Gentleman Playboy

by Alam, Donna

  My teary reflection flickers in the darkened window. This is a little death of another kind, because I feel like I’m dying inside.

  I don’t wait for the parking slip from the valet, leaving my car still running at the vast entrance doors. I cross the foyer fast, and at the elevators, take the key-card from my purse before deciding I’ll knock. As I reach the door, my stomach and heart shrink and contract with fear.

  I knock.

  No answer.

  I knock again and wait.

  My knees begin to shake, joining the tremor in my hands.

  I take out the key and swipe, opening the door.

  The light is subdued, the door to the terrace open. I place my purse on the table in the hall and walk cautiously further into the room. Someone is home, the smell of tobacco drifting in from the terrace. A cigar, maybe? An open bottle of wine lies on its side on the sofa, tiny red stains soaking into the pale upholstery.

  ‘Kai?’ I call softly, feeling very ill at ease.

  The air crackles ominously, voices drifting from the bedroom door, a shiny black dress dripping like oil over the back of a chair. Synapses spark rapidly, my mind predicting the scene. Vacillating for a brief moment, my legs move uncertainly to the door.

  I am numb. An intruder. I aim for stealth but not silence, certain my heartbeat can be heard for miles.

  A woman’s voice trills, a low voice murmurs a response. Guttural, base grunting hums as I wrap my fingers around the door handle.

  ‘N’arrete pas!’ pants a breathless voice. ‘Je viens!’

  I don’t need to be fluent in French to know what this means; its tenor is universal. My hand trembles, my knees feel like they’ll hold me no longer as I push the door ajar.

  Candlelight illuminating the chair’s back.

  A small smile of triumph as she, Sofia, silently acknowledges me.

  A blur of her naked body and a cloud of dark hair as she drops to her knees, bowing her head to his lap.

  Finally, a flash of white cuff, a hand falling open over the arm of the chair, wrist adorned by his Breitling.

  ‘Suce-le,’ he groans. ‘Suck me. Hard.’

  Treachery swiftly gouges my insides. I stumble away from the door, bile rising as my knees refuse to hold. The wool rug scrapes as I scramble to get up, to leave. Make flight. I grab my bag from the table, swallowing huge, gulping sobs and banging the door from the suite open as I stagger, wounded from the room.

  After everything. After all I’ve given. After all he has taken. This.

  The last vestiges of my self-respect dissolve with the salt of my tears.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  My apartment isn’t welcoming. It doesn’t feel like home. All I can see is him—standing in the kitchen, lying on the sofa, draped across the bed. Despair seeps into my bones and I wear a hole in the carpet, pacing the bedroom floor.

  The sun eventually rises—the traitor—the skies clear and lapis blue. It makes me think of home. Leaves me wondering what’s happening on my side of the world. As light spans the whole of my room, I wonder how many women will be kept from their sleep by heartbreak tonight. Do they pace the floor asking the same?

  Suddenly, inexplicably, I long to be in my mother’s arms, long for her to coat me in the reassurance of home. I want her to protect and cosset me, like she did when I was small, while I tell her in great, gulping sobs how much I hurt. How I’ve been wronged.

  I could go home, I have time. Not that I’m foolish enough to think I can be honest there. I can’t ignore that she sent Shane to Dubai, but I can cope with it. I can even survive seeing him, because he means nothing to me.

  What I can’t handle is being here. Seeing Kai. Seeing his faithless face, listening to him lie. Panic flares inside, halting me in my steps.

  I’ll die if I have to see him. Die . . . or throw myself at his feet.

  I pick up the phone.

  ‘Welcome to Emirates Airline,’ the automated message greets. I use my credit card and buy a seat for tonight. I’m going home.

  I arrive at the airport in my car—the gift from Kai—glad for the first time since last night that I’d driven it home. Not that I had a choice. I didn’t have any cash for a cab. I abandon it in the wrong car park, confident, unhappily, in his ability to pay the fine.

