Trouble By Numbers Series

by Alam, Donna

  ‘There’s no need for sarcasm.’

  ‘And.’ In the same vein, I carry on. ‘I’ll be sure not to talk to any strange men at the airport. Or on the flight. And I definitely won’t pop to the bathroom, leaving my plastic cup of tepid wine unattended because who wants to get roofied and ravished in economy class?’

  Fin’s gaze narrows briefly, but she thankfully keeps her eyes on the road. She knows me well enough to realise I’m deflecting, but she just doesn’t know the depths I’ll take it to. Deflect. Distract. Divert. I’ll do all these to prevent burdening her with my problems. And yes, I also don’t want to admit to being a big fat liar pants, even if I am keeping so many secrets my head hurts.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I add in a softer tone, though still feeling like a complete bitch. ‘You don’t need to worry about me.’

  ‘I just don’t see why you didn’t get a lawyer involved. This contract bullshit seems very . . . well, bullshitty.’

  ‘Trust me,’ I reply, turning back to the passenger window. ‘This is the best way. The only way.’

  ‘But the best way to what? That’s what I don’t understand. I know I’ve been a mess the past few months, but don’t think I haven’t noticed . . . noticed you.’

  I slide her a withering look, my responding tone flat. ‘There’s nothing going on, so you can stop with the conspiracy theories.’

  ‘Theories,’ she repeats, her tone contemplative. ‘How’s this? I theorize a guy’s at the bottom of this flight.’

  And not for the first time today, my best friend is right.

  My husband lies at the bottom of this shit pile. Yeah, the secret one. The reason I’ve maxed out my credit card on a flight to LA. Money I could’ve spent on other things like stock or equipment. Or a one-way ticket to Baghdad . . .

  This wasn’t supposed to happen. Why couldn’t he have signed the divorce papers months ago—when I was more angry than sad. Why does he have to twist everything to please himself?

  I thought I could do this from Scotland. I didn’t expect amicably, exactly, but with distance. Clean and simple and without any more unnecessary hurt. I can’t face any more upset, yet he serves me just that.

  The fucking video.

  It’s now clear the video being out there on the interwebz is no mistake. The flash drive and his personal letter cleared that up pretty swiftly. What a complete shit. He sends me a letter made to look like it’s from his lawyer—it might have been from their law offices, but it made no reference to our marriage or divorce—with demands made in the vaguest terms.

  A vague instruction on letterhead.

  A letter in his hand.

  A flash drive containing a fuck tonne of manipulation.

  I can’t even begin to contemplate—it almost makes me wish he was getting married to that singing splinter. And his note wasn’t so much a letter as an exercise in sarcasm. With a side order of nastiness.

  Thanks so much for the divorce papers. Really.

  I so appreciated the personal touch.

  And speaking of personal, you’ll see I’ve included something along the same lines. Did you happen to see my new release last week? I deliberated long and hard—just how you like it, babe. It was your favourite, right?

  We looked good. Fun times. Almost like old times.

  So. You want a divorce. But here’s the thing; like the song says, that’s not always possible.

  See, I didn’t choose this for us.

  And I didn’t expect my wife to fucking disappear overnight.

  So you want a divorce, and I have a fuck tonne of questions.

  I have stipulations and shit to yell. And you’re gonna meet my demands, or the next tape is showing your sweet fucking face.

  Time to come home, baby girl. You have until Sunday.

  And this is the type of man I’m flying back to today.

  I’d always believed that the events in our life shape us. That who we are is shown by how we react to those events; how we respond to happenstance, to circumstance. We choose to rise to those challenges or else . . . we don’t. Well, that’s what I’d believed. And I’d always thought that, faced with a trial or adversity, I’d do the right thing because the alternative was inconceivable. Only a bad person would choose the opposite.

  I now see that was inexperience talking because I’ve since been on the other side. I’ve done the wrong thing. But one bad decision—one mistake, one something you said or didn’t say—doesn’t make you a bad person.

  Well, I don’t think so anyway.

