Kept (18 page)

I don’t leave Earl’s Court. Of course I don’t – I don’t
need any more complications. I instead switch for Sloane Square where I’m met
with a sight that causes my tummy to lurch wildly. Piers is waiting for me on
the platform with a huge bunch of pastel flowers but they aren’t what I’m
reacting to – I’m reacting to him, this gorgeous man with his day-old designer
stubble and tousled bed hair. Dressed in faded blue Hugo Boss jeans and an
Abercrombie lumberjack shirt, he looks fantastic, better than when he’s groomed
and in his suits. I don’t even feel guilty right now because I’m too ecstatic
to see him. I’ve missed him so much.

‘Where on Earth did you get those from Piers?’ I ask in
delight, leaning up on my tip-toes to kiss him on the cheeks, even though I
want to kiss him properly, to never unlock lips from him again.

However, I’m still barefoot. My tip-toes aren’t enough to
reach him. He has to stoop considerably. My, he’s tall I remember as he grabs
me and pulls me into a big hug, squashing the flowers in the process.

I’m home. Home at last. Until I tell him the ugly truth,
that is. No, linger in the moment a little longer – it could be the last breath
of his head-spinning scent I get to inhale once I open my mouth and spill
all.
 

‘Oops,’ he mutters as I cling desperately to him – we’re
lucky the platform isn’t filled with the usual shopping-laden spenders. ‘I’ll
buy you some more.’

‘Piers!’ I laugh. ‘They’re fine, don’t be silly.’

As delicious as I was feeling, I’m starting to feel
treacherous at his touch. The delicious scent of Acqua di Parma is indicating
the smell of Noah on me. The foul taste of us, that heady smell of what I
thought was lust but what I now realise was stupidity. How can Piers still be
embracing me? It must be blatantly obvious that I smell of deceit, that I don’t
deserve the time of day off him, let alone flowers.

He’s let go. He’s staring at me. He knows.

How can he not know? I look like sex. In the bad way. I’m
far from the fresh-faced, rested, celibate, sorry ex-girlfriend I should be.
Suspend time, suspend me and suspend Piers. Freeze us at this deserted Sloane
Square platform, even though it mocks my dishonesty with posters advertising
relationship counselling in my line of vision. What happened to cheer-inducing
theatre posters?

‘I know, I know,’ I hysterically start to defend, but how
can I defend this? ‘I look a state. You wouldn’t believe the night I’ve just had!’
I trill nervously. Where’s an evacuation announcement when I need one? Yes, I
would welcome a bomb scare right now, that’s how twisted my life has become.

‘Oh?’

I can detect a slight quiver in his voice and I blush. I
can’t believe I’ve stupidly, and insensitively, implied to Piers – Piers who
has always been lovely to me, even though I don’t deserve his niceness, let
alone his love – I can’t believe I have done this to him.

‘Come on, let’s get back to the house,’ I say, not quite
meeting his eye as I take the flowers from him and take his hand with my other.
It feels warm, reassuring. Like home.

He smiles. ‘For the record Arielle, you look beautiful. Like
always.’

Now
I feel guilty
but surely it’s a mute argument. We’re no longer together, are we? How can I
have cheated on him when we’re over? How can we be holding hands right now if
we’re not together? Nothing makes sense and my tiredness isn’t helping matters.
I feel grubby and no doubt look like I’ve been dragged through a hedge
backwards. I can’t look beautiful, not unless Piers has some cavewoman fantasy
he’s never told me about. Still, I mutter a quiet thanks for his compliment and
he must realise everything is wrong as I usually dismiss his compliments.
I want to cry.

 
‘So,’ he says, almost
awkwardly.

Why should he feel awkward with me? That doesn’t make sense
either. What’s going on here? Am I imagining this? Is my paranoia distorting
everything?
 

‘So.’ I sound just as clumsily.

‘It’s really good to see you, Arielle.’

‘Yes. You too,’ I answer him rather formally, like we barely
know each other, as opposed to… whatever we are.
 

Silence. As we head to the surface, I frantically look for a
distraction, anything not to catch Piers’ eye because he’ll see the guilt in
them, more so than what my crumpled attire is rightly suggesting to him. Oh,
the posters! Oh. Last night…

‘Lydia and I saw
The
Lion King
last night.’ I nod at the poster.

