Suddenly, Sasha realised something – she was having a really great time. She was genuinely enjoying herself. She did not feel like the jealous tag-along girlfriend. She felt like she could be Tara’s new friend.
As the two of them talked about shoes, clothes, diets, men, Sasha suddenly realised that Sam was listening with a satisfied silence. He was letting them get on with it. He was letting them bond.
Sasha felt her heart open and swell with love, and self-love. This was totally different from Kirk. She was being included, accepted and most of all, Sam was giving her reason to trust him.
She loved him. She could feel it. The L-bomb had smashed her with an unavoidable certainty. This was love. A different type of love; secure, content, comfortable.
“He’s so into you,” Tara whispered, when Sam went to the toilet.
“Really?” Sasha asked, surprised, her eyes widening with shock and pleasure in equal measure.
“Yep!” Tara grinned. “I know Sam, and I know he’s into you,” she winked.
Sasha’s face suddenly became earnest and grateful. “Thank you, Tara,” she said softly. “Thank you for including me today. You don’t know how grateful I am for that.”
Tara’s face softened. “Aw, of course, honey,” she smiled. “I’m just happy to see Sam happy. He’s like my wee brother, you know?”
Sasha nodded. Yes, yes she did know. She could see that now. They really were like brother and sister.
“So…” Sasha said, trying to change the subject. “What about you? Anyone special on the scene?” she had a glint in her eye, teasing her, wondering if she’d confide.
“Aw, Sasha,” Tara sighed. “I am a fuckin’ nightmare with men.” She took another large sip of her beer as Sasha nodded in understanding.
“I always go for the bastards, you know? The bad boys.”
Sasha nodded again. “Yup. I hear ya. Been there. Done that.”
“I mean… I know why I do it…” Tara continued. “It’s the excitement. The chase. You know?”
Sasha nodded whole-heartedly again. “Yep. Defo.” The two of them had descended into a tipsy state. Mirroring each other. Agreeing with everything the other was saying.
“And when they’re too nice…” Tara went on. “God, I get so bored.”
“Hm-hm,” Sasha agreed.
“I mean, this is going to sound awful, but the last date I had…” Tara began, before swigging another gulp of her beer, “and bearing in mind this was a first date, an online date… we’d never, ever met before…”
Sasha nodded and smiled, loving this girlie chat.
“Well, he turned up, wait for this… carrying a huge Hotel Chocolat bag,” Tara laughed.
Sasha understood. “He was making too much effort?”
“Yes! Exactly.” Tara proclaimed. “God. I know I’m fucked up. But when a guy is too keen – too needy – right from the very start – I’m like… Ugh!”
Sasha nodded in complete understanding. “It’s like they’re investing too much in you before they’ve even had time to get to know you. They’re desperate to have anyone.”
“Yes!” Tara nodded in satisfaction, glad someone understood. “I mean, God forbid, I’d much rather have a guy just turn up, look a bit scruffy, chat a bit, then leave.”
Sasha nodded. “There’s no pressure that way.”
“When they’re texting you constantly and they’re too available… you’re just like… whatever!”
“Hm-hm,” Sasha nodded again, taking another sip of her beer.
“Hey, girls…” Sam suddenly interrupted.
The two of them looked up from their engrossed conversation and gave him an inquisitive look.
“I’m just nipping out to get cigs – be back in a mo, okay?”
Tara nodded and waved him off like an annoying fly. “Yeah, see you later,” she said, before continuing with her monologue to Sasha.
Sam gave Sasha little wink that said, Are you okay on your own with her?
Sasha beamed back, her smile saying, Yeah, I’m fine.
And she was, more than fine. In fact she was having an absolutely bloody brilliant day.
Chapter Forty
Unfortunately, Sasha’s confidence and security in Sam didn’t last. If trusting him could have been a button that she pressed once and was done with, that would have been superb. But it wasn’t like that with Sasha.
