by L.H. Cosway
When we get out I change into one of his clean t-shirts, before crawling into his bed.
He looks like he's just about to pounce on me when his phone starts ringing and he turns away to answer it. I text Aoife, who had been filling in for me again with the cupcakes this morning since I was still at the festival, to check if everything went okay.
She writes back saying it went fine, just as I hear Nicholas exclaim over the phone, “They said what?!” He paces back and forth at the foot of the bed.
“All right, so some stranger paid them fifty Euro to throw a brick through the window of the club and rough us up a bit, what the fuck Phil?”
Oh my God, he must be talking about the attack at the club from before we left for Edinburgh. The police are only getting back with information now? Talk about slow. I'd completely forgotten about it since I've been so miserable over Nicholas the past few weeks.
“Wait, wait, wait, describe him to me again?” he says, his voice calmer now as he rubs the back of his neck. I crawl forward and grab him by the hand while he listens to Phil on the other end of the line. I tug him down to the bed and plant little kisses all along his shoulder.
He winds his hand through my wet hair and nuzzles my neck with his nose, then pulls me onto his lap as he hangs up.
He leans in and presses his lips to my throat, just before he says, “I think we might have a bit of a problem on our hands.”
“You do?” I question, furrowing my brow.
“That was Phil, as you probably heard. The police came to the club yesterday to tell him that they caught one of the thugs who attacked us the other week. This guy is about twenty years old and known to the authorities; he hasn't been in jail before, but he's been arrested more times than they can count. When they brought him in for questioning about the attack he ended up telling them that some man paid him and his friends fifty Euros each to do it.”
I suck in a breath. “Are you serious?”
Nicholas nods. “And that's not all, the guy the thug described sounded an awful lot like Aaron. Medium height, blond hair, prim and proper dress sense.”
“Oh shit! We need to tell the police it was him then,” I let my face fall into my hands. “Oh God, oh God, this is all my fault. The attack happened right after Aaron came to the club that time and stormed off. He must have done this as his twisted idea of revenge.”
“Well, you did say he wasn't the full shilling,” Nicholas adds. I like it when he uses my Irish phrasing back to me. “I'll call Phil in a minute and tell him what we know, then we can go to the station and tell them about Aaron.”
I'm just about to agree, anger consuming me, when suddenly an idea surfaces. Okay, so I know it's not the mature, legal thing to do, but I kind of want to get my own back at Aaron before we turn him in to the cops.
I put my hand on top of Nicholas' and ask, “Can we wait just one more day before we do that?”
He eyes me curiously and puts his phone down on the bed. “Why?”
“I have a devious plan,” I tell him.
He pulls me closer on his lap and trails a finger down my arm.
“Oh really? Do tell,” he says, eyes alight with interest, and I explain to him what I have in mind.
Chapter Nineteen
Thelma and Louise
Have you ever tried to laugh silently when your whole body just wants to break out into a furious bout of giggles? Well, it's no easy feat, let me tell you.
It's two o'clock in the morning as Nicholas and I creep around the front of Aaron's nondescript, red brick house, where his pride and joy sits, all shiny and clean. A black Ford Mondeo that he's had since he was in college.
He has a weird OCD thing about this car. Even though it's kind of old and he has the money to replace it, he never does. He just continues to keep it in pristine condition. Aaron doesn't like change; I guess that's one of the reasons why he started stalking me after I broke up with him in the first place. He couldn't seem to move on to someone different. I'd feel sorry for him if he weren't so cruel and calculating on top of it all.
We had to go to an art and craft supply store, as well as a DIY warehouse, to get what we needed for my devious, and yes slightly whimsical, but also very much illegal plot for getting our payback. I dip the paint roller into the bucket containing a mixture of wall paper paste and gold glitter, before running it over the hood of the vehicle.
