marriage – Page 2 – three good words

August 27, 2014May 18, 2020

down the aisle, 1

The first guests were already walking down the gravel path. Richter was waiting at the head, Angus next to him, laughing and grinning about something, slapping Richter’s back. Richter didn’t look too happy. Caden parked the car next to Matt’s and they all got out. Joan was all smiles for Richter, she basically loved him on first sight, straightening his tie and fiddling with his buttonhole as if Richter was Matt all over again.

‘My God, Tellis, thank God you’re here,’ Richter said once he got away from Joan. ‘Gus is driving me nuts, I don’t think he’s off whatever Matt gave him last night – I say, who’re you?’

Caden checked and saw Marla was actually right next to him, so he said, ‘Richter, Marla. Marla, Richter.’

Marla smiled politely and stretched out a hand, ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Richter took her hand and kissed it, he was worse than Matt sometimes.

‘My, my, Tellis, where have you been hiding this gem. What was your name again?’
‘Marla.’
‘There’s a singer out there isn’t there?’
‘Yes, but Marla’s just a nickname really.’

Caden almost said, ‘Since when?’ but Angus already joined them, laughing again, slapping Richter’s back before stopping altogether, staring at Marla and basically shouting,

‘Fuckin’ hell, you’re gorgeous! What’s your name, sweetheart?’

Marla looked nonplussed.

‘Gus, shut up,’ Richter frowned, annoyed. ‘I’m sorry, he has no manners. Please, come in – Gus, get off.’

Angus wasn’t listening.

‘Seriously, what is your name, gorgeous?’ but Marla already fled to Joan, not that Angus cared. ‘Fuck, Tellis, where’d you find that one?’ and in a lower voice, ‘Did you see those tits on her?’

Both Caden and Richter said, ‘Angus.’ together.

‘I’m just saying. Phenomenal. Does she have friends? Or sisters? Tell me she has a sister.’

Caden asked Richter, ‘How’s it been so far?’ Angus demanding, ‘She must have sisters. Tellis, tell me she has sisters.’

Richter sighed, ‘No meltdown yet, so we’re good. The flowers finally arrived so that’s a relief, and the padre’s here so we’re just waiting – Angus would you finally shut up?’
‘Seriously, Tellis, where did you find her?’

Caden moved to go inside, followed by Richter, but Angus wouldn’t have it, he actually held him back.

‘What?’
‘You and her. Is it serious?’
‘Hands off, Angus, I mean it.’
‘I fucking hate you so much. – Tell me that she at least has a sister.’

There was no point in fighting it. If he didn’t stop it now, the whole day would be like this, so Caden said,

‘She does and she’s in America with some tech-star fiancée, so forget it.’
‘She hot like yours?’
‘I don’t know, Gus, and I really don’t care.’
‘As if.’
‘So where’s Liza?’
Angus just grinned, ‘One dares to dream, Tellis, one dares to dream!’
‘She here?’
‘Of course she is. Up there somewhere getting manhandled by the stitches.’
‘Stitches?’
‘Steff’s bitches, they’re a whole hive.’

Angus grinned and Caden couldn’t help it, he did smile.

‘So how’s it going?’ Angus asked, sounding more like himself. ‘You’re place doing good?’
‘Yeah, it’s fine.’
‘How many bands d’you have signed anyway?’
‘A few.’
‘Richter said the last ones he heard were pretty good, where’d you get them all the time?’
‘They call, Gus, you know that.’
‘Just making small talk, mate, before the big man starts listening.’

They were in the church by then, the aisles slowly filling with guests, Marla standing a little to the side, scanning the windows and ceilings. Angus found out where he was looking and started again.

‘Fuckin’ hell, Tellis, look at that. Do me a favour will you, and fuck it up again.’
‘What?’
‘I want at least half a chance this time.’
‘What’re you talking about?’
‘What’s he on about now?’

That was Richter, coming down the aisle. Angus finally shut up.

‘Something’s on, Tellis,’ Richter said once he reached them. ‘Joan’s about to have a fit about something and I can’t make it out. By the way, are you bride or groom, your girl over there was a bit confused.’
‘Put me in bride otherwise I’ll never hear the end of it.’

Richter laughed, and before Caden could stop him, Angus ran off to Marla, all smiles once he reached her. Caden had no time to get irritated, he could already see Joan was… not pleased. Well, better get it over with now. He walked over.

‘Oh thank God, darling. Look at these flowers. Look at them. They’re dreadful! Who ordered this? Did that Richter woman start meddling again?’

Caden sighed, ‘They’re fine, Joan,’ but she wasn’t listening.

‘Pink! Pink roses! And those ghastly white things – oh, this is horrible –!’
‘Joan, they’re all right.’
‘All right? Flowers at a wedding aren’t supposed to be all right, darling, they’re supposed to be perfect, but apparently white was too sterile – sterile! That woman has no style –!’

It took him five minutes to calm her down, but he finally got her to see that the flowers weren’t the disaster she thought they were, so far no one had complained and Mrs Talbot-Hall had already told Richter how nice the set-up was. It was a complete lie, all he’d seen was the old crone look around and nod approvingly, but at least it calmed Joan down. With that sorted Caden went over to save Marla – except that Marla needed no saving. She was still standing where Angus found her, and they were laughing and smiling, Angus obviously gaining some decent ground. He’d have to warn her, but right then Sunny turned up right next to him, looking furious.

‘What?’
‘That. Woman.’
‘Which one?’
‘That mother of yours.’
‘Ok. What happened?’
‘She said she was glad I didn’t look like a prostitute this time. What a relief it was that you got me to dress well, she was already worried.’

Ah, yes. The old Joan vs. Sunny. Round five hundred probably.