  I try my best, try to treat folk fairly, and have always been conscious of doing the right thing, but it isn’t always possible. Sometimes, you’ve just got to put yourself first. And if the last few months have taught me anything, it’s that you can’t put your life into neat compartments; good and bad, right and wrong, black or white. Sometimes, despite your best efforts, you have to hurt others to protect yourself, and sometimes, those decisions have a snowball effect.

  Or maybe, I consider, sitting in the quiet confines of the car, I really am just an awful bitch, and my ramblings nothing more than a pathetic excuse for the fuck-ups I’ve made.

  Chapter 5

  Ivy

  Fin leaves me at the airport, sliding back into the driver’s side of my tiny Fiat while mumbling something under her breath. Further words about my bullshit, no doubt. At the check-in desk, I’m handed a ticket labelled First Class. Though I’ve been upgraded before—to premium economy, and even once, business class—I’ve never travelled first class. Strangely, I have flown in a private jet once. With Dylan, of course.

  This is obviously some kind of mistake. A booking cock-up. Not that I’m going to ask. No way. Draw attention to the fact that I’ve paid for cramped and plastic cutlery while experiencing luxury? I’d have to be mad. And I’m not. Mostly.

  I don’t entertain the brief, passing thought that this could have anything to do with Dylan. I can’t imagine a reality when he’d be prepared to offer me any kindness. Not these days.

  So I fly first class while feeling like a stowaway. And what do you do when you’re on a long-haul flight in first? Drink cocktails and champagne? Watch movies?

  Those would be the sensible things to do, but I daren’t switch on the TV. What if, on the menu, is one of Dylan’s movies? I think I’d lose the plot. Probably end up being restrained by an air marshal or cabin crew member. Instead, I opt to sit in my super comfy luxury and silently fume. Because it’s not like I’m going on holiday, and it’s not like he left me any choice. Ignoring his letter—his demands—would have left me in a very precarious position.

  Local hairdresser marries movie star and makes porn.

  I can just see the headline of the Auchkeld Gazette, quickly followed by the tabloids of the rest of the world. The paps would probably catch me opening my front door to the world’s media while wearing nothing but my underwear and my hair looking like Medusa seven weeks from her last cut and colour. I’d probably write a snitty email to those same newspapers, complaining about being labelled as a mere hairdresser. Local business owner sounds better than even my previous and very rich sounding title of Art Director. I expect I’d invite the journos to the salon to give them my side of the story. Their photographers could take pictures of me looking fabulous; all fiery and scorned. Hell hath no fury would sell newspapers by the boatload.

  Who am I kidding? None of that would happen in a million years. Being outed as married to a movie star would be bad enough, but being known as the woman who was blackmailed by the same man? I’m more likely to develop agoraphobia and never leave the flat again. People wouldn’t be kind.

  And they’d be well justified.

  It’s supposed to be every little girl’s dream to marry a movie star, isn’t it? I can’t say it was ever mine.

  It’s not even like I have a good reason or excuse for getting married—it was just a mad weekend fling in Vegas and a drunken night when things got out of hand. You know that phrase, when in Rome? Well, wh
en in Vegas for a wedding, why not do the deed? Hook up with a stranger then get spliced. Yes, it was completely out of character and a little bit mad, but compared to strangers marrying sight unseen on TV shows, it doesn’t seem that bad.

  That fateful weekend, the big affair was held at the MGM Grand, and both grooms looked so handsome. Todd was a senior stylist I worked with at the time, and Dylan was there for Joe, Todd’s intended, who was also my husband-to-be’s employer back then.

  It was a beautiful day not only full of love, laughter, and camp but also a day of excess man candy and champagne. And Joe’s best man was man candy extraordinaire. Dark hair and moss green eyes, so not gay, and thanks to the landscaping business he worked for while attending auditions on the side, cut like a Greek god.

  There was something exotic about him; he could’ve been from anywhere with those looks, and he could’ve been from any time. He didn’t strike me as classically handsome that day but more beautiful in the more animal sense. He has a magnetism to him, something irresistible, and his demeanour promises he’ll lead you to no good, but you’ll have such fun getting there.

