by Donna Alam
Those are, what I’d call, the bare facts. As in, they’re barely factual.
We had a party at the end of the shoot. She didn’t want to go, and we fought; she’d been in a strange mood the whole week—fuck knows why. But I needed her there, and she wanted to stay in the suite and sulk.
I told her she could please herself. My needs be damned.
I went. She followed. We got wrecked—separately. We were like planets orbiting that evening and destined for a collision in hindsight. I lost track of her, lost in the fugue of euphoria and a drunken vibe. Then later, my mood softened, sap that I am. I tried to put myself in her position. I went to look for her, but she hadn’t gone back to the suite. She also wasn’t answering her phone.
Short story, real late—or real early, depending on your take of things—I caught a limo home. And there she was, near naked and sprawled across our bed. She was alone, but she’d had a man there; he’d left his shirt hanging in the bathroom. Who leaves without their fucking shirt?
I’d always thought myself a natural brawler, but right then, I was nothing but a fucking cripple. And she was the cause.
‘So you’re sorry. You’re sorry? Yeah, well, so am I.’ My voice gets louder, and I shove my fists in my pockets to stop from putting them around her neck. ‘I’m so fucking sorry,’ I roar, ‘that you left me for a lie. You fucking left—threw it all away. And for what?’ She opens her mouth, but I’m not ready to hear her talk. ‘The asshole is fucking gay.’
So I’ve lived imprudently.
So I’ve fucked my way through half of L.A. since she left.
So I fought and got drunk and made lots of nasty new friends.
So I did all those things just to block her out.
I’m also a masochist because I made it my business to find out who she went home with—a grip from the movie I was working on. I wasn’t sure what to do with the information, short of beating him into non-existence. I thought about it plenty—how could I contrive to hurt him without anyone knowing how much I hurt. And then he appeared on my latest set. The guy didn’t know who the fuck I was, beyond being Dylan Duffy, and was equally perplexed when I got up in his face.
Did you enjoy fucking my wife? Sure, she’s hot, but maybe that she was mine was part of the draw?
Such a conceited asshole.
Short story? She lied. She let me believe she’d fucked some guy when a good Samaritan did nothing but take her home. He said he found her sobbing outside the hotel, almost incoherent with drink and clearly upset. He’d been at the party but didn’t know we were together. But how could he when she made our marriage a secret. She’d told him she’d fought with her husband and wanted to go home; that she just needed a cab. He ended up driving her there, helping her out of her vomit-splattered dress and then into bed. Turns out she’d vomited on him, too, so he’d stripped out of his puke-stained shirt. He’d left her tucked onto her side and left in his undershirt.
I’ve punished us both for her supposed infidelity, and every woman I’ve fucked had her face. So many women, so many times. And I’ve hated them all in her place.
Guess who’s the adulterous one now.
So much for getting her to rage. As she recoils, my anger boils. She doesn’t cry, and she doesn’t answer, simply hanging her head.
Fucking shame. I hope she’s feeling it because fuck knows I am.
‘When did you find out?’
‘When did I learn my life was a joke, and my wife a lying cunt? About three weeks ago.’
‘I still don’t know what you want from me, Dylan.’
I want to know if you ever loved me.
I want absolution.
I want you to fucking look at me!
‘I want you to tell me how many men you’ve fucked since you left.’
She grits her teeth against more cursing, spitting out instead, ‘None, okay? I haven’t s-slept with anyone.’
‘Ah, too bad,’ I reply with an exaggerated pout. ‘Because this here?’ I spread the papers out in front of us both. ‘This says you committed adultery. If you want a divorce, you gotta make that right.’
Chapter 10
Ivy
‘Make it right?’ My mind is racing a mile a minute, and I don’t know what to say—what to think. He can’t mean it. Why would he say such a thing?
‘Do you have any idea what you’ve done to me?’
‘From where I’m standing’—I lift my head and sneer—‘you look pretty smug. And from what I’ve seen? It looks like you’re doing just fine.’
‘The fuck would you know,’ he growls.
‘Well, apart from Miss Perky Tits walking Nigel, I suppose I could also cite DMZ.’