‘I told you to stay away from her.’
‘She just turned up next to me, ranting about flowers!’ Sunny snapped.
‘You know how she gets at these things. Stay away from her.’
‘How’s that supposed to work if she just turns up like some harpy – oh, hi, Steve. Excited yet?’

Richter smiled at Sunny in a way Caden wished he didn’t. It was too obvious somehow. Caden had always had his suspicions, but he left it at that. It didn’t help to see them hug and kiss hello like that though.

‘So you came after all,’ Richter said after they finally parted.
‘Of course I came, I wouldn’t miss this for anything,’ Sunny grinned wide.
‘Sadist. She just came to see me slaughtered.’
‘You didn’t have to propose,’ Caden couldn’t help saying.

Richter laughed a loud, ‘Ha!’

‘Tellis, you mad? One more month and she’d have knifed me. It was life or death, mate, and I chose life. Come here, you, I need to put you somewhere before I start getting ideas.’

And off they went, Sunny giggling and Richter with that look that never meant anything good. They walked down the aisle and Caden turned around so he could legitimately say he had no idea where they went. Angus was still occupying Marla, but the pews were filling more and more, and the organ player had started a quiet solo to get people in the mood. There were hats and suits everywhere, people moving easily, steadily, filling up the space. The windows of this one were actually worth looking at, which reminded Caden of his camera, there was some seriously good light in here, and it’d be a great way to keep Steff quiet for a few months.

August 22, 2014May 16, 2020

throwback thursday

Livy.

She stopped. This was Bloomingdales. Nobody knew that name. No, she must have heard wrong. She continued but then, again.

Livy. Livy.

In a second she was twenty-two again, young and hopeful and proud of her job, how good she was. She’d managed to prove that she didn’t only have the looks, she also had the skills. She really was good at her job. She remembered when he first walked in, young, brash, angry at the boss, asking her sharply Is he in? She had asked him firmly but politely to wait. He had paced, hands in his pockets, flashing her quick, impatient looks. After the call she told him, He’ll see you now and he went in. There had been shouting. He stormed out and she didn’t really think of him again until a week later when she ran into him at the Xerox, and he asked her for a favor. A file he needed copying, he’d pick it up later, he was on the run. He was charming and sweet, so she did it. He came after his lunch break and small talked with her about music and movies and how he’d like to see the latest one, she forgot which one. The second time he did that she knew her hunch was right, he was looking for reasons to see her. It amused her. It was flattering. But they were all flirts so she never took it seriously. Until he asked her out. She should have said no. She was foolish and hopeful though, and said yes. And now someone was calling her Livy.

She stopped at the watches and acted as if she was looking. She felt someone stop next to her and ask if he could look at the something Phillip. The clerk was eager and polite. She dared a glance. No. Yes, but… No. Please. He was talking to the clerk and then said, She has slim wrists. Much like the lady here. Excuse me, I’m sorry to bother you, but could I ask you for a favor? She looked and looked and swallowed. He had aged well, very well. She asked, Pardon? And he said. My wife has about the same slim wrists as you do. Do you mind if I borrowed you as a mannequin? And she knew then, clearly, it was his old trick again, finding excuses to talk to her. She wanted to say no, but the clerk was surprised and expectant and she didn’t want to look mean-spirited or worse. So she stretched out her hand and the clerk fastened the watch around her wrist and he looked at it, nodding approvingly before saying Gold or silver? And the clerk asked, What does your wife usually wear? Both, he smiled and suddenly she was speaking. I think this one is very nice. It was beautiful, white gold and polished gold intertwined, with stones sparkling around the dial. It had to cost a fortune, but then he looked like money. He always had. The clerk smiled graciously and asked if he would take it. He said, I think I’ll look some more, and the clerk asked her politely if she could remove the watch. She watched her unfasten it and put it back on display. She moved to leave, saying a polite Goodbye. He turned, sharply, and there was something in his eyes and face that she hoped she was just imagining. He said, Thank you for your help, and she just nodded and walked down the aisle. She already passed the perfumes when she heard, Livy wait.

She stopped this time and turned. He was walking towards her, hands in his pockets, just like he used to. I’m sorry about that, he said once he stopped. Can I – can I ask you to a coffee? She just looked at him. Thirty-seven years and he wanted coffee. It’s only a coffee. Please. I know a place just round the corner. Unless you’re busy. He didn’t want to say the last part, she could see that. He still had his hands in his pockets. And she couldn’t deny that she was curious about his life.

The coffee extended to a dinner. He talked about himself and asked her questions. He had three children, she had two, all of them doing well in their own ways. They laughed more than she expected. He never looked anywhere else, his eyes fixed on her, that look becoming clearer and clearer. She knew she should stop this even before she agreed to the dinner. It wasn’t right. She knew that look on a man, she knew that feel of him. But she couldn’t deny how much she liked it, how nice it was, how simply nice it was to be looked at like that again. He began touching her over dinner, or rather, half way through, he took her hand and looked at her ring and brushed his thumb over it, looking serious, maybe sad. It was a sudden and very intimate gesture that broke down all the politeness they had been floating on till then. He said, I was such a coward. Then he let her hand go.

The tears just happened, she never saw them coming. She did what she could to stop them, smudging her napkin with her mascara, and finally the tears stopped. She looked at him and saw what she had dreaded, what had made her so furious back then, what had hurt her so much. She had known he loved her. She had known it, felt it, her whole body and senses, every single part of her knew it. And then he told her he’d met someone else and that he’d fallen in love with her and all those other horrible things that made her slap him and throw things and kick him out of her flat. The worst was how he took it, how he never defended himself, as if he knew he deserved it. She couldn’t face him after that. Just hearing his name was too much. And then she saw them, a year later, walking down some street, near here. She saw them together, saw how happy they were, and something broke and couldn’t be repaired again. She met Arthur soon after and started a new life, a good life, but that was always there, a shadow in her heart she could never get rid of.

