Kept (17 page)

‘Please don’t go, Ariel,’ Noah whispers as I stand up. ‘We
need to work this out. We can make this better
together
.’

‘I know, Noah.’ I’m in a daze. I really need to collect
myself. ‘I just need to use your bathroom first. I’ll be right back and then we
can clear the air once and for all.’ I say this confidently but I’m well aware
how hollow my words sound as I leave his bedroom.

I stand at the sink, splashing cold water over my face.
The tiredness is kicking in, but I really want to explain to Noah. I need to
tell him I went to Warwick to study economics like him because I had wanted to
be somewhere I knew he had been. How at the time that made worrying sense to
me.
 

Except, when I got there, it didn’t quite work how I thought
it would. Noah became the reason why I found Warwick’s campus life prison-like.
The air was tinged with images of him – him doing his laundry where I did mine,
sitting in the same lecture theatres, albeit years apart. Torture. I was stupid
to imagine it would have done me any good going there. It was not only tough
because it was tainted by Noah but also because economics was hard. Really
bloody hard. At least that distracted me from thoughts of Noah because it took
all the concentration I had to understand it. I should have quit but I figured
it would get better, easier with time. It didn’t.

But, one good thing came out of being a graduate after my
three-year prison sentence lapsed. I could look Noah up in the Alumni directory
where I found him listed as a senior associate at the big-wig auditing company Molten
Goober-Brigg. Guess who did their PR? Benfords, of course, home of the now
life-departed psychotic MD. I was too much of a chicken to directly apply to MGB,
but I figured if I worked at Benfords, then maybe, just maybe, I’d bump into
him and he’d see what a terrible mistake he had made. Voila! Before we knew it,
we would be married and I could quit my unwanted career path to raise our
beautiful babies.

So, not only have I been naïve, I have been incredibly
stupid because I stopped caring, especially about my childish aspirations of
becoming a fashion superstar. I rationalised that it didn’t matter as long as I
got Noah; Noah was
all
that mattered.
Besides, what chance did I have in making it? Slim. For every Karl Lagerfeld or
Christopher Kane there are a million failures and I would have become one of them.

The thing is though, I didn’t just give up on fashion, I
gave up on life. Seeing Noah tonight has made me realise this properly – a
denial Piers kick-started by kicking me out, and it’s about time I made matters
right for me, and stood on my own two feet.

But now I need to escape this mistake, escape Noah. Make my
excuses and flee. Except, this is the wrong bedroom. It looks more like a
bedroom should though. Fresh flowers stand in a clear blue ornate vase on the
dresser next to a big bottle of Chanel No. 5 and other beauty products. The
white king-size duvet is slightly crumpled like the bed hasn’t quite been made
properly but it looks homely.

Lucky cow, I think. Noah’s housemate must have one lovely
boyfriend to be bought roses like these ones; plus, any girl who can afford
that many beauty products of the luxury variety must be doing well career-wise.

I turn to leave the room, thankful his housemate is away for
the weekend, but something catches my eye stopping both me and my heart. At
that moment my head takes over from my heart and my heart denies
any
claim Noah Penrose once had. The
little voice in my head is screaming triumphantly that it knew all along my
heart belongs to Piers, that Piers is the one for me, and that tonight was a
big mistake.

That’s because I see a large silver photo frame on the chest
of drawers behind the door, a photo frame I would never have noticed if I
hadn’t closed the door behind me, which I only did thinking I was entering
Noah’s room. I had to reopen the door to leave this room, so I see it and I’m
glad, really glad.

It’s a large silver photo frame, which contains a photo.

It’s a large silver photo frame, which contains a photo of
Noah.

It contains a photo of Noah.

It contains a photo of Noah and a very beautiful brunette.

It contains a photo of Noah and a very beautiful brunette,
each with one hand on the shoulders of a small boy.

I freeze and blink. The image is still the same. Slowly, I
walk over to it and pick up the photo frame.

It’s definitely Noah, but who are the woman and child? Who
are
they? Maybe they are friends I
rationalise, but then I realise obviously they have to be friends because she
clearly lives here. This is
her
room.
She wouldn’t live in the same house as Noah unless they were
friendly
.