‘How lovely. How was it?’ But, before I could chirp some
ridiculous answer back, he laughs. ‘Crikey, how awful do we sound? It’s like
we’re on a first date.’

Crikey, the word which first endeared me when he knocked me
over back at the very start... I laugh, nervously, though it’s funny he said
that. We never had a first date, not unless we count the ambulance ride. After
the hospital we immediately lived together. He didn’t court me in the
traditional sense, yet we were still old-fashioned. We played it by our own
rules, which is what I like about Piers. For someone so gentlemanly he likes to
break free from tradition.

‘We never had one,’ I remind him. ‘Maybe this could be it?’

‘OK, how am I doing so far?’

‘Meeting me off the Tube, points there,’ I tick off,
relieved to be distracted. ‘Especially with flowers. That’s excellent. You’re
doing really well, Piers. Better than I am.’

‘Well, I could mark you down for your appearance... except,’
he adds quickly, as I hit him with my ever-increasingly dishevelled flowers, ‘I
like the fact you’re clearly comfortable as you are, that there’s no false
advertising. What I see is what I’m getting. You get big bonus points for
that.’ He grins at me sexily.

‘Hmm, I don’t know whether that’s an insult or a
compliment?’ I flirt back.

‘You’re gorgeous, Arielle. Even all dishevelled. Trust me,
it’s a compliment.’

I beam at him, but it turns into a yawn I just can’t stifle.
I’m shattered.

‘Bed?’ Piers asks me as we turn the corner onto his street.

‘You’ve lost points now,’ I joke. ‘We’ve been on our first
date for less than ten minutes and you’re already trying to seduce me into
bed!’

Immediately, I feel disgusted for suggesting such a thing so
soon after… with Noah. I feel cheap. And dirty. But most of all, I feel guilty.

Piers doesn’t see it that way though. Of course he doesn’t.
He’s
Piers
.

‘Can you blame me?’ he teases back. ‘Though, in all
seriousness, you look exhausted and I don’t want you flaking out on me. All
joking aside, we really do need to have a serious chat.’ He looks as pained as
I feel.

‘I know.’ I sigh. ‘Your bed would be lovely. I mean,’ I
correct quickly as I blush a deep red – I don’t want him to get the wrong
impression, a silly thought because
this
is
Piers.
‘Any bed would be
lovely.’

‘It’s all right, Arielle. I know what you meant.’

‘Can I grab a bath first?’ I ask almost shyly.

I need to get the taint of Noah off me because it’s
tantamount to sleeping with Noah in Piers’ bed if I don’t scrub all traces of
him off me. I’m still reeling. I have traces of Noah on me in Piers’ presence.
I realise I should never have come here. Then again, there are a lot of things I
shouldn’t have done in the past twenty-four hours…

‘Of course.’ He smiles. ‘You don’t have to ask, you know
that.’

I smile back at him as we reach the house, but he’s wrong. I
know nothing. I especially don’t know why it feels like I’m home. Just what is
going on inside my twisted head?

‘So?’ Piers grins at me as I take my last bite of my bacon
butty; I have just devoured it, not even caring if I have smeared sauce all
over my face. It was that good.

I grin back. I’m glad to be here. It’s now mid-afternoon and
I’ve slept solidly in Piers’ bed, our old bed – a perfect set-up of luxury
slithery soft sheets and a mountain of pillows – since I had my bath, only
waking up because of the smell of yummy food. That’s the only thing that’s ever
been able to tempt me out of pillow heaven and the comfiest mattress
ever
.

It feels like old times. Can’t we erase the past few months,
pretend I never left – well, was kicked out – act like it’s just any old
Saturday? Conveniently forget last night, rewrite history as being a typical
Piers and Arielle Friday night? Say, we went to see
The Lion King
with Lydia and went to Rumi together, before Piers
and I called it a night and stumbled back to the house. That situation is
normal.
 

‘I miss you.’

‘I’ve missed you, too.’ And I have. More than I realised.
Much more.

‘Good.’

He smiles at me as if that has settled the matter, and my
tummy swirls at how sexy he is. How is it fair he can cause so much devastation
to my insides with just one look, not even a particularly smouldering one at
that?

‘Will you come home then?’

‘I can’t just come home. It’s not that simple.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I’m not me.’ I sigh. ‘I can’t do this anymore.’