Nicholas is busy plastering rainbow stickers all along the bumper, quietly snickering like a kid sneaking candy in the middle of the night. That's right, we're turning Aaron's car into a poster vehicle for gay pride.
Okay, so I know what you're thinking, isn't it going to be a little bit obvious that it was us who did this? And yes, it is going to be obvious. Perhaps that's the point. The thing is, I know Aaron well enough to predict that he won't be reporting our little vandalism to the police, since he is strange and proud. Crazy proud, emphasis on the crazy.
He'd rather let us get away with it than have the police come to his house and see what a delight we have made of his car. He would never in a million years draw attention to himself or make a spectacle for his neighbours to see.
I pick up the bag of silver star shaped cut outs and spread them over the hood so that they'll stick to the glittery paste. Nicholas finishes with the rainbow stickers and begins painting the tires luminous shades of pink and orange. A flutter of glee goes through me. I feel like a mischievous pixie carrying out a prank with an aesthetically pleasing result. Of course, that all depends on your personal taste, because I'm sure Aaron won't be finding it aesthetically pleasing in the slightest.
Once we're done we stand back and admire our handiwork, not forgetting to take a few pictures on Nicholas' phone so that we can show Phil proof of our secret revenge. We dump everything into black bags, making sure not to leave a speck of evidence, just a dazzling, multi-coloured masterpiece of a Ford Mondeo. We even put a big purple bow on the roof of it.
Aaron drives this car into work every morning, so he's going to throw one hell of a hissy fit when he strolls out his front door and sees what we've done. I wish I could be here to witness his reaction. And anyway, it serves the bastard right. In fact, he deserves a lot worse. One of those scumbags could have seriously injured any of us that night. The brick had almost hit me in the head. I could have died. This little prank is nothing compared to what he deserves, and I hope that once we turn him in to the police tomorrow that he gets his comeuppance.
We drive out to the nearest landfill site to dump the evidence. We haven't stopped laughing since we got into the car and drove away from Aaron's street. It must have been the hour we spent holding it all in that's caused it to build up to us giggling to the point of delirium. Every time our laughter starts to die down we simply glance at each other and it starts up all over again.
We're almost home by the time we finally manage to come to our senses. Nicholas reaches over and takes my hand into his.
“You know what Fred, even if Aaron did decide to turn us in, I would happily go down with you for such a wonderful crime.”
“Oh no no,” I declare, as he raises my hand to his lips for a brief kiss. “They'll never take us alive Viv, we'll drive off the edge of a cliff - Thelma and Louise style.”
He laughs and looks at me with a warm expression and a short, thoughtful silence ensues.
“You colour my world, Freda,” he whispers into the quiet of the car, just as he parks and cuts the engine.
It's funny that he says it, because I had always considered it to be him who coloured mine.
“Ditto,” I say. My tone goes serious when I tell him softly, “I love you.”
“I love you too,” he answers, before pulling me out of the car and inside the building.
Later on I rest my head on Nicholas' shoulder as we sit in his living room in front of the television. He picks up the remote control for the old VCR player he bought and presses the play button. A moment later the video starts running; the camera work is a little s
haky. The spotlight is on a woman on a stage in a small club. Nicholas' mother. She's sitting by a piano and playing a slow, jazzy song intro; a minute later she starts to sing. Her long black hair is resting on one shoulder and she's wearing a pretty velvet dress.
In this moment I genuinely understand how Nicholas could have seen this as a young boy and wanted to replicate it. She's beautiful and so is her singing. I take his hand into mine and rub my thumb down the centre of his palm. We sit back and watch the rest of the video, immortalizing a moment in the life of a woman now gone from the world.
It's two weeks later to the day that we hear how the guy Aaron paid to attack us identified him to the police and now Aaron's being charged. It's the same day that there's a party going on down at The Glamour Patch to celebrate its six month anniversary since opening.
Nicholas and I are planning on getting dressed up and having a night to remember. In fact, I've been having a lot of memorable nights lately. I've hardly slept in my own bed since coming home from Electric Picnic. Draw your own conclusions.