  Then I wonder how long it’ll take him to find it, because I won’t be driving it back. If I come back at all

  I don’t have any carry-on, just a case filled with God only knows what. Uggs, shorts and assorted tops, I think. Toiletries and underwear—plain cotton—I can’t face the finery of lace. My recent introduction to designer clothing leaves me with nothing but distaste. It stays in the closet. I can’t think about those things, let alone look.

  Irony of ironies, I’m running back to the place I ran from.

  Trudging mindlessly through the terminal, I’m jostled by people and bags, but nothing registers. I walk from one end to the other without seeing a thing. I know I need to pull myself together, need to get through this flight. Get away. Gain some distance. I wander back through the throng, planning to buy gifts, silly souvenirs for my family. That I’m returning doesn’t mean I’ll tell, but I have to look normal and normal people bring gifts.

  I drift into an area selling Middle Eastern themed trinkets and buy my stepfather a shisha or a water-pipe, along with some apple flavoured tobacco. He doesn’t smoke, believing it to be a sign of weak character. He doesn’t approve of anything foreign. So I buy this as a symbol of both, a silent fuck you to sit and gather dust in the corner of some room. I choose a heavily embroidered tablecloth for my mother. This at least, I know she’ll like.

  I find the pharmacy next, buying something to help me sleep, wishing it was as easy to buy something to make me not feel.

  Queuing at the gate, I switch on my mobile, resolutely ignoring the inbox as I hurriedly text Niamh.

  Family SOS. Don’t worry. I’ll be back before you know it. Get me on my email. x

  I switch off my phone as it starts to ring.

  ‘You may switch on your cell after take-off, madam.’

  A member of the airline’s crew offers me this smiling advice. She hands back my torn boarding card as I enter the cabin. For a moment, I think she called me madman. She wouldn’t be far wrong. I’m the antithesis of her well-groomed self. A mess on the inside as well as out; mismatched clothes and wild hair compliment my mismanaged heart.

  ‘There’s no one I need to speak to,’ I mumble as I stuff the phone into my purse.

  Pulling the meagre pillow to the window, I pick up my earphones and stick the leave me alone tag at the top of my chair as the captain’s voice catches my attention as he makes his pre-flight announcement.

  ‘. . . take a moment to introduce the crew,’ drawls an accent from home, ‘. . . we hope to make your flight a pleasant one.’ The voice evokes endless blue skies, eucalyptus and pine. ‘ . . . so if you’d care to sit back and relax, it’s almost time to push some clouds past those windows and some service down the aisles.’

  I smile for the first time in what feels like forever. Only an Aussie could put it quite that way. It’s like a sign that I’m doing the right thing. Going home to heal.

  Tears taste like salt and despair. Despair that lies in my throat, curled in a stinging ball. Despair that courses down my face, taunting me. Reminding me of him: the salt of his skin, his salt on my lips.

  My room is dark and almost silent but for the fan rotating above my head. Summer has arrived early in my absence and the air, heavy and suspenseful, heralds a coming storm. Getting from the airport to the house was a blur. I remember the airport, the glaring lights after the dead slumber of the flight. I recall walking into the airless night, the cicadas calling their welcome.

  And now my room is hot, too hot for clothes. But I wear them anyway, like I can’t bear to be naked, like it’ll somehow remind me of him. I lie in the heat, willing on the storm.

  Closing my eyes, I finally sink into the darkness.
>
  ‘What time did she get in?’

  I hear my stepfather’s voice from the kitchen, pulling me abruptly awake. My parents’ home is a Queenslander home, a weatherboard box. Every word spoken above a whisper travels right through the house.

  ‘Some time in the early hours, just before the storm,’ Mum answers.

  ‘Good job we had the guttering cleared.’ My spine relaxes against the mattress. I’m never a topic of conversation for very long. ‘How long d’you reckon she’ll be here, she did say she’s staying, didn’t she? Did Shane make her see sense?’

  My mother’s words are pitched lightly to placate. ‘She didn’t say anything in her email. Just that she was coming back for a while.’

  ‘Bloody typical, and inconsiderate, to boot. She’d better get herself sorted, see the fella. Put this thing straight.’

  ‘She’s bound to have seen sense, Geoff. I’ll call Shane. Let him know she’s back, in case she hasn’t had time.’