‘What does that mean?’ he demands – I’d forgotten how he
gets when things don’t magically slot into his expectations, but how can I
answer that honestly? I’m so confused. Waking up in that bed has disorientated
me – everything feels so familiar which has only encouraged an influx of
memories to resurface. Like testing out our new bed when it was first
delivered. Over and over, and rather interestingly once under which resulted in
an almighty bruise but an even mightier memory.

‘Piers.’ I sigh even heavier as this all swirls dangerously
in my mind. ‘Let’s face it, you don’t know the real me. Heck,’ I hurriedly put
in before he starts his probably inarguable defence, ‘I don’t even know the
real me.’

‘You’re not making any sense.’ He has a strange look on his
face indicating I’ve just spoken gibberish to him – I can’t blame him, I’m hardly
mirroring my behaviour of the past four years.

‘No, Piers,’ I say firmly. ‘For the first time in my life I
am
making sense. I wanted to be someone,
you know, someone big in the fashion world yet what have I achieved? Absolutely
nothing, that’s what. I don’t want to be this way anymore.’

‘You’re not a failure, Arielle,’ he tells me but I can tell
he’s not getting what I’m trying to inarticulately say and it’s not as if he’s
merely humouring me, it’s just that he’s never really known. He doesn’t know my
fashion ambitions; I suspect he’s always suspected I lack
any
ambitions.

‘Yes, I am, Piers,’ I sternly say. ‘I’ve wasted the past
four years.’

‘Thanks a lot.’

‘No, Piers,’ I interject. ‘This is not about you, it’s about
me. Trust me, it’s time I change. Before it’s too late.’

Yes, I realise I’m not explaining this too well. Why when it
comes to serious explanations am I so vague? I had been vague with my parents,
now I am with Piers too. It seems I’m no great communicator but if I was, I
quickly reflect, then this mess would probably never have happened. It seems I
prefer to be my own worst enemy, bumbling on and creating stupid messes. Go
figure.

‘You’re sounding a bit melodramatic, Arielle. What’s brought
all this on?’

I can tell he’s trying to keep anger out of his voice which
only reinforces that even when I’m being incoherent and irrational, he’s nice
to me. He deserves more than this.
 

‘It’s just something I realised last night,’ I reply
carefully. I really don’t want to recall the circumstances that created this
quest to find the real me.
 

‘Oh?’ he sighs. Given I can’t explain it to myself. Piers –
even with his intellect – has no chance. He ignores my vagueness. ‘Look, just
come home.’

How can he think everything can be so simple, so clear-cut, so
easily
solvable
? Coming home will not
magically solve everything. Things will only go back to what they once were if
I do that. Not good. A change desperately needs to take place. If he really
wants me – oh how I hope he still does when he learns the despicable truth – he
has to wait for me to figure out what “me” actually means.

‘I miss you too,’ I reassure him. ‘But it’s not enough.’

‘
Thanks
.’

Now
he’s starting
to get angry. His features are tensing, his forehead deepening with wrinkles,
and there’s no light behind his eyes. It’s slowly dawning on me that he means
the world to me and I don’t want to mess up. Again. I don’t want to lose him.
Unless I can explain myself though, I have the sinking feeling this will end
badly.

‘This is not about you,’ I try to say calmly. ‘Please
realise that. But for the past four years it’s been all about you. Or your
career. Or your friends,’ I list. ‘And I let it be that way, I know, I know.’ I
throw my hands up in defeat. ‘I had a voice, but you never thought to make it
about me either. For you it was always Nigel’s turn, or Noah’s turn, or–’

‘Noah?’ he interrupts in a voice that stops my inaccurate
ramblings dead and chills my heart. ‘Who the hell is Noah?’ he demands.

‘I never said Noah,’ I quickly say. Too quickly.

‘Yes, you did. Who’s Noah?’ He looks livid. I can’t blame
him. ‘Well?’

I can’t answer him, I’m lost for words. But, even if I could
form some, I suspect they’d only be the wrong ones.

‘Is that who you were with last night? This Noah bloke?
Because I’m not stupid you know,’ he rages, standing up and screeching back his
chair. Once upon a time – mere weeks ago – I would have been more concerned
about the damage to the floor than the damage I was inflicting on Piers. ‘Is
that who you rolled to me from this morning? Who is he?’ he demands.

‘No one.’

‘No one,’ he bellows back at me, snatching up an empty
plate.