  Like the gods, or maybe the devil, he was silver-tongued, too. Let’s just say our relationship didn’t so much start under a cloud of Vegas clichés but in a very posh bathroom after he’d uttered the filthiest accented sweet nothings to herald the start of any relationship.

  Meet me in the bathroom in five. Your sweet pussy and my face have a date.

  It started in the bathroom, but by the time we were hitched, I’d know him for, oh, at least fifty-two hours. At least. And he’d gotten to know me pretty well, too. Almost every square inch of me because I’d spent most of those fifty-two hours on my back. My front. My side. All fours. On my feet . . .

  When he’d suggested we put a ring on it, I thought he was talking sex toys.

  Fuck drunk—that’s what Nat would call it. Dopamined to the max because why else would I—sensible Ivy, the voice of caution, the pragmatic friend and biddable daughter—have said yes. To both marriage and sex toys. We went straight from the tacky chapel to a sex toy superstore . . . But it didn’t matter, I’d reasoned in my blissed-out state, because my heart and vagina wouldn’t be surviving the weekend anyway.

  But they both did. Only just. And is it any wonder those same parts of my anatomy were more than a wee bit excited to see Dylan again once we returned to LA? That first meetup was supposed to be a coffee while we discussed our annulment, but it was no coincidence the coffee shop I’d suggested was five minutes away from my apartment. We began to flirt, shamelessly, which was a green light for Dylan to begin with the dirty talk. About ten minutes after that, we were screwing against the wall of my living room. I don’t know what it is about his dirty mouth because swearing is usually a complete turn-off for me. And his accent? Women everywhere might be wild for that husky lilt, but I’m Scottish, for goodness’ sakes. Where I come from, that’s how we speak. Okay, maybe we’re a wee bit more broad. And maybe very few Scotsmen look like him. But being attracted to a Scotsman in LA? That’s like an Eskimo moving to Hawaii and asking for a whale steak . . . or something.

  I can’t explain it.

  That man, plus that accent, plus the gravel the Good Lord saw fit to add to his tone, equals good girl kryptonite.

  My friends tease me often. They say I’m old-fashioned, but what they mean is puritanical, but Dylan’s Ivy was never that girl. I can’t explain what the man does to me. Did to me.

  Our sex life was combustible. And hey, we were married, weren’t we? I’m certain that makes sex almost a sacrament. And as for our annulment, two weeks later, he’d moved in with me. It seemed almost a natural progression for a relationship started the wrong way around. Then a few months more and he was a sudden indie movie star. Times were good. We were happy and in love. Next thing, he’s the hottest newcomer since that sparkly vampire guy. And that was when things started to go wrong.

  Hindsight is ordinarily a bitch, but I suppose I should be thankful I never got around to telling anyone we’d married. Especially as it survived only as long as the last iOS update. I’d never even mentioned to anyone back home that I was seeing someone. We’d just existed in our own blissful little bubble, and it was heaven while it lasted. Almost perfect. Maybe I should be thankful we’d kept our marriage a secret, especially as I’ve known friends with longer hook-ups.

  Why didn’t I tell anyone? I needed to let my family know first, and maybe if my mother had let me get a word in edgeways during one of her calls, I might have been able to fudge the details a little, maybe tell her that the man I’d been dating had whisked me away for a weekend of drunken debauchery. That we’d had such a fuck-fest—though maybe I wouldn’t have mentioned words pertaining to excessive drinking or sex, and I would’ve definitely nixed all f-words. Maybe I would’ve said we drunkenly—though again, I wouldn’t have mentioned that little nugget—declared our love for one another and promptly popped off to the tacky chapel . . . that so wouldn’t meet the requirements of the daughter of someone as pious as my mum.

  In reality, even if my mother had taken a vow of silence, there’s no way I could’ve said any of those things over the phone. I’d decided to tell them on my next visit, and when I say my next visit, I meant ours. Yep, I was planning on arriving back home with a husband in tow. I was hoping we’d put on a united front—strength in numbers and all that. Okay, maybe I was hoping to spread the blame. A problem shared is a problem halved, isn’t it? I figured Dylan could be quite charming when he has some kind of incentive to turn it on. But then he became famous almost overnight, and things started to go wrong. It seems we were never destined to make it back.