  I pull the pillow over my head, smothering their words. I want to yell, shout that I’m not a child to be bullied into behaving how they see fit. The overwhelming urge to be in my mother’s arms diminishes quickly, switching off like last night’s storm. One minute, rain beating down hard and fast, and the next, nothing. A moment of absolute peace before the sounds of nature returned.

  What was I thinking?

  I’ve been here five minutes longer than I should. Running away, running back—none of it seems like such a good idea now.

  Relaxing my grip on the pillow, I will myself back into the oblivion of sleep.

  I wake later with the pillow still over my head. The house is quiet as I move from my bed and slip into the shower, the water a welcome relief before I have to open my case to view the chaos inside. Mismatched items and odd socks tell of the disorder in my mind. I never should’ve left; I should have gone to bed and let tomorrow be another day. As it is, tomorrow is now several days past, through time zones and travelling. I wonder if he’s realised I’ve gone. Wonder if he’s missed me, before I feel sick, thoughts moving from one to another until I see her head once again in his lap.

  Rejection. It forces me back to the bathroom where I retch to be sick.

  If he wants me, it’s not enough. He obviously thought he could have us both, but which both? A wife and Sofia? A wife and me? I take my head in my hands and almost scream.

  In shorts and a tee, I slip out of the door, the light blinding and catching me off guard. There’s something about the quality of light in Australia, something I’d forgotten about. It’s all power and endlessness and I discover it’s entirely possible not to be seduced into happiness by the sun.

  At the beach, I sit on the loamy soil beneath the pines and watch people come and go. Surfers, joggers, lifeguards, and kids skateboarding in the park. Sun filters through the tall Norfolk Pines, dappling light across the ground and making a patchwork of lace across my limbs. My treacherous memory recalls a cream leather-lace that binds.

  I don’t want to go home and have no idea what to do next. I’m empty; all cried out, the veracity of my mistakes still stinging. I just want to climb back into bed and surrender to the urge to sleep. So I decide I will.

  At home, my return is timed to perfection. They’ve gone out for an early dinner. Thanks for inviting me, guys. I scribble a note and stick it to the fridge using a magnet that proclaims, Smile! And it might never happen! But it already did.

  My note tells them I have jet-lag, and probably flu. It’ll keep them at bay for a while longer, at least.

  I crawl into bed, fully clothed, and sleep like the dead.

  ‘Katie?’ My name, but not quite right, pulls at me, dragging me from the thickness of sleep.

  ‘Kai?’ I croak. My mouth feels like it belongs to the dead. The room is dark, the only light falls from the hall, cutting an arc across the floor. My eyelids flutter, adjusting. I miss him, the weight of his body against the bed, the feel of him under my hands. He woke me and he’s not even here.

  ‘Yeah, babe, I’m okay. ‘Specially now you’re back home.’

  I stiffen with the realization that this isn’t a dream. That’s not Kai sitting on the end of my bed. Those aren’t his hands laid on my feet.

  ‘It’s gonna be okay. Go back to sleep, I’ll still be here.’ The voice speaks softly as though to soothe, but it has the opposite effect. I close my eyes and will away the hallucination. If I can’t see him, he’s not there.

  I stir again. It’s dark still and I’m alone as my consciousness gnaws me fully awake. It’s so hot and my room has no air. I kick off the sheet and pad to the window, cracking it open along with the blind. I stare for a moment at the night sky, the jewelled blanket above, recalling another starlit night, one that scalds my brain. A night of promises that turned to grains of sand in the light.

  Slipping off my shorts, I switch on the fan, sinking back into the bed and the darkness. But a restlessness fills me now, seeping into my bones, tightening my muscles. I turn abruptly, hauling myself onto my back, my damp shirt clinging to my skin.

  I can’t sleep, my mind brimming and overflowing. Thoughts and images cruelly plucked; pictures parading like a show. My hands touch my thighs, skin rebellious in its response. Skimming higher, fingers brush my breasts and I inhale sharply from the spectral lingering of his touch. Tears begin to leak and flow once more as I outline his body by memory, my fingers longing to do so in the flesh.

