Authors: Elise Alden
She turned her back. “I bought a dress for you. Something Mum approved of. It’s on a hanger behind my door. Wear it with the black ballerina flats in my wardrobe.”
I jumped off my bed. “I want you to answer me!”
She paused and turned around. “You don’t get what you want, Paisley. Not now, not ever. Haven’t you figured it out yet?”
“You
knew
what Manuel was doing,” I said, lowering my voice so it wouldn’t carry. “You watched us from the door and after he left that afternoon you were angry. You convinced me to come forward and tell the whole family, or don’t you remember?”
She looked at her nails with a bored expression. “No.”
“Mum and Dad were livid,” I said, my voice shaking as badly as my body. “Weeks of prayer and punishments, ice at the table and knuckle sandwiches everywhere else. I barely ate or slept and you... You treated me like dirt. I
counted
on you to help me during the meeting like you promised. Why didn’t you tell them what you’d seen?”
“I told the truth,” she said haughtily.
Liar!
my mind screeched.
The memories didn’t race through me; they sauntered across my mind, taking their time to fill me with anguish. We’d sat at the kitchen table with our parents, Father Martin and Officer Williams. I could clearly see Caroline’s angelic face full of sorrow, her hands trembling as she clasped them together. Her voice was regretful as she divulged that in a moment of sisterly confidence I confessed to lying about Manuel’s visits to my bedroom.
I was malicious, Caroline said. I had lied in revenge for Aunt Isabel’s constant scolding and because I hated her. I was jealous of our aunt and wanted to destroy her marriage. It pained Caroline to expose my lies but she couldn’t bear the weight on her conscience any longer. Uncle Manuel and Aunt Isabel had suffered enough because of me.
Unfortunately, it was no secret that I hated my Aunt Isabel. When I was small she’d pinch me, hard, and she’d find reasons to punish me. When I got older she pointed fault at my appearance and made derogatory remarks about my schoolwork. I was openly obnoxious to her and our most recent altercation had been ugly.
Our parents, Father Martin and Officer Williams listened to Caroline, weighing her academic achievements against my truancy, her upstanding record against my history of misdemeanours. Her “honesty” against my lies. I had summoned the courage to speak out, so I tried to convince them I was telling the truth. I gave them the sordid details even down to the tiny mole on Manuel’s dick—God knows I’d seen it enough times—but the more I spoke, the angrier they got.
On the scale of Truth, Caroline’s virtues weighed more than my sins, and they found me guilty of everything she said.
Officer Williams was scathing. He said my parents could have been fined but since I was a minor he’d let me off with a warning for wasting police time. Father Martin lectured me for trying to ruin Manuel’s reputation and his marriage. He wondered if the household was descending into un-Christian practices and recommended strict punishment—a knockout kick to my stomach and a heavy praying regime as it turned out.
But my biggest reward for telling the truth came that weekend, when my extended family gathered in the sitting room to hear my formal apology to Manuel. He accepted my stilted words and embraced me, kissing me on the cheek. His dark face showed dignified hurt while his eyes told a story that nobody could read but me.
Shortly after, Manuel and Aunt Isabel moved to London, blaming me for the ugly rumours circulating in Trenmore. But it didn’t matter—my relationship with my parents and the rest of the family was destroyed.
Afterwards Caroline looked at me just like she was looking at me now: with the haughtiness of someone who’s been caught with their hands in the till but refuses to accept their guilt.
My sister tilted her head and a small smile curved her lips. Her face filled with the kind of pleasure people get when they drop all pretence and let it rip.
“You want to know why I lied?” she said softly.
I held my breath.
Her smile grew wider. “I did it because...it felt good.”
I gasped, searching her eyes for more but finding nothing but gloating satisfaction. She hadn’t given me the true reason for her lies but her words were true nonetheless. I dropped onto my bed, winded by her hatred.
Chapter Six
Bull and Matador
I wanted Caroline’s wedding day to be stormy and cold, so of course it dawned sunny and warm, perfect for a summer wedding. The church ceremony would take place at four and James’s mother, Francesca, would be coming by for me at one. Busy with Italian relatives, she was giving the pre-wedding lunch with the bride a pass.
