by Dee Palmer
“Us?” The doctor raises a brow.
“Yes, us!” I snap. I know this is escalating out of my control, but I can’t stop it. “Pip–our baby. Cal would never abandon us.” I look at my father’s impassive face, my mother shifting closer to him as if she can get comfort from that soulless iceberg. The doctor scribbles something illegible on his pad. I stand abruptly and he drops his pen.
“The baby you brought with you is now safely on his way to his parents. You need to understand the seriousness of what you have done.” The doctor’s words hit me like a freight train and I curl from the impact. My chest is tight, as I fight to draw in some air. God, the pain–unbearable pain tearing my insides to shreds.
“What? What the fuck are you talking about? Pip is my baby! Cal is the father and I want to see them now!” The doctor has calmly stood and is unmoved by my hysterical screeching.
“I told you she was delusional. I just worry what else she is capable of?” My father shakes his head solemnly, even dropping his forehead in his cupped hands in fake desperation. Oh my God, I have to get out of here.
“All right, I think everyone should calm down” The doctor waves his hands in a soothing motion, encouraging me to take my seat again, but I am too strung out. I shake my head at his suggestion, but draw in a steadying breath. The doctor waits for me to look up. “Look, let me go and check something. I will be right back.” He offers me a kind smile and I actually feel my shoulders relax. He is going to sort out this…this… hideous misunderstanding. He leaves the room followed by the two guards.
“He’s not coming back.” My father coolly informs me.
“The doctor?” I ask, as laughs at my misunderstanding.
“No, Arti, not the doctor. He is definitely coming back. Your no-good, waste-of-space, Euro-trash boyfriend. He is not coming back and neither is that bastard grandchild of mine.” His eyes are wide as I fly at him. Five foot six of slight build but utter rage pummelled him into the back of the sofa he was perched on. My fists are clenched and I take short, sharp jabs into his chest and stomach, just like my Euro-trash boyfriend taught me.
“You can’t take my baby away from me!” I scream, pounding as hard as I can, spit flying from my mouth; my hair is loose and wild. I must look as crazy as I feel. I can hear the blood rushing in my ears, fired by hatred and hurt.
“I already have. You have no legal rights. You will be declared mentally incompetent. You are pretty much guaranteeing that with this behaviour.” His words stop me short, his face distorted with cruel amusement. He’s right, I am acting like a crazy person; rightly so but this is the last place I need to have my meltdown witnessed. I blow out the anger in a long held breath and unclench my fists. I pull back and focus on the man in front of me. He is a stranger. There is not a single thing I want from him…no that’s not right. I want him to leave me alone.
“Just leave me alone…please. Just leave us alone.” I plead. I chance a wasted glance at my mother. “I don’t want anything from you. You never have to see me again…just let me go and give me back my baby.” My throat closes and I have to fight the lump that is lodged there.
“If it were that simple I would, but you have my name and I will not let my legacy end with this dirty little moment in our history.”
“Always about the fucking name! Keep it; I want nothing to do with it. I just want my baby! You can’t just take her from me…there are laws!” My voice is rising again as I feel myself spiral out of control once more.
“There are laws. You always were so bright, but I only need one parent to sign the adoption papers, since you are in no fit state to make the choice.” His vile smile chills me to my soul.
“Cal would never do that.” Tears instantly wet my cheek. I am so out of my depth with the evil before me. I need Cal. I need Pip. I need my family.
“He already has. What do you think he was dropping off?” He laughs and all I see is a haze of red mist. My hands clamp high around his neck, where they squeeze, grip, and twist the air from the bastard’s lungs. Flexing and clenching, my nails dig into the wrinkled skin on his strong neck. Even as his hands fly to grab my wrists, I can see the panic in his eyes.
“I am going to do it. I am going to squeeze the last breath from your bastard body. I hate you…I fucking hate you,” I promise him.
“Do you mind, doctor? I can see that she’s settled, but I would like a private moment with my daughter before we leave her in your capable hands. You are certain she can hear everything, yes?” My father glances over his shoulder at the nodding doctor, and with two strides he’s by my side. Waves of nausea churn in my stomach.
