I lean an arm on the door and start the engine. “I’ll wait until you’re inside.”
She turns without arguing, and I have the pleasure of studying her until the gate closes on her tight ass.
Jane
Lunch with Loretta on the day after the anniversary of Evan’s death is as much an institution as lunch with Dorothy on the day. I love Dorothy. She’s the only person who accepts me for who I am. With Francois, there were parts of me I couldn’t show, like the part that mourned Evan. With Dorothy, there’s unconditional acceptance. She’ll never judge me, even if I screw up. However, talking about Evan with her drains me, and I need Loretta’s levelheaded personality, judgmental or not, to restore my inner balance.
After Brian has left, I clean the kitchen, have a shower, and pull on a lilac dress with matching sandals. Our reservation is at Parrots in Kyalami. I’m early, but Loretta’s even earlier, already occupying a booth at the back.
“You look gorgeous,” she says when I slip onto the circular bench.
“Thank you.” I eye her brightly colored, off-shoulder dress. “So do you.”
“New collection. I’ll set some dresses aside for you.”
I have no intention of letting her talk me into buying more clothes, but if I voice it we’ll argue until she believes I’m convinced I need a new wardrobe.
“How was it?” Her phone vibrates on the tabletop. She holds up a finger and checks the screen. “Excuse me.” Her gaze shuts me out, turning inward. Her tone is clipped as she swipes to answer. “Yes?” Her lips thin as she listens. “Don’t unpack the autumn collection until the sale starts. The snow decorations are for December, not before.” A short silence follows as she assumedly waits for a reply. “I don’t care if it’s summer over Christmas. It’s figurative. Snow and Christmas go together. Use your common sense, for once.” She ends the call and gives the phone her middle finger. “For God’s sake. Do I have to spoon-feed her everything?”
Loretta owns a fashion boutique on the high-end scale of the market. She always seems to be running at full-speed, and she always seems angry. Unlike me, she thrives on stress.
“So,” she glances at her phone as the screen lights up with a notification, her eyes scanning the message with efficient speed, “tell me. How was it?”
“The same as every year–sad.”
She lifts a brow and waits.
“Devastating,” I admit with a sigh.
“That’s it? Didn’t Dorothy tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“Benjamin’s in town.”
“What?”
My insides freeze and shatter. The noise of breaking crystal rings in my ears. How could Dorothy not tell me?
“Sorry.” Loretta doesn’t look apologetic. “I thought you should know.”
“Thanks for telling me.”
“It’s a big city. It’s not like you risk running into him on the street.”
“Still…”
“Yeah, she should’ve said something. I can’t imagine why she didn’t.”
“How did you find out?”
“One of Ralph’s clients invited him to a company event. He saw the name on the invitation.”
“He didn’t accept, did he?” I ask in horror.
“Of course not.”
Thank God. Ralph wouldn’t have declined out of consideration for me, but he would’ve done it for his wife, because I’m her friend.
My voice is strained. “How long?”
“I don’t know. Maybe,” she leans over the table, “this is an opportunity to put your ghosts to rest.”
“No.” My tone doesn’t leave room for arguing. “I’m not speaking to him.”
“Suit yourself.” She brushes the subject off with a shrug, and starts to butter a roll. “Francois looks happy. He came over for dinner with Debs. Nice girl. They suit each other.”
I can’t help the pang of betrayal that tightens my stomach. “You invited him?”
She pauses with the roll halfway to her mouth. “He’s Ralph’s best friend. It’s not going to change because of your divorce.”
“I know. It doesn’t make it easier.”
Lowering the bread to her side plate, she sighs. “I love you, and you’re my friend, but I’m not going to lie to you.”
“Okay, just don’t rub it in.”
“Get over it. Just because Francois fell in love with someone else doesn’t mean your life is over. You should go out and meet people.”
“It’s only been a month.”
“So?” She picks up the bread again and takes a huge bite.
