by Jade Winters
With some effort, she heaved herself off the sofa, feeling more drunk than she'd realised. Putting her empty glass on the coffee table she walked unsteadily to the painting. Leaning closer to it she whispered, "What is it about you?" Her voice had the ever-so-faint slur of too much alcohol. She traced the outline of Rebecca's profile with her finger, stopping when she reached her throat. She could feel a slight memory of painting the portrait; something was etched at the back of her mind. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, as if she could force the memory out into the open.
Suddenly, without warning, she felt as though her soul had been unchained and the realisation descended slowly into her mind. She stared wide-eyed at the chain around Rebecca's neck. The numbers 143 meant something — she was sure of it. She felt a deep sense of bewilderment as she tried to make sense of it. She hadn't seen Rebecca wearing that chain, so why was it so familiar to her? A memory began to tremble on the horizon of her mind. All of a sudden, like a bolt from the blue, it came to her. The jealousy, the feelings of disloyalty when she was with Paul, nothing else could explain it — she had felt like that because she was in love with Rebecca. 143 stood for "I love you."
Amid the stillness of the night, memories began to filter through her mind, slowly at first. Rebecca finding it difficult to sit still whilst she sketched her; Genevieve laughing and promising to make it worth her while; their lovemaking afterwards... and finally, giving Rebecca the finished painting and Rebecca saying in confusion, "I don't have a chain like that."
Then the realisation dawning — the embedded message — and the look in Rebecca's eyes that spoke of her love for Genevieve.
Suddenly, the prison that had been holding her memories captive sprang open, setting them free. She fell down on a chair, startled as though she had been struck, her mind reeling.
"What the fuck!" she said aloud. Everything about her life came back to her in what seemed like a second — everything except the day of the attack, which was of secondary importance at that moment.
She poured herself another drink, her hands shaking, anger rising. She had nearly slept with Paul, and Rebecca had left the apartment probably to be with Isabel. A sense of personal violation spread throughout her at the thought of what Rebecca, Paul and her family had done to her.
* * *
The next morning, Isabel reluctantly dropped Rebecca back at her apartment. Rebecca insisted she wanted to go back alone. If this was the way it was going to be, she would have to learn to deal with it. There was no way of wrapping herself up in cotton wool, and even if there was, she wouldn't stand for it. She stood at the kerb, watching Isabel drive away, preparing herself for the daunting prospect which lay ahead of her. Paul had won. He had Genevieve; there was nothing else to fight for. She would go and see Carla on Monday morning and arrange for their financial matters to be dealt with. She would see to it that Genevieve's business would not be hung out for the world to see.
She stood in the lift and reminisced about how her time had begun with Genevieve four years previously. What goes around comes around, she thought bitterly. She had no right to be angry with Paul. Had she not done exactly the same thing to him? She walked out of the lift, keys in hand, praying they weren't out of bed yet. She needed a little time to pull herself together. She put the key in the door and went to push it open, but it didn't budge.
"What the..." she stopped herself saying it out loud, and swore under her breath. Great, now she would have to wake them up, and she looked like shit. She rang the bell several times before she heard movements in the passage. She hoped it wasn't Paul, and was relieved when she heard Genevieve's voice. The door opened a crack.
"Rebecca?"
"Yes." Genevieve closed the door to release the safety chain. She looked worse than Rebecca felt. Her hair was a mess, her face was puffy and she stunk of alcohol.
"Are you okay?" Rebecca asked with an expression of concern across her face.
"What do you think?" she replied shuffling down the hall.
"Where's Paul?" Rebecca asked hurriedly following behind her.
"Not here, that's for sure," she said refusing to look at her.
"Did you two have an argument?" Rebecca grabbed hold of her and turned her around. Genevieve pulled her arm away and looked straight into her eyes.
"You could say that. Have you been with Isabel?" The bitterness was evident in her voice.
"Yes... What happened here?" Genevieve turned around and walked toward her bedroom.
"Nothing. Look, I really feel like crap. I need to sleep."
