by Tony Salter
It would be worth it though. Making love with Rupert wasn’t only like she’d imagined, it was much, much better. Partly because he was a kind and sensitive lover, partly because she could feel herself falling in love with him, and partly because she’d remembered how much she enjoyed being with a man.
They’d both taken the afternoon off work and sneaked back to his flat in Battersea. Afterwards, they’d collapsed next to each other, stretched out in the afternoon sunshine. Rupert had wrapped both arms around her as though afraid she might escape and Fabiola had lain still and secure in his embrace, bathed in his musky male scent. Then there was a magical moment, a gap in time when he slipped from waking to sleep and she felt his grip soften and his body sag.
Fabiola had no interest in sleeping; she was loving every moment of being with Rupert and imagining many more of them. She’d changed, as though a switch inside her had been thrown and, whatever happened next, she would never be the same again.
It was time to tell Jax.
‘I’ve met someone …’, said Fabiola. Jax and Fabiola had just finished eating and sat at the small dining table enjoying the last glass from a bottle of Chianti.
‘You’ve what?’
‘I’ve met someone … a guy.’
‘You mean …?’
Fabiola could feel the heat of Jax’s gaze, like an open flame.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He’s called Rupert and …’
‘Do you think I give a flying fuck what he’s called,’ screamed Jax, jumping up from the table and sending her chair flying backwards. ‘How could you do that to us? How dare you?’
‘How dare I?’ said Fabiola. ‘How dare I? What the hell does that mean? It’s like you think you own me.’
‘That’s not what I meant and you know it,’ said Jax
‘No. I don’t know it. You’re always trying to control me and tell me what I should think and do.’
‘Oh, don’t be so ridiculous. Of course I’m not. Don’t you dare try and push this back on me.’
‘There’s that “dare” again,’ said Fabiola. ‘I’m not being ridiculous, Jax. Being with you isn’t good for me. We’ve had an amazing time together, but I need to move on. I’m sorry.’
Fabiola saw Jax clench and unclench her fists, her eyes darting around the room like a cornered vixen. She took a step towards Fabiola snarling and spitting out her words.
‘You … you …’
Fabiola looked around for somewhere to run to – she should have chose a public place for this – and then Jax stopped dead as though frozen in time. Fabiola held her breath and waited as the shutters came down one by one and Jax took herself back under control. She’d seen it happen before and recognised the signs. The maelstrom roiling inside Jax needed to be kept in check and luckily she had the raw willpower to do that. It didn’t mean that her anger was gone, or the issue resolved. It only meant that Jax was back in command and was working out a more controlled, measured response so that she could get what she wanted.
Not this time. ‘You can stay in the flat,’ said Fabiola, once she was sure that the danger had passed. ‘… As long as you want. At least until I need to sell it.’
Jax looked at her and smiled. How could she manufacture such a beautiful, charming smile at a moment like that? Even knowing her so well, Fabiola couldn’t see the cracks.
‘It’s not over between us,’ Jax said, her voice as soft and seductive as her smile. ‘I love you and you love me. I don’t know what’s going on with this guy, but we’ll work it out. You know we will.’
Jax was irresistible when she turned on the charm, but Fabiola had built her walls well. ‘It’s not really because of him,’ she said. ‘I’ve been thinking about it for a while.’ She could hear her voice cracking with emotion as she spoke. It was the right decision, but that didn’t stop it from hurting. ‘I can’t really explain,’ she continued. ‘Yes, I still love you, but I can’t be with you.’ She looked into Jax’s eyes until she made a connection. ‘I’m not going to change my mind.’
The smile hardened. ‘We’ll see about that,’ said Jax. ‘Don’t think you can just airbrush me out of your life … And besides, I know all of your dirty little secrets.’
Threats really weren’t going to make a difference. And there was no point regretting idle moments of pillow talk. In any case, Fabiola suspected that the skeletons in Jax’s cupboard were a lot more frightening. ‘What about you, Jax?’ she said. ‘What about your dirty secrets?’