Sasha’s insecurity was like one of those heat lamps in a pub garden. You pressed the big red button. The lamp was illuminated with a soft red glow. You sat underneath, basking in the heat and the warmth. And then, suddenly, on a timer setting, the red glow disappeared, and you were plunged back into the cold and the dark. You’d have to get out of your chair, stand up, go over to the red button and press, to afford you another few minutes of heat and light, before being thrust into the darkness again. So it was with Sasha’s insecurity. The trip to Dublin with Tara was like pressing the red button and feeling the warmth of trust and security and acceptance. But then, back on her own again and back on her default setting, the button clicked off and she was plunged into insecurity again.
This time it was triggered by another announcement of Sam’s. Not that he was going to Dublin again with Tara, but that he was going on a yoga weekend with her.
“It’s Tara,” he said, over dinner that night. “She’s invited me to London with her, there’s some yoga weekend on. She wants company.”
They were sitting in a romantic setting – a plush restaurant with red velvet chairs and flickering candles in old Chianti bottles. The waitress was smiley and helpful. There weren’t many other customers, and the customers that were there, were hushed and polite.
It should have been perfect. It should have been the perfect romantic setting. But Sasha felt slapped in the face.
A yoga weekend away with Tara? Was he fucking kidding?
Immediately her mind flew to negative fantasies. A room full of scantily clad women in brightly coloured leotards. All of them had perfect bodies, of course. They were stretching out on their mats; their perfectly-sized derrieres being pointed upwards in Sam’s direction. He would be having a hard time containing the erection that was threatening to poke out through his shorts.
After the yoga, they were bound all to be going for dinner and drinks. Of course Sam would be the only guy in the entire group. The other girls would be pouncing on him; vying for his attention. Surely he would end up succumbing?
Suddenly Sasha realised, in her negative heightened fantasy, that clearly she didn’t trust Sam. Did she really trust anyone? Did she really trust any guy?
“Are you okay?” Sam asked, breaking her reverie.
“Huh?” She looked up at him quickly, suddenly realising that she hadn’t heard a word he’d said because her mind was going ninety miles an hour.
He smiled softly at her. “Are you okay?” he repeated. “You seem a little distracted?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” she lied, waving the idea off like a fly. But the meal continued in painful silence. Pathetic small talk ensued about how nice the food was and how nice the décor was, but a large, overwhelming elephant sat in the room between them. Sam; puzzled at her silence. Sasha; her mind racing with the negative images of the yoga weekend.
“I’m just nipping to the loo,” Sasha excused herself, pushing back her chair and giving him a small and insincere smile. “Back in a mo.”
“Sure,” he said, his face worried at the change of atmosphere.
Sasha hated herself. Right at that very moment; she hated herself. She knew she was being awkward, uncomfortable, and rubbish company. She knew she was being insecure, negative and untrusting. But she couldn’t stop herself. She was on that train again, and it was speeding off the rails, and she couldn’t stop herself.
She wished she could wrench inside and pull the insecurity out and throw it far, far away. But she couldn’t. It was lodged there. Her default setting. And she needed constant reassurance each time it raised its ugly head. And she
knew Sam couldn’t give that to her. What man could constantly feed her reassurance each and every time, without getting tired of it? An extremely patient one, that’s what. And she wasn’t sure Sam had it in him for that. She wouldn’t blame him either.
She tried to give herself a firm talking to in the toilets.
C’mon Sasha! Snap out of this! Please! Just let it go!
But it was like talking to a brick wall. The words bounced off and reverberated back again.
Returning to the table, Sasha suddenly felt exhausted with the mental table-tennis that had been battling about her head. She was drained.
“How about a nice chocolate dessert?” Sam grinned at her, as though a feed of sugar would change her hormones from this tense and stressed-out stranger, to the normal bubbly, chatty Sasha.
Sasha bit her lip. “Would you mind terribly if we headed home? I have a bit of a headache.”
Sam could not hide the hurt that etched over his face when she said that; as though he too had been slapped.
“Sure,” he gulped. “I’ll get the bill.”