And the boy? Well, the boy must live in one of the other
rooms upstairs, or maybe he’s a nephew or a godson. I study the photo carefully
for more clues. A-ha! She has a wedding band on; Noah doesn’t.

My whole body exhales. They are just friends.

They have to be just friends.

What else could they be?

The little voice starts niggling me; then, when I ignore it,
it begins to nag me. I know I can’t ignore this.
 

I turn back around to face the room. With the photo frame
still in my hand, I instinctively walk over to the rather large wardrobe. One
half is filled with men’s clothing, the other women’s.

So, the woman has a boyfriend. No, a husband. The photo
shows a wedding band, so Noah must share with a married couple and their son.
But, why isn’t there a picture of her with her husband and son in a photo
frame? Doesn’t the husband find it a little strange there is a photo of his
wife, son and Noah together, yet no photo with him? Because I do. I find it
very strange.

Though maybe Noah is the boy’s godfather. Yes, that makes
sense. That has to be it. That explains the photo.

But now I’ve noticed some dry cleaning in the wardrobe.
Recent dry cleaning because it usefully has the customer identification tags
still attached. I turn over the tag slowly, recoiling in horror as if the dry
cleaning has just slapped me. The tag reads “Mr and Mrs N. Penrose”.

He is married to that woman, that beautiful brunette in the
photo.

He is married to that woman, that beautiful brunette in the
photo, and they have a son together. That’s
their
son.

He’s
married
.
He has a
son
.

I can’t breathe as this sinks in and my mind races a million
miles a minute as I fit the pieces together in disgust. He is nothing more than
a dirty, cheating scumbag. No wonder he was apprehensive downstairs. He was
clearly terrified his wife would walk in on us! Oh, no wonder he hesitated when
he first carried me upstairs and paused outside this room, the room I’m now in
I realise – he could hardly take me to their marital bed, could he?

No wonder the room we went to looks like a guest room. It
is
their bloody guest room. He probably
does this all the time, takes his wedding ring off to cheat with stupidly easy
women. Like me. No wonder his friends all look amused. I’m probably not the
first.

I feel sick, dirty and used, even though I didn’t know about
her, about them. If I had, I wouldn’t be here. No wonder he never
explained why he left me, I never meant
enough for him to bother explaining to I realise. It’s getting clearer to me by
the second that he’s
always
been a
cheating scumbag and I’ve always been blind to his philandering ways.

I have this proof in my hands but I want to put it back and
pretend I never found out. I want to go back to the theatre and make Lydia use
the loos there, for us to avoid Leicester Square and have fun at Rumi and
Larry’s so I can meet Piers tomorrow guilt-free.
What have I done?

How stupid have I been sleeping with Noah when I love Piers?
How could I think I love Noah? How could I think I
ever
loved him? He was nothing more than a childish crush.

‘Ariel?’ his voice calls, snapping me back to this ugly
scenario. ‘Ariel?’

His voice is getting louder and louder. He’s definitely the
last person I want to see. Strangely, I remember when I felt caged in Penelope
Whitter’s office the day I met Piers, the day I contemplated jumping out of the
window to escape her. I glance across at it.

‘Ariel? Where are you? Are you downstairs?’

I hear the various doors bang off the corridor until finally
I turn around from the window as the bedroom door opens and in walks the lying,
cheating scumbag himself.

He takes one look at me and he knows I
know
. He can’t lie himself out of this one. The facts are blatantly
obvious. The room we are in is filled with evidence and testimonies against
him. He goes drip white, further indication of his guilt.

‘It’s not what you think,’ he stutters, looking at me
wildly. ‘Let me explain. I was going to tell you about this when you came back,
but… but then you didn’t.’

Of course he was. I laugh manically, feeling dizzy, but
then, before I know it, I have hurled the photo frame as hard as I can at him
with the intent to hurt. I want to skin him alive for playing me for a fool
again
because I really am nothing more
than a toy to him. He told me that the last time we saw each other. I was
foolish not to remember his cruel words. How can I have been so repeatedly
stupid?

Instinctively he ducks and grabs his head with his hands to
protect his face. A real man would have taken it, I feel. It just shows what a
coward and a despicable man he is, but I take this as my chance as the glass
smashes over him. I rush towards him like an angry bull charging, but he tries
to grab me, at the same time as he tries to stand up. I beat him to it though.

