Authors: Charlotte Oliver
“Oh, Jack. How could I forget Jim? With her flashing her nipples at us the whole weekend? Surely you remember.”
That was it. The lightbulb came on. And now he was staring at my face, brow knitted in bewilderment, trying to reconcile my sweet grin with the words I was saying.
Surely she should have another expression. That’s what he’s thinking. Surely I’m missing something.
I could almost see the question forming in the air between us before he said it. “How . . ?”
I just smiled some more, eyebrows raised, lips sealed. I didn’t need to answer that one. It didn’t matter. Now, all that mattered was that I knew; Jack was in deep shit, and he knew it.
But then, and I wasn’t sure why, things started to go terribly wrong.
I was sitting next to him, the only indication of my internal state being my balled fists at my sides, and up until that moment he’d been staring straight into my face, like he was watching his own funeral.
Now his glance was darting around the room. He was leaning back into his seat, showing me his profile, hoovering up his drink in a state of agitation.
It was like I wasn’t there.
What was
this
all about?
“Excuse me,” I said, “but do you mind telling me when the fuck you were going to let me in on your little secret?” I couldn’t help it. I’d waited so long for this moment, suffered the torture of his hands on me for the last 24 hours, and I just couldn’t let him ignore what had been said.
He laughed, without even looking at me. And not in a self-deprecating, introspective way, like someone caught in a lie and who was now ruefully shaking his head at himself. Then he drained his drink. And got up, sauntered off to the bar, and got himself another one. And he stood there drinking it, watching Sky News on the enormous television.
Maybe he’s in shock,
suggested a small, meek voice.
Fuck that,
I retorted firmly, and I stalked over to him. Each step made me even more enraged. By now, I felt like I’d been charged with lightning bolts from on high. My anger was holy and righteous, and he deserved all of it; I burned with fury. Rage simmered under my skin, my eyes bulging as my blood pressure skyrocketed. This is what it felt like. This is the state that a girl got into that made her capable of cutting off her husband’s dick or stabbing him in the face with a stiletto.
I walked up to within inches from his face. “You owe me an explanation,” I spat. “You owe me—”
He cut me off. “I don’t owe you anything.” He didn’t even glance at me as I said it.
That riled me up more than I thought was possible. I felt sick with fury now.
He
made me sick. “You really believe that? You really think that—”
“Just drop the act, please. You’re fucking tiresome.”
Those words were worse than a slap. As he said them—from the corner of his mouth, no less—the blood plunged from my face back into my pounding heart. I wanted to fold up into myself and disappear from that room, from him. I wanted to have never existed.
Something dawned on me, as I studied his cold, handsome profile (his eyes had never left the television screen). So, back at the Twelve Apostles, I’d decided to confront him on my own terms rather than do it in front of Tam and Sharon. I’d thought it would be better that way.
Why had I thought that? It had seemed obvious to me, at the time, that this needed to be done with only the two of us present. But what had I hoped that would achieve?
Well, I’d wanted him to admit what he’d done. And, of course, I wanted him to acknowledge that it was wrong.
Why had I ever thought he would do either?
But even though I was starting to see that I’d made a mistake, I couldn’t turn back. It was horrible—the grief, the rejection, the pain. It poured out of me like blood from a fresh wound. “Why did you do this to me, Jack? Can’t you see that what you’ve done is wrong?” I was disgusted with the tears that quivered in my eyes. I hated that he could still hurt me.
He gave another laugh. “Spare me, please. Spare me.”
“How can you
say
that?” I was exasperated, devastated all over again. “Don’t you think I deserve to know why?”
He turned his black diamond gaze on me and I flinched. All my anger was gone, replaced with that familiar fear. That hopeless dread. “You don’t deserve anything more than I give you. I decide what you deserve. And if you ever—
ever
—engineer another stunt like this, and make me waste monumental time and expense on your pathetic little schoolgirl whims, you will regret it bitterly.”
I was reeling. “But—”
“Will you just
shut up
?” And he looked back at the screen.
“I’m—”
I’m sorry.
I stopped myself before I said it.
You were going to—I can’t believe it. You were going to
apologise
to this person?
The words had already formed in my mind, and I would have meant it. I
was
sorry.
In an instant, it was obvious to me why he was annoyed; me finding out about his little plan with Jemima was nothing special to him. What difference did it make? In his mind, I was coming back to England with him regardless. It hadn’t even occurred to him that I wouldn’t.
Well, I was certainly pathetic enough to want to apologise to him—for him marrying me to extort money from a trust fund in order to fund his lifestyle with his mistress.
So why on earth wouldn’t he think that?
“You were saying?” he said, amused, knowing what I had nearly blurted out.
I became aware that I was cowering in front of him. Slowly, but resolutely, I drew myself up to my full height. All five feet, five inches. And I met his gaze, clear-eyed. I wouldn’t be afraid anymore; and I didn’t need him to like me.
Imagine that! I didn’t need him to think that I was right. Or that I was worth listening to. He was just a man—a cruel, cold, loveless man. Someone who must have been terribly damaged. Maybe it wasn’t his fault, the way he’d turned out; maybe it was. It didn’t matter.
I turned. And I started to walk.
At first I think he must have assumed I was going back to the sofa to sit down. But I walked past the sofa.
Then, maybe he thought I was going to the loo. It must have taken him a second to realise that they were on the other side of the lounge.
As I crossed the threshold into the main departure hall, the security guard asked me where I was going. Did I know that since I’d already checked in, leaving the hall meant I was forfeiting my ticket?