And now, thirty-seven years later, he said I was such a coward. She got up and left the table, left the restaurant and hailed a cab. He caught up with her before she could get one, holding her back, making her yank herself free. He said Livy, please and she snapped, My name is Olivia. Olivia, he said, I’m sorry if I said something stupid – but she interrupted him with a Don’t apologize. You made your choice and I respect that. Just don’t come along now acting as if you cared. He looked hurt, but said nothing. I never forgot you, he said then, but she just scoffed, looking to the sky, trying to hold back the goddamn tears. Her Moma had warned her, the nice ones were the worst. I don’t know why you’re doing this, she finally said. You don’t look divorced so it can’t be that – Livy. Olivia. I understand if you hate me, but at least let me apologize. For what, she asked. Almost past her fives and she felt like twenty-two again. He pulled her closer to the restaurant, out of people’s way, and she had no way to fight it. I shouldn’t have cared, he said, I know that. I always thought it was the time, but I know that was an excuse. There was no excuse for what I did. I just wanted you to know that. That, and that I never forgot you, and that I’m sorry for what happened. I can’t make it un-happened. I want to, but I can’t. It’s not like I don’t love my family. I love them, all of them, my wife, my kids and yet – I regret every day that I just threw it all away. I – I never wanted to hurt you. Livy. Olivia. I never wanted to hurt you. I was just – I know you’ll probably never forgive me, but I – I couldn’t let you walk away like that, without letting you know – I never meant it to be this way.

She just looked at him. Did he think this would change anything? He didn’t look like it, nor did he sound like it. He looked and sounded like someone who was saying I’m sorry and meant it. It took him almost four decades, but at least he got around to saying it. She nodded, Ok. He looked hopeful, but she stopped that when she said I should go home. Thank you for dinner. And without waiting, she walked to the next cab, got in without caring who hailed and drove home.

Three weeks later she received a huge bouquet of roses and a small gift-wrapped box with a bow. She opened the box and found the beautiful wristwatch in it, with a small card saying For a different time, Don. She had no idea what to think of it, except that he didn’t go by Donavan anymore. She looked at the watch. It was exquisitely light and very beautiful. She could never wear it. How explain it to Arthur, let alone the kids. She kept it hidden in her desk drawer and went back to the showroom, happy to entertain the next client. If she learnt one thing from what happened back then, then it was to stick to her ambition and start her own business. And now she had it, the kind of PR that was solid and ran really well, and it was all her own.

He kept sending flowers. Every Thursday, as if to commemorate their second meeting. Her assistant thought she had them ordered, she always put them in a tall glass vase on the round table she used for meetings. Once at her own desk, she couldn’t avoid seeing them. Every Thursday, a beautiful bouquet of flowers, very often roses, red, pink, cream, in all shades and always beautiful, filling her room with a perfect scent. Six months passed this way, every Thursday a bouquet of roses, and then she received an invitation to a fundraiser. It was too good to let pass, all she was thinking about when she accepted was the people she could meet there. New clients meant more business, and you could never have enough business. So she went with Arthur and saw him standing there with his wife, smiling, and she knew it, she just knew it. This was not going to end well.

August 20, 2014May 17, 2020

family

The wide hall was bright, thuds from the punch bags loud in the busy silence. Coach Lewis was giving stern commands to the new kids while twenty men and five women worked the bags and benches, some with their heads hidden in head gear, hands sunk in boxing mitts. Two men were on the mattresses, barefoot in track shorts and shirts, sparring. One held the shields, the second had his hands tied up in mitts, quick with the punches, doubles and triples, the first encouraging earnestly, holding against the punches, instructing him to punch higher, lower, use his left more, keep his weight steady, keep his balance right.

The door opened, there was a short commotion, heads turning, a few low whistles, some murmuring. Coach Lewis shouted, ‘Shut up, all of yer!’ and walked over. Exchanges were made. Coach Lewis nodded earnestly and walked over to the mattresses.

‘Tellis! Tellis! Oi! Tellis!’

The two men finally jumped apart. The one with the sparring shields walked over to the ropes.

‘What?’
‘Someone’s here for yer.’
‘What?’
‘Girl. She’s here for yer. Says it’s urgent.’

Coach Lewis pointed over to the door. There was a girl, no, a woman standing there in heels, coat and umbrella, looking nervous. That looked like Marla. What the fuck was she doing here? Nobody knew he was here, even Sunny had a hard time finding the place. It had to be urgent if she figured it out. And she did look nervous.

Caden climbed down and removed the shields, ignoring the, ‘Oi Tellis, what’s her name?’ and ‘Fuckin’ hell, Tellis, where’ve you been hidin’ that all this time?’ Caden walked over. The closer he came, the more nervous Marla looked. It had to be really bad then.

‘What happened?’
‘What? Oh – Hi. Yes. Sorry. Ahm. I hope I’m not disturbing – ?’
‘What happened?’

She pressed her lips together first, and Caden noticed she was wearing lipstick. She usually didn’t wear lipstick.

‘There was a call. From a hospital. Sunny couldn’t leave, the pub’s packed but –’
‘But what?’
‘They said a Vicky Lawrence is in the –’

Fuck.

‘Where?’
‘What?’
‘Where? Where is she?’
‘I have it here,’ she said, eyes wide, opening her handbag quickly.

It took her ages until she finally found the piece of paper and handed it to him. Caden checked. St George’s. Fuck.

‘Do you know her?’
‘You here with the car?’
‘Um. Yeah. Sunny gave me –’
‘Are you busy now?’
‘What?’
‘Do you need to be anywhere?’
‘I – well – no, I just came home –’
‘I’ll drop you off. That ok?’
‘Of course. Of course that’s ok.’

Caden just nodded and ran to the lockers. Fuck. Again. Why the fuck didn’t she finally stop with the fucking fags? But that was like asking an alcoholic to stop with the drink. It took ages until stopping even registered.

