Kept (12 page)

Potentially, I have a world of possibility at my feet.
Realistically, I fear my options are limited.

‘Up,’ Mum screeches at me, causing me to painfully crack
open an eye to see why she’s screeching. Silly mistake as she pulls up the
blinds in the study where I crashed out after the pub in a rotten mood and my
head feels like it’s about to explode. ‘Get up, Arielle,’ she repeats in a
no-nonsense voice.

‘I’m up,’ I mutter. ‘I’m
getting up.’ What ungodly hour is this anyway?

‘Kitchen in five,’ she says sharply, sweeping out of the
study.

Yikes
. I flop off
the sofa bed bleary-eyed and make a quick detour to the bathroom before heading
to the kitchen like instructed. They’re both sat at the breakfast table with
stern looks on their faces – it does nothing for their wrinkles.

‘Where are Frank and Alice?’

‘They’ve gone home.’

‘Oh,’ I pointlessly remark, making to sit down and pour
myself a coffee. Hit me up with caffeine.

‘Don’t,’ Dad says in rather a clipped tone. ‘You need to
follow us.’

They both stand up at the same time. This is getting freaky
and more painful. Screechy chairs only add to my headache, never mind movement.
It’s far too early in the morning and my mind is too dulled from Ob’s words
last night to be dealing with whatever this is. But, I dutifully follow them,
slipping on Mum’s flip-flops as they head outside, wishing I had sunglasses to
protect me from the devilish natural light.

They head towards Bertha’s garage. The only sound is the
gravel crunching underfoot and tweeting birds in the distant trees. I had
noticed Bertha hadn’t been put away when I returned home last night, but I
can’t understand why we’re all trudging towards an empty garage. Especially at
this hour. What is it now? My room’s going to be a library – are they
converting the garage into a home gym? Studio? Whatever it is, I’m sure it
could have waited. As far as Sunday mornings go Bertha’s garage is not at the
top of my fun list. Then again, I don’t get to have
fun
here, do I? I’d better take whatever
thrills
are on offer.

Except, when we get to the garage and Dad pops open the
door, I take that back. A nice, quiet life would suit me fine and dandy. That’s
because the garage isn’t empty – it’s completely full of luggage and I know
without closer inspection of one of the Louis Vuitton trunks near the door,
that the airport tag on the handle will read my name. This is my stuff.

Shockingly I fill up an entire double garage with what must
amount to clothes. The contents of Bertha’s garage must be worth thousands,
tens of thousands,
of pounds. This
scares me, but I’m more scared to discover all this is here and not at Piers’.
I am surprised it is here, don’t misunderstand me, but I’m scared because if
he’s sent everything to me, it seems his decision last week of kicking me out
was final.

‘Well?’ Mum demands.

I stand back, surveying the scene. It’s like a reunion with
old friends and I don’t know where to begin to catch-up.

‘Well,’ I echo her. ‘It seems I’ve been kicked out.’ There’s
no point lying now. I choke back an hysterical giggle.

‘And you thought you could just send your belongings home
and show up days later without a phone call to let us know that these and you
were coming?’ She makes it sound like I have just committed a heinous crime.

‘I phoned,’ I answer defensively.

My head is racing. Is this it? Arielle and Piers – are we
through? Forever?

‘Yes, from the train station when you were twenty minutes
away,’ Dad scolds. ‘This is unacceptable behaviour, Arielle. Why aren’t you in
London and what on Earth is in those trunks?’

I feel like answering “dead bodies” but resist the childish
urge.

‘Stuff,’ I reply instead, oh-so-eloquently.

‘What sort of
stuff
?’

Dead bodies. Dead
bodies. Lots of them.

‘Probably just clothes. I don’t know.’

I bite my lip to stop myself from laughing at the “dead
bodies” chant chiming in my head. Being here is making me want to burst into
giggles like I would have done as a teenager when I used to get interrogated
over why I smelt of cigarettes. Always obvious
why
in my mind… Dead bodies, dead bodies… But not obvious to the
parents.

A snort erupts before I can stop it, earning me a glare from
Mum that only serves to make me snort harder.
Sophistication
. If only Piers could see me now in my nightie,
circa-1999, acting like a deferent child. It would confirm that he’s made the
right decision getting rid of me. Because, let’s face the truth, he has got rid
of me.

‘You sent them here. How can you not know?’ Mum asks
sounding flabbergasted.

This only incites my giggles further. Although it may be
hysterics at the realisation I have lost Piers. Their filthy looks soon sober
me.

‘I didn’t,’ I sigh, regaining some calm. ‘Piers must have.
This is as much of a surprise to me as it is to you.’

