by Donna Alam
sexy pirate.
sexy sea captain semen. And, yep, spelled this way.
Tom Hanks as Robinson Crusoe.
sexy homeless person. Very PC, I don’t think.
sexy wizard Dumbledore.
‘On planet sex kitten, they’re all sexy?’
‘Aye.’ She picks up her phone again as I lean across her to turn the computer on, seeing she’s already done so. ‘That’s about the strength of it.’
‘You’ve never met a beard you didn’t love?’
‘Yep,’ she replies with a sniff. ‘It’s just a shame about the men they’re attached to sometimes.’
‘So,’ I begin, attempting to steer the conversation away from hirsute happenings. ‘What’s up in the world of celebrity stalking today?’
‘Talia Griff has a new boyfriend.’
‘That’s news?’ I answer dryly, picking up a stack of freshly folded towels from the counter. She’s been busy; Nat, not Talia. Although, maybe they both have. Talia Griff seems to collect boyfriends and uses her many breakup experiences as musical inspiration, it seems. ‘Anything else going on in Hollywood?’ I don’t wait for an answer, carrying them across the room.
‘She’s seeing Dylan Duffy, and it’s pretty serious, apparently.’ I trip. Trip over nothing, it would seem. ‘You okay over there?’
‘Yeah. I—I must’ve slipped.’
‘So I see.’
I begin picking up the fallen towels, my face bright red. I can’t have heard right; Dylan and serious? ‘Who’s seeing who, did you say?’
‘Dylan Duffy and pop sensation Talia Griff,’ Nat begins in a tabloid-esque voice, ‘are reportedly dating. According to close friends—why is it always close friends? It’s more likely to be hangers on, surely?—According to close friends,’ she repeats, ‘the pair met on the set of Griff’s new music hit, Probable, where the attraction was said to be combustible. Combustible?’ Nat snorts. ‘Who writes this shite?’ She shakes her head, disparagingly. ‘The twenty-two-year-old pop sensation recently split with her fiancé of six months when—’
‘I get it. They’re dating.’
‘Dating seriously, apparently. What do y’think?’
‘I think you should go work for E Channel or whatever it’s called.’
‘Really?’ Nat’s posture straightens before her shoulders loosen again. ‘Nah, I’d be all tongue-tied around celebs. Or try to hump their legs like a randy terrier. But do you think it could be true?’
No. It can’t be. ‘I don’t know,’ I answer instead. Towels balanced in some semblance of a pile, I hug their downy softness to my chest because it’s pretty simple; Dylan is still married to me. It doesn’t matter what the world speculates about their relationship because the blond singer can’t be a serious contender for his heart. Not until he responds to the divorce petition, at least. And he hasn’t. Not in months.
And that sense of relief currently filling my chest? Well, I’m just going to ignore it. Because it’s unhealthy.
‘But you’ve met him,’ Nat protests. ‘Does he seem like the monogamous type?’ I don’t have an answer for her. How can I? ‘I certainly wouldn’t have thought so,’ she states. ‘He’s a bit of a lad and seems plenty happy shagging his way through life.’
And this is exactly why I no longer have social media beyond the newly created accounts for salon use. I don’t need to know who he’s screwing. For the sake of my sanity, if nothing else.
‘I don’t rate her.’ I purse my lips together, yet the venomous words still spill. ‘I’ve had better shaped splinters. And she’s tone deaf.’
‘I like her voice. I heard her new song on the radio and—’
‘She couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket.’ I scoff, gripping the towels hard. ‘Oh, look, here comes Fin.’
‘I could kill a glass of wine,’ Fin says as she flips the door hanger to closed.
‘I’m up for murdering something a wee bit stronger. Wine o’clock has been and gone as far as I’m concerned.’
‘Isn’t there a bottle of tequila in the back of the pantry?’ she asks. ‘And limes. Should I grab some glasses?’