‘Ariel, no!’ he yells. ‘I can explain. Please! It’s not what
you think. Calm down. Listen!’

But I don’t want to hear his pathetic, lying excuses.
Kneeing him in the groin, I shove him already groaning in pain straight into
the chest of drawers as hard as I can. Then I run for my belongings as fast as
I can. I can hear him yelling, but I don’t care. Why would I want to stay and
listen to his lies when I was looking to make my excuses and go anyway? I’ve
finally learnt my lesson. Noah Penrose is not worth my time anymore because
he’s stolen enough of it as it is. I owe him nothing.

The cold morning air feels like a slap around my face as I
struggle to fasten my clothes and control my feelings of rage.

‘Oo-er missus,’ a voice yells down from a neighbouring
window. ‘Where are Mrs P. and Zac then if you’re here? You know he’s married,
love,’ the faceless voice adds as an afterthought.

I know,’ I roar back angrily. Where was this useful man to
warn me of this
before
I entered the
house with Noah last night? ‘Now where’s the bloody Tube?’

‘Calm down, love.’ He sounds amused; I’m glad someone is
because I’m not. ‘I was only saying.’

‘Where’s the Tube?’ I snarl through gritted teeth.

Clearly this is a street full of idiotic men. And I thought
Wandsworth was a decent place to live.

‘It’s ten minutes that way.’ I see his arm point out of the
window, but still not his face. ‘Head to the end of the street and turn right.
If you keep following the road, you’ll get to East Putney Station, but there
might be a replacement bus service. Not sure if there are repairs on the
District Line this weekend,’ he calls after me as I storm off to where he’s
pointing.

I need to get as far away from Noah’s
marital
home as quickly as possible, preferably before he recovers
and can stop me. I’ve spent the past ten years not living life properly because
of that tosser; I don’t want to spend the next twenty-five years in prison for
his murder.
 

I stop and turn around. ‘Thank you,’ I call back at the
faceless man. ‘You might want to check on him though. He might need an
ambulance.’

With that hopeful wish aired out loud, high heels in hand
because my feet are bleeding – I must have crunched the photo frame’s glass
underfoot – I head towards the end of the street, trying desperately not to
burst into tears at the realisation that not only have I wasted my life on an
undeserving bastard, but that I could have got sucked back into his web of
deceit again. I know I’ve had a lucky escape but I only wish I will be so lucky
when Piers finds out about the dreadful mistake that brought me to this
conclusion, that Piers won’t think
he’s
the one who has had the lucky escape…

I make it to the Tube, tears still intact, but the service
hasn’t begun yet. I pray Noah isn’t coming after me because I’m seething. I
suspect I will be seething for a very long time, but this is the last thing I
want to dwell on, even if I want to hit the lamppost I’m leaning against and
scream out loud at all the injustices in the world – rage and scream and cry. I
won’t though, I’ll distract myself. My phone ought to do it, if I have any
battery left.

Two messages. Then I remember my life. Lydia. Parentals.
Obélix.
Piers
. Feeling even more
nauseous, I hit open. Lydia. Thank goodness. My heart slows, until I read on:
‘You dirty stop-out! So? x’

What have I done?

Next message, sent ten minutes ago. Can’t be Noah at least
as I know we didn’t exchange numbers: ‘
Can’t
wait to see you. I’ve missed you so much. xxx’

Piers. My heart lurches and I feel sick. Throwing up into
someone’s recycling box probably wouldn’t be appreciated however. I’ve been so
stupid. How could I not have realised last night – last night before it was too
late – that I have the best man in the world with Piers? Fuck. I’ve
really
messed up this time. There’s no
reasoning, no excuses; as hard as this is, I have to accept what I did. Pay the
price.

 
My phone buzzes –
stupid delivery notification – as I tap through the barrier with my Oyster
card.

‘Pony, pony?’
  

Despite everything that has just happened, I laugh. I can’t
help it, but before I can text back the phone buzzes again. This time it’s
Piers
calling
.

‘Hello,’ he chirps without waiting for me to say hello.
‘You’re up early.’

‘Hello you,’ I answer softly, fully aware of what his voice
is doing to my insides as well as the wave of guilt that is hitting me. ‘So are
you.’

