Kept (6 page)

‘Have I missed your mum?’ Piers asked, planting a kiss on
my forehead.

He looked divine. True to his flirtations, he’d started
asking me each night what he should wear to the office the next day, since I
was still fast asleep when he left at the gruelling hour of 6 a.m. He really
wasn’t promoting working life to me.

For today’s outfit I had picked out a dark-grey suit, a
light-blue shirt and a mid-lilac two-tone spotted tie that magically
highlighted the subtle fleck of brown in his eyes. He was looking perfect, even
after an extra-long day in the office. I, however, looked semi-shambolic. The
bottom half was my problem, my cast. I just couldn’t jazz it up. It still
looked like, well, a cast and my top half couldn’t wow enough to overcome this.

‘Honey, you’re home!’ I trilled 1950s housewife style in
mock tones. ‘How was your day?’

‘Over now.’

‘That bad?’ He grimaced. ‘I won’t ask then, but yes, she’s
gone. She put all my things in my room but I still need to sort it all out.’ I
pouted; I hate unpacking. Give me packing any day – far more exciting
considering it usually means I’m off on holiday somewhere.

‘Let me see how much of a girl you are then.’ He laughed,
all the tensions removed from his face, and headed towards my room.

‘Oh, you’re a girl all right,’ he yelled back at me a few
minutes later.

‘That’s not everything I own!’

Tempting as it was to get Mum to fetch everything, I wasn’t
moving in with Piers. This was only a temporary arrangement, one I knew I would
find difficult to leave for a bed-sit or shared horrors when the time came for
me to depart. There’d be no en suite or fancy cookware, and there’d be rent
that would cost as much as two pairs of Louboutins a month for something pretty
shambolic. I’d already had a look on Gumtree and scared myself silly.

‘Piers?’

 
He didn’t answer but
came back through, clutching the post Mum had brought, the post I had opened,
clocked how much I owed – it was hard to miss the ugly red print – and thrown
in the bin. Ah.

‘What are these, Arielle?’ he asked tightly, the frowns
re-appearing on his face.

‘Nothing!’

‘They don’t look like nothing. Come on.’ He sat down next to
me. ‘You can tell me.’

I sighed. It was obvious what they were. Did he really want
me to spell it out for him? A fierce look when I didn’t answer meant he
did.
 

‘I went a little mad with my spending,’ I began quietly,
feeling ashamed. ‘But I thought I’d have a job sorted out before it got too
serious, and now they’re sending me threatening letters because I defaulted on
some payments.’

Piers was studying my face, not answering.

I sighed. ‘I’ve been so silly. I know I should have asked
Mum and Dad to help me, but I have my pride. I wanted to prove I was a grown-up
to them.’

I couldn’t look him in the eye. Honestly, I wasn’t implying
anything, yet he tilted my head up from where I was staring mortified at the
floor, before tutting fondly at me.

‘Arielle, you silly,’ he said softly, ‘you could have asked
me.’

‘I can’t take your money, Piers,’ I quickly protested.
‘You’ve already done more than enough for me. I feel bad enough as it is, like
I’m taking advantage here because I don’t contribute.’

‘Hey! It’s my fault you’re not working now, isn’t it? So,
don’t worry. I’ll take care of these.’

‘Piers, no!’

I tried to grab hold of the bills, but he stood up and held
them high. I didn’t want his charity. I saw how hard he worked for his money
and in some way he inspired me. Gone were my wishes of fairy godmothers; I knew
I could and would achieve something fantastic all by myself. Piers had shown me
it was possible.

‘Arielle.’ He said it warningly, but there was a tender look
in his eyes. ‘I’m doing this for you regardless of what you say and, believe
me, I’m taking advantage of you.’

‘Piers!’

He had that look in his eye, the one that meant he would
politely and nicely insist over and over until I caved in. He was tenacious; I
knew I was defeated.

‘OK, thank you,’ I meekly said. ‘Really, Piers, thanks. I
will pay you back as soon as I’m on my feet and working.’

‘Whatever you say.’ He smiled at me again, his frowns
disappearing. ‘I’ll take care of these in the morning. Now, what do you want
for dinner?’

And that was it – credit cards paid off – and Piers calling
in a favour because I really fancied sushi and he would only eat it from Nobu
but didn’t want to leave the house. Like everything in his life problems were
fixable with one phone call. I soon came to envy this, but at that moment I was
grateful more than anything else.

A week later, there was a surprise in the post. ‘Here,’
Lydia said, passing me the envelope. ‘For you.’