“Of course, I understand, and yes she can hear everything. Come, Lady d’Aubeney, let me escort you to the guest lounge. We are no ordinary private hospital for patients with behaviour problems, you know.” He chuckles and leads my mother by her arm. “I believe the bar will be open now and they do a wonderful strawberry mojito.” I would gag and punch something, if I could, but mostly, looking into my father’s eyes, I would kill, if I could. The door closes and my father leans into make sure I can hear his low whisper.
“Oh yes, you can definitely hear me, can’t you, Arti? Good because I want you to hear this.” He draws in a breath and my chest rises in unison–involuntary as it may be. I hate that I breathe the same air as him. “Fifty thousand pounds, in case you were wondering. That was the price I paid that piece of shit you loved. Fifty thousand pounds for your own daughter. Just thought you should know because I can see the hatred in your eyes; but know this, you can hate me all you want but at least I didn’t sell my own child. He didn’t even negotiate. He never loved you. I told you that back then and I have the proof now. He just wanted your money. I am sorry for one thing though…had I known how little it would have cost, I would have done this two years ago. Had you committed, aborted your child, and paid off that scum. This has been most inconvenient, Arti, but never underestimate the lengths I will go to, to protect the family name.” He draws his finger up my cheek and wipes the residue of tears with his handkerchief before he discards it in the bin. He looks at his watch and huffs. “And now I am going to be late for dinner. I’ll never get your damn mother out of that bar,” he jokes. He jokes and walks away. He has destroyed my life, ripped my family apart, and has left me in a million, shattered pieces, numb and desolate.
Today
I NEVER GET tired of this view. I know my technical home lies three hundred miles east of here in the garden of England with Dad, or in my London apartment, but this is most definitely my spiritual home. I can say that with a good deal of certainty as I have spent almost the entire last twelve months travelling to some of the most heavenly places on the planet. But I am done roving, or hiding, as both my father and Bethany believe. Maybe that was true in the first few months. I know I upset Bethany with my long absence. Christ, Daniel called me enough to reiterate the point that I was upsetting his wife and it was a good job I was on the other side of the world, because he was more than ready to kick my arse, if I didn’t sort something out. I did sort something because as much as I didn’t want to share what I was going through, I really didn’t want her to worry, especially after what she had endured, and in her condition. I left the day after their wedding, but I really only went off the grid for a few weeks before we started to make regular Skype calls. It stopped the tirade from Daniel and it was good to see her so happy and alive–no thanks to me.
I shake my head at the dark spiralling thoughts, halting them before they do their worst. I pull the car to a stop on the brow of the hill over-looking the harbour. This is what I needed. I don’t know why I didn’t come here first. It’s where I healed after mum died. This is not the same, I know, but it was close. I really felt something…I don’t know if it was love but I was willing to go with it because it sure as shit felt real. Bethany had told me it was so…well at least tried to. But after everything happened the way it did, how can I possibly know the truth? How will I ever be able to trust myself
to know the difference? I won’t. That was my epiphany whilst travelling. I have shit judgement, but it doesn’t matter because I am not going there again–ever. Returning home, going back to my playground, I am happy to start again and more than glad to erase the possibility that I was ever in love. I have a whole new perspective–well not entirely new. I lived this way long for before Kit, and I’ll do it again. Simply put, I love women; I just won’t let myself love a woman.
The sun is high and with the tide out, the beach is dark with crammed tourists making the most of the unpredictable English weather. This is a little gem of a fishing town and it’s where I feel most at peace, where I have the most fun. I close my eyes and let waves of calmness wash and saturate me, a deep sense of belonging filling my soul. Yep, this is where I need to be. I crack the door open and walk to the edge. The flimsy, rusted railing is the only barrier to the sheer hundred foot drop of cragged rock into the sea below. Warm salty air rushes into my lungs when I draw in a deep satisfying breath. I feel the first surge of joyful energy permeate every single cell in my body. I may have chosen to lock my heart up for good, but that leaves all my other organs ready to play. This is going to be a great summer.