From my bedroom window I watched my family and the bridesmaids get into the fancy hired cars and leave. My eyes watered and I snorted disgustedly at my weakness. Pregnancy was making me soft, damn it—but not soft enough to wear the dick-deflator dress Caroline had bought for me.
I stared at it with loathing. Think convent novice without the sleeves and in beige, all the way down to my knees. My attempts to rip it apart proved fruitless, so I stomped on it and kicked it into the corner. Childish I know, but it made me feel better.
The few dresses that Caroline had left in her wardrobe were demure, suited for work at a law firm. I was just about to take out a boring navy shift when I caught a glimpse of something red under a plastic wrapping.
Interesting.
The tag was from Impress, the boutique Caroline had bought her first dance outfit from. I could see immediately why she’d rejected it. The skimpy style was strictly Jezebel—great for a celebrity dance competition. You know, the ones where they do the sexy Latin stuff and you hope there’s a wardrobe malfunction to spice things up.
My face hardened, remembering Caroline’s gloating satisfaction. If I had the guts to sleep with James in her bed, I figured I had the guts to wear this dress at her wedding. And her new Jimmy Choos. Now all I had to do was find something to hide my outfit from my parents’ eyes until the disco. That’s when they’d head off to bed and I’d act as slutty as Caroline said I was.
I held the dress against my body. Would James notice me if I wore this? Would he still desire me? Would his body respond and tighten with lust?
Oh, crap, I had to get rid of my fixation with James. Watching him marry Caroline should do the trick. It had to. I didn’t want to think about him anymore. I shied away from the memory of whispered caresses and guttural moans, wrapping his image in chains and sinking it into my deepest waters. Down where it could keep company with a lot of other images I wanted to forget.
Live in the shallows, I say. As soon as you delve any deeper the sharks come out to play.
Cringing, I looked into the mirror. There wasn’t much I could do with my hair so I let it hang long and loose. Amp the Vamp Red coated my lips but other than that I wore no makeup. Should I pull my hair over my swollen cheek? No, that didn’t help. I’d have to settle for sex kitten meets a bit of rough. I straightened my shoulders and sucked in my tummy. Slouching in the slut dress could be fatal.
Francesca was punctual. She was an older, female replica of James, right down to his green eyes and assessing gaze. Her soft Italian accent was charming although she herself was not. She looked me over, her face tightening in disapproval as she perused my outfit. In her eyes I read the snobby certainty of my lower-class vulgarity. I squared my chin, resisted the urge to cover up with my mother’s trench coat and got into the black BMW.
The chauffeur was young and built like a bouncer. Now was as good a time as any to start forgetting about James, right? I asked his name so I could see his face.
“Bonaparte Muir of Barbados, miss,” he said politely, showing gorgeous brown skin and big almond eyes.
I gave him a flirty smile. “Paisley Benton of Brighton, sir.”
Francesca frowned and though the day was warm we journeyed in freezing silence. As soon as we arrived at the wedding I put on the trench coat and buttoned up.
The grounds outside Saint Albert’s were full. People walked between the faded, crumbling tombstones as they chatted and enjoyed the sunshine, waiting to be ushered inside. I lost myself among them and headed towards the secluded garden at the back.
It was lined by birch trees that separated the eighteenth-century church from the farmlands beyond. I stopped at the third-to-last trunk, looking for the initials I’d carved when I was ten, hiding from the Sunday school teacher. I traced my fingers over the old etchings and inhaled the woodsy scent of my memories.
When I could no longer avoid it I slipped into St Albert’s and squeezed into the last pew on the left, then wrinkled my nose. White roses decorated the aisles and windows, swamping the large church with their cloying scent and adding to my underlying nausea. God, I hate white. Black too. The world is stark enough as it is.
A few minutes later James came out of the vestry with the best man. My heart jumped, slowed and then picked up an erratic beat. He was even more arresting, more attractive than I remembered. Every caress we’d shared came surging back to me, filling me with undeniable longing. I stared at him, dismayed at my reaction.