True to form, Aaron never said a word about what we did to his car. Phil nearly had a heart attack he laughed so hard when we showed him the pictures.
I've gone back to being Nicholas' show assistant, even though I now know that the whole thing had been a sham from the beginning. The thing is, I love feeling a part of his performances and I don't want to give it up.
Tonight Nicholas is wearing black trousers, a crisp white shirt and a thin grey tie. He's leaning back on my bed, looking like he should be on an advertisement for expensive men's cologne, as I step out of the shower and into the room, wrapped in a towel.
I go to have a look through my wardrobe for something to wear, then I feel myself being yanked backwards and thrown onto the bed. Nicholas kisses me softly on the lips before announcing, “I'd like to dress you tonight.”
I raise a sceptical eyebrow. “You want to dress me?”
“Yes, you dress me all the time for my shows. It's time for me to return the favour.”
Now, normally if a man wanted to choose my outfit I would tell him where to go, but since Nicholas probably has better taste in women's clothing than I do, I shrug my shoulders and agree to let him have his way with me. It's after I do this that a devilish grin shapes his lips and he pulls a bag out from under the bed.
“What's that?” I ask, eyeing the bag that looks all too much like it contains new lingerie for my liking.
“A present,” Nicholas replies.
He pulls my towel loose so that I'm naked. His eyes peruse me slowly, but he doesn't touch. Instead he opens the bag and pulls out sheer lace stockings, suspenders, and a lacy black matching set of bra and undies.
“Mr Turner, you're making me blush,” I joke, as he comes toward me with the bra.
“Don't worry darling, I love it when you blush,” he returns, and then proceeds to dress me in the lingerie he bought, copping several feels along the way. It all fits perfectly, and when he's done I stand in front of the mirror, wondering who this woman is before me, all decked out in sexy under garments.
The next thing I know, Nicholas is pulling that red dress he got for me weeks ago out of my wardrobe and slipping it on over my head. It feels like it's melding to my body as he zips it up at the back. He trails his hand across my stomach and then wraps his arms around me.
“You look stunning. Now all we need to do is get to work on your hair and make-up.”
“You know Viv, most men try to get their girlfriends out of their clothes, not into them,” I remark cheekily and he pats me on the behind.
“I think we both know that I've never been most men,” he answers, running his fingers through my hair and tilting his head to the side as though trying to figure out what to do with it.
I turn around and kiss the side of his jaw. “No you're not, you're better,” I say, rubbing up against him.
He groans and mutters, “If you don't stop doing that I'm going to become most men and tear this dress off you. Then we'll miss the party and Phil will pull a strop the next time we see him.”
“Fine,” I mutter, nipping at his bottom lip and turning back around.
By the time he's finished with me my hair is clipped up in a twist, with pieces falling down around my neck. Nicholas paints some gloss onto my lips and dabs dark eye shadow onto my eyelids. He then sits me down on the bed and pulls out the pièce de résistance, which is a black shoe box containing a pair of silver high heels. He has a grin on his face, indicating he finds this positively hilarious.
It's been our little activity over the last week or so for him to continue teaching me how to walk in heels. I've made progress, but by no means am I a pro. He rubs my calf with one hand as he kneels down on the floor in front of me and slips one of the heels onto my foot. He quickly puts on the other one and pulls me up.
“There,” he says. “Perfect.”
I walk as gracefully as I can manage over to the mirror to admire how the shoes make my legs look more shapely.
“Not too shabby,” I say, grinning at him through the mirror.
“Beautiful,” he adds, handing me my clutch bag and then leading me down to the waiting taxi.
When we get to the club the place looks amazing; there are streamers and balloons everywhere. Three drag queens up on the stage are doing a dance routine and miming to an old Madonna song. Nicholas isn't performing tonight, so he leads me up to the bar and orders me a glass of wine. He gets an orange juice for himself.
