by Lee, Corri
The first two weeks post-N.G were painful and made me feel flu-ish. It was hard to get out of bed in the morning and enjoy the sensation of the sea lapping at my toes when it felt like I'd lost such a vital part of myself.
And then, on the fifteenth day of our holiday, Bethany provided me with unexpected insight and a not entirely foolish suggestion.
"If you're so cut up over losing half of the person you are," she slurred between burps, already quite sloshed at the early hour of ten in the morning, "be a new person. Lots of women go through a period of transition after a rough break up. Let's go and get you a tattoo, a piercing, a haircut," she waved a hand, "I dunno, casual sex and an STD might even do it."
"Interesting," I hummed, and was seen off with a raised hand when I announced that I was going Cecelia shopping.
I passed the front desk of the hotel and was called over by the tall and not entirely unattractive male receptionist who made eyes at me every time I walked through the lobby. I had expected a come on, not what actually arrived.
"Miss Douglas," he beamed at me, "I have someone who wants to talk to you on the line. They're most insistent."
I shook my head and leaned across the desk with a flirtatious smile. "Not possible, nobody knows that we're here."
"A Mr Nathaniel Alexander?" My eyebrow jerked. "You know him? British, bossy, thinks he's god."
"Hmm, I know him."
The receptionist raised an eyebrow, picked up the telephone receiver and passed it to me. "It's all yours."
"Thanks." I took the receiver and hiked myself over the raised front of the desk to put it firmly back down on its cradle. "That's how I answer calls from Nathaniel Alexander." Just having to say his name made my stomach knot. But the tasty, tanned receptionist just shook his head with a you-impossible-woman smile.
"He's also ordered us to, and I quote, 'remove them from the shit rooms and put them in the penthouse, charged to Alexander Publishing House'."
"Nope," I shook my head and flicked my hair over my shoulder, "we like our 'shit' rooms and we can pay for our own holiday." I sighed and drummed my fingers across the desk with a pout. "I've been here two weeks, how haven't I made a pass at you yet? What time do you get off?"
"Depends how long it takes to get you off first." I bit down on my lip, thoroughly impressed by his retort and dazzling smile. "Six."
"You know which room I'm in."
The remainder of our holiday amounted to some major image alterations, far too much alcohol and not enough food, and three weeks of nooners with the receptionist who's name I never learnt. My skin shone bronze and my hair was a golden blonde to match, after being sun bleached and then ombred by a curious little Scandinavian woman who offered to take an hour or two from her holiday to help me when she found me shopping for home highlighting kits in a pharmacy. She seemed to take a shine to me, and practically stalked me around the resort until she left a week before us.
The one permanent souvenir that I took back to London, other than the new suitcase full of swimwear which I'd probably never wear again, was the new tattoo that spanned the space between my shoulders across my back, and read 'Don't spend time beating on a wall, hoping to transform it into a door.' Coco Chanel. The man who had bestowed that quote upon me may not have realised it at the time, but it perfectly encompassed those three weeks of my life pre-N.G. No matter how hard I tried to make it work, it just wasn't my time for fireworks. As soon as I accepted it, I found closure, and I felt cleansed of all the sin which he'd thrust upon me.
In the name of productive changes, Bethany and I went shopping as soon as we touched down on British soil, and both sought out new wardrobes and make-up to seal our transitions from lovelorn sweethearts to independent coquettes. With an assortment of tightly fitted faux-leathers, wet look lycra garments and smoky eyes, women stepped back when we walked past and the men trailed behind us with their tongues hanging out. But we were complacent and untouchable- meaner than the Stepford wives who competed to have the largest handbag and smallest dog but tamer than the bitches who made it their missions to screw anything with the correct appendage. All we wanted was for the world to see that we were strong and wouldn't be broken, even if we were already fractured and hiding our cracks with convincing confidence.
Change also came in the way of redecorating the townhouse, substituting the dowdy faded wallpaper for a sleek white and dark hardwood panelling ultramodern look all the way through, removing the carpets and varnishing the original floorboards. At least, that was the plan. We weren't much further than sanding the skirting when 'Pride' rolled up to the front door in a Jaguar.