‘Oh, so you do wonder?’ he says, the smug one now. ‘You been keeping tabs on all my bitches, babe?’
‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ I hurl back, wishing I hadn’t let that slip; acknowledging any interest in Dylan won’t do either of us any good.
‘You’re a fucking trip. It’s all about the evasion—you can’t even admit I’m right, can you? Because if you don’t confess, no one knows sweet Ivy isn’t as sweet as she seems. Did you get some sense of satisfaction, knowing you’d ruined me without soiling your pristine fucking self?’
‘Do you hear yourself ? So you found out I didn’t screw him but did you ask yourself why?’
‘He’s not into vaginas, babe.’
‘You know what? This is a waste of time.’
‘Like the rest of our marriage, huh? You ask if I’ve wondered why. The answer’s all the fucking time!’ he roars. His face is so full of rage that I find myself stumbling backwards out of his reach. ‘Why would you do that to us—to me—but then it occurred to me, like a blinding flash.’ His hand grasps my wrist, pulling my body into his. ‘You kept our marriage a secret so you could walk out when it suited you. Not quite as unsullied as you seem, Edera, baby?’
A rush of disbelief is expelled from my chest. ‘You have it all figured out, haven’t you? If that’s what you think, why bloody well ask me?’
Knows nothing, more like. Nothing at all. He doesn’t deserve the satisfaction, either. I’m not going to tell him the pressure I was under from his nasty agent; how he’d cornered me in the hotel that night to lecture me again, to tell me I was the only thing holding him back. That, if not for me, his star would truly shine.
It must be bloody incandescent now. A bit like his rage.
I’m not going to stand here and ask him to explain how my silence equalled guilt in his eyes. Or admit the situation snowballed out of my control—that as he ranted and raved, the cogs in my mind whirred.
If he believes you brought a stranger home, he doesn’t know you. He can’t love you, not really. If he believes, it’s because he wants it to be true. He doesn’t need you. Didn’t his agent already insinuate it was only a matter of time before he cheated, anyway? Better to cut my losses before the pain is unmanageable.
I think we were both in a state of disbelief, and following that awful morning, I spent only hours living with him as his wife. I don’t know what I expected—maybe for him to shrug off the shroud he’d covered me with. Maybe for him to wake up and see the truth—to see me.
That day and those hours that followed, I let him degrade me, call me names. But not once did he ask me if I’d actually betrayed him—if I’d really screwed another man.
Nor did he ask why.
He just raged, said awful things, and then stormed out. He came back later that evening stinking of someone else’s perfume. My memory of it all is crystal clear. Cuts like glass, too. I was waiting on the sofa when he stumbled in. As he stood in the archway, his abhorrence of me was clear. My eyes tracked his body, the body I called home, scanning every inch of him just to reassure myself that he was okay—that he was whole. That maybe he’d come to the truth. Instead, my heart was pierced when I saw the smudge of lipstick near the zipper of his washed-out jeans.
Leave later, and it’ll hurt so much more than it does now.
He didn’t know me. Didn’t care to.
So I packed a case and left for good.
‘You’re a piece of fucking work.’
‘Yeah, you’re right,’ I reply evenly. Nothing good can come from arguing with him. ‘I faked the whole thing just to get out of this marriage. I did it all—faked adultery to make you despise me. It worked, though, right?’
Something dangerous crosses Dylan’s face. It’s not confusion—it’s almost like he doesn’t care to know. Releasing my wrist, he turns away.
‘Nice to hear the truth for a change, but it’s not enough,’ he says, whipping back to face me once again, though this time from farther away.
‘Enough with the cloak and dagger,’ I say wearily. ‘You’re not on set now. You asked me to come—’
He quirks an eyebrow, folding his arms across his broad chest. ‘I never ask. I take.’
‘And don’t I know it. You forced me here—blackmailed me. Now, just tell me why. How can the fact I haven’t committed adultery be put right?’
As I speak, the expression on his face works through a whole bunch of things—black anger to amusement. Amusement to devilry—and not the fun kind. Before he even opens his mouth, I know what he’s going to say. I know it, but I can’t believe it. Not from him.