‘I’m not expecting anything. I wonder what it is?’ I tore
open the letter to reveal a credit card. ‘There’s been some mistake,’ I
muttered, spotting “Miss A D Lockley” on the card. ‘I didn’t ask for this.’

 
And I hadn’t. How
could I have? I didn’t earn any money and they didn’t exactly hand out platinum
cards to people with lousy credit scores with temporary addresses. As for my
credit cards, I had cut them up because I didn’t want the temptation,
especially around Lydia whose job in life was to shop.
 

She laughed. I think more at my stupidity than anything
else. ‘No, but Piers clearly did.’ She winked at me, her black curls bouncing
with the movement on her shoulders.
 

Today she was wearing a sapphire tee adorned with hundreds
of hand-stitched rhinestones – Prada, I suspected – and dirty denim and
leopard-print ripped jeans from the latest Roberto Cavalli collection. I was
super jealous, especially considering I was in an Armani Exchange tee that I’d
possibly swiped from a uni friend and Diesel jeans from three seasons ago that
I had picked up in the sales. I’d sacrificed them as I needed to cut up the
seam to get them over my cast and they were of the “boyfriend” variety. What
had I been thinking? Back then I often made the rookie error of picking up
designer clothes in the sale because of their label, not because they actually
looked nice.

‘Piers?’ I stupidly asked.

 
‘Tall, dark and
handsome.’ She laughed again, this time with an accompanying roll of her eyes
and a flash of the chunky platinum and ruby band she was wearing on her wedding
ring finger as she pushed the curls from her eyes. ‘Works in the City as a
trader. You know, the man who is mad about you.’

‘He shouldn’t have done this,’ I said, choosing to ignore
her comment. I knew he liked me, but he couldn’t have been
mad
about me. ‘It’s too much.’

This time I really needed to put my (good) foot down. It was
one thing him taking care of my bills as a friendly loan but quite another
giving me a card on his account.

‘Arielle, just accept it,’ she scolded. ‘Prince Charming
wants to look after you. Do you know how many girls would kill to be you?’

Where did that come from? Did that mean Lydia lived off
Nigel’s money? I always assumed she lived off some parental trust fund.

‘I don’t want his charity,’ I protested.

I felt angry at her condescending words. Piers had already
done more for me than he had to. It had been more than enough just staying with
me until the ambulance arrived – I’m certain most people would have rushed on
not even realising they had knocked someone down, but not Piers. Piers stayed
with me, he kept my mind off my pain (and embarrassment), and he followed
perfection’s handbook to the letter on what you do when you accidentally injure
a girl. He had gone above and beyond the call of duty.

‘It’s not charity, Arielle.’ She sighed. ‘Look, Piers wants
you and we want him to keep wanting you. Just smile and thank him, don’t kick
up a fuss.’

‘What do you mean?’ I think Lydia wanted to slap me at this
point.

‘Arielle! You are the first girl who has ever stood up to
him. I can’t tell you how many airheads he’s gone through before you, but he’s
finally found
you
. Someone with
beauty, intelligence
and
taste.’ She
sounded irritated.
 

‘I have those?’ I asked, trying not to dwell on the “how
many airheads he’s gone through before you” comment. ‘I mean, I’m those
things?’

‘Yes!’ She nodded briskly. ‘So we don’t want him to lose
you, do we? I mean, he’s less stressed with you – more mellow – he was work,
work, work before, but now he’s you, work, you. You wouldn’t want to cause him
any unnecessary stress, would you?’

I shook my head. ‘I guess not.’

‘And besides, you two make the perfect couple. Even with
your less-than-flattering cast. Let him look after you! He’s a good man. He’ll
never hurt you.’

I was the first girl to stand up to him, but I wasn’t
allowed to refuse his card? The perfect couple, when we weren’t even a couple?
He’d never hurt me, but how could he not?

All these thoughts swirled around my head the rest of the
afternoon, but when Piers came home with a huge grin on his face – dressed down
today in a pair of faded, slim-fit Edwin jeans, a plain white tee and his much
worn linen-silk blend Canali blazer – I couldn’t stand my ground. Instead, I
graciously thanked him, causing him to delight in response because I didn’t
argue with him (for once).

‘But you didn’t have to.’ I had to protest this at least
once.

‘I know, but I wanted to. And,’ he quickly added as he
shrugged off his blazer and flopped on the sofa next to me, ‘I know you’ll
offer to pay me back but please don’t.’