‘I’m a little confused,’ Mum says.
Aren’t we all?
‘Are you saying Piers kicked you out, then sent all
this here? Why are you here? What about your job? Just what exactly is going on
here, young lady?’ she fires at me.

I am well and truly busted without the chance to sugar-coat
events, to ease them into my revelations. They are not going to like this one
bit; my thumping head certainly doesn’t. I shouldn’t have polished off that
bottle of Hendrick’s when I came in last night.

‘It’s a long story,’ I admit reluctantly. ‘We should go back
inside.’

And we should. I really need caffeine now to get through
this, some Valium as well if there’s any in the house.

At this, Dad slams down the garage door, practically making
it rattle off its hinges. They storm back to the house, whispering frantically
as I drag my feet behind them. Once I’m fortified with coffee, I earn another
filthy look asking for some V. I can see them adding “drugs problem” to all my
other crimes as I tell them the abridged version – although, I know, the
abridged version is still admittedly bad. I have never seen them look so
disappointed in me or more shocked when I rush out that I’ve not worked since I
moved to London.

‘But you’re going to be the PR director at
Benfords
!’ my mother wails. ‘You said so!’ She sounds in
agony, like I’ve just informed her I can’t have children, that she’ll never be
a granny.
 

‘I lied.’

I don’t think I could have put that admittance any plainer,
but if I can’t fathom the intricate workings of my mind, how can I properly
explain the suitable non-filthy bits to my parents?

‘Arielle! We didn’t raise you to lie to us. Why didn’t you
tell us? In fact,’ she storms on, getting angry now that her brief wave of disappointment
has subsided, ‘why didn’t you come home when you didn’t get the job with Benfords?
Wait–’ The penny is dropping some more. ‘How on Earth have you managed to live
these past four years? Who paid for everything?’

She looks uneasy, I’m sure from the possibilities popping
into her head. Dad looks ill – he looks like he’s about to have a heart attack
if the pained faces on
ER
are
anything to go by.

‘Piers took care of it.’

Dad gasps, clasping his chest. It takes me a few seconds to
realise what he thinks I’m implying, the same assumption Ob made. What is it
with men?

‘No, no,’ I stammer quickly, feeling a cold rush of dread.
How can he think
that
of me?

‘Arielle, are you saying what we think you are?’

Great, now Mum is in on the lunacy. What is it with society
today that the automatic assumption of “being taken care of” generates the
conclusion of prostitution as opposed to the simple truth of a man taking care
of a woman in the good old-fashioned sense?

Before I can explain, not that I can think how to explain,
she presses on. ‘Now tell the truth, how did you meet Piers?’

I can tell she is envisioning dodgy Internet adverts, seedy
auditions and fights over turf. Possibly even hand jobs to the police when
caught out. Her book club has a lot to answer for.
  

‘It’s not what you think,’ I quickly put in.

‘Just tell us, Arielle. I don’t think you can sugar-coat
this
, young lady.’

‘I met him when he knocked me over.’ That sounds like “he
knocked me up” in my head – not good. I continue, acutely aware of their pained
looks. ‘He crashed into me. I didn’t fall, OK? He broke my ankle. So yes, I’d
never met him before then. Happy now?’

‘And what? He offered you some sort of
deal
?’

Mum actually sounds quite calm, even if she’s getting
completely the wrong end of the stick.

‘Piers is a gentleman,’ I remind her – she
loves
Piers. ‘It wasn’t like
that
. You’re crazily thinking I’m some
sort of bought woman. I’m not,’ I fiercely say. ‘Piers and I love one another.
Christ, what sort of person do you take me to be?’ I stumble out. I can feel
the tears forming at my inadequacy to explain. ‘What kind of person do you
think Piers is?’

I can take their criticism of me but Piers doesn’t deserve
it.

‘We have no idea who you are, Arielle, but you’re definitely
not our daughter,’ Dad flings at me.

Tears are now rolling down my face. He’s looking at me like
I’m vermin off the street or, should I say, a prostitute on the street corner.

‘Quentin,’ Mum luckily interjects, but he’s having none of
it.

‘I don’t want her under this roof, Gilly. Our daughter...
I’ve never been this disappointed in my whole life.’ He shudders.

‘You’ve got it all wrong,’ I gasp out between tears. I can’t
breathe. This can’t be happening. Why won’t they listen?

‘So, you did work?’ he asks me sarcastically. ‘You’ve just
been winding us up? Think you’re a comedian, do you? Maybe that’s what your job
was? Were you a comedian, Arielle?’

‘No, but–’

‘You didn’t keep Piers
satisfied
in exchange for all your nice things then?’

‘It’s not like that.’ Why isn’t he listening? ‘I kept him
happy because he was my boyfriend. He wanted to take care of me and I took care
of him.’