"Genie, did he hurt you?" Genevieve didn't answer, she just walked into her bedroom and slammed the door.
CHAPTER 22
GENEVIEVE AWOKE in the late afternoon, feeling an incessant stream of sunshine on her face. Her hangover was bad. She felt as if someone was busy hammering inside her head. Memories of the previous night assaulted her. The memories of Rebecca were coming back to her. The thought of Paul naked in her bed, touching her, then his anger when she fled; it aroused nothing but pity for him. She edged out the bed, mindful of her headache, which only seemed to get worse with movement, and slowly walked to the bathroom. She groaned when she saw her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were swollen and red; she looked like a boxer who'd gone twelve rounds. She brushed her teeth and took a cold shower. Shivering, she dried herself, put on a white night shirt and made her way toward the kitchen.
As she walked into the front room, she was hit by blazing sun rays showering the room with golden warmth. Shielding her eyes with her hand, she walked around into the kitchen. She was startled to find Rebecca standing by the worktop, making tea.
"I didn't realise you were home. I thought you would have gone out," she said. She tried to appear normal as she rummaged through the kitchen drawer looking for the painkillers. Finding them, she poured herself a glass of water.
"Feeling rough?" Rebecca asked sympathetically, avoiding looking at her whilst she poured the boiling water into her tea cup.
"You could say that," she said.
"So what was that in aid of?" Rebecca said, stirring her tea, the metal of the spoon clinking against the porcelain cup. Genevieve looked at her, perplexed.
"The drinking binge, I mean. You don't normally knock it back like that."
"Oh, nothing really," Genevieve said as she drew a chair away from the table and slid onto it, popping the tablets into her mouth and chasing them with a swig of water. "Just things with Paul." She lowered her head, not wanting to meet Rebecca's eyes and reveal the anger there. "And you," she added.
"Me?" Rebecca's eyes widened at hearing this. "Have I done something to upset you?" Holding her tea, she sat down at the table opposite Genevieve.
"I don't know, Rebecca, you tell me. Have you done anything that could have upset me?" The anger was rising inside her once more.
"Nothing springs to mind," Rebecca said breezily, her eyes innocent and empty.
"Are you sleeping with Isabel?" Genevieve glared at her. Rebecca nearly choked on the tea that was making its way down her throat. She put the cup down unsteadily, spilling some over the edge. When she finally got herself together, she was aghast.
"No, no I'm not. What would make you think a thing like that?" She stood up to get some tissue and wiped the spilled tea off the table. Here Rebecca had been going through her own hell, thinking that Genevieve had slept with Paul the night before, and now this bombshell!
"Did you sleep with Paul last night?" Rebecca asked her, sitting back down and wishing her tea was something stronger as she waited for the answer.
"And why would you care?" Genevieve answered sarcastically. "I mean, you certainly haven't seemed too concerned up until now about Paul and me." Her strong stare fixed itself on Rebecca's face. Rebecca looked confused.
"I don't understand what you're talking about."
"Oh, of course you don't, how could you?" Genevieve looked at her as if she was a total stranger. "Your girlfriend gets attacked and loses her memory, a
nd the one person she should have been able to trust inexplicably lies to her. And not only that, she leaves me with a man who is trying to sleep with me, while she runs off in the middle of the night with another woman!"
Rebecca was rigid in her chair, her cheeks drained of colour.
"That's right, Becca," Genevieve said bitterly. "I remember."
"When?" She coughed; her throat was dry and she was finding it difficult to swallow.
"What difference does it make? I know," she said shaking her head sadly. "I would have believed just about anybody could have betrayed me... anybody else but you, Becca." Tears brimmed in her eyes. Rebecca stood up to embrace her, but Genevieve shot her a warning glare and she stopped short.
"Genie, it's not like it seems."
"Oh, it's not? Then please, elaborate. What is as it seems? Why didn't you tell me? Why did you let me go back with my parents and allow them to make me think Paul was my fiancé?" she asked, the undercurrent of anger in her voice rising.