‘I’m going to.’ I
tutted
at him as
I reached for his blazer and placed it nicely on the sofa. He had zero concept
of how to care for his clothes, idly but not maliciously discarding them so
that I would randomly find his socks or dirty shirts in the strangest of
places.

He just smiled in response, like I’d confirmed once again
how marvellous I was. I didn’t understand Piers and his ways, but I did
understand how happy it made him giving me things. I understood more when I
talked to his friends. They said I’d brought about some change in him that they
all approved of, even if I wasn’t convinced they approved of me.

A few times I insisted on writing him a cheque – my parents
dropped off one to cover my living expenses which Piers refused so I cashed it
to pay off my overdraft – but he never accepted any money from me. He wouldn’t
even let me treat him to dinner.

Slowly that card became the means to fund my spending. Piers
never once questioned what I spent, and, eventually, I stopped offering to pay
my way. I accepted that when it came to money, Piers would always pick up the
bill.

Good afternoon
ladies and gentleman. We will shortly be arriving in Brockenhurst. Could all
passengers alighting here please ensure they take all luggage and possessions
with them. This is Brockenhurst. Thank you for travelling with Golighty Trains
today. We wish you a pleasant and tranquil onward journey.

So, you see, that’s all of it. Four years ago I took an
ambulance ride with a City boy named Piers after a demon MD made me cry.
Bizarre? Yes. Life changing? Certainly, yet it’s only now I’m starting to
realise that none of what happened has done me the slightest bit of good.

Why have I wasted time the past four years? Wasted it
shopping
? I could have done a fashion
internship, something useful. Just because I had the opportunity to spend,
spend, spend, it didn’t mean I had to. Why didn’t I save some money for a rainy
day, a dark and dismal day like today? Not that
I
made any money to save, please understand, but Piers did. He made
serious money, serious money perfectly suited for the “more, more, more”
lifestyle I quickly embraced. The thing is though, he didn’t mind. His greatest
pleasure in life is seeing me happy...
was
seeing me happy, and I never realised it would come to this.

I’m nothing now, flung out of his house without a possession
to my name all because my happiness is firmly off his agenda. OK, OK, he did
allow me ten minutes to pack one lousy weekend bag – Prada, mind you – but I
should have taken his favourite crocodile-skin Dunhill’s holdall. That would
have shown him... nothing. It would have shown him nothing, would have only
reinforced how selfish and lousy I am, how he’s better off without me.

I panicked, couldn’t comprehend he was kicking me out there
and then, never to return. Yet he has.

The past four years are now represented by travelling
trinkets, my personal papers, a few items of clothing. That’s it. It’s
insignificant, like I’m insignificant to Piers. I walked out of the door – was
kicked out of it if I’m perfectly honest – in the Burberry trench coat I picked
up off
eBay
for pity’s sake. The
latest Max Mara coat is sat nestled in my wardrobe
right now
; my once-worn Marc Jacobs soft purple leather jacket,
butter-soft with the funkiest epaulet on the front pocket will be next to it. I
can picture it so vividly that I can almost smell the leather, feel the baby
smooth delight on my skin. I have a
Moschino
Bouclé
coat on order – black, but there’s nothing understated about its sleek lines
and finish. No doubt that will be sent back, along with the few other pieces I
may have ordered at the same time. I wonder what he’ll do with my wardrobe.
What a waste of fashion; what a waste of me.

I sigh deeply at these thoughts. Even though I feel it is my
right to rip Piers apart, deep down I know he doesn’t deserve it. Even deeper
down I know it’s my fault. Knowing this makes me feel lousy and I do not need
this where I am going – back to a place where I was the one to blame for
something that went wrong there six years ago. I sigh again, realising I’ve
finally hit rock bottom. It had to happen one day as I’ve been living off
borrowed luck. It’s a shame you can’t purchase luck on a credit card...

Why
are
trains so
slow? I could have flown to some European city in the time it’s taken me to get
from London to the New Forest. Not that I will be flying to any European cities
anytime soon, not unless I snag one of those penny flights I’ve heard people
marvel about. Then again, I’ll have to come straight back because it’s not as
if I can afford to stay anywhere, and I’m not even sure if I thought to grab my
passport. Ah, finally. I’m here. Time to face the music.

I spot Dad immediately.

‘Hello.’ I kiss him on the cheek and pass him my bag as I
alight.

‘Travelling light, aren’t you, darling?’ My parents always
had to pay excess baggage charges on family holidays. This is a first; this is
a major giveaway something isn’t right.