It should have been a perfect evening; a Friday night, a romantic setting. But she had ruined it entirely. She metaphorically kicked herself the whole way out of the restaurant and back home.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” Sam said softly, when they were back at home and sitting on the sofa with a glass of wine in hand.
In that split second, she loved him. She loved him for being so calm. She loved him for not becoming angry or defensive with her. She loved him for being willing to help.
She took a deep breath. She decided she had to be honest. She owed him that much at least.
“I felt jealous,” she admitted. Saying the words slowly, with trepidation and embarrassment.
He looked at her quizzically.
“About the yoga weekend,” she continued, spitting it out in one go.
He nodded slowly, as though he understood.
“Is this about Tara?” he asked. “I thought you two got on okay? I thought you were all right with her now?”
Sasha shook her head quickly. “No, it’s not Tara,” she said. “It’s all the other girls going. All those girls in their leotards with their perfect yoga figures…” she trailed off. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment and shame. Cringing; that’s what she was doing. But she owed him an explanation. She owed him that much at least.
She was waiting for him to be defensive. She was waiting for his body language to clam up and his voice to become harsh and for him to say something like, ‘Don’t you trust me?’
And her answer would have had to be, ‘No, no I don’t trust you. But then again, I don’t trust anyone. Any anyway, shouldn’t trust be earned?’ She hadn’t known him long enough to trust him. And that would have been her honest answer.
But he didn’t do all that. He didn’t get defensive or accuse her. He simply said, quietly, “What happened, Sasha? What happened to make you so insecure like this?” His voice was soft, calm, gentle. He was coming from a loving, concerned place.
His question startled Sasha. She hadn’t been expecting warmth and love and compassion. She had been expecting defensiveness and anger and impatience.
“Good question,” she replied, honestly. “I think it would take me too long to tell you, though.” She thought back to the number of counsellors she’d been sent to see. The number of times she’d told them her story. The number of times they’d looked across at her, over the box of tissues, shaking their head in sympathetic horror.
Sam linked his fingers with hers across the sofa. He looked at her warmly. “I have all the time in the world,” he smiled. “Why don’t you tell me?”
Sasha took a deep breath. Really? He was really wanting to hear her story?
As if reading her mind, he said, “I want to hear. I want to find out about you. I want us to last, Sasha, so I want to know the real you – not the one you portray to everyone.”
He looked at her softly with that kind warmth in his eyes; the warmth of the heat lamp. “I’m falling in love with you, Sasha. So of course I want to know all about you.”
Sasha felt the red glow of the heat lamp suddenly illuminate and tingle right through her. Heat and warmth tingling from the tips of her toes to the hairs on her head.
He loved her. Even on a bad night, when she was pretty unlovable, he was being kind and caring.
This was real love, she thought. The unconditional kind. The kind when he loves you even when you’re not on your best behaviour. When things aren’t going his way. When he’s trying to understand, rather than be understood.
“Okay,” she said bravely, buoyed on by his confidence. “Okay, I’ll tell you my story.”
Chapter Forty-One
“I can’t believe I’m telling you all this, but here goes…” Sasha began, taking a deep breath.
Maybe it was the wine that had soothed her nerves. Maybe it was the fact that they were curled up comfortably on the sofa. Maybe it was Sam dropping the L-bomb and telling her he wanted to know her more about her. But whatever the reason, she found herself telling him.
“It all started when I was ten, I guess. I just knew that for some reason, Dad had locked Mum in the bedroom for three days solid.”
Sam’s eyes widened. “Three days?”
“I don’t know how accurate my memory is, but that’s what it felt like – three days.”
Sam shook his head sadly.
“When he left the bedroom, he looked like an animal; angry, enraged, storming out of the house with a crazed look in his eyes.”
Sasha took another sip of her wine.
“We all went into the bedroom to see Mum. I’ll never forget what she looked like. Covered in bruises. Sitting in her pink nightie. Vulnerable; exhausted; yet smiling at us. Telling us not to worry. She asked us to reach the phone over to her. She was phoning a friend. She was getting help. She was getting out of there.”