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Then I heard Jack’s voice behind me. “Where are you going?!” It was an enraged stage whisper; as usual, he was avoiding a scene. Jack hated scenes.
“Miss?” asked a security guard as I passed by. “Is that your friend calling you?”
“No,” I said, truthfully. I kept walking, a little brisker now.
“WHERE ARE YOU GOING?” he called, louder, and people’s heads turned. I allowed myself some satisfaction at that—knowing he was embarrassing himself. At least I was worth embarrassment.
No,
I reproved myself.
What he thinks doesn’t matter.
Okay,
I conceded.
It’s still funny though.
Jack must have slipped the security guard a bit of sterling, because the next thing I knew he was at my elbow. “Where the hell are you going?” he hissed, grabbing hold of my upper arm and squeezing it painfully. I tried to break free of him, but he was too strong. But it was OK: nothing he said to me now could hurt me.
I wasn’t sure of that at the time, let me assure you. But I’d decided that if it wasn’t true yet, I was going to make sure it turned out that way eventually. “Let me go,” I said, softly, calmly.
He sneered. “I told you not to do this again. I warned you.”
“Let me go,” I said again, more clearly this time. What was he going to do? Hit me? Let him. Let him break my cheekbone if he wanted to, let him black my eye, twist my arm till it snapped. It didn’t matter. I would still walk away.
“What—are you going to walk out of here without your lovely clothes? Because those are all on board already, and I’m not going to let them give them back to you. And any plastic you’ve still got your thieving little hands on will be cancelled the moment I’m back in England.”
I reached into my handbag, the only thing I had with me, still holding his gaze.
I took out my wallet, pulled out every card I had, and handed them to him calmly. “I don’t want anything from you. I never did. Would you let go of my arm now, please?”
He was scoffing, but I could see a hint of panic in his eyes. “What? Going to move back home and sit behind a reception desk somewhere?”
I thought about it as I worked the solitaire off my finger. “Maybe.”
“
Last call for boarding at Gate 10
,” said the tannoy, “
flight
BA 188 to London Heathrow
.”
I handed the ring to him. He refused to take it, but I could see the fear in his face as I let it fall to the ground in front of him. “You should go, Jack. You’re going to miss your plane.”
“Come on,” he said, desperate now, still grasping my arm with painful force. “Come
on.
”
“I’m not coming with you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve got to come with me.”
“You’re not listening to me. I’m going to divorce you, Jack. This is over. We are over.”
Although we never began.
“You’ll do no such thing. You’re going to come with me. You’re not going anywhere unless it’s—”
What was wrong with him? I could see he was panicking now, but did he really think he could
force
me to come with him? How did he propose to do that? I managed to wrench my arm free. He had really hurt me—that was going to be an ugly bruise.
“Fifty thousand pounds,” he called after me, desperate, as I walked away. “In cash, as soon as I’m paid out. And you can keep the diamond.”
“Goodbye, Jack.”
There I was, out in the African sun again, on the edge of the world in a royal blue dress. The automatic doors that led to departures closed behind me with a little whoosh.
You must be sick to death of me and my bloody crying. I don’t blame you; imagine how sick
I
must have been of it. I must have been on a gallon of water a day just to keep up with the fluid loss, as if I was a marathon runner or something. But there I was—crying again.
I lifted my eyes to the clear sky and felt my tears, hot and heartfelt, stream down the sides of my face. But not because I was sad, or shocked, or afraid, or disappointed, or ashamed, or any of those horrible emotions that Jack had wrung out of me over the preceding months. No—I was crying from that strange happiness that comes when something terrible is finally over.
It was all over. Yes; there would be a divorce, and that was nothing to sneeze at. The next object of my fancying would eventually have to be told that I’d been married before. And you know the boy in question is going to crinkle his forehead and think, “Divorced before she turned twenty-five? Maybe she’s a junkie. Or a hermaphrodite.” And that wasn’t ideal, obviously.
But that didn’t matter; what mattered was that the spell was broken. That enchantment that had been spun around me on the day I crossed over the threshold of Jack’s beautiful flat was now melting away before my very eyes. I could see him for what he was—a cruel little boy who had himself been the victim of cruelty; a man who had done wrong.
I could feel the warmth of the sun again; the hope that had budded inside me so resolutely during that awful night in the bathroom was alive. No longer frail, it pulsed with vitality, ecstatic with the knowledge of its own resilience.
Suddenly I was able to see the wood for the trees. And my heart broke a little for Jack, who never would. So he’d really thought that if he threw some money at me, it would make me stay? Could he have believed that was what drew me to him in the first place? Surely not.
But it was like my mother had said to me when I was a little girl: when all you’ve got is a hammer, most everything starts to look like a nail. Tam had been right. His brother had had the chance for a normal life snatched away from him, and that was sad. That was worth mourning.
I threw myself into the nearest cab, goofy with love for the world. “Camps Bay,” I sang at the driver. “The Hibiscus Hideaway, if you know it.”
“Sure,” he replied, and glanced at me in the rear-view mirror. “You look familiar.”
I glanced up. “Tinyiko?”
“The very same. You got no baggage this morning?” He was smiling as he turned the wheel, and the morning sunlight reflected off his aviators, dazzling me.
I laughed, and it felt wonderful. And then, out of nowhere, I thought of Dad. He would have been so proud of me. He would have wanted to protect me, of course—and he would probably have been horrified that I’d married Jack in the first place. But now, if he’d been in that cab with me, he’d have told me I was brave. “No,” I replied, smiling through my tears. “None.”