My mind immediately goes back to Dylan, and I blame Natasha. I’m like Pavlov’s bloody dog; every time someone mentions tequila, that man’s ringing my bell. I so regret telling her—in vague terms—about the weekend we met.
We were in Vegas at the wedding of friends. Actually, we were both there as friends of the groom, or maybe I should say grooms because there was no bride at the wedding that day. We were brought together by familiarity. Two Scots at a Vegas wedding; what were the chances? Dylan had moved to live with an aunt in L.A. as a teen following the death of his mother. As I understand it, she was of Italian descent, so Dylan got the best of both tongues, so to speak. An accent tinged with Scots, one that eventually helped make him a movie star, and some command of Italian. Though I’m certain he wouldn’t have learned the more risqué stuff from his mum.
Anyway, the reception was kind of wild, and we played a stupid party game where I somehow ended up with a shot glass propped in my cleavage. Of course, Dylan was partnered to try to lap the tequila out while I pushed my boobs together, keeping the glass straight. What I didn’t tell Natasha was we ended up married that same weekend.
‘Earth to Ivy.’
‘Sorry. Zoned out.’ Closing the day’s diary, Fin presses this morning’s mail into my hand.
‘It’s probably the bleach fumes rotting your brain.’
‘More like my brain has shrunk from all the small talk. Going anywhere nice for the summer?’ I pause from flicking through the envelopes and circulars. ‘God, if I asked that once today, I must’ve asked it at least a dozen times.’
‘You could always go back to L.A. and Scarlet Johansson’s hair. I imagine her small talk is way more interesting.’
‘Small talk’s small talk. It’s all the same.’
‘Only you would be unimpressed by superstars.’
I hear but don’t answer her as I stare at the envelope in my hand. Heavy card, it’s marked with the name of some law office. Postmark from LA.
Slipping my finger under the solidly glued flap, I tear.
Oh, Jesus. This is it—he’s serious about her, and he wants a divorce.
Ridiculous thoughts, considering you sent him the paperwork first.
‘You okay?’
‘I’ve just checked the Book-Face thing,’ says June, breezing into the room. ‘There are lots of positive comments and reviews from this week. Oh, and Natasha says she’s just doing a wee bit of housekeeping, and that she’ll be through soon. Was there any—why, whatever’s the matter, dearie?’
I don’t hear anything after that because every bit of my focus is glued to the papers in my hand. Then I realise, sort of belatedly, that I’ve been pushed into a chair and that June is fussing, ordering Fin to bring me a glass of water.
‘It’s fine. I’m fine.’ It clearly isn’t fine, according to the letter I fold from view; my fingers almost as pale as the letterhead it’s written on. ‘It’s just a bit of a shock because I . . . I have to go back to the States.’
‘Why, whatever for?’ clucks June, smoothing my hair away from my forehead. I suddenly want to cry.
‘A . . . contractual thing. Something I thought I could do from here.’
‘And you can’t? Sort it from here, I mean?’ asks a clearly concerned Fin.
I purse my lips, shaking my head, feeling something else in the bottom of the envelope. I open it. ‘I’ll need to close the salon until I get back.’ A slim silver flash drive lurks in the seam.
‘Nonsense,’ exclaims June. ‘You’ll leave it to us. Didn’t you say you’d already interviewed a nice young man for a job?’
‘But if I’m not going to be here—’
‘We’ll manage, won’t we, Fin?’
‘Of course. Whatever you need,’ she quickly confirms.
‘But your new job—’
‘It’ll be fine,’ Fin replies firmly,
cutting me off. ‘But will you be?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You look scared stiff, Ivy.’
Scared is about the strength of it. Terrified, even. I left L.A. and his arse, and now, he wants what, exactly? As the pair resumes their fussing, I consider the flash drive as I pull on one edge of the heavy cotton bond, reading the letter beyond the shocking headlines this time.
Our client requires your presence in Los Angeles . . . improper termination of your contract period . . . grounds to pursue recompense . . .