  Our marriage was an easy lie to live with especially on the other side of the world. Out of sight, out of mind. It’s much easier to be selective about the truth when your only contact is over a phone or internet connection. And I chose not to care for the first time in my life. I put my wants and desires first, desires I had no idea I was even capable of. I was happy, and that’s all that mattered. But that happiness was short lived.

  So Dylan became super famous, super-fast. There was just no getting used to that. We couldn’t even grocery shop together for fear of being snapped. Dylan’s agent, Ric, cautioned against us being labelled a thing, and while Dylan paid him no mind, I did. I didn’t want my friends and family to learn about us from the media, and I cared about him. I loved the very bones of him, and he’d worked so hard and had schlepped the audition trail for a half dozen years or more, so no way was I going to stand in the way of his fame.

  The promise of a blockbuster movie on the heels of the indie—an indie where he’d been astute enough to insist on a portion of the ticket sales—and his star began to ascend. We bought a house from the proceeds, where it was much easier to maintain our privacy. We were newlyweds; we didn’t need to leave the house, wrapped up in each other as we were. But as his star ascended, our marriage sunk like its counterweight. The tiny nothings became somethings. And the somethings? Well, they became insurmountable. At least, for me. And as they say, the rest is history. And just as painful. And as I’d confided in no one, I was by myself with this pain. Meanwhile, Dylan seemed to drown himself in women and notoriety. And his fans lapped it up. A pretty face is easier to forgive for some.

  And now, we’ve been living on opposite sides of the world for longer than we’ve been married, and I think that’s kind of symbolic. It’s been months since we’ve spoken. Months in which I’ve avoided every mention of him. I’d disabled all social media. Avoided the internet. Ignored anything with access to showbiz news. I didn’t need to know where my husband was or which skinny starlet he was boning that week or how many cameras he’d smashed.

  I didn’t need to know any of it. For the sake of my sanity mostly.

  Yes, I’m bitter. Still.

  Not only did I do him a favour by starting our divorce proceedings months ago, but I also filled out the reason on the dotted line, providing us both with more
than just cause.

  Adultery, the documents read.

  All. He. Needed. To. Do. Was. Sign.

  I did the hard part; started rolling that concrete ball down the rocky slope. Why couldn’t he have just managed that one thing in return?

  How hard is it to pick up a pen?

  I’d relinquished my rights to everything—alimony, the house—but all he returned was an envelope containing a scrawled note. Two words. The same number of syllables.

  Fuck. You.

  And then . . . nothing. Not another word for months.

  What else could I do? I don’t have money to chase him down. I don’t have his bank balance, and I had a business to build—a beauty salon to renovate and open. An income to create, not to mention a place to heal. That’s what I’d returned home for—business. I didn’t run away from LA.

  At least, I don’t think I did.

  I didn’t take the easy way out, despite my daydreams of vindication. I’m not some fame whore who’d sell their story to some celeb-stalking site. I didn’t need to introduce DMZ into either of our lives. Though, God knows I could’ve done with a cash injection, especially as I’m now kind of responsible for Fin. Poor Fin. Her own marriage problems are much more terminal and have left her emotionally battered and sleeping in my spare room.

  Nope. Telling the world Dylan Duffy is married, and to me, would never have been possible. And then tell the world that he’s divorced? It’s not even funny, though I doubt I’d need to worry about retribution at the hands of his rabid fans. Not if my mother got there first. Especially after his threats—those of him exposing more than my bottom to the internet. No, I’d have to have a death wish to go public with any of this, and I’m not sick of my life. Not yet, anyway. I just have a husband I can’t shake. But once this trip is over, I’ll be set. No one will ever need to know. We’ll be over. Done. Finito. Kaput. And I think . . . I think I must be due my period because why else would my eyes be wet?