Jax looked genuinely shocked. ‘You promised,’ she said. ‘You gave me your word.’
‘And I’ll keep my word.’ Fabiola took the opportunity to stand up and walk to the door. ‘I just need you to let me go. Please.’
The door slammed behind her and she ran down the stairs. It wasn’t until she was outside on the street that she dared to breathe. She stood still, half expecting the door to burst open and Jax to come running out, but the door sat still, heavy and lumpen in its wooden frame.
She’d agreed to spend the night at Rupert’s and, as Fabiola turned to start walking to the tube, she looked up and saw, at the third-floor window, a white face pressed against the dirty glass. Too far away for her to make out Jax’s expression, but it wasn’t difficult to join the dots. This was by no means over.
As she sat with Daz in the grubby van, Fabiola reflected that sometimes it wasn’t great to be right.
It had been three weeks since she’d told Jax about Rupert and nothing was close to being over. She’d seen Jax four times and forgiveness had been off the agenda on every occasion. Fabiola could probably have lived without being forgiven, but the frightening aspect was that Jax seemed unable to accept the reality of the break-up at all.
It would have been easier if there’d been a series of escalating slanging matches leading to words being spoken, lines being crossed, and eventually to a defined moment that would mark the end. Instead Jax had been at her most charming, elegantly avoiding any discussion of the break-up and peppering each conversation with discomforting phrases – ‘when you’re back …’ or ‘what are we doing for Christmas?’.
Fabiola hadn’t known how to respond and, on the last occasion, she’d caught herself trembling as she tried yet again to bring up the subject of moving out. If Jax was going to stay on in the flat they needed to agree on the rent and put contracts in place. Jax refused to discuss it, and her wry smile made it clear that there was no point. Fabiola would be back soon, anyway.
This trip with Daz and a rented van was his idea. They would make sure Jax was out, pack all of Fabiola’s things and leave before Jax got back. Presenting Jax with a fait accompli would almost certainly send her into some sort of incandescent hissy fit, but they’d be well clear by then and the rage would burn itself out, eventually. And, while Fabiola would have asked Rupert to help, the idea of ever telling him about Jax was losing more and more appeal every day.
Fabiola had never known exactly what Jax did to make money. It was something to do with computer security and it paid well …
Jax had spent hour after long hour trying to explain how one day, she would build the Next Great Thing which would change the world. It wasn’t that Fabiola didn’t believe her – Jax was smart and determined enough. Fabiola just wasn’t interested in dreams of global domination; it wasn’t her fault that she found herself heavy-lidded and falling asleep as soon as the subject came up.
Whatever it was that she did, Jax wasn’t standing still. She’d set up a small office on Gower Street and even had a pretty young assistant manning the phones and making tea. Fabiola knew there was no point in suggesting that those capitalist baby steps might be slightly in conflict with Jax’s commitment to passionate (and violent?) anarchism. Jax had her own – somewhat fluid – set of principles.
Fabiola and Daz had been sitting in the van since half past ten – she was almost certain that Jax never managed to drag herself out of the flat any earlier.
She looked at her watch. ‘I make it nearly eleven-thirt
y,’ she said, sinking back into her seat. ‘What about you?’
Daz looked at her and nodded. ‘Yup,’ he said. ‘Over an hour and no sign of her.’
‘Sorry about this,’ said Fabiola. ‘It really is Sod’s Law that we’ve picked a day when she’s decided to finish reading War and Peace before going to work.’
Daz laughed. ‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘We’ve got all day.’ He poured a cup of tea into the lid of his thermos and handed it to Fabiola. ‘Anyway,’ he added. ‘This is nice.’
It was after twelve when Jax finally appeared. She was hunched into her down jacket, cap pulled forwards over her eyes. Fabiola might have missed her if she hadn’t recognised the jacket and the cap – they were both “borrowed” from Fabiola. As she strode away from them towards the tube, Fabiola was reminded of how different Jax could be when she thought she was unobserved. Even her walk was different.