  Longing and restiveness ease me from my bed. I pull out my laptop, placing it onto my knee as my phone is flat and the charger’s still in Dubai.

  I have an email from Niamh and nothing else, the disappointment a heavy, weighty thing. My reply is one of vague reassurance because I can’t tell her the truth.

  Back in bed, I find I can’t sleep anymore and I can barely think.

  The room is touched by violet as the morning begins, this time my parched throat driving me from my bed. Pre-dawn light filters through the blinds as I enter the kitchen and stop dead in my tracks.

  Stretched across the family room sofa is Shane. Blanket and pillow supplied.

  I’d almost convinced myself he was a dream, or a nightmare seems more appropriate now. I stare at him, almost not breathing, still deciding on a course of action when he stirs. Blinking sleepily, his eyes wander down my frame.

  ‘Nice undies,’ he says, stretching confidently. Long denim clad legs extend over the sofa arm, his hands reaching for the ceiling in show.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I hiss quietly. The last thing I need is my parents to wake because it’s obvious whose side they’re on.

  ‘Your mum called and said you were back.’

  Flipping the mop of sandy brown hair from his eyes, he stretches his bare torso as he rises to sit. The whole action just pisses me off.

  ‘That is not a reasonable response. Don’t you have a phone or something? Couldn’t you have, like, called in advance, instead of sleeping at the foot of my bed like some fucking stalker!’

  He laughs as he balls the thin blanket, depositing it on the floor. His movements are unhurried, like he thinks he knows the outcome of this reunion. Maybe it’s the knickers, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to react. I hang onto my anger, underwear or not.

  ‘Shush, you’ll wake them up and then we’ll both be sorry,’ I bluff. His eyes light up with misunderstanding, no doubt recalling the times we’ve fucked quietly, my parents asleep in the next room. ‘Dream on,’ I add in a sneer.

  He laughs as he says, ‘It’s okay. I’m invited. I nearly climbed in with you last night.’ I exhale a squeak, his hands rising in surrender. ‘I didn’t, I slept here. I thought you’d want to talk first.’

  ‘How big of you,’ I snipe. ‘What are you doing here, anyway? I told you over there that we’re done. We split up! For God’s sakes, there was another man in my apartment when you turned up.’

  ‘So we’re even now. And, babe, I don’t see him now.’

  ‘And as for getting into bed with me,�
� I continue, ignoring him. ‘Well, you’re lucky you didn’t or you’d have woken up with your balls in your gob!’

  He looks surprised—he always was a little self-absorbed—followed by a hint of contrition. But the room echoes with my hissed fury, dust motes dancing in the sun, it having risen along with my rage. I’d never really understood the term seething before now. I take a moment to imagine what it looks like as anger fizzes from my every pore.

  Shane sits forward, elbows at his knees, rubbing fingers through his hair. ‘So it’s safe to say you’re not ready to let me apologise yet.’

  ‘Please, Shane, understand. We’re through.’

  ‘Katie,’ he says, palms now out in a plea even as his eyes run speculatively along my legs.

  ‘Don’t even think about it. That time has passed. Finished. Khallas.’

  The last word echoes in my head, bringing me to the startling realization that I’m not mad. No, that’s not true. There is anger, but more of the pissy kind. I’m annoyed that he’s here, at the con-artistry of the situation; this thing they’ve engineered between them like I’m something to be controlled. The direction of my feelings catches me off guard. Shane’s actions have no bearing over how I feel. There’s no nostalgia for the familiar, no longing for what once was. I hurt only for Kai.

  Oh, the fucking irony.

  ‘Just go,’ I say, fight gone from my words.

  ‘Would you just listen to me for a minute?’

  ‘What would be the point? You were the worst kind of unfaithful.’ One of the worst kinds, anyway. I don’t consider myself inexperienced in these matters these days. ‘And I really don’t care. Not anymore.’

  His mouth draws together like a string on a purse. ‘But that guy, you’ve left him now.’ The words hang in the air, daring a response. I stare back defiantly. No way I’m going to get drawn into this, especially not with him. ‘Didn’t take you long to piss him off,’ he taunts, shoving his arms through the sleeves of his shirt.