‘Well, why didn’t you work then?’

‘He didn’t want me to, but–’

‘Oh, he controlled you, did he? Bought you with expensive
things?’

‘It’s not like that,’ I howl.

‘Right,’ he says sarcastically. ‘Of course it’s not. That’s
why the garage looks fit to burst.’

He’s wasted working in consultancy; he should have been a
policeman with his questioning technique. He could make the most innocent person
confess to a multitude of crimes not committed.

‘I want her gone.’ He turns to Mum. ‘By the time I return.’

With that heart-wrenching statement, he sweeps out of the
kitchen, slamming the door so loudly behind him I’m certain next-door must have
felt the vibrations and suspect we’re having an earthquake in Brockenhurst.

‘It’s not like that, Mum,’ I plead. ‘You have to
listen
to me.’

‘I don’t know if I can believe you, Arielle,’ she harshly
cuts me off. ‘I think your Dad’s right. You should go.’

She turns away from me but not before I see the tears in her
eyes. Unnecessary tears. All she has to do is listen to me, but she won’t. I
plead and plead but she walks away from me. My own mother, deserts me.

As I sit in the kitchen, alone, trying to control my
panicked breathing, I realise I am homeless for the second time in one week.
This time though I have no options left. Last week I thought I had hit rock
bottom. Now I know never to assume because I’m only tempting my life to become
even worse… I’ll probably have to turn tricks just to survive now, I realise.
Oh the irony. With that thought, even though it’s half past ten in the morning,
I forgo the coffee and pour myself a stiff drink instead.

I’m heading to Obélix’s of course. Thank goodness for Ob.

I found Mum sat in the drawing room after I managed to calm
down, aided by a swig of vodka. She wouldn’t see I thought I was doing the
right thing at the time because she wouldn’t listen to me.
Blanked
by my own mother. Why couldn’t she see that Piers loved me,
that he had supported me out of love, not a hidden agenda. His only agenda had
been to make me happy.

And
turning tricks
!
Piers,
that
sort of man? My
pimp
. Piers is as much a pimp as Bush is
a
respected
world leader. The ’rents
have met him countless times – they know he is one of the most decent,
kind-hearted, sweet and loving men out there. Why have they reacted like this?
I know I’ve disappointed them – I’ve disappointed myself – but I’ve not
murdered anyone, broken any laws. What I did, was it really that terrible?

After bleating these points at Mum, who staunchly ignored
me, I knew it was useless. Hopefully, in time, they will see sense; I mean,
they’re my
parents
. Who have I got
left in this world if they aren’t there for me? No one. Except for Obélix. I
was only reminded of him by spotting his mum, Helen, through the kitchen
window. Meekly, I grabbed my belongings and headed next door and Helen phoned
Ob for me, my phone battery having finally died. At least I know the charger is
somewhere in Bertha’s garage. It’s some comfort.

Until Ob arrived – he was tending to a sick deer – I
awkwardly chatted with Helen about my high-powered career in London, too weary
to explain the twisted truth. When he arrived, he took one look at me and
bundled me immediately into his Land Rover to whisk me back to his place. At
least he has his own place; I would have had serious words if he was still
living at home.
 

‘So they flipped, huh?’ he asks as we get in his car.

‘Yep.’

I can’t think what else to say. I am a big mess. Maybe if I
had told them there were dead bodies in the trunks they would probably have
been more forgiving, probably helped me dispose of them, too. Aren’t parents
funny creatures?
 

‘What’s the plan then?’

‘No idea.’

‘Right.’

Obélix knows when not to push me. We drive the rest of the
way to his flat in complete silence, without even the radio.

‘I have to get back to work, but I’ll see you tonight. It’ll
all work out, Arielle,’ he says, kissing me on the forehead in an unexpected
moment of tenderness. I’m too shell-shocked from my second eviction to even act
disgusted, I’m that disheartened.

As soon as I hear the door lock, I promptly burst into tears
and curl up in a ball on his sofa. Ironically, the foetal position. I want my
mum, but she doesn’t want me and Dad’s words keep replaying over and over,
taunting me. I miss Piers too. I really miss him.

Why has Piers sent me my things? Why am I missing him so
much? And the million dollar question: Is he missing me?

It’s the fourth day of wallowing on Ob’s sofa. Nothing has
changed. Life is still as rubbish, confusing and messy as before. And great,
there’s a knock on the front door.

If I’ve barely spoken two words to Obélix over the past few
days, I’m hardly going to have a nice chit-chat with whoever is at the door
selling their wares. Maybe if it’s a group of Jehovah’s Witnesses though I
might grant them entry and let them convert me but only if they guarantee that
by doing so my life will get back on track. On second thoughts, if I open the
door I have to first, get off the sofa and secondly, interact with people. I’m
not in the mood.