They gave her five minutes before getting out of the van and crossing the road. Fabiola found herself looking up and down the street like some sort of Cold War spy. Her pulse was throbbing in her neck and she could feel how clammy her hands were as she fumbled for her keys. This was ridiculous. It was her bloody flat after all.
She almost jumped when Daz rested one hand on her shoulder. ‘Calm down, Fabs,’ he said. ‘Everything’s going to be fine.’ He took the keys from her and opened the door. ‘Come on. Let’s get this over with.’
Fabiola had decided to leave most of the furniture, glasses, pots and pans and they packed all of her personal belongings into a motley assortment of suitcases, boxes and shopping bags. It didn’t take them much more than an hour and, as she looked at the sad pile heaped up by the front door, she felt a pang of loneliness. Was this it? Was this her life? No family, and she’d have no friends to speak of by the time Jax had finished twisting them against her.
Daz would always be her friend, but she couldn’t imagine him and Rupert getting along. The Tory public school boy estate agent and the anarchist mental health nurse. That was never going to happen. She smiled at the thought and picked up the first box. As she started down the narrow stairs, she realised what had been worrying away at the back of her mind like a dog scratching on the door to come in out of the rain. For a while at least, she would only have Rupert and that was a lot to ask of a guy in his twenties. Was he up for it?
Twenty minutes later and the van was packed. Fabiola went back up alone and stood in the middle of the living room, saying goodbye – to Jax, to her friends, to her parents once again and also, in some strange way, to her youth. There was one last thing to do but, as she reached into her pocket, she heard the slam of the outside door. She froze. Had Jax come back for some reason? Had she spotted them in the van somehow? How would she react when she saw Fabiola?
She stood motionless, holding her breath and silently praying as the sound of footsteps reached the top of the stairs. She waited for the sound of a key scratching its way into the lock, but it never came. She held her breath until she heard the sound of her neighbour’s door slamming shut and then sagged forwards, gasping. It was definitely time to leave.
As Fabiola took the letter from her pocket and placed it on the table, she thought of the hours spent trying to find the right words. She wanted to tell Jax how much she’d meant to her, that she still loved her, but also to make it clear as glacial ice that their relationship was over. Jax needed to accept that and move on.
In her heart, she knew that it wouldn’t help, but at least she’d tried.
When Rupert came back from work, Fabiola was sitting in the middle of the pile of bags and boxes, wearing a t-shirt and nothing else. It was one of Rupert’s t-shirts – long, but not that long.
She grinned at him and stretched her arms wide. ‘Is this what you wanted?’ she said.
‘Oh yes,’ he said, stepping forward and reaching down to lift her from her cardboard throne. ‘I thought you’d never do it.’
Fabiola felt the happiness and relief flood into her. This was where she was meant to be. A perfect future with this man and, yes, his children. She wanted to make the leap of commitment even if it left her exposed and vulnerable. He was the one.
In the midst of her euphoria, she felt a cold draught sneaking in through the open door and shivered.
‘One thing though, Roop,’ she whispered in his ear. ‘One condition.’
He pulled back to look at her, worry lines crinkling his forehead. ‘Of course. What?’
‘Promise you’ll always look after me.’
Rupert laughed and span her round, mindless of the boxes sent flying in the process. ‘Too easy.’
Fabiola held his gaze and lifted one hand to touch his cheek. ‘I’m serious,’ she said. ‘Promise me.’
‘I promise.’
‘Whatever happens.’
‘Whatever happens.’ He took her hand and placed it on his heart. ‘I’ll always look after you.’
And that was that. The chill breeze disappeared as though never there and Fabiola was ready to begin the rest of her life.
2015
A Time to Grieve
I stepped silently into the cool shade of the old wood-beamed porch, checked no-one had seen me, and slipped behind the blocky stone pillar into the same pew as before. Most of the people in the front rows had been at the christening, but the flowers and the clothes they were wearing couldn’t have been more different. I could still remember the first time I’d been here, watching Fabiola and Rupert smiling and laughing as their son was welcomed into the God’s family. Bloody hypocrites. The bitter taste of betrayal on the back of my tongue was the same.