"What could I say to you?" Rebecca said in desperation. "They warned me off. They threatened me and wouldn't let me contact you. I came to your hospital room one day and you were gone. I'm sure you remember that your parents had you protected like Fort Knox. What was I meant to do? It's all very well in hindsight to say I could have done this, or said that differently; but I couldn't just turn round and tell you, 'By the way, my name's Rebecca and I'm your lesbian lover!' You wouldn't have believed me, and I might never have seen you again!"
"Listen to what you're saying, Becca... You think because I lost my memory I would lose sense of my own sexuality? People have woken up from head traumas speaking different languages. What does that make them — the nationality of the language they're speaking, or the person they were before? No one can change who they are inherently, no matter which way they try to dress it up." She squinted, her head pounding.
"Do you remember who attacked you?"
"No, and if I'm honest with you, that's the least of my worries." She stood up, pushing the chair away from her.
"Genie, it sounds a lot easier from your perspective, but... I didn't tell you because I love you and I didn't want to hurt you."
"So you would have let me sleep with Paul last night, 'cause that's how much you love me," she said, feeling her eyes prickling, "and you would have let me marry him, all because you love me. When exactly was it going to end — all these lies?" The outrageousness of how they had all behaved brought her to tears. Rebecca stood up and tried to comfort her again.
"Genie, it sounds unbelievable now, but I really had no choice in the matter. Can't you try and understand that?" Genevieve pushed her away.
"The only thing I understand is that the people who supposedly cared for me abused my trust when I needed them most."
"I'm so sorry Genie," Rebecca said, tears of remorse welling in her eyes.
"It's a little too late for that, Becca." She stared until Rebecca was forced to look away and then quickly walked out of the kitchen.
CHAPTER 23
THE REVELATION THAT Rebecca was her partner and had been part of a deceptive scheme to hide it from her was too much for her to take. Genevieve sat on the train, shaking her head in disbelief. She couldn't wait to hear what her parents had to say about the despicable way they had treated her — and she was utterly disgusted by Paul. What sort of a sick person would try to have sex with someone he knew didn't want him? Does he have such low self-esteem? The closer the train edged toward Surrey, the more annoyed she became.
She let herself into her parent's house using her own key and heard muffled voices coming from the kitchen. Upon entering, she saw her parents and Paul huddled over the table together. Paul and her father were deep in conversation. It came as no surprise to her that Paul was there.
Her mother was sitting at the nearest end to the door, and was the first to become aware that Genevieve was there. She touched Eddie on the arm. He looked up and followed her gaze to where Genevieve stood. The atmosphere in the room turned cold, and she felt more of a stranger than ever before. Paul, sitting at the far end, didn't even meet her gaze; he just stared at his hands resting on the table. Her mother sat meekly while her father puffed up his chest. He reminded her of a gorilla signalling his dominance.
"You've got some explaining to do, young lady," he said, shifting his chair back. The wooden legs made a grating noise.
"I have?" she said incredulously. "Are you joking?" Her eyes darted from one to the other, and confusion spread across their faces. She frowned at her father. "Would you like to explain to me why you have all been lying to me?" She tried to keep the anger from her voice. She didn't know what was generating the heat she could feel — whether it was from outside her body or within. She took her coat off and in one swift movement, not taking her eyes of her father, put it down with her bag on the chair.
"Lying to you about what exactly?" he said, looking like one of those jack-the-lad kind of men who oozed confidence and believed they could get away with anything. She gave a short, bitter laugh.
"Oh, where shall we start?" she said. "How about my sexuality. Or maybe Rebecca and Paul."
"I don't know what you're talking about," he said arrogantly, but his eyes betrayed him, flickering for just a second.
"I know the truth, Dad," she snapped. "There's no point trying to lie anymore." She squared off toward the table, standing above them like a prize fighter waiting to commence the first fight. Paul's head shot toward her father, panic in his eyes, but her father sat there calmly, not in the slightest bit fazed.
"And what do you know, Genevieve?" her father said as Paul stood up and appeared ready to flee the room; he looked as pale as a pearl.