Had I really thought I could drown his memory?
The violinists started their rendition of boringly unimaginative Pachelbel’s
Canon
and everyone stood up. James searched the church entrance for Caroline and zoned straight to me instead. Our eyes met and held. The instinctive thrum of recognition that sparked between us was like an intangible cord, linking us across the crowded church. His smile faltered and then faded entirely. A few people turned to stare at me curiously but I ignored them. Then the best man nudged James and he blinked, severing our connection.
A flash of white to my right signalled that Caroline and my father were walking past, but I didn’t look at them. All my attention was on James. Tenderness had suffused his features, softening his expression. At that moment I wished him happiness. I hoped that Caroline reserved her hatred for me alone. I could live with that as long as it meant that she wasn’t a bitch to James, that he never lost the beautiful smile on his face and—
Hold on a fucking minute! Where was the good will towards the pregnant druggie? Nobody was lining up to wish
me
a happy future. The bride and groom would have their idyllic lives while mine would be anything but, especially if Caroline had her way. She hated me too much to miss a chance to make me suffer.
Her words had kept me up most of the night.
I
did it because it felt good.
The phrase whirled around my mind as I watched her reach the altar. She looked golden and ethereal in her flapper dress. Radiant, just like a bride should be, holding her bouquet of blood-red roses with her sheer veil floating behind her. My father was beaming as widely as Caroline, full of pride and dignity as he joined my mother in the front pew.
I looked at the bridesmaids. Caroline hadn’t even had the decency to clothe them in taffeta puffs or satin shockers. They looked like graceful swans, slender and elegant in flowing white. I wrinkled my nose. With the exception of Caroline’s bouquet, everything was white-on-white today. She said she wanted her wedding to be classy, but why did she think that draining everything of colour would do the magic trick?
The only contrast was James’s black wedding suit. He stood next to his trembling bride, tall and proud as they faced Father Martin. Black and white, when my feelings were anything but. Envy towards Caroline warred with fear for my future. Tomorrow I would have to face my father and deal with his wrath. Once he got into his stride I would croak like a toad and then he would find out that Alex was already married and on honeymoon in Florida.
Father Martin was my last hope. Humble and repentant, I would appeal to him for help, suitably concealed by my mother’s coat. He would take pity on me and advise leniency, and everything would be okay. The mass droned on until Father Martin begged someone to dish up the dirt on Caroline so he could go home and screw his gardener.
Oh crap, I’d been daydreaming that bit.
I also daydreamed about an outraged Caroline decking James like Duck Face had Hugh Grant in
Four Weddings and a Funeral
, but there were no interruptions to keep the sickeningly sweet couple from being married.
James and Caroline were pronounced husband and wife and everybody applauded. I kept my eyes on the stained glass windows, filling my vision with yellow, red and blue. Martyred saints in the throes of their suffering. I told myself that my strange sorrow was relief, that now that James was married my annoying fixation with him would end.
Ciao bambino and thanks for the
amore galore
.
James bent down to kiss Caroline and I shifted my gaze to the altar: crown of thorns, torn flesh and oozing blood. The walls were no better, depicting the Stations of the Cross. Everywhere I looked there was pain and suffering.
The room lurched, or maybe it was me. I escaped outside, taking in huge gulps of air. Soon enough, everybody had joined me, and James and Caroline were being photographed and congratulated. I lurked in the background.
Two university friends of James’s gave me a ride to the reception, and the stories they told of his rakish, bad boy days at Cambridge made me laugh. Would Caroline staunch his mischievous streak, they wondered? Hell, she probably had already, judging by how uptight and formal he was.
Except when he’s inside you
, my mind whispered.
When we arrived at the Grand Excelsior Hotel we were ushered through the lobby and into the back gardens. It was so hot I wanted to strip my coat off and to hell with the consequences, but my sense of self-preservation prevailed. It wouldn’t do for my parents to spot me in the slut dress no matter the weather. We were sweltering in temperatures that were more Sahara than Sussex and I felt like the Wicked Witch of the West, melting under her coat into a puddle of goo.