Contract. No mention of our marriage. And he’d sue me? What the hell for? A tiny salon in the arse end of nowhere? Could he really take that from me in a divorce—in a bogus contract dispute—and what the heck for? And why now, after all this time?
Because he can. Because you left him.
I scan the document again.
Please note the contained documentation pertaining to our client's demands.
Oh, shit. There’s more; a plain white envelope addressed to me. A plain white envelope with Ivy scrawled across the front.
I can’t go back, can I?
Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck!
Chapter Four
Ivy
‘You’ll message me when you arrive?’
In the car on our way to the airport, I turn away from the passenger side window to Fin’s clearly anxious face.
‘For the twentieth time, yes. And once more, just for your benefit, I already have a hotel room booked, and I’ll be getting a cab there straight from the airport; no murderous hitchhiking for me.’ Only, in a last-minute change of plan, I’ve cancelled my hotel reservation. Nat mentioned that Dylan’s in New York for some red carpet thing. I’m not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved, but it looks like I won’t have to deal with him, maybe just his legal team. It also means our house is empty. And this visit is already costing me enough.
‘There’s no need for sarcasm.’
‘And.’ In the same vein, I carry on. ‘I’ll be sure not to talk to any strange men at the airport. Or on the flight. And I definitely won’t pop to the bathroom, leaving my plastic cup of tepid wine unattended because who wants to get roofied and ravished in economy class?’
Fin’s gaze narrows briefly, but she thankfully keeps her eyes on the road. She knows me well enough to realise I’m deflecting, but she just doesn’t know the depths I’ll take it to. Deflect. Distract. Divert. I’ll do all these to prevent burdening her with my problems. And yes, I also don’t want to admit to being a big fat liar pants, even if I am keeping so many secrets my head hurts.
‘I’ll be fine,’ I add in a softer tone, though still feeling like a complete bitch. ‘You don’t need to worry about me.’
‘I just don’t see why you didn’t get a lawyer involved. This contract bullshit seems very . . . well, bullshitty.’
‘Trust me,’ I reply, turning back to the passenger window. ‘This is the best way. The only way.’
‘But the best way to what? That’s what I don’t understand. I know I’ve been a mess the past few months, but don’t think I haven’t noticed . . . noticed you.’
I slide her a withering look, my responding tone flat. ‘There’s nothing going on, so you can stop with the conspiracy theories.’
‘Theories,’ she repeats, her tone contemplative. ‘How’s this? I theorize a guy’s at the bottom of this flight.’
And not for the first time today, my best friend is right.
My husband lies at the bottom of this shit pile. Yeah, the secret one. The reason I’ve maxed out my credit card on a flight to LA. Money I could’ve spent on other things like stock or equipment. Or a one-way ticket to Baghdad . . .
This wasn’t supposed to happen. Why couldn’t he have signed the divorce papers months ago—when I was more angry than sad. Why does he have to twist everything to please himself?
I thought I could do this from Scotland. I didn’t expect amicably, exactly, but with distance. Clean and simple and without any more unnecessary hurt. I can’t face any more upset, yet he serves me just that.
The fucking video.
It’s now clear the video being out there on the interwebz is no mistake. The flash drive and his personal letter cleared that up pretty swiftly. What a complete shit. He sends me a letter made to look like it’s from his lawyer—it might have been from their law offices, but it made no reference to our marriage or divorce—with demands made in the vaguest terms.
A vague instruction on letterhead.
A letter in his hand.
A flash drive containing a fuck tonne of manipulation.
I can’t even begin to contemplate—it almost makes me wish he was getting married to that singing splinter. And his note wasn’t so much a letter as an exercise in sarcasm. With a side order of nastiness.
Thanks so much for the divorce papers. Really.
I so appreciated the personal touch.
And speaking of personal, you’ll see I’ve included something along the same lines. Did you happen to see my new release last week? I deliberated long and hard—just how you like it, babe. It was your favourite, right?