The main seafront road to my place is closed, and I had to abandon my car on the outskirts of town. I will pick it up later when the heaving masses have ebbed. I grab my rucksack from the back seat, and make my way to the harbour front. The town has an entirely different feel in the summer as a whole population of people descend to take their holidays. It’s heaving but buoyant with tourists, primed to have a good time. It’s very much a family destination but recently, with the opening of a few trendy bars and eateries, it attracts a fair number of young single travellers. That coupled with the influx of transient tourists looking for seasonal employment, I know I won’t be lonely for long. I make my way to my bar, deciding to check in before I head home. I am only a silent partner, but I was thinking about picking up a few shifts behind the bar. Put my new cocktail making skills to good use and as I push my way through the lunchtime crowd, I can see my timing couldn’t be more welcome.
“Hallelujah! He answered my call.” Buddy, the bar manager, looks up from drawing two pints, and uncapping a bottle of sparkling water. He doesn’t look flustered. He is pretty much unflappable, which is why I was happy to invest with him when he wanted to set this place up. But he is getting slammed with the sheer volume of orders. I work my way behind the bar and throw my bag into the open store cupboard.
“Who’s next?” I look over the bar to the next customer just catching Buddy’s killer smile, which at the moment is filled with obvious relief at my opportune arrival. We work seamlessly together; a fluid, easy cohesion unaffected by my lengthy absence. We don’t have time to talk until it is nearly four in the afternoon and there’s finally a break in service. “Wanna tell me why you have no staff? Let me guess…you fucked the wrong waitress and now they have all left?” I take a well-earned slug of my ice cold cider and raise a teasing brow.
“Not likely. Happily married, remember? Besides that’s your job, as I recall; although, you never manage to piss any of them off. How do you do that, by the way?” He wipes down the bar before he starts to empty the drip trays–always working.
“Trade secret.” I smile to myself at the truth of that statement. It might be a very distant memory, but strong enough to imprint on my five-year-old self and last a lifetime. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you, and where would I find another hard-working bar manager to keep my pension pot healthy.” He barks out a short laugh.
“Yeah right, like you need to be planning for your pension. Besides, I know exactly how you stay friends…’You don’t shit where you eat’. You do everything but fuck these girls and they love you for it.” He moves along the bar, still cleaning.
I laugh out. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. Hey, I’m not gonna mess with a rule that works for me. Don’t ask me why, but making some girl fall apart and scream my name any which way I can is fine. But the minute I stick my dick in, it complicates things. So no, I won’t fuck anyone local, but this town triples its population during the summer, so passing trade is fair game and this summer it is game-on.” Buddy grins and shakes his head. I step back and take a look around the place. I can’t believe it’s been over a year since I was here. It hasn’t changed but it looks good. We tend to change the theme and decor every two years to keep it fresh, but we still do a once over maintenance paint in the winter. Buddy is very handy at any odd job, so nothing ever looks too old or tatty. Unless that’s the theme we’re going for. But he has changed the back wall. I had chosen some graffiti-style, large scale paintings to hang above each of the six alcoves. I saw them in a small gallery off Portobello Road. They were eye catching and brighten the place with an urban twist. Very different from the usual display of artists in the competing restaurants and bars.
“What’s with the paintings?” I nod toward the new display of equally striking portraits, which now dominate the back wall. They are almost abstract impressions, but the brush strokes are so detailed and evocative, I almost envy the artist having such a stunning muse. They are impressive, beautiful, and I am just a little surprised Buddy has them hanging in the bar.
“Thought they raised the tone of the place. I like the graffiti ones just fine but Sheila showed me these, and well, I thought they looked dead classy.” He coughs and if I’m not mistaken, his cheeks colour. He looks away at my curious stare like he is hiding something. “Anyway, I liked them. They have all sold, but we get to keep them for the season,” he adds, and looks over at me, then back at the paintings. A faint warm smile curls his lips and I am intrigued.