"That he," she said, stabbing the air toward Paul, "is not my partner and hasn't been for years."
"You know this how?" he asked, still not moving, his eyes mocking her.
"Because I remember, Dad," she said, staring at him. "Is that it?" she said, shocked. "You don't even feel ashamed of yourselves, do you? Not any of you." She could feel the tears starting to well in the corners of her eyes but was determined not to break down again. Her parents looked at her as if she was mad. "Well, is anyone going to say anything?" she asked, her voice shaking.
Paul spoke first, his face suddenly contorted.
"Everything's about you, isn't it," he said, walking around his chair slowly like a wild animal closing in on its prey. "You couldn't care less about the consequences your actions have on people, so long as you get what you want." He stopped in front of her, looking down on her; his eyes dark and hostile.
"Don't you dare try to turn this round on me, Paul. You lied to me. You all lied to me!" she said frantically, raising her voice. She stepped back from his shadow and overpowering presence. "And you — my own parents. What kind of people are you?" Her voice croaked, but it was full of intensity as she turned to her mother. "What was so wrong with me that you had to lie?" Her mother opened her mouth to speak, but stopped abruptly when she caught sight of her husband's stare.
"That's the problem with women," Paul said, shaking his head. "Always irrational, governed by their emotions. All this 'You lied to me' and 'What kind of people are you?'" he mimicked in a whiny voice. His face suddenly grew serious. "You come into your parents' house and have the audacity to ask them what sort of people they are? Do you know where you have just come from? What kind of perverted lifestyle you've been living?" he asked. "Well," he raised his voice loudly, no longer maintaining the Mr-Nice-Guy façade, "do you?"
Genevieve jumped with the unexpectedness of his outburst. His anger filled the room. Elsie looked at Eddie as if for guidance, but he just continued to watch the pair of them as though it were a show, amusement glowing in his eyes. Her mother looked worried, but Genevieve could do nothing but wait for the next verbal blow.
"You have brought nothing but shame on your family, not to mention making me the laughingstock of the art world. You and that thing, waltzing around without a care in the world �
�� openly displaying your nastiness for everyone to see; it's disgusting. Is it any wonder we lied to you? Tell me who wouldn't, who would want a lesbian as a daughter? A dirty little dyke." He spat the last words in her face.
Genevieve looked at her parents for support against the onslaught of abuse Paul was firing at her, but they said nothing. Her mother looked down and began collecting the tea cups on the table, her submissiveness speaking volumes. Nothing ever changes there then, Genevieve thought. Her father had always ruled — he'd probably congratulate Paul if he struck her to keep her in her place.
"Are you actually saying you believe you did the right thing by trying to keep my past from me?" she asked him.
"Yes. Yes, I do," he said and smiled smarmily.
"Well, it didn't work did it? What did you think I was going to do, turn into a heterosexual overnight? Are you that crazy?" She stared at him hard, and felt like she was fighting a losing battle. She had gone there angry at them, wanting a showdown, and in return they had turned the tables on her. Such was her disbelief that for a moment she wondered if a TV presenter was going to jump out of the cupboard and yell, in that annoying way they do, “Only kidding! Of course no one believed they could turn you straight by hiding your past!" followed by a cheesy grin, and "They're not that stupid!" But no one jumped out of the cupboard, and no one told her that this was all just a big, cruel joke.
Her father finally spoke in a voice so calm she hardly recognised it.
"That thing you are with, she turned you into a deviant... She took you away from us. We were only taking you back for your own good." As angry as she was with Rebecca, she didn't believe for one minute that she had been seduced into being a lesbian. If her sexuality had been so easy to change, surely she would have had no problem being intimate with Paul. But she had instinctively disliked any physical contact with him — from the feel of his hands to the texture of his stubble and the coarseness of his hair. When she compared this to Rebecca's attributes, there was no contest. She decided to keep this information back from her father — as far as he was concerned, the devil had led her astray and he was her salvation. Why did parents have children, if only to imprison them with their belief system? She felt like a caged animal at a zoo, longing to be free.