Searching for a secluded, shady spot, I scanned the lawns. James and Caroline were hand in hand in my peripheral vision, sipping champagne and chatting with their guests. I steered clear. A few minutes later I felt a tingle on my neck and glanced back. James was watching me. Caroline said something and he bent his head to her flushed face.
Deep waters
, I reminded myself.
The narrow dirt pathway at the edge of the lawns led to a tall hedge maze designed around a shady birch tree. A sad little cherub fountain, cracked and half-covered with moss, stood crumbling in front of the tree. It was the perfect secluded retreat. I unbuttoned my coat and flapped the sides to cool my skin. Why the hell hadn’t I worn the dick deflator? I didn’t feel defiant or sexy anymore, just ridiculous.
I shared the clearing with the little cherub, enjoying the peaceful silence until hunger made me button up and get ready to head back. A branch snapped and James emerged from the maze. My pulse beat as erratically as it had in the church. Had he been keeping track of me? Could he still read me?
Did he still want me?
James walked towards me, the smile on his face causing my lips to lift in an automatic response. His hair was slightly tousled and his skin flushed with sun and champagne. I caught myself straining for his scent, inhaled and held my breath. Forced it back out.
Nervous and unsure, I waited for him to say something. “Are you wearing Caroline’s perfume?”
“No.”
James stared at my swollen cheek and a small crease appeared between his eyebrows. My hand twitched with the desire to smooth it out so I edged away, annoyed at myself.
“What happened to your cheek?”
“I pissed somebody off,” I said flippantly.
His face switched from curious to furious so quickly I was taken aback. “Who did this to you?”
His voice was soft, but it had a menacing edge to it. He looked violent and protective, as if he were ready to beat the crap out of whoever had hurt me. I smiled as the image formed in my mind. What would my childhood have been like if I’d had a protector like James?
Safe
, my mind answered.
I hugged myself, fighting the impulse to reach out and tell him my deepest and dirtiest. What the hell was wrong with me? I am no damsel in distress, goddamn it, swooning into a man’s arms like a weakling.
“Who hit you?” he insisted.
“Gotcha,” I said, forcing a laugh. “I tripped, practicing walking in these bloody high heels. The door got in my way.”
“You’re lying.”
Well, that answered whether he could still read me. And since his ability hadn’t been a fluke it was time to sprinkle my next lie with a little truth. I recommend adding some of that gold dust whenever you can. It makes the words taste better and gives your fib a shiny ring.
“I got into a fight with a nasty bitch I know. I kissed her man and she didn’t like it. Satisfied?”
His gaze roamed over my jaw. “Looks like she hated it.”
“I never promised not to kiss the boys and make their girlfriends cry,” I said, sexy strumpet all the way.
“And the boy, what did he do?”
Was that a hint of jealousy I detected?
“Oh, the boy groaned and after that he moaned. A lot,” I said, enjoying the way James’s mouth tightened. “But then again you should have seen what his girlfriend did to him. He’s probably still in hospital.”
James grinned and the tension eased. He shook his head, looking at me appreciatively and I flashed him a flirtatious smile. Shit! This was not good. I wanted to get closer to him, to feel his lips on mine and taste him.
Married!
my mind shouted.
James glanced at my trench coat. “It’s boiling. Why are you wearing that?”
“Because I’m naked underneath.”
James’s breath caught, held and was expelled on a laugh. I laughed too, feeling foolish. I unbuttoned the coat and pulled it open so he could have a look at my dress. His eyes widened as he ran them down my body. Up again, lingering on my thighs, my waist and finally on my chest. I had pulled one of Caroline’s stretchy bolero shrugs over my breasts and pinned it together with my mother’s crucifix brooch. A pentagram would have been more suited.
“What do you think?” I asked, bold and sassy.
“I think it’s inappropriate.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Sleazy, you mean. Why don’t you say what you think? You didn’t have a problem telling me a few months ago.”