Forty-five minutes later, Caden was in St George’s, walking down the A&E, they never liked it when you ran. The nurse recognised him though and pointed matter-of-factly, ‘Three two seven, love. Should be stable now.’ Caden nodded and walked over. He knocked and waited, nothing happened. He opened the door and walked in. The air wasn’t as stale as he expected. He walked in quietly. She was asleep. There was a drip. No tubes though, which was a relief.

The curtains were still open, late sunlight spilling in, red and grey. Caden stood at the window first and looked out. There was just the street, black with the last rain that splashed all over the windshield, wipers clacking. He’d dropped off Marla right away, she must’ve known it was serious with the way she jumped out of the car, running in those heels to the house. How did women always manage to run in heels? Probably all the practice. He turned and drove on, it was thirty minutes with the rain. It was the nearest hospital to Vicky’s place.

She moved here once he was back, said they had to stick together. He didn’t know how bad it was then, he was just glad to have her around. She was still like she used to be back then, foul-mouthed and good for a laugh, saying fuck in every other sentence. He remembered that first ‘Fuck’ at the Corrigans, the silence, the stares. He hadn’t known it was wrong, everyone was always saying it where he used to be, nobody batted an eye. Then, at dinner, it was there, loud and clear like a pistol shot, and all four stared at him as if he was some kind of monster.

Caden heard a cough and turned. She shifted a little in the bed. She looked so weak, so grey. Her face was no longer full, the wrinkles were no longer laugh lines. He looked back out, it was raining again, the red brick of the buildings opposite a dark kind of bright, the windows white squares of light, or dark, shuttered. Someone told him that was where the outpatients went, or something like that. He’d never been in a hospital after that first time at the Corrigans. Joan dragged him to a full check-up once a year for the first five he was there, eyes, ears, brain, everything, like he might have some unknown bug after all. He didn’t mind the first time, or the second. The other three really weren’t necessary, but there was no talking to Joan once she set her mind .

‘Fuck, kid, is that you?’

Caden turned back to the bed. Her eyes were open now, tired, watery. She was still in there somewhere, he could still see her, but it was getting harder and harder these days. The worse she got, the more he felt some part of him was slipping away.

‘Hi, Vicky.’

She smiled a tired smiled and tried to sit up. Caden went over and helped her, feeling her thin arms, her whole body shaking when she coughed. It sounded much worse than last time.

‘So they did call you.’
‘Of course they did.’
‘I thought you’d be too busy getting famous to come,’ she smiled again, showing her stained teeth.

They used to be white once, he remembered that. That was years ago.

‘Never too famous for you,’ he said and she smiled, ‘Oh, fuck off,’ pleased.
‘So how are things?’ she asked, coughing.
‘Good.’
‘Still haven’t fucked you over yet from what I see,’ she grinned. ‘That posh slut still trying to get your money?’

Caden sighed. Of course.

‘Vicky, Ella’s been history for years.’
‘I’m not talkin’about Ella fuckin’ Smythe, sweetheart. Whatshername, Steff? She still after you like the rabid bitch she is? What? She’s fuckin’ nuts – ’
‘She’s getting married.’
‘Again?’

Caden nodded, Vicky started laughing that hoarse laugh that was just like home.

‘Poor fucker. Who’s it this time?’
‘Steve Richter.’
‘Ain’t that your mate?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Couldn’t get you so she dug her claws into your best mate? Classy.’

There was no point in starting that so he said, ‘How are you?’

‘Fucked, that’s what I am. What? It’s true. I’m a fuckin’ trainwreck. Look at me. All you need now are some fuckin’ cameras and you got a million-dollar show for yourself, so I’d say you start cashin’ in right now. ’

He couldn’t help it, he did smile. Vicky chuckled, pleased, but another cough stopped that.

‘Fuck.’
‘You all right?’
‘No? I’m not fuckin’ all right.’

These days, she could switch from fun to raving in seconds. Caden just waited. She coughed some more then sighed,

‘They want me to stop with the fags. Yeah, yeah, I know, but how’s that supposed to fuckin’ work? I live on the fuckin’ things, the only fun I have left – what?’
‘You really should stop.’
‘For what?’ she snapped bitterly. ‘It’s all I got left. You famous and Dickie off with that fuckin’ Riley slut –’ but she stopped herself, coughed a little and sighed. ‘Sorry, kid. I get carried away these days.’
‘Are you all alone up there again?’
‘I’m ok.’

Caden knew she was lying. Every time she started picking lint off something she was lying, and she was picking something invisible off the sheets. He’d asked her countless times to move in with them, showed her the loft and everything, but all she said was ‘This is way too fuckin’ fancy for me, kid, I’d just stain up the walls.’ Which was true, but at least that way he’d have been able to keep an eye on her. She refused though, but she was close, so he dropped by once a week. If he could. Sometimes he really did forget. She just slipped his mind, like she’d never been. He didn’t mean to, it just happened.

This was probably how people felt when they forgot to call up their Mum. It’s not like you hated her. It was… it was walking up those stairs into that apartment, seeing the dirty dishes piled up in the sink, the empty beer cans and vodka bottles on the table, the stubs spilling out of the ashtray, the TV on some shopping channel again and having one of her neighbours sitting on the sofa with his gut out, shouting, ‘You got any more beer left, luv?’ It was that. And hearing her cough like that. And having to blackmail her to the GP.