‘It’s all I’ve got with me,’ I reply without commitment.

I don’t want to get into this issue now. My head is swimming
with the influx of thoughts that sprung up from the journey and I want quiet,
non-probing questions, if any questions at all. I need to tell the parentals
together, to not have to repeat the nightmare over and over. There will be no
good cop, bad cop hopes; it’s going to be a bloodbath considering how I’ve
elected not to tell my parents the truth about how I’ve actually spent the past
four years. Can’t wait.

‘Well, you’ll only be here a few days. You don’t need your
London get-up to potter around here.’ But, he has a strange look on his face as
he says it. ‘Although, we would have appreciated a bit more notice than a phone
call saying you were twenty minutes away.’

I ignore this one. I managed to borrow the nice coffee
lady’s phone to call ahead to announce I needed picking up to a
suspicious-sounding Dad. Probably suspicious because I
never
visit home and my parents always phone me. But, it was like
he was expecting my phone call. Weird. Anyway, I’m grateful even with the
weirdness because I would have had to “borrow” a bike from the Cycle Hire at
the station to get home if they hadn’t answered. Maybe once they get over the
initial shock they’ll be delighted I’m returning to the nest. What parent
wouldn’t want their child back under their roof to feed and fuss over?

‘Where’s Mum?’ I ask, as we pile into Dad’s beloved battered
Land Rover, Bertha. She’s as old as I am and he loves it like it’s another
child of his.

‘She won’t come in Bertha, you know that.’ He laughs. Make
that a child he had with another woman before he married my mum.

Mum
hates
her.
Bertha doesn’t fit in with the rest of the house and grounds, i.e. she’s not
shiny and new. Mum’s a modernist, a big fan of shiny metal; Bertha’s charm is
her rust. She makes Dad keep her in a separate garage, fearful Bertha’s rust
spots will somehow defile the other cars. I suspect my parents may have
humanised Bertha far too much, especially in my absence, but who am I to judge?

‘Besides,’ he continues as I attempt to fasten my seatbelt,
until he leans over and clicks it into place – I forget that it’s an awkward
fastening, another reason why Mum rarely comes in this car as she’s convinced
the seatbelt will fail despite passing the MOT year in, year out. ‘She’s
getting the study ready for you.’

‘The study? Why can’t I stay in my room?’

‘The library conversion? Didn’t she tell you?’ He pulls
Bertha out of the car park which is quiet for this time of day.

‘A library? Why does she bloody need a library?’ Shit, I
can’t sleep in the study long-term. What are they playing at?

He laughs, almost like he expected this reaction. Again,
strange
. ‘You know she wants to be a
local historian and write about the area.’

‘Yes,’ I meanly sneer, ‘but she’s never done anything about
it before.’ A valid remark.

‘Well, she is now. Her history group have been very
supportive and I expect you to be too,’ he adds sternly, slowing down as we hit
a cattle grid in the Forest. I spot a family of ponies nuzzling the grass; I
bet the mummy and daddy ponies wouldn’t make
their
baby pony sleep in the study.

‘But, I need my room.’

My heart is thumping because Piers used to call me “pony”.
This is all getting a little too real. And yes, I know I sound like a teenager
but my room is fantastic. It’s large, always a decent starting point for any
room, with a huge window equipped with a perfect window seat for lounging and
watching the clouds roll past over the Forest. Plus, it has its own fireplace
and
a walk-in wardrobe. I lucked out as
far as childhood bedrooms go.

‘Don’t be such a child, Arielle,’ he chastises me. ‘You’re
hardly ever home now you’ve got your own life in London. You do not need your
room.’

Aren’t parents supposed to want you forever? Keep your room
as a shrine? I feel short-changed.

‘And that’s the end of it,’ he firmly says, yet drones on in
true contradictory parent-fashion. ‘I mean, I can count the number of times
you’ve been home in the past four years on one hand.’

He snaps that at me, like it’s my fault I hate it here; like
it’s my fault this place is full of horrible memories. Anyway, it’s not as if
they complained when they visited us in London or whenever Piers paid for us to
stay in some fancy spa resort. Funny that.

‘Fine. I’ll have the guest room then. Why didn’t Mum think
to put me in there? Or, don’t tell me,’ I continue cheekily, ‘has she turned it
into a gym to try and lose those last few pounds she’s always banging on
about?’

‘Frank and Alice are staying in it. That’s the other reason
she didn’t come with me.’ He glares at me.