She reached over and picked up her cigarette packet, drawing one out and pointing it in Sam’s direction. He took the proffered cigarette.
“The next day, when I walked to school, the world looked different. Grey. The world looked grey. I thought that was interesting. The day before the world was in colour. Now it was in black and white.”
She took a cigarette from the packet and held it to her lips. Sam hovered the flame of his lighter underneath.
“Mum did go. I didn’t blame her. I wanted her to get away from us. As fast as her little legs could carry her. But she kept coming back again. Like a moth to a flame. Back for more punishment. The bruises would happen again and she’d be away again. But she always returned. Always for us.”
She took a long inhalation of her cigarette.
“One time we went to visit her; my sister and I. We snuck out of school and went to the women’s refuge. There was a big room; full of armchairs. A cloud of smoke hung in the air. Lots of women with anxious faces, smoking non-stop.”
Sam set a comforting hand on her thigh.
“Mum was so proud of us. She showed us off to everyone. ‘These are my daughters’, she announced, proudly. ‘Aren’t they beautiful?’ We were taken into the ‘good room’. A kind woman fussed over us and brought us orange and biscuits. ‘Only the special guests get the biscuits, you know,’ she smiled. But I could see the look of pity in her eyes. She felt sorry for us. Poor neglected children.”
Sam cocked his head sympathetically. He was listening. Truly listening. She could see it in his eyes; in his body language. He never once interrupted her. He encouraged her to continue.
“Mum showed us her bedroom. It was down a windy staircase in the basement downstairs. It was tiny. She shared it with another woman. ‘Look’, she said, taking a shoebox from under the bed. ‘These are all your letters. I’ve kept all your letters. I read them every day’. We looked at the pile of letters in the box. Dad had made us write those. ‘Write to her’, he instructed. ‘Ask her to come home’.”
She noticed something flicker
through Sam’s eyes. Anger? Annoyance perhaps?
“But I didn’t want her to come home. I wanted her to stay there; safe. With all the other women and their comforting smoking. With the kindly woman with the orange and biscuits. I wanted her to stay there. And I wanted to move in too.”
She took another drag of her cigarette and felt Sam’s thumb gently caress her other hand.
“The beating had moved on to my brothers and sisters. With my mum not there, he needed someone else to lash out at. My sister; belt marks across her back. Unable to change for PE in case the others would notice. My brother; dragged upstairs and beaten for wetting his bed. He set his alarm every hour after that. He got out of bed every hour to go to the toilet – to try to avoid a beating. My other sister; hit with a belt because he found the contraceptive pill under her pillow.”
Sam just shook his head sadly.
“We eventually got away. I couldn’t believe it. The government gave mum her own flat. She’d been on a waiting list for years.”
She sipped at her wine again. Her glass was nearly empty, at this rate.
“We sneaked out in the middle of the night to join her. We did a midnight flit. We loaded all our stuff into my sister’s boyfriend’s van. Schoolbooks; everything. We used torches and we tip-toed on the gravel.”
Sam reached over and picked up the wine bottle; topping up her glass and then topping up his own.
“The next day in the new flat, I felt something descend on me; relief, freedom. The sunlight streamed through the window and onto the kitchen table. We were free. The world was in colour again.”
Sam smiled, as though reliving her relief, her happiness.
“‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ I asked my sister. ‘Yes please’, she replied. I went to the kettle. The brand new kettle. In the brand new kitchen. I picked two mugs from the cupboard. I could do anything I wanted. I could decide to put the kettle on and make myself a cup of tea without tip-toeing or walking on thin ice. I was free.”
Sam’s smile broadened.
“It didn’t last long, though. Dad took Mum out for dinner and coaxed her to move home. Within days, I was back in my bottom bunk bed, wondering how the hell this had happened. How had my freedom been taken off me? Why had she given that flat back to the government? Talk about looking a gift horse in the mouth.”
The Year of No Rules Page 18