Last time she couldn’t pay the rent. She loaned it all to some fuckwit down the hall who never paid it back of course. So she called him up. Promised she’d do anything for this favour. So Caden went over, heard the predictable, idiotic story, and said he’d pay if she went to the GP and got a decent check-up. First she snapped he was ‘a fuckin’ tightarse’, and when he refused to budge, she shouted he was the ‘same sadistic shit’ like all the others. Then she coughed something bad, she hardly got any air. For five seconds he thought she’d suffocate right in front of him, but she finally could breathe again. Once that was over, she collapsed on a chair and cried, ‘I’m such a mess. Why d’you even put up with me?’ He waited until she was done crying and said, ‘Ready?’ She wiped her eyes and nodded and he drove her to the GP, he already got her an appointment, there was no point in asking her to do it herself.

It was that. And having to see her face that was nothing like the one on the pictures he had on the kitchen wall. She used to be so full of life. She used to be this… brightness. Ease. Laughter. By the time he got his acceptance letter, he genuinely looked forward to seeing her again. She was a real breath of fresh air, foul-mouthed, smoking like haystack, downing shots with him at The King’s Head on the high street, laughing loud.

He didn’t want to see her like this, remember her like this, thin and grey, just this side of bitter, coughing so hard he half expected her to literally spit out her lungs. He couldn’t stay away though, he had to come. She was all the family he had left.

July 31, 2014October 20, 2014

honeymoon

Not PG rated.

He was the last of the line, and she had the money. That was it really. He was the last of an old line, and she, or rather her father, had the money. She would get the name, her children would be highborn. He would get the money. It was a fair deal as these deals went. Others read novels of dashing young gentlemen fighting rogues for love, but she boarded a train so that he got the money and her father’s grandchildren would be called Sir.

Georgie had little illusions about what was expected of her. There was the ceremony and the toast and the dance. Then they were to take the train to the coast and from there cross over. Her father had already booked and paid everything, they would be travelling for three months. She was told to write and enjoy herself, maybe even take pictures. Nothing would change, save the fact that she was married and respectable, and that half the Continent would fawn over her. After the three months they would return and then she could start cleaning up the manor, putting money into it, getting it back to its old glory. It was all part of the deal, and Georgie knew her part in it.

He didn’t approach her until they were on the boat. They hardly talked on the train, except when he asked her if she was comfortable. She felt, rather than knew, that he disliked this arrangement, that he too felt sold somehow. He was the last of his line, but unlike most of his kind he didn’t look like the runt of the litter. The family had taken care to keep fresh blood coming in, so he was in fact quite decent looking. He was tall, which was nice, she reached him to his chin. His shoulders were broad like a butcher, probably there was a butcher’s boy somewhere in his blood line, you never knew what these families did to make sure the line didn’t go stale. He had dark eyes, black almost, with dark brown hair. His nose was patrician, a clean line, slightly curved but not hooked. He had very nice lips, soft and clearly defined, as if someone had taken them from one of those statues. Otherwise she saw long legs, and a very good taste in suits. He was, for the lack of a better word, a good-looking man, not pretty but attractive. He didn’t look like someone who indulged in silliness, though she could see him dead drunk on scotch and wine. She would wait and see how his habits were once they were back, people were always a bit nicer in foreign countries. Maybe because you had to stick together otherwise you got lost.

He approached her on deck. She was smoking a cigarette, the sea was calm. He stopped next to her, lit his own and exhaled, sliding one hand into his pockets. Georgie waited, but he said nothing. They stayed like that until the bell rang for tea, and he motioned if they should go back in together. Georgie nodded, they went back in. Inside, they sat across each other and she saw him order coffee instead of tea, he wanted none of the cake or sandwiches. She had one sandwich and a cake, she had hardly eaten any luncheon. He started talking then, asking her what she had seen of the country. She answered and that was how they started talking. It was pleasant, every now and then he flashed a smile. He had a nice smile, a little unsettling maybe, Georgie couldn’t say why. They talked well, he lit her cigarette for her, and once they reached port he helped her into her coat and waited for her.

They took the train to the capital and checked in at the George V, taking the suite her father had reserved for them. They went out for dinner, he said he knew a place she might like. It was nice, very French, but the food was delicious and she enjoyed every bit of it. On their drive back however, she began getting fidgety, but did her best not to show it. They were married after all, this was part of the deal. She had to get pregnant at some point, the sooner the better. Her parents half expected her to be showing by the time she returned.

In the suite, Georgie took her time to change. In the bathroom she looked at her reflection, the chestnut hair, the wide, violet eyes. She wasn’t beautiful. She wished she was, but something was off with the symmetry. Her lips weren’t too thin, nor was her nose hooked, but she was plain. Her face was round rather than sleekly thin. She looked like a cherub rather than one of those cat-like creatures. If she had at least something dramatic, something that caught your eye, but all she had in that line were her eyes. They were very pretty. Oh, and her bust. She had large breasts for her frame, and child-bearing hips. She wasn’t ugly, but she wasn’t beautiful. She had that pleasant look that most men liked since it wouldn’t get others interested. She’d heard that from someone once, a teacher in school. It had hurt then, but now Georgie didn’t fight it. She would never look like one of those beautiful creatures on the silver screen. But her face was pleasant, and she had very good teeth.

Finally, Georgie was in her nightgown and wrapper. She kept herself from smoking another cigarette, downed the glass of whisky she poured herself and went out. He was standing at the open window, holding a tumbler, watching something by the look of it. He turned when she closed the door. He closed the window, crushing the cigarette she hadn’t seen in an ashtray. He drank one last sip from his scotch and put that down as well. He was in pyjamas and a house gown. Georgie didn’t know what to do. She had been told, Annabelle had been very explicit, married as she was herself, and Katie had giggled all through it, Georgie staring at her sisters, mouth shut, eyes wide. Yet, it was going to be done. His family expected an heir as soon as possible, and there was only one way to get one.