I haven't seen him touch a drop of alcohol since our trip to Edinburgh. I was going to ask him about it, but I decided not to. Making a big deal will just put more pressure on him to stay sober.
We join Nora and Richard, who are sitting at a table by the stage with Harry and Sean. Nicholas keeps his arm around my waist as we cheer on the performance and sing along. When the song ends one of the drag queens starts calling for Nicholas to come up and sing something. He waves her away at first, but after her endless encouragement he gives in, kisses me once on the lips and steps up onto the stage.
Instead of going to the microphone stand, he walks over to the piano and sits down. He plays a few notes and then gestures for the sound guy at the back of the club to adjust something. Once he's happy with it he rubs his hands on his trousers and turns to address the audience.
“I want to play a song for the woman I love,” he says. “She doesn't even realise it, but she saved me.” There are several “aws” from the crowd, as well as some guy (who I suspect to be Phil taking the piss) shouting up, “lucky bitch!” Everybody laughs, but Nicholas only smiles and shakes his head. “I've sung to her in the past,” he continues, letting his fingers play a soft little tune on the keys, “but the sentiment hadn't been honest. So now I'll play something that's true.”
His fingers glide effortlessly over the keys as his lips hover close to the mic and he starts singing “Your Song” by Elton John in a low, husky voice. He seems like he's singing to nobody for a moment, like he's looking inward. Then he brings those blue eyes that I adore up to me.
He says I can tell everybody that this is my song.
That he hopes I don't mind if he puts down in words how wonderful life is now I'm in the world.
I can't help it, but my heart is beating fast and my cheeks are blazing red. I stare down at my hands, before forcing myself to meet his gaze. He doesn't look away from me through the entire song. He sings like he's making a vow. It frightens me.
I'm living one of the most sentimental moments of my life and yet I'm scared to death. It's terrifying when you're staring the person you know you want most in the world dead in the eyes, and knowing that they belong to you unequivocally. I soak in the words, the truth of them, how special they make me feel in front of all of these people.
Nicholas and I are far from perfect, but we are heartbreakingly in love with one another and although this may seem like the happy ending of our little tale, it's only the beginning. I want to grow old with this man. I want to
have his children. I want to hold him when he's sad and laugh with him when he's happy. I want to put him in dresses and see him become a woman on the stage. I want to keep each and every one of his smiles, mould them into a tangible thing and store them in a box.
I want to heal him with each and every one of our kisses. With every time we make love. Make him see that despite the past, the future holds mysteries that we can explore hand in hand. His melodious voice pulls me out of these thoughts. He looks at me and smiles as he presses down on the final note. I hold his gaze and blow him a kiss.
Epilogue
Dublin, Ireland, Present day.
Clean warm sheets cover Nicholas' body as he stares down at the beautiful woman lying naked and sleeping in his arms. She is the embodiment of all that is female, and all that he strives to replicate as an artist. She doesn't know it yet, but she is his muse now, his everything.
He recalls their first meeting, as the sounds of her deep breathing calm his mind. She'd been soaked from the rain and frustrated, but she'd still shone for him that day, made him laugh. That's what caught him, he thinks to himself, her unending humour, how she could render the world both light and dark with a simple joke.
He runs a hand through her silky, golden brown curls, relishing how every part of her fascinates him. He thinks of the little boy in the dress; the boy he used to be, a lost little boy. Now he can be a man in a dress, but he isn't lost. He has his golden eyed girl to lead his fractured soul through a world that once seemed dark and empty. In the present there's nothing but bright, wonderful sun light.
And even if bad times come, he knows he'll have her to share them with, so they won't really be bad at all. Her acceptance and love is something he didn't even realise he'd been searching for, but now that he has it he knows that he'd die if it got taken away from him. Every time he loses himself in her body, a little bit of the pain gets erased. She washes it away.