Why can’t he be like normal husbands who ignore their wives
and have affairs? That’s how Piers’ dad treats his mum. But no, Dad is bloody
devoted; it makes me queasy considering my own love life. I wonder if Frank and
Alice have the same type of sickening marriage. Great, just what I need, to be
surrounded by perfect examples of marriage when I’m such a failure at mere
relationships.

I recall Frank and Alice are friends of my parents who they
met on holiday a few years ago. I do listen to Mum’s weekly phone calls despite
her claims that I always seem vacant during them, but I couldn’t help it that
Piers always used to try and make me laugh and he had a sixth sense of
pinpointing the moments that Mum would be telling me bad news... not that he’ll
be doing that anymore.

‘We met them in France the other year.’

‘Yes, I bloody know who Frank and Alice are,’ I irritably
snap – irritable probably because the last time I ate was earlier this morning
and I’m starving. I hope Frank and Alice are the type who appreciate home
baking. I’m drooling at the thought of Mum’s apple pie, but I’d take last
night’s leftovers – anything to ease my cranky tummy. ‘Why are they here if I
am?’

‘The world does not revolve around you, Arielle Demi Lockley.
We’re hardly going to kick our friends out when you give us less than 24 hours
notice you’re coming for a visit, are we?’

He’s mean, but he’s right. With twenty minutes notice I know
I’d still be stuck at the station if they hadn’t answered the phone. I could
hardly have walked home in my heels let alone take a taxi like a normal person
would, and given the last time Obélix and I tried to “borrow” a bike from the
station... Well, Mr Jenkins has a long memory. Jail-time would just about
complete my already horrific day.

‘Suppose not,’ I mutter. ‘When are they leaving?’

I’m not being intentionally rude, but the sofa bed is
springy and painful; I had the misfortune of sleeping on it one Christmas. I
lasted two hours before I woke Dad up and made him trade places with me. Mum’s
excessive snoring trumped fidgeting on that death trap.

‘Tomorrow. You know, I don’t know how Piers puts up with
you, Arielle. You can be really selfish at times,’ Dad tuts.

Great. I’ve only been in his company for ten minutes and
I’ve already reverted into child-mode. And why did he fetch Piers up? And
actually, why does he sound
like
Piers? Piers accused me of being selfish too – never giving, always taking –
but I disagree in some respects. I mean, I had always been putty in his hands
especially
in the bedroom department. I
always did
exactly
what he wanted
and, let me tell you, he could be
quite
specific. That required great concentration and I always agreed to his
requests, even some of his stranger demands that I believe stemmed from his
boarding school dorm days... Not that I’ll be having his children now, but if I
were to, they would certainly not be attending W– like their father did...
Anyway, I’m
not
selfish. I may not be
full-blown selfless, but I’m not full-blown selfish either.

Bloody men, they’re the ones who deserve the label of
selfish. It had been selfish of my boyfriend to abandon me in France the summer
after graduation. It was selfish of Piers to kick me out now and force me to
return back here to Dullsville with nothing to my name. Now Dad is getting in
on the selfish act. They are all the same. Pfiut.
Men
.
 

I feel like shutting Dad up by informing him exactly what Piers
has done and how he’s the selfish one but we pull into the drive before I have
the chance to utter my discontentment about
that
evil man, which is what he has suddenly become all because Dad has put me in a
rotten mood.

‘Arielle, darling!’ Mum is hurrying out of the house to
greet me as I stomp out of the car, a scowl on my lips. ‘How lovely to see–’
She clocks my stony face. ‘Good to see some things never change.’ She shoots a
not-so-furtive look at my father.

‘What does
that
mean?’ I am not in the mood for parental teasing. I am
not
a child anymore. Why are they treating me like one?

‘Yep, Arielle’s definitely home,’ my father says, taking my
bag out of Bertha. ‘As moody as the teenager she was when she last lived here.’

I spin around. ‘I am
not
moody,’ I hiss. ‘Nor selfish.’

With that clarified I storm past my mother to head for my
bedroom, except my room is being made into a bloody library, isn’t it? Bloody
cheek – just because I have lived in London for the past four years it doesn’t
give them the right to remove my room.

I spin around at the foot of the stairs to head to the study
but when I do I’m met with the sight of a sixty-year-old woman with her bum
pushed into a pair of bright pink velour pants and a greyish-blonde bird’s nest
piled on the top of her head. I hate her immediately; she looks like an older,
low-class version of Penelope Whitter.

‘You must be, Ariel,’ she coos like I’m two.
Two!
‘I’m Alice.’