They were on the bed, under the sheets. He had already removed his shirt, but he still had his trousers on. He had removed her nightdress. Georgie was completely naked, staring at the ceiling. He had kissed her, but Tommy Chingham had already kissed her behind the shed, so she knew how that was. He was better than Tommy Chingham, at least he didn’t fill her mouth with his tongue and kept his hands to himself. He really had nice lips. He kept on pressing them gently against her cheek and neck and the back of her ear. The second time he started talking, asking, ‘Have you done anything like this before?’ Mystified, Georgie asked, ‘Like what?’ ‘Have you ever been with a man before,’ he asked, and Georgie blushed.

Peter Saunders had touched her breasts and slipped his hand between her thighs, brushing her silkies. He’d gone a bit further at that party, pushing two in, kissing her and doing things that opened something inside her and made him remove his hand in horror. He thought those days had started and only after they were in the light did Georgie realize what poured out of her wasn’t blood, but something else. Somehow worse. Georgie had been so ashamed after that she couldn’t face him again and avoided all the places she could meet him. But that was as far as she knew, so she shook her head. He nodded then, saying ‘I’ll be careful.’ Georgie didn’t know what to make of that and so just waited.

He touched her everywhere. He was kissing her and touching her everywhere, her shoulders and arms, her breasts, both, her sides and middle, her thighs, inside and out, her knees and calves, even her feet. He touched her everywhere and Georgie lay as she was, clutching the sheets. At one point he took her arms and wrapped them around his neck, that was before he moved over her, spread her legs and moved over her, kissing her more. She could feel what was there, Katie said penis to it, but Annabelle, naughty girl, she said cock. It was there, hard and hot, pressed against her, ready to do it. He stopped kissing her and then said ‘Ready?’ and she nodded because it didn’t really matter whether now or later, it would hurt anyway. She felt it first, broader, thicker than anything she expected. She was sure it would never fit and grabbed his shoulders, unable to say it. He said ‘Hold on’ and suddenly he was in and Georgie screamed. She tried not to, but the tears came and she couldn’t stop them. She heard ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘Don’t cry’ but she couldn’t stop it, it just hurt too much. ‘Should I stop?’ he asked and Georgie nodded because she couldn’t bear to feel that again. She couldn’t stop the cry when he removed it, but at least he was gone and Georgie turned away, curled up, so completely in pain there was nothing she could do to stop the tears from falling.

He tried twice more that night, but each time was as bad as the last until he understood that he could do nothing to make it better. Every time he entered her it hurt so much Georgie was in tears. He got up after the last time, got up and poured her a glass, at least she thought so, but he drank a large gulp first, before he filled it up more and brought it to her. She couldn’t sit, but she leaned on her arm and drank, feeling the scotch burn her throat and warm her stomach. She drained almost the whole glass after which the room quickly turned hazy. She didn’t remember much of what happened next, but it soon didn’t matter since she fell asleep anyway.

They were at the sea. The house was beautiful and the staff was taking very good care of them. They had separate bedrooms, which was nice, since that way there wouldn’t be that unspoken thing between them. They were very friendly towards each other during the day, doing their best to be as civil as possible. Anyone watching them, anyone hearing them, anyone seeing them even, would never have guessed what agonies Georgie endured every night for the first two weeks. He tried every other night, or if it was very bad, then he left her to herself for three days. But he always came back, and Georgie prayed that he would finally realize that it would not get better. She tried everything, whisky and a long bath, she even tried those meditations Katie had talked of that were supposed to help, apparently it was supposed to help relax her. She could not pray though, but she did try what she could to calm herself, to relax herself, to just do something so that it wouldn’t hurt so much again, but nothing worked. At night all there was, was pain, and Georgie could see that he was getting impatient. If this continued for three months their marriage would be unpleasant. He was still willing to believe that she could not change it. Georgie didn’t want to think of what would happen if he started believing otherwise.

They were at the sea, and it was beautiful. It was evening, and Georgie was walking down the beach, it wasn’t too dark yet. As always, two things occupied her mind. The day as it was, and the night as it was about to come. The days were always pleasant. Eduard, she had finally come to call him by his name, even in her head, Eduard was a gentleman. He took care of her. He could be a bit rough in the way he treated the staff, but never mean spirited. He just expected them to do their work well. He took her for drives and they visited so many of his friends that Georgie was starting to lose track. They went swimming and sightseeing, they drank coffee in beautiful cafés and ate in wonderful restaurants. The days, the days were wonderful, but the nights… Georgie stopped and looked to the water. How did other women do it? How did they endure it? How by all the heavens did brothels work? And yet there had been that time with Peter Saunders where he pushed his fingers in and they both thought she had her period. That had never happened again and Georgie was starting to wonder if that didn’t have something to do with what she had to endure every other night. She hadn’t allowed another to touch her ever since Peter, too mortified that would happen again. She had read so much in these past two, no three weeks, on her condition, sneaking pamphlets and books into her room and hiding them between her clothes so no one could see them. She read so much that she slowly felt like a psychologist herself. The doctor had said there was nothing physically wrong with her. She was young and healthy and ready to have children. He said it sometimes took time to relax, but it wasn’t as if she was anxious with Eduard. Not during the day at least. At night however… Georgie walked on. How on earth was she to change this? How was she to make it happen?

July 26, 2014May 16, 2020

coffee at seven

Drip-drop, drip-drop, drip-drop – and I’m already tired. Can you imagine getting tired by simply watching a coffee machine do its work? I can. And not only can. I do. I’m currently leaning my head on the counter, watching the brown-black fluid dribble its way into the pot, from north to south, up to down, drip to drop, drip-drop, drip-drop, drip-

‘Yes dear.’

That’s Max. He thought I had said something, and so came into the kitchen, checking his cufflinks with an ever-ready, ‘Yes, dear’ on his lips.

There are times when I fear that I won’t have any thoughts anymore. But just when I think they’re gone for good – whoops, there they are again.