Lacking any clothes that Bethany and I were happy to spoil with paint, we pranced around in our underwear and screamed to a Lost Prophets album while we dodged each other’s splatters of white emulsion behind the rag covered furniture. We had only been back in the country for a day and had resolved to turn the thermostat up to full, and gradually reduce it until we adjusted to the bitter autumn chill. The fine weather had spoiled us.
We both yelped in surprise when the door rapped loudly and yelled 'not it' to avoid having to open it so scantily clad.
"Ah crap," I whined, when Bethany beat me to the punch, and pouted as I released the chain on the door.
The visitor glanced at me briefly, focusing on my hair and my newly nimble frame- a little on the skeletal for having prioritised fun over food on our holiday- and turned to head down the steps. "Sorry love, I was looking for Cecelia Douglas, I must have the wrong house."
I snickered and leaned against the door frame with my arms folded. "Cornelia." She turned around slowly and frowned at me, not entirely convinced, so I pointed to my eyes and then turned around to flash my 'pride' tattoo.
"Holy shit," she announced, "I didn't recognise you! Nice tan, St Tropez?"
"Bahamas." She murmured her approval, like a tan that didn't come out of a bottle was something she'd never entertained the thought of. "It's messy in here, so if you want to come in, you might want to strip."
She raised an eyebrow at me and put a hand on her hip. "Are you propositioning me?"
"Maybe, unless you have another brother hidden away who hasn't made me come yet." Cornelia snickered and unzipped her jacket as she walked past me in to the house. Bethany flew over to give her an awkward half naked hug and sped into the kitchen to make coffee.
"So, nice holiday?" Cornelia asked me, pulling a face at the tub of paint like it was some sort of foreign and exotic sculpture.
"The last three weeks were, definitely. After I made a few," I waved my hand down my body, "minor adjustments."
She raised an eyebrow at me and tossed her clothes down in the kitchen. "You rejected a free penthouse and several phone calls."
"And?" I snapped, "I needed to get away. I didn't ask to be stalked to fucking Nassau!"
"You were hardly stalked, hun. You signed into the hotel on your social networking account and your profile is open." I slapped my forehead and ran my hand down my face in annoyance. Why the hell didn't I change my privacy settings? "About Na-..."
"No." I raised a finger to stop her. "We don't speak his name."
She rolled her eyes and dug into her bag with a huff, pulling out a bulky package wrapped in silver paper. "I know he fucked up, Cecelia- I promise you that he has been getting daily reminders of how stupid he was since you left. But he's my little brother and I have an..." she sighed slowly and shook her head, "I have an obligation to come here, tell you how broken he is and fight his corner, even if he doesn't deserve it." I took the package from her hand and threw it down on the couch, completely uninterested. Cornelia leapt forward and put a hand on my shoulder, turning me around and pushing me down next to the package. "I never did agree with the way he pursed you, but he's young, stupid, and our parents were soft on him, so he always thinks he's right. There is YouTube footage of what he said to you on the night you left and it was disgusting. But trust me, you're going to want to open that." She swanned off into the kitch
en to gossip with Bethany and left me sat on the couch quietly.
I had known that I could expect to be hounded by the Alexander's when I arrived home, but I hadn't expected the harassment to land on my doorstep and come bearing gifts. The package was weighty in my hands and had no give or bend- it was completely rigid. With a sigh, I tore off the silver paper and screwed it into a ball in my hand.
My fingers stopped moving when my eyes fell on the image of my own black and white silhouette across the front of a large hardback book. 'Pride' stared up at me from the small of my back and gave me a cheeky wink, giving a nod towards my name emblazoned across the front, underneath the words 'The Price Of Success'.
"He published me" I breathed, gulping down a lump in my throat. He had completed my collection of sins.
"Everywhere is sold out, Cici. You're fucking huge." I glanced up at Cornelia through the service window, and then back down at the book. I turned it onto its side, and the pages shone up at me. "Yep, gold leaf. He pulled out all the stops."