One thing we all had in common; none of us could have imagined, just two years earlier, that we would now be gathered together, in this place, for this reason. The same vicar who’d christened Sam was droning on about what a wonderful wife and mother Fabiola had been, and I was filled with a fresh wave of fury. I sat like a statue, squeezing my eyes closed in a vain attempt to hold back the red waves which swept across my vision. At least the blood thundering in my head helped to drown out the vicar’s feeble platitudes.
What did the smug God-fearing idiot know about Fabiola? He’d probably only met her once before – at the little brat’s christening. He wouldn’t know who she’d really been, what she was like – as a wife, mother, friend or lover – but was apparently qualified to share his thoughts, regardless. Why? Because he was a vicar.
It was ridiculous and, anyway, no-one else had known Fabiola like I had. We’d been granted a unique once-in-a-lifetime bond which had been destined to burn for eternity. Even after she’d allowed herself to get pregnant, I’d known that Fabiola would eventually come back to me, like a wild salmon – running free for a time, but destined by the laws of its deeper nature to return to its true home. If she’d only kept a little perspective.
No regrets. There was no point, and I couldn’t allow myself to think that way. I returned my attention to the vicar. A few months earlier, the Church of England had agreed to allow full funerals for suicides, but the decision wasn’t yet approved. By rights, Fabiola should still be buried half-in and half-out of the consecrated graveyard like some sort of criminal. I knew that wouldn’t be happening; one way or another that cow of a mother-in-law would have pulled whatever strings were necessary to make sure everything was neat and conventional – her family’s name was what mattered most of all. And the fact that Fabiola had been Catholic definitely shouldn’t interfere with a dignified funeral in the local Protestant church and an elegant reception with just the right amount of restrained grief. The whole thing was bloody Victorian.
Looking at Rupert, who was standing hunched over the coffin holding his wriggling brat, I wondered if the reception might end up being a little less dignified than his mother was hoping for. He was a mess, his whole body shaking and his face corpse-white with rage and grief. If he hadn’t been holding the baby, I imagined him throwing himself on top of the coffin, wailing and tearing his clothes like they do in the movies.
And then there was Daz, misery tucked away behind his scruffy beard, wrapping a meaty arm around Rupert and the kid and leading them back to their pew.
What was that all about? One moment Daz is a creepy stalker, bringing Fabiola’s unsavoury London past into her new squeaky-clean world. The next, he’s the family friend, sitting on the front pew and comforting the grieving widower. It must have somehow been their fault that things had gone so badly wrong. Nothing I had done was enough to make Fabiola do what she did – I’d thought the plans through so carefully. It must have been the child, or the mother-in-law, or Rupert, or Daz, or all of them together. They were to blame.
I hadn’t believed I had room for more anger. Every waking moment for the previous three weeks had been filled with visions of grabbing Fabiola by the shoulders and shaking her like a doll. Why had she been such an idiot? She had deserved to be punished for leaving, and she had been, but what had made her react like that? When I hadn’t been shaking her, I’d been holding her close and mumbling silent apologies into her cold, unhearing ear.
There had only ever been Fabiola. Before her, after I finally escaped from my father, I had made a commitment to stay alone – apart from sex, of course – to keep my vow and to never cede control to anyone. Meeting Fabiola had blindsided me, and the fact that I still had the ability to really care about another person had been both a shock and a surprise. It was as though a gentle summer breeze had rekindled embers which I’d long assumed to be black, cold and lifeless. For a while that new flame had felt so wonderful that I hadn’t cared how vulnerable I was becoming.
For a while…
I caught a movement at the edge of my vision. A man had moved out of the shadows and was now sliding along a pew on the opposite side of the church? Mirroring me, he was hiding from the other mourners, tucked behind the twin of my own stone pillar. I knew him from somewhere. He was older than Fabiola – maybe late forties – and good looking in a washed-out Hollywood matinee idol way. I’d seen his face before, but couldn’t remember where. It would come to me.