We have a dog. A bit of a Husky. Silver grey. I call him Wolf. He loves me, I love him, together we would make the perfect pair, me being so loud and all. At least Maxwell thinks so. Sometimes. If you’ve seen The Nanny, you’ll have a vague idea of how he looks like. He smiles less, and gets embarrassed more. Plus, I don’t have that voice – then again, I’m not half as sexy as Fran.

I’m me. Short, plump, dark-blond, brown-eyed, 38-year-old me.

Plump meaning, I’m nowhere near the Nicole Kidman league. She used to be very pretty, I don’t know what happened. I was never tall, never had that slim frame. When I was twenty I had curves, curves that filled out bras and bikinis, curves that got Maxwell T. Richardson – T. for Tennyson… his parents were, are and always will be, odd – into a rather interesting mood. pretty nook

Max has always been shy.

He was the tall, dark-haired, slightly lanky sort of man, who stood with his back to the wall at dances, nursing a cup of some unidentifiable drink with one foot flat against the wall, looking like the human twin of a black feathered flamingo.

He had a nice smile, Max. Still has, those even teeth under a straight nose, grey eyes – grey, not blue, no matter what his mother says – and dark hair. Not black though. Bit of a shame, but then again, look who’s talking.

As I said, I had curves, once. Yes, ‘had’. Now I have bends. Maybe it’s because I haven’t worn a skirt in a decade. But, how can you wear a skirt, when day-in, day-out, you are elbow deep in dirt and clay – making pots, filling pots, arranging pots, selling pots, buying pots – pots, pots, pots… It goes so far that my nieces and nephews call me Mrs. Pots.

Did I mention that we don’t have children?

We did, once. For ten days. Then she died. Isabelle.

I think, until today, Maxwell hasn’t forgiven the gods for that.

That was fifteen years ago… She would be a teenager now, harassing us with basketball and boyfriends. Maxwell played basketball for some reason, centuries ago, and I was certain she would have gotten my figure-eight frame.

Drip-drop. Drip-drop. Drip-drop. Drip-

‘I say, Rosemary-.’

I hate that name. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it. And did I mention that I hate it? Why couldn’t Mother have named me June, or Diane, or Christine? No, it had to be Rosemary.

When Maxwell is irritated, he calls me Rose, which is, I know, rather ironic, but then, that flower does have thorns. Otherwise he calls me Rosemary, as if I were a herb in a glass, a picture on a wall, a cup of tea to toss in just before he goes off to work.

We live in London, fifteen minutes to the City.

Maxwell’s a banker. I’m his crazy artist wife. ceramics 2

I think he’s having an affair.

‘Yes, love?’ I answer, still with my right cheek on the kitchen counter, watching the coffee drip into its glass pot.

Drip-drop. Pit-pot. Tip-top. I-am. Mrs. Pots.

Miss Pots would fit better.

What would it be to be a Miss again?

But now, at 38?

With the faded memory of Isabelle, my love, my life, my baby?

When she was buried in her little chestnut coffin, I felt the priest had laid my love to rest as well.

We have separate beds, Maxwell and I. They are fitted together, slap up next to each other, but it is there, the great divide, and no one crosses it, not even an inch, not even once, not ever, no.

Drip-drop. Pit-pot. Tip-top. I am. Miss Pots. Miss Pots. Missed spots.

There’s a smudge on the coffee machine. It looks like crumbled icing. Or simply sugar? Who knows?

‘Are you tired, Rosemary?’

I hate it. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it. Why can’t he call me something like Chantal? Why didn’t he pick out some lovely nickname, some pet cat-call, something, anything, everything but Rosemary?

‘A tad bit.’

‘You want something from the grill?’

Maxwell never says take-away. For an unexpected moment, I catch my breath.

Ravi Naveen. That’s the boy who always comes around to drop off the curry. Maxwell calls, Ravi takes it away from the Taj, and carries it on the long exodus down two stops on bus 9, two blocks and one corner, to our house, where I wait. Then the bell rings and I, or rather my hand, shakes slightly when I open the door. And then, when it swings back to me, there he stands, the two plastic bags in his hand – Maxwell likes to eat well; bother him with his metabolism – and then he says:

‘Evening Mrs. Richardson. All’s well?’

He never says, How are you? Or Phew! What a day! but always, All’s well? – with variations. And every time, honestly, every single time, I want to grab his hand, drag him to the kitchen, sit him down with a cup of tea, and tell him everything.

But as always, I just say, Thank you, yes, fine, hand him the money with somewhat of a smile, see him tap his red cap, turn, and jog down our front steps with those long, long legs.

‘Yes, why not.’

I hear Maxwell dial the phone, order the usual, laugh a little, exchange a word or two about the day, and then hang up with something of a sigh.

‘Sit down Rosemary, you’ll end up hurting your back’, he says before walking out of the kitchen, and for some reason, some unbearable urge forces me to stick out my tongue at him after he closes the door. Then I see my reflection the blackness of the coffee pot – drip-drop, drip-drop – and it makes me want to laugh and cry all at once.

Just then, for no reason at all, I realize that it’s raining.

Pling-pling. Pling. Pling-pling. Pling-pling-pling.

06:34.

In about five minutes, the doorbell will ring.

Will he carry an umbrella?

Or will he, like those young actors on TV – I know, it is my greatest shame, but I love them, those soap operas full of teenage agony and strife – will he be drenched to his very shirt, so that when he walks you can see every muscle? Will his hair – black, black, black! – be splattered all over his head like a glistening multi-armed octopus?

Will it in fact, be him?

Or his brother, Rajan, a boy, fifteen, sixteen perhaps.

It is hard for me to see him.

When he comes by, I remember that it should be Isabelle standing in my place, waiting with shaking fingers, wishing, hoping, praying, that he had been crazy enough to forget his umbrella.

Pling-pling. Pling-pling-pling. Pling.

I’m sitting on the window-seat, facing the street, holding a cup of coffee with a magazine on my lap, watching the rain drop like soft crystal onto the pane.