‘Go away,’ I yell.

‘Arielle,’ a familiar voice calls through the letterbox.
‘You open the door this instance. It’s your mother,’ she pointlessly adds.

Reluctantly, I shuffle off the sofa as she bangs the door
again and I open the door. I’m not in the mood for more terrorist attacks on my
character, but I know she’ll get in somehow, even if she has to wait for Ob to
come home.

‘Oh darling,’ she says when she clocks my forlorn expression
and state of messiness. ‘You look dreadful. I’m so sorry.
We’re
so sorry.’ She pulls me into a big hug whilst I stand there
in shock. She finally lets go of me, closing the door behind her. ‘Oh Arielle,
why didn’t you explain properly?’ she lightly scolds me. ‘You’ve been so
silly.’

‘I tried to, you wouldn’t listen, and what do you mean?’ I
quickly add, catching on that someone must have explained
properly
seeing as I hadn’t. Ob, maybe? Am I that bad to live with?
Sure I’ve made him cook and haven’t offered to wash the dishes once, but I’ve
not showered once since I’ve been here – I’d only contaminate them. He’s my
best friend though, surely he can’t be that fed up of me after four days? Am I
really that dreadful? Maybe Piers has a point.

‘I’ve been feeling simply awful since our little fight.’ She
pulls a face, likely at my stench. ‘So I phoned Piers up who explained
properly.’

‘You did what?’ My heart is failing. She phoned
Piers
?
She’s
spoken to Piers
.
How could she? It’s not even the thought of her phoning Piers that kills me –
well, it does a bit – but more that he’s obviously happy to speak to her but
not me.

‘Oh, Arielle. Heavens. Can you blame me? That’s not the
point anyway,’ she dismisses. ‘Like I said, Piers explained everything. You
really need to learn to tell a tale properly, young lady! Honestly, your poor
father! He thought you were turning tricks!’

I’m glad she finds it so bloody funny because I don’t. I
thought I was all alone in this world – nowhere to live, no money, no prospects
– that there was only Obélix in this world who would care if I lived or died.
Yes, I can see the humour in that.

‘Piers found that hilarious by the way,’ she continues
obliviously. ‘But that’s beside the point. You can come home. I’ve delayed the
library conversion.’

At first my heart leaps thinking she means I can move back
to Piers, but then the library bit twigs and I realise she means to their
house. Well of course Piers doesn’t want me back. He was happy to talk to her
only to ensure that they keep me. If he wanted me back, he wouldn’t have sent
all
my belongings to me; he’d have
phoned
me
.

‘Oh,’ is all I can manage to say in my disappointment,
swallowing a large lump of pain.

‘I think Piers wants you back, Arielle,’ she says kindly,
clocking my disappointment and realising it’s over Piers, and not that I’m
harbouring to stay with Ob. ‘He just needs some more space to make sure. He’s
been under a lot of pressure with the market and I think he needs to know if he
is committed,’ she says matter-of-factly.

‘To the market?’

‘No, to you! Give him a little space and I think we’ll be
planning a wedding before you know it!’ She winks.

‘But, I don’t… I mean...’ I give up.

She smiles fondly. ‘Now, don’t think silly thoughts. Clearly
you and Piers have a future together. I mean, he has looked after you all this
time and he certainly loves you. He sounded so worried on the phone, kept
asking how you are with such devotion in his voice. He’s
such
a gentleman.’

Funny because four days ago they tarred him as my pimp, yet
now all of a sudden he’s Prince bloody Charming about to take the plunge and
embark on that happily ever after with me. Ha!

Now I think about it, Piers was probably polite to Mum to
appease her. I’ll have to keep an eye on her when she hits old age so some
conman posing as a plumber doesn’t swindle all her money off her like I read
happened to this poor pensioner in the
Echo
.
Dementia is evidently setting in already if she thinks Piers will take me back,
let alone propose to me. He’s not a fan of marriage because of his parents’
dreadful example of it, and he’s certainly no fan of me.

Instead of airing this I tightly smile as she starts hinting
I take a shower before we head home. Let her believe whatever fairytale she
wants: I know the truth. Piers doesn’t want me. Yes, he may have saved me from
living with Ob by “explaining” to the ’rents – whatever that entailed – and
he’s sent me my things which I am grateful for, but we’re through. These
actions make it perfectly clear we’re over.

As much as I think that though, a nagging voice keeps
reminding me it’s not as clear-cut as that and maybe, just maybe, I love Piers.
Maybe, just maybe, I love him more than I’m letting myself believe, and maybe,
just maybe, he still loves me… Maybe we still have a future together… Maybe,
maybe, maybe…