‘That’s easy, babe. You just have to fuck some other guy.’
I don’t answer as his words settle in my stomach like a cold stone. I can feel my brows furrow because he can’t mean it. He can’t want me to—
‘And if I don’t?’
‘Well,’ he says, rubbing his chin now. ‘I do have a kind of extensive video collection. I could maybe get my kicks from that. Me and the rest of the world.’
‘I don’t understand why you would do this,’ I repeat softly.
‘And I don’t care,’ comes his response. ‘Not anymore.’
Chapter 11
Ivy
Tonight .
He’d brushed by me as he’d walked from the kitchen without even righting the fallen stool.
‘Wear something nice.’
And by that, I’d understood we were going out. Out to get screwed.
I think I’m still in a state of shock as I can’t be considering this. Can I? Yet I’ve showered, and I’m sitting in front of the dresser with a hairbrush in my hand.
This is some kind of test. Maybe he’s seeing how far he can push before I cave. But that’s not happening, and the Dylan I know couldn’t be so cruel. So callous. Not to me, anyway.
Whatever his reasoning and whatever the outcome, I won’t be able to manage my end of this charade without a little crutch, and that’s why I’m staring at the glass of vodka on the dressing table as my phone begins to ring.
‘Want to hear something funny?’
‘Hello, Natasha.’ My voice is calm—too calm—and without the slightest of slurs. Not that she notices as she ploughs on.
‘Well, do you?’
‘I could do with a giggle,’ I reply, exchanging the brush for my glass.
‘Oh, yeah. Poor you—you’re the one in sunny L.A. while we’re in wet flippin’ Auchkeld slaving away.’
‘I’d swap you. Right now,’ I add following a mouthful of the fiery liquid. ‘Seriously.’
‘Are things that bad?’ she asks, a little more solemn now.
‘No,’ I answer immediately. ‘They’re okay. I’m just tired. The flight—you know?’
‘That’s all it is?’ she asks, unconvinced.
‘Abso. Come on, don’t keep me in suspenders. What’s so funny I need to hear?’
‘Suspense, y’wee daftie.’
‘Come on—not even I’m that awful. I was being ironic.’
‘Hmm,’ she responds, unconvinced. ‘It’s no’ so much funny ha-ha as funny strange.’
I make an enquiring noise, staring at the clear liquid as I swirl it around my glass.
‘You don’t happen to be working for some Hollywood bigwig, do you?’’ She doesn’t wait for an answer to her cryptic question. ‘But no. You couldn’t be. You’d surely share that kind of information with your best pals.’
‘Shall I just go—hang up? This seems to be a conversation you’re happy to have with yourself.’
‘You see,’ she says, ignoring my snark, ‘June was hogging the computer earlier—’
‘I was asking Dr. Google about my bunions!’ calls June’s voice somewhat farther away. ‘Leave the poor girl alone,’ she then calls. ‘She might have had to sign one of those Fifty Shades documents. You know, one of them none-gots-clothes-off agreements.’
‘Away with your nonsense.’ That Natasha’s voice sounds distant means she’s turned her head from the phone. ‘Nondisclosure, woman, and she’s no’ with Christian Grey!’ ‘So,’ she says, her voice becoming clearer again, ‘I was doing my wee morning celeb cyber stalk on my phone when I came across a photo of someone who looked an awful lot like you.’
I don’t so much as comment as I make a vague noise down the line.
‘Aye, taken outside of what was labelled, Dylan Duffy’s Love Nest . Long range camera, but she looked like you. She even had a pair of those trousers on that Fin brought you back from Italy—you know—the ones; those yoga pants?’
‘Did her bum look as good in them as mine?’ I manage a weak laugh. ‘They’re only pants. I bet you can get them all over the world.’
‘That’s the thing; Fin says they were a one-off. Only one bolt of the fabric ever made and designed just for you. Just to be sure, I kicked June off the laptop for a proper look.’
‘I can’t think why,’ I bluff. ‘The material must be similar because I’m pretty sure I’m not at Dylan Duffy’s house.’