Pane. Pain.

Would rain now anything of pain? What does it feel like to be smashed against a window?

‘Do you mind getting the door, Rosemary?’ I hear from down the hall.

Maxwell lives in his office. Something of a library in fact. We went shopping for it together. He said that though it was his office, it was our house, and he didn’t want me screaming or fainting every time I entered that particular room.

It is all greens and browns.

There was a count somewhere in Maxwell’s family. He knows what it means to spend the summer in the country.

‘Yes, love.’

I hadn’t heard the ring. Funny, but the rain was suddenly as loud as church bells.

I get up, slowly.

And I walk, slowly, from the living room – it is large, with many a couch and a seatee, a fireplace (Wolf is lying in front of the crackling fire, curled up into a sleeping ball of fur), and a chaise-longue.

But I, I love the window seat. Simple, neat, full of light, day in, day out, even at night, as the street-lamp shines into it in odd orange rays, half sterile, half alive, never really gone, and never actually there.

I walk into the hall, over the checkerboard tiles, to the black front door with the golden handle.

I push down. Pull open. And wait.

‘Evening, Mrs. Richardson. All’s well, I hope. Sorry, but I forgot my umbrella.’

I put down my cup onto the small table under the hallway mirror.

It isn’t a warm evening, yet he is dressed in a light blue shirt and dark-blue jeans, his hair a colony of curls, so black, so wonderfully ebony, glossy black, I feel it’s the universe shining back at me. He has both plastic bags in one hand, while his other, young and strong, wipes the water out of his face.

It is then, when all I can see are two pairs of eyes over his fingers, fingers that look as if they knew things Maxwell wouldn’t even dream about, that I make a decision.

‘Please come in. We’ll get you dried up first.’

He looks at me surprised. And then, startlingly, he flashes a smile, so white, I feel as if struck, really, by a flash of something like lightning.

‘Rosemary?’

The heat rises into my cheeks in less than a second.

The last time I blushed like this, I believe I was staring down into Maxwell’s eyes, wondering why on earth he’d destroyed it all by asking me to marry him. We had been perfectly happy as friends. But no, he had to come with love, had to infect me with the disease, and now look what it got us into.

Ravi looks… expectant, waiting, like a young tiger on the prowl. On a second thought, that’s probably not all that right, but he really does, truly, look like that right now.

‘Yes, love.’

It is like an automatic. I hear ‘Rosemary’, and my whole vocal system collaborates to produce the air waves that compound to ‘Yes, love,’ without me even having to think a thought about it.

‘Oh – hello. I thought you hadn’t heard.’

I turn and see Maxwell in the hallway, surprised to see Ravi at the door. I feel as if Mother caught me nibbling at the Christmas Cake.

‘Good God, you’re wet through! Honestly, Rose, why don’t you ask him in?’

‘I was just about to.’

I cannot get myself to turn back to those eyes, those all-seeing eyes, and I am grateful that Maxwell walks up to the door, takes the plastic bags out of Ravi’s hands and escorts him into the kitchen. He even sits him down, pours him a cup of coffee and asks me, me, me! to fetch a towel. I do.

In the bathroom, the craziest thing crosses my mind, and I find myself spraying the towel with my perfume, softly, not too much.

When I return, I hand it to Ravi without looking at him, turn to the window where through the pane – pling-ping-splat-ping – I see him wipe his face with his eyes closed. For a moment I believe he holds it longer than necessary to his face before rubbing his hair dry – with the other side – after accepting a cup of coffee from Maxwell with a nod and a smile.

Maxwell talks to him about his day and I drink everything in, wishing to find a hint in his words, something to tell me that in between his hours at the Taj and those at the University (Engineering, he says. There’s something about building that fascinates him), his parties, his laughter, his one-night-stands – oh, he has to have them; I insist that he has to have them; he has to be at least that free, for I can see him in those fleeting moments, those nebulous hours between night and dawn where everything feels forbidden – he remembered, maybe only for a moment, maybe for the brief breadth of a flashing, passing smile, he remembered me.

Then, rather suddenly, the telephone rings, and Maxwell rushes out of the room, apologising.

The silence is slicing, and I cannot, for all the world, turn around, but keep looking out of the window, past the plants on the window sill, through the pane out into the small stretch of garden between the house and the fence of the one opposite. It is empty, up for sale, and so far, I think, a young couple is rather interested in buying it.

But then there is movement, the scraping of wood on stone-tiles, and something bursts in my middle, like a grape pinched between two fingers.

‘Thank you Mrs. Richardson’, he says, handing me the towel in due distance, that is three steps away from me.

There is something of a bow in how he does it, but then our fingers touch, I feel the brush of his hand, his eyes meet mine and I look to the floor like back then when I was seventeen.

‘Rosemary, do we have time on Thursday?’

I look up, a little too sharply, past Ravi to Maxwell who’s at the door, looking at a notepad, half in the doorway half in the hall. Quickly, I move away from the window.

‘No. Not that I know of.’

Maxwell nods, and leaves for his office while I open the door a bit wider. Next moment, I feel a shoulder brush my own and watch Ravi walk past me into the hall. He’s just about to reach the door when I hear myself say ‘Wait – ! Take this with you.’ I hand him my umbrella, black with my initials in silver, R.R., small and only visible to the one underneath.

He takes it with a smile, but neither our hands, nor our fingers touch.

He opens the door, and slips through. He opens the umbrella on the first front step, while I stand in the door, watching when suddenly, with the umbrella wide open, he turns, slides a hand around my neck, and kisses me, hidden under the black.

It is not very long, but warm, oh, so warm, so full of life and promise, and that extra splash of red that has long been missing in my life that I feel the bright, bursting sun fall through the towers of rainy clouds in the sky.

Next moment, he’s gone.