“If you were in my shoes, you would’ve looked at it differently.”
“No, I wouldn’t. I’d be out there getting the shit banged out of me. I sure as hell wouldn’t have lunch with my dead fiancé’s mother, let alone be her friend.”
Loretta hates Dorothy, which is why I can never have them in the same room. I only have myself to blame. Loretta is the only person except for Francois I confided in after Evan died.
Her phone lights up again. This time, she scoops it off the table. “I was thinking…” She reads the text on her screen before facing me again. “Why not organize a barbecue with you, Francois and Debs, and our neighbors at our place, just to get the awkwardness between the two of you out of the way? Once you’ve been together in a social setup the ice will be broken. Then you won’t have to worry about attending Abby’s graduation or wedding in ten years to come as a divorced couple who don’t speak to each other.”
Debbie is a nice person, a very nice person, which makes my friend’s diminutive name for my ex-husband’s new girlfriend, the woman he left me for, harder to stomach. “No thanks.”
Loretta’s smile is forgiving. “You’ll let me know when you’re ready. I’m sorry, but my shop assistant isn’t handling the Christmas fucking snow crisis at the store. I have to go.” She moves out of the booth, grabbing her bag from the bench. “I’ll reschedule.”
With an air kiss and a wave, she’s gone.
Remaining in my seat, I reflect on her words. She’s right, of course. Instead of avoiding Francois and Debbie, I should get over the hurt and betrayal and see things for what they are. The sooner I make peace with the situation, the sooner I’ll heal. Until then, I can’t be friends with Francois, let alone with Debs. This is why I appreciate Loretta’s friendship. She won’t lie to me to make me feel better. She forces me to look at the bigger picture.
Debbie is great. She’s kind to my daughter, and she’s crazy about Francois. That’s why he loves her, why their blow-up-in-fireworks kind of love won over our stable and unlustful friendship. I knew that kind of love, too. The love I had for Evan was a once in a lifetime kind of love, the explosive kind. What I had for Francois was something entirely different, a love that grew over the years from friendship. My mother always told me if I wanted my marriage to last, I had to marry my best friend, not the guy who sets off the fireworks. I guess she was wrong. Friendship isn’t enough for a man, after all. How can I deny Francois the love that turns your knees weak, messes with your head, and makes your heart leap with lust? Because he promised to always be there for me. Because he took advantage of me when I was weak with grief, making love to me without a condom, despite my protests. He slipped into my dorm room and stretched out on top of me, naked, cupping my face as I kept on saying we shouldn’t through my tears, slowly sinking his cock into me, whispering promises about taking away my pain and loving me forever.
Forever lasted twelve years.
Stop it.
I didn’t want Francois. I was just too weak to fight him. I knew he had a crush on me, but I only had eyes for Evan, the wild biker who was too old for me, the one my mother warned me about. How happy she was when Francois and I announced our engagement. A short two months later, when I started to show, she must’ve suspected we weren’t marrying for love. At least, I wasn’t. That’s when she told me a marriage needs friendship, not fireworks.
“Will you d
ine alone, ma’am?” the waiter asks next to me.
I’m so tired, like I’m back in that single bed with the creaking bedsprings and Francois’ weight on top of me. Like I’m pushing and pulling at the same time, throwing my future into a fatal gear. Even if I turn my face away, his breath spills hot and unwelcome over my cheek, his panting singular in its release. He comes too quickly, not getting me off, and swallows his sounds like what he’s doing is dirty. Then he kisses me, his wet tongue parting my lips like his cock invaded the one part of me that only Evan had touched, a part that still belonged to Evan. I can almost forgive him for everything, even for fucking me while my fiancé was being laid out in a coffin and I was spaced out on tranquilizers, but not for the victorious glint in his eyes when he pulled out of me, letting his semen drip onto my sheets. That’s why I’m hurt, why I feel the betrayal to my bones. He stole what belonged to Evan and promised me care in return. When he broke his promise, he diminished what he took. I gave away something sacred for an empty promise and unfulfilling fuck.