"Gold leaf doesn't make this right, Cornelia" I grumbled and threw the book back down on the couch next to me, "I've just spent five fabulous weeks telling myself that I can live without him, I'll be damned if I'm going to throw that freedom away over fucking gold leaf."
"Oh no, I completely agree," she grinned, blowing at the steam on the cup of coffee which Bethany had just pushed in front of her, "it's taken you running away to the other side of the world for him to realise what he lost. And boy, did he get a roasting from your sexy Italian friend! Single now, isn't he?" She stuck her tongue out at me suggestively, "Share the wealth, won't you?"
I groaned and rolled my eyes, running to my bedroom to quickly retrieve my phone from my bed and dropped Cole a quick text.
Compensation for poor communication skills, sociopathic billionaires and crap coffee.
- to which I attached a contact card for Cornelia. I could hear his whoop of approval from the other end of the city.
Bethany grinned at me mischievously when I remerged downstairs and instantly got my back up. "What?" I'd had more than enough surprises for one lifetime, and now I was apparently an oblivious sell-out author, I was eager to hold onto my tranquillity before the inevitable media hype began.
"We're going out tonight" she blurted, "The Duplicate with this bitch."
I decided to skirt past the issue of 'bitch' being an approved endearment and shook my head. "The Duplicate carries a risk factor of ten." We lived by risk factors now- the one to ten scale of likelihood of encountering N.G.-The Sequel. It influenced everything, from the places we went to dinner to the television channels we watched. "Feel free to go by yourselves- I'll stay here and see if I can get that hot receptionist to get frisky with me over Skype."
"Augusto?"
"Jesus, was that his name?" I wrinkled my nose disdainfully, having preferred the thrill of anonymity. "Thanks for killing that fantasy, Bethy, I've been calling him 'Tanned and Rampant'."
"Oh my god, you crease me up!" Cornelia hacked, coughing on her coffee, "But in all seriousness, it's going to be impossible for you to avoid him, may as well risk him actually dragging himself from his pit of despair and leaving his bedroom for the..." She paused and looked at me apologetically, "He hasn't left his loft since you left, hun." Crippling guilt was the last thing I needed. It wasn't my fault that he'd taken it so badly- it was his fault for being a control freak in the first place.
"I don't care" I sniped, picking up a copy of my latest literary obsession and storming back to my bedroom.
"Whoa, whoa!" Cornelia exclaimed, jumping in front of me to block my route to the stairs, "what do you think you're doing?"
"Living vicariously through Eva Tramell. The only billionaire I need in my life is Dark and Dangerous." The door pounded next to me and caused my irritation levels to skyrocket. "What now?" I yanked it open and growled when I found Isaac-fucking-Alexander grinning at me. "I've already filled my orgasm quota for the day with the aid of YouPorn and a clitoral stimulator thanks."
"That is h-…" was all I heard before I slammed the door in his face and danced around Cornelia to reach the stairs.
As soon as the door shut behind me, I threw myself down onto my bed and had a miniature tantrum, face buried in the pillow and screaming. It wasn't fair that I was being bombarded by the Alexander clan when all I wanted to do was redecorate my bloody lounge. Nothing they could say would ever remedy the fact that their stupid brother had spent three weeks manipulating me to be somebody I wasn't. And now I was somebody completely new, and I knew that he wouldn't like Cecelia Douglas V3.0. And even if he did, she didn't like him. While I would have loved nothing more than to go out and party hard with the only two females who had ever made an effort to befriend me, I didn't know that a run in with the British embodiment of American Psycho wouldn't completely undo all of the positive steps that I'd made towards erasing all traces of him from my life.
My eyes fell on the suitcase that I'd packed on the night that I'd intended to high-tail it to Arizona with Mr Power-Mad and Pushy, and found myself unwillingly overcome by all of the memories that were packed in there too. To my detriment, all of the memories of my parents, including their ashes, were packed alongside all of the keepsakes that I'd accumulated. That meant that I had to open it remove them. I craved to be back in the Bahamas, where it was much easier to ignore the memories when they weren't in reach.