‘I can’t sleep with you gone, Arielle. Never have been able
to, you know that.’

Unnecessary. He’ll soon learn to sleep soundly with his new
girlfriend, the one who deserves him, the one who doesn’t do stupid things. One
who has a
career
. And ambition. And
morals
.
  

‘Well, I’ve not slept all night,’ I admit. A girlfriend who
has a
brain
. Why did I just say
that
, of all the stupid things to say?
‘Can I come over?’ I rush on in a small voice.

I’m desperate to go home and see Piers, which is silly as
it’s not my home.
Especially
after
last night. Even if Piers forgives me – as unlikely as an empty Tube carriage
at 8am on a Monday morning – Noah taught me a valuable lesson: I need to learn
to live with myself before I can be with anyone else.

I chose my bed with Noah which means I can no longer choose
to be with Piers; that would make me as despicable as Noah. I have to accept
the consequences of my stupid actions, be a grown-up. For once. On my own.

‘Not a problem. You’re at Lydia’s, right? I’ll come and get
you.’

‘No, no,’ I quickly say. ‘I’m on the
Overground
.
I’ll be at Sloane Square in about twenty minutes, I think.’

‘That’s fine.’

I’m glad he hasn’t asked me why I’m not at Lydia’s at six in
the morning like I should be, though I think the answer must be cruelly
obvious. I’m amazed he has agreed to see me knowing this.

‘Arielle?’

‘Piers?’

‘Pony, pony?’

I laugh to stop myself from crying. ‘I hope so,’ I softly
say, despite knowing we’ll never “pony, pony” again. ‘See you soon.’

It’s good timing. We’re about to head into the tunnel.

As for “pony, pony”, it’s a code for when the
mood
hits one of us. Of course, everyone
soon twigged which is how we ended up with the collective nickname of “ponies”.
Then, later on, we sent “pony, pony” messages when we were merely thinking of
one another. It became our thing.
 

I have no idea why I’m thinking of this as I sit down on the
Tube. I guess it’s because I really don’t want to think about what’s just
happened with Noah. I’m still in shock. I can’t believe he’s married; even
worse, he has a son. That’s low. That’s not the Noah I knew. Then again I
contemplate, I don’t know him. Probably never did.

I should have walked away. Not just tonight, but years ago.
I should have put down the shutters, not held, in some way, a burning vigil for
a married man. Pathetic. He’s pathetic. A pathetic, scheming, useless man.

Not that it’s all bad, I reflect. The only good thing about
last night is now I’m
finally
cured
of my stupid obsession with him. More importantly, I’ve seen sense about my
failing life. I realise I have to become Arielle Demi Lockley for
myself
, not for anyone else, especially
not for some man. Not even if that man is Piers.

Oh, Piers. Piers who crept into my mind a few hundred times
last night, who I stupidly pushed back every time he tried to surface in my
thoughts. He deserves better than me; in fact, despite the fact that he claims
otherwise, he’s always deserved better than me. Perhaps he’ll finally
understand this.

We met under circumstances that should never have happened.
If I’d have got over Noah in the first place, I would never have applied to Benfords,
let alone gone to Warwick. With that change in my story I would never have
crashed into Piers, we would never have met, and he would be happy living his
life without me.

He’ll be happy soon enough, once I get off the bloody Tube
and tell him he can’t waste any more time on me. I really hate the Tube. It’s
too much thinking time combined with not enough people on it at this early hour
to distract me from these tormenting thoughts. Possibilities and downfalls are
swimming around in my head as I sit here waiting to get my final destination of
Sloane Square and Piers.

I can’t help wonder though as I head to my destination of
Piers,
was
he my destination in life
or have I left there when I left Wandsworth and Noah? For some inexplicable
reason I can’t stop thinking of Noah, despite his wife and son. I can’t help
wonder if he would cheat on
me
ten
years down the line like he has done to his wife. Sloane Square versus East
Putney? Or, am I destined to pick another stop on the line, to get off halfway
between the two? Is that the balance I need to figure out who I am?

Ironically, as I think this, the Tube pulls into Earl’s
Court where I need to switch lines for Sloane Square. Maybe I’m destined to be
an Earl’s Court girl instead?