“Ma’am?”
Not having even the energy to answer, I put a bill on the table and leave. Where’s Loretta’s levelheaded judgment when I need it?
I wait until I’m home before I call Dorothy. This is a conversation I can only have in the privacy and safe comfort of my home.
“I know you’re busy,” I say when she picks up. But this can’t wait.
Dorothy works as a handwriting expert at the High Court. Her job is hectic, but she always takes my calls.
“I’m never too busy for you.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
She goes quiet. After a drawn-out silence, she says, “I couldn’t tell you on the anniversary of Evan’s death. It would’ve only upset you more.”
“That’s for me to decide.”
“How did you find out?”
“Loretta told me.”
“Jane…” She sighs. “Maybe you should see him.”
“I can’t believe you said that.”
“What happened, this war between the two of you, it’s as much my fault as his.”
“It’s not a war, and it’s not your fault, so don’t look for ways of earning redemption.”
“I was hoping–”
“Dorothy, stop. I don’t want to see him.”
“All right,” she says slowly.
“Do I need to worry?”
“Not if you’re adamant about not seeing him, because he said the same thing about you.”
“Good. That’s one thing we agree on.”
“I love you, Jane, but…”
My voice comes out harsher and more bitter than I intended. “But?”
“He’s still my son.”
“I’m only too aware of the fact. That’s why we did what we did.”
“Oh, Jane. If I could turn back time–”
“You’d do exactly the same. As you said, he’s your son. You love him.”
“He’s all I have left.” She adds hastily, “Except for you.”
“But blood is thicker than water.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“Jane,” her voice starts shaking, “you’re like a daughter to me, the daughter I never had.”
“That’s not true. We’re friends. We share cocktails, hairdressers, and Thai masseurs.”
“Oh, God.” She giggles. “That was an amazing holiday.”
“See? Who lies on a beach in Thailand and gets drunk on Sex On The Beach with her daughter?”
“We needed to let our hair down.”
“Is he staying with you?”
She turns quiet again.
“I’m not going to get upset, Dorothy. I just want to know.” If I shouldn’t come over.
“He’s staying with me, but I’m not seeing much of him. He’s awfully busy.”
Too much information. “Enjoy your family time.”
“I love you, Jane.”
“Ditto.”
I hang up with a numbness in my body. My heart is pounding and my brain is aching, but I don’t feel hunger, thirst, or heat. I spend the rest of the afternoon cooking and baking to pass the time. I should be working, seeing that my presentation is on Monday, but I can’t focus on work-related thoughts. Abby loves beef olives, so I set out preparing the stuffing and marinating the meat for tomorrow night’s dinner. I prepare sweet peppers, aubergines, red onions, and cherry tomatoes for an antipasta starter and bake cheesecake for dessert. Francois was right when he said the older I get, the more I’m like my mother. I’m not happy unless I feed people. By the time the blueberry sauce for the cake is done, I feel considerably better. My life might be in tatters and my idea of a stable home for Abby shattered, but I still have my family, my friends, my health, a good job, and my home. I have a lot to be thankful for. I’m done moping. I’ll get over this. All I need is time.
Brian
Mom and Sam are dancing to a tune on the radio in the kitchen when I get home.
“Hey,” Mom says with an out-of-breath laugh, pushing the hair from her sweaty face.
She’s pretty when she’s happy. Her cheeks are flushed, and her olive skin glows. Her eyes shine like moonstones, more blue than green, just like Sam’s.
I hug her before kissing the top of Sam’s head. “What are you girls up to?”
Sam purses her lips together to suppress a grin as she motions at the table. “Working on my science project.”
On the table lies a tangle of sticky tape, drinking straws, and pieces of a plastic milk bottle. The creation looks wilted.
“What’s it supposed to be?” I touch one of the floppy ears and the whole thing comes off.