Hauling the suitcase behind me, I descended back down to the lounge and threw it into the back of the couch. The sight of Bethany, Cornelia and now Isaac, dressed only in their pants and painting my walls, was a welcome momentary distraction. But two thirds of that company were as much of a mind fuck as the contents of that suitcase. "Bethy, I need your help."
"No." She looked over her shoulder at me and shook her head. "You want to unpack that shit? Do it yourself."
I gaped in surprise and put on my most pathetic face. I couldn't recall a single occasion when she hadn't jumped to my aid. "My parents are in there, Bethy."
"Still no." I hissed, resisting the urge to launch something sharp at the back of her head, and skulked into the kitchen to locate some much needed alcohol. I couldn't for the life of me understand why she was being so unhelpful and cold.
"Okay, so Isaac, just take the whole case and tell him to send me back the important stuff." I slammed the cupboards as I failed to find a bottle of anything even marginally alcoholic. "Why the hell don't we have any booze in this house? Has the whole world turned upside down?"
"Yup," Isaac muttered, "and I'm not doing your dirty work either. Come here." Not seeing what I stood to lose, I obliged, and paced over to him. The last thing I expected was to be tackled for the floor and pinned down, my hands held above my head with one hand, the other dangling a cherry over my mouth. "Open up, Cici."
"Fuck no, dick bag, get off." A sense of déjà vu started to wash over me.
Isaac grinned and gripped the cherry's stem between his teeth and tickled my ribs mercilessly. "Say you'll come to the club tonight. Come on, it's Halloween. If you refuse, I'm going to have to force-feed you this cherry and you won't say no to anything."
"Get. Off."
"Uh, Isaac, you might actually want to-..." He held up a hand to silence Bethany and then used it to squeeze my nose. "Oh my god, you are actually a moron."
Knowing that opening my mouth would result in me losing a good few hours of my life to an Everclear induced blackout, I battled against the need to breath until I was caught off guard by a flash back of Cole leaning over me, lips slathered with infuriated saliva. "Isaac, get off!" I appreciated Bethany realising what effect his game was having.
My head began to throb until my eyes burned and I surrendered, heaving a gasp to wail loudly and weep. He leapt up quickly and pulled me onto the couch, rubbing my back with a grimace. "Christ, are you alright? I was only messing around."
"Congratulations for being the second man to try and suffocate me over trivial shit in my own house, dumb fuck,"
I panted, pushing his hand away. "Shove your night club up your arse."
"Shit, I'd completely forgotten. I'm so sorry." He pulled me onto him and gripped me into a tight hug that I wasn't willing to admit actually made me feel better, and pressed his lips to my hair. "I am really so sorry."
I pulled back from him and scrubbed a hand over my face, thoroughly depressed by how drastically my mood had flipped since the Alexander's had arrived at my house. "You two have to leave. You're a constant reminder of him."
"No way, sweet cheeks." Cornelia wrapped her arms around me over the back of the sofa. "We're not losing a friend because our brother screwed up. You might find this hard to believe, but we actually like you and have defended your decision to walk away relentlessly." It was a huge honour that they were reading from the same song sheet that I was, but I couldn't help but feel a little bad for the man who was being reminded of his mistakes every day.
I drew my knees up to my chest and curled up into the foetal position. "You shouldn't disown your brother over me."
"We haven't, but looking after him doesn't go any further than providing fresh supplies of alcohol and making sure he still has a pulse." They painted a very grim picture of a broken man. I had been warned that leaving him might destroy him, but I never really imagined that it would. "He won't talk to anyone or go to work."
"Is he really so bad after five weeks?"
"Worse for knowing you're doing just fine without him. Withdrawing more day by day. We're not trying to make you feel bad, Cecelia, we just want you to know that he didn't just move on when you left. I don't think that he'll ever get over you."
And as the harsh England chill began to creep into our home, I was sobered, and didn't know if I'd ever get over him either. Like a recovering drug addict, I would always be one fix away from relapsing back into addiction. As if having Cornelia and Isaac in my house wasn't like somebody dangling a wrap of cocaine in front of my face already, they were insistent on throwing me into the opium den, where I knew that I couldn't just be a keen observer.