‘I didn’t say hoose . I said love nest ‘cause he apparently lives in the city somewhere. So are you shacked up with him—livin’ large at his shag pad?’ The latter she whispers into the phone sort of avidly. ‘You can tell me—just me—June has’nae got her hearing aid in.’
‘I am not.’ I am not shacked up with him. I’ve just got a temporary stay in purgatory. A waiting room for hell where at least the vodka’s decent. I top my glass from the bottle as Nat sighs.
‘I didn’t think so, but I thought I’d check, especially as you have a backstory of sorts.’ Understatement of the year. If only she knew.
‘Sorry to disappoint.’
‘I’d be as green as a leprechaun’s arse if you were.’
‘Why?’ I sound sort of incredulous, probably a reflection of my not-so-pleasant stay.
‘He’s one big hunk of dickalicious, isn’t he? Even if he wasn’t meant solely for woman-flesh.’
‘Not meant for—what? You mean you think he’s gay?’ What a hoot. I might not like him—might despise him even—but no one who’s ever met Dylan would confuse him for anything other than straight.
‘All those women he’s supposed to be fu—f—fondling? Come on; there are just too many for it to be feasible.’
‘You think he has lots of women?’ I almost choke on the words.
‘He’s had loads of women on the go these past few months.’
My heart sinks. ‘Yeah?’
‘Absolutely; an article online said so. It had a great headline: Some like it Scot . He was linked to dozens of names.’
‘Doesn’t mean anything, necessarily.’
‘I say there’s no smoke wi’out a hard-on.’ She snorts at her own rubbish joke. ‘And he loves a blonde. Lucky for me, eh? Given the chance, I’d show him blonde,’ she adds, ribald.
‘You’re a redhead,’ I answer distractedly.
‘He’d never know. I’ve no ginger anywhere except on my head, and I’ve bleached the hell out of that. Anyway,’ she adds with a sniff, ‘I reckon that man has a well-cultivated image. There’s just something about him that says too good to be true, y’ken.’
‘I detect a fault in your reasoning.’ Because he’s not too good to be true. Just look at his fucked-up plans for my evening. I slam the glass down.
; ‘Whassat?’
‘It was my glass,’ I reply, contemplating filling it again.
‘No, the fault you detect, numpty.’
‘Oh. I meant that video.’ The one I can’t believe I’ve brought up. The one where my arse has a starring role.
‘I didn’t say it was a foolproof plan, did I? Could it have been a ruse or a PR stunt?’
‘Looked pretty real to me.’ Felt so, too.
‘Yeah.’ She sighs. ‘I might have to watch it again. Maybe re-evaluate. Probably just wishful thinking that those women were beards.’
‘You’re obsessed, you know that. Truly obsessed with facial hair.’
‘But I didn’t say I was convinced. If I was, I’d have described him as gay as a spooge-covered moustache.’
‘Really?’
‘Aye,’ she responds with utter delight in her voice. ‘You can’t have a go at me for spooge. It’s not swearing. Not technically. It’s just cum!’ she adds with delight.
‘Where the hell do you come up with this stuff?’
‘It’s a gift. I thought you said you’d met him at that party, anyway.’
‘And I thought I’d asked you not to bring that up again.’
‘It’s fine,’ she replies. ‘June and Fin are in the kitchen.’
‘And,’ I say, ignoring her, because if she thinks I’m engaging in this conversation, she’s sorely mistaken, ‘that’s not the sort of stuff you ask a stranger.’
‘But you let any old Tom or Dick drink out of your cleavage, tequila tits?’
‘I’m ruing the day I ever recounted that story. You have the memory of a flippin’ eggplant.’
‘A straight man would’ve copped a—’ Nat bursts into laughter, deep raucous laughter. ‘Ah, man, you keep me entertained. It’s elephant, daftie. The eggplant is what he keeps in his pants! In fact, that’s what I’m gonna call him from now on; the man with the mighty aubergine, on account of his magnificent head!’ she says, her accent rendering the word heed .
‘How do you know he didn’t?’ I cut in. ‘Cop a feel, I mean?’
‘Ivy Adams. Have you been holding out on me?’
‘You’ll never know,’ I taunt. ‘But gay or straight, Dylan Duffy doesn’t have me stashed away in his lair.’