For a second I think he’s going to throw it at me, but he
slams it in the sink instead, where it smashes. ‘Fuck!’ I spy blood as his hand
emerges from the sink. Immediately I spring up to get the first-aid box, but an
icy look stops me in my tracks.

‘Clearly he’s someone if he’s had a
turn
,’ he quietly says, his finger pressed against his cut.
‘Clearly he’s someone important to you. More important than me.’ I can see a
fear in his eyes, a fear I never thought Piers had in him.

‘Piers, I–’

‘Piers, what? What
crap
are you going to tell me now, Arielle?’

‘Please,’ I gasp. ‘I need a minute to set my head straight,
just let me think.’ My head is spinning, spinning too much to realise
that
was a big mistake.

‘What?’ he screeches, getting it completely wrong –
understandable given I can’t explain matters clearly. ‘You want a minute to
concoct your lies?’ he snarls in disbelief, but I don’t want a minute to concoct
a lie. I want a minute to figure out how I’m going to break the truth of the
big mistake I made last night.

‘Piers,’ I try to explain through my stutters. ‘You’ve got
this all wrong.’

I feel claustrophobic, like I can’t breathe, but I still
can’t think how to explain. I know how important it is for me to explain, so
why have my senses decided to shut down?

‘Yes, Arielle,’ he nods, ‘I think you’re right.’ For a
moment, my heart leaps. Until he continues. ‘I have got
you
completely wrong. In fact, I think you should go.’

His face is pure venom now, his eyes no longer betray any
emotion. They are cold, dead to me.

‘Just listen,’ I implore as calmly as I can. ‘Give me a
chance to explain. This is not what you think.’ This is like with my parents
all over again. Piers came to my rescue with them. Who can mend my breaking
bridge with Piers? No one. I have to explain this properly, and now. ‘Please
listen.’

‘Oh?’ He laughs falsely. ‘Silly me. You mean you didn’t
sleep with this
Noah
person last
night?’

‘It’s not like that, Piers,’ I say trying to muster up as
much calm as I can so I sound like a rational person. Hopefully this will have
a rationalising effect on him. ‘Listen to me.’ I say this carefully, but he
ignores me.

‘Look me in the eyes, Arielle, and tell me. Did you, or did
you not, have sex with this
Noah
person last night?’

‘Well?’ he demands when I don’t answer.

‘I did,’ I whisper. ‘But–’

‘And have you,’ he cuts me off. ‘Had sex with him before
last night?’

‘Piers,’ I frantically plead. ‘You have to listen to me.
It’s not what you think.’

‘Have you, or have you not?’ That’s a very dangerous tone
and there’s emotion back in his eyes now, one I’ve never seen before – hatred.

‘I have,’ I admit in a small voice, trying to rush on
desperately. ‘But it was–’

My sentence remains unspoken, that it was a decade ago.
Piers has yanked me by the arm and is frogmarching me to the door, even though
all I’m wearing is his lumberjack shirt. Before I can even register any of
this, I’m pushed onto the street and the door is slammed shut.

‘Piers, Piers,’ I yell in a blind panic. ‘Please listen to
me! It’s not what you think.’

‘Have a nice life with Noah,’ he yells through the door and
with that there’s silence, except for the distant hum of traffic.

For the second time in mere hours, I’ve left a house in
London in a state of undress.

‘Piers.’ I’m screaming, banging at the door in a wild panic.
‘Piers!’

I need to explain, to tell him the truth. I
need
to formulate those words, tell him
what happened, but unsurprisingly he doesn’t open the door. I sink down to the
cold pavement, my breathing is wild. I’m on the verge of a panic attack. This
is too much.

A few minutes later, just as I’m managing to take big
calming gulps of breath, the upstairs window opens. Quickly I leap to my feet,
narrowly missing being hit by my belongings. Amazingly, nothing breaks, but I
can hardly get dressed in the middle of the street, in broad daylight – I don’t
fancy adding jail-time to an ever-increasing nightmarish visit to London.

I do the only thing I can do in circumstances like this.
Holding my head up high, I ignore the mutterings of passers-by and hail the
first cab I see, asking the nonchalant cabbie to take me to Lydia’s.

Strangely, I feel calm sat in the back of this cab, too calm,
until the radio song proclaims that things can
only
get better. As my tears begin to fall, I have to wonder, what
does a song
honestly
know?