“That was my space shuttle,” Sam says with her hands on her hips.
Mom breaks into laughter. Carefree. Sober.
I love these rare moments. Sitting my butt down in the chair, I pull the thing closer. “Better make it look like one, then.”
Mom switches on the kettle while I cut through the tape with my knife, dismantling the pieces.
“Get some foil,” I instruct Sam.
In no time, we have a perfect resemblance of a space shuttle. When Sam carries it to her room, Mom leans in the door and lights a cigarette.
“What’s up?” she asks, studying me.
“Why do you think something’s up?”
“I know you too well. You’re brooding over something.”
I push back the chair and stretch my legs. “I met someone.”
“Ah.” She takes a drag and blows the smoke over her shoulder. “Did this someone meet you, too?”
“Not yet. Not like I want her to, but she will.”
“It sounds serious. I’m happy for you.” Her eyes take on a wistful look.
She’s had her share of shit. My dad left just after the accident, before he knew she was pregnant with Sam. Even when she told him, it wasn’t enough to bring him back. I wish to God she’d meet someone else. She’s young and pretty enough.
“You should try it,” I say carefully, gauging her reaction. “Go out. Meet someone. Have fun.”
Her posture turns stiff. It’s as if my words turned her into a salt pillar. The smoke coiling into the air is the only movement. When she eventually manages a smile, it’s tremulous. “I’m okay. I’m happy where I am.”
We both know it’s a lie. She can’t set a foot beyond the peeling stairs of our back porch. It’s always bothered me, but today is extra bad. The worry gnaws into my chest, carving deep lines into my heart. Maybe it’s having been in Jane’s beautiful home, having had a glimpse at perfect, having stepped out of my ugly comfort zone, or maybe it’s the way Mom looked earlier when I walked through the door, making me want more of that for her.
Desperation makes me say, “They’re gone, you know,” not before I’ve stolen a glance at the corridor to make sure Sam’s out of earshot.
“I know.” Her smile is sad. “You did the right thing.”
I’ve on
ly told her once. I never meant to repeat my violent secret, but it’s paramount she understands.
Her hand trembles as she brings the cigarette to her mouth. She takes a last drag before killing the bud under her heel and coming back inside to dump it in the trashcan. A sinking feeling settles over me when she opens the cupboard and reaches for the gin.
Goddamn.
All I do is ruin everything with my fucking big mouth.
I get the tonic from the fridge and unscrew the cap before filling up her glass.
“Thanks.” She shoots me a grateful look.
“You’re welcome.”
She settles at the table with her drink, humming to the tune on the radio.
Pulling the sweaty T-shirt over my head, I head for the door. “I’ll cook. I just need to take a shower, first.”
“I can take care of it. Sam can help.”
I squeeze her shoulder as I pass. “You can put up your feet.”
Her eyes follow me to the door, but she doesn’t answer. She’s already zoned out.
Jane
Debbie lives in a two-bedroom townhouse in Centurion. I only found out after the divorce that Francois has been paying for it for over a year. I park in the street and ring the bell on the intercom. Abby rushes through the gate. Her hair is done in a French braid, and she’s wearing a new orange T-shirt with Guess written in glitter. Abby is like a crow. She loves everything that shines.
“Mom!” She hugs me hard.
“Hey.” I kiss her cheek. “Wow, you look nice.”
She turns in a circle, her arms spread out. “Do you like it? Debs did my hair, and she bought me the T-shirt. We went shopping, yesterday. We had carrot cake and facials at Pink.”
Everything inside me protests, not only to the hairdo, the clothes, and the spa visit, but also the role Debbie is taking in Abby’s life.
I sound more critical than I mean. “You’re too young for a facial.”
“Mom,” she says, dragging out the ‘o’ and rolling her eyes.
“Hello, Jane.”
I drag my attention away from my daughter, turning it toward the sound of the voice.
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