers together, turning the knuckles white, as if in prayer. I couldn’t bear to see her miserable for another second, and I dashed across the room as she flung open her arms.
She rocked me, and we both cried for a while. Ignored by the men in my life, we did what women have to do: we became extremely emotional and apologetic. Wiping away each other’s tears, we held our mutual sorrow in check. I turned to face my father. He, too, had aged dramatically in those few minutes. An introvert who let his emotions out through music and his ardent need to care for people through his career as a pharmacist. Now, blinking back watery eyes and red-faced with rage, he was adrift.
“I’m okay, Dad,” I said, leaving my mum’s side. “I have Jason, now, and he takes good care of me. You know that.”
“What happened to him, Jason?” asked Dad. “I can’t believe you’d let him get away with this.”
Jason stirred, took my hand, and drew me back to his side. “I had people looking for him. Unfortunately, he did rape again.”
I bit my lip. “Trudy, Mum. He raped Trudy to get at me. He couldn’t find me, so he used her.”
Mum’s face went pale again. Trudy’s mum, Diane, and she were old friends. “Oh my God. Diane said Trudy’s rapist died.”
“He did,” confirmed Jason. “He came to abduct Gemma with the help of another woman, a colleague of hers. It was the night of my company’s winter ball. The man killed that night on the street outside the hotel was the rapist.”
“I remember reading about it in the newspapers, but saw no mention of Gemma.” Dad scratched his head and puffed out his lips.
“Because I put out injunctions to stop her name being published, in order to protect her anonymity. Since the man died, we never told the police about Gemma’s rape. I didn’t want her exposed to any further trauma by way of police interviews or inquests. The police connected him to other attacks through his DNA. He was a predatory rapist, befriending and charming; he showed nothing of his true persona until he attacked.”
I struggled to contain my nightmares, closed my eyes and snatched breaths. No more now. Please. No more.
“Gemma has had enough for today. She has panic attacks, like the one earlier. Babe?” Jason murmured in my ears.
“Can we go for a walk?” I asked. I needed open space with fresh air—my sanctuary away from the claustrophobia of unwanted memories and emotions.
Along the footpaths, my parents walked in silence. Jason pushed the sleeping Joshua as we wandered about the innocuous, nondescript housing estate. I needed an inconsequential afternoon’s stroll. Gradually, we started to chat about other things: my art gallery, Dad’s locum work, Joshua’s silly antics, and my niece Evie—blessed, reassuring family chatter.
By the time Jason and I departed, I’d confined my rape to the back pages of my life, until, driving home in the semi-darkness it, hit me—the guilt of keeping my rape secret from my parents and still keeping secrets from them. I wept silently and, when Jason offered to pull over, I begged him to keep going. I wanted to be home.
I would never tell my parents about our kinky world of domination and submission. They would find my consent to such a life an alien concept and unbelievable scenario given the violent incident in my past. Some things were best left unsaid, but at least Mum wouldn’t be frivolous when she spoke of sex, if she ever did again.
We drove straight to the White House and put the exhausted Joshua down in his cot. Jason herded me into bed, not stopping to check his emails or prepare for the next day’s work. Stripping me naked, he sent me to my place of refuge with his usual breath
-taking skills. I offered him every inch of my body for his pleasure and, in return, he made sublime love to me, curing my woes and washing away the day’s stresses.
Chapter 25. Switching
The week before my gallery opening was going to be tough with long, arduous days and no time to escape for exercise or to attend my dance class. I had to settle Mina into her new role, since she’d finished working her notice. Moreover, on Monday, I had a heated debate with my exhibition manager, Nicholas. The graduate had his own ideas about presenting the displays. Keen and eager to make his mark, he picked holes in my plans. I wondered if I’d employed the wrong person.
The problem unearthed my rusty working mentality. I was out of practice with being assertive in the workplace. As Nicholas droned on, I bent like a willow in the breeze, unable to fashion a rigid argument to counter his. Staring around the building, taking pride in my achievement, I put my foot down and told him to do what I asked. Remarkably, he knuckled down without any further quibbles. At the end of the day, we had a frank conversation about my expectations, and he confessed he was nervous and thought he should be showing his worth in some robust way. I reassured him I valued his opinions, but perhaps the week before the opening wasn’t the best time to impress me with his enthusiasm.
Monday, I thought, had ended better than it began. Jason then reminded me he’d invited Mark for dinner the next day. My stress levels rose, but Jason had been adamant about Mark visiting, and I could do little to persuade him otherwise.
Dragging myself out of bed on Tuesday morning, I left instructions to Brooks about what to cook and ran through Joshua’s latest behavioural issues with Clara, agreeing upon an approach to stop him sticking things up his nose.
While Mina fought with the cash-till and printers and Nicholas finalised the catalogues, I fumed. The last thing I wanted to do that evening was entertain my accountant on behalf of my husband. Malcolm distracted me with questions about where to hang paintings.