“Sheila painted these? So this is a life painting then?” Sheila Woodruff, a local elderly artist, has lived here her whole life, but only ever paints from models. “This hot girl is someone you know I take it?” I round the edge of the bar and slide onto an empty seat, facing Buddy, who is still looking at the paintings behind me. He catches my smirk and throws the bar cloth at my face. I catch and flip it back at him, hitting him square in the forehead.
“Fuck off, Ethan! No I don’t know her; no one does and Sheila’s like a bloody priest at confession, so there is no point asking. Anyway, what do you think? They work, don’t they? They look good, I mean?” His voice holds no uncertainty and his faith in is judgement is sound.
“She is stunning.” I tilt my head and take one quick glance at Sheila’s muse. The woman in the painting is flawless, but that is the beauty of art; it can be whatever you want it to be, but I know there is no such thing. “The pictures are a good fit for the place. They are all sold, you said?” I finish up the rest of my drink and put the glass in the washer.
“You sound disappointed.” Buddy has a satisfied expression plastered all over his face.
“Yeah, yeah, you did good with the paintings. What do you want a sticker with good boy on it?” I pause and lean heavily against the bar, taking my time assessing each of the pictures before I speak again. “I’m surprised that’s all. I don’t think we’ve ever sold all the art we hang, but I can see why. I might have to speak to Sheila, see if she can paint me another.” I mutter, mostly to myself, as Buddy has started to serve a new customer. “Buddy, I’ll be in the office. Come back when you get a break, we can go over all the other executive decisions you’ve made that I’m paying for.” I’m only joking and the easy smile on his face reflects the fact that he knows as much.
About an hour passes and I have had a cursory look through the books, inventory, and staffing. As I expected, despite Buddy’s chilled easy attitude to life, he runs a tight ship. Everything is in order and I have just one question when he joins me, holding a fresh bottle of my favourite cider. He cracks the cap open and takes a seat on the low sofa behind me, swinging his long legs up and over the armrest. He lets out a heavy sigh.
“That was some shift; thanks for stepping in. I had no idea they were closing off the road today or I never would’ve let the girl
s take the afternoon off.” He drags his hand through his long, wavy, salt and pepper hair, scraping the strands out of his eyes.
“What girls? You had girls out there waiting on the tables. You don’t normally have them behind the bar?” I spin the chair around to face him.
“My best girls weren’t here today and one of them does work the bar. She’s pretty good, doesn’t get under my feet and prefers it to working the floor. Anyway, Sky wanted the afternoon–”
“-Sky!” He chuckles at my sudden interruption. “Sorry, I didn’t know she was working here. It’s not a problem, I just haven’t seen her since–”
He barks out a knowing laugh. “Oh, I know exactly when you last saw her. Even in my most promiscuous youth, I never hurried one girl out of the door because I had another one in a different bedroom. She just might still love you deep down, but she was pissed and out for revenge the last time she spoke about you.” He chuckles.
“And when was that exactly?” I take a large pull of ice cold cider.
“This morning.” He fails to hide a shit eating grin at my expense.
In my defence, the other girl was Bethany and she had just woken the apartment up with a heart wrenching cry, so my concerns were elsewhere when I got rid of Sky. But even so, in the cold light of day, it didn’t look so good.
“I’ve got all summer to make it up to her, and it wasn’t just any another girl. It was Bethany and she was upset–”
“Bethany, your ‘not sister’,” Buddy interrupts, with air quotes to highlight the distinction I was always so happy to make. Bethany is my Dad’s natural daughter that he knew nothing about until last year.
“Yeah, we’re not blood related and at the time the ‘not real sister’ thing was a bit of a big deal for me, but not now. We’re cool and she’s married, has a kid–the whole happily ever after. She deserves it. Anyway, none of that is important. What is significant, is the cash withdrawals each week. Care to explain?” I’m not worried that Buddy is skimming. It’s his business as much as mine, but it’s untidy and I like tidy.