We looked good. Fun times. Almost like old times.
So. You want a divorce. But here’s the thing; like the song says, that’s not always possible.
See, I didn’t choose this for us.
And I didn’t expect my wife to fucking disappear overnight.
So you want a divorce, and I have a fuck tonne of questions.
I have stipulations and shit to yell. And you’re gonna meet my demands, or the next tape is showing your sweet fucking face.
Time to come home, baby girl. You have until Sunday.
And this is the type of man I’m flying back to today.
I’d always believed that the events in our life shape us. That who we are is shown by how we react to those events; how we respond to happenstance, to circumstance. We choose to rise to those challenges or else . . . we don’t. Well, that’s what I’d believed. And I’d always thought that, faced with a trial or adversity, I’d do the right thing because the alternative was inconceivable. Only a bad person would choose the opposite.
I now see that was inexperience talking because I’ve since been on the other side. I’ve done the wrong thing. But one bad decision—one mistake, one something you said or didn’t say—doesn’t make you a bad person.
Well, I don’t think so anyway.
I try my best, try to treat folk fairly, and have always been conscious of doing the right thing, but it isn’t always possible. Sometimes, you’ve just got to put yourself first. And if the last few months have taught me anything, it’s that you can’t put your life into neat compartments; good and bad, right and wrong, black or white. Sometimes, despite your best efforts, you have to hurt others to protect yourself, and sometimes, those decisions have a snowball effect.
Or maybe, I consider, sitting in the quiet confines of the car, I really am just an awful bitch, and my ramblings nothing more than a pathetic excuse for the fuck-ups I’ve made.
Chapter Five
Ivy
Fin leaves me at the airport, sliding back into the driver’s side of my tiny Fiat while mumbling something under her breath. Further words about my bullshit, no doubt. At the check-in desk, I’m handed a ticket labelled First Class. Though I’ve been upgraded before—to premium economy, and even once, business class—I’ve never travelled first class. Strangely, I have flown in a private jet once. With Dylan, of course.
This is obviously some kind of mistake. A booking cock-up. Not that I’m going to ask. No way. Draw attention to the fact that I’ve paid for cramped and plastic cutlery while experiencing luxury? I’d have to be mad. And I’m not. Mostly.
I don’t entertain the brief, passing thought that this could have anything to do with Dylan. I can’t imagine a reality when he’d be prepared to offer me any kindness. Not these days.
So I fly first class while feeling like a stowaway. And what do you do when you
’re on a long-haul flight in first? Drink cocktails and champagne? Watch movies?
Those would be the sensible things to do, but I daren’t switch on the TV. What if, on the menu, is one of Dylan’s movies? I think I’d lose the plot. Probably end up being restrained by an air marshal or cabin crew member. Instead, I opt to sit in my super comfy luxury and silently fume. Because it’s not like I’m going on holiday, and it’s not like he left me any choice. Ignoring his letter—his demands—would have left me in a very precarious position.
Local hairdresser marries movie star and makes porn.
I can just see the headline of the Auchkeld Gazette, quickly followed by the tabloids of the rest of the world. The paps would probably catch me opening my front door to the world’s media while wearing nothing but my underwear and my hair looking like Medusa seven weeks from her last cut and colour. I’d probably write a snitty email to those same newspapers, complaining about being labelled as a mere hairdresser. Local business owner sounds better than even my previous and very rich sounding title of Art Director. I expect I’d invite the journos to the salon to give them my side of the story. Their photographers could take pictures of me looking fabulous; all fiery and scorned. Hell hath no fury would sell newspapers by the boatload.
Who am I kidding? None of that would happen in a million years. Being outed as married to a movie star would be bad enough, but being known as the woman who was blackmailed by the same man? I’m more likely to develop agoraphobia and never leave the flat again. People wouldn’t be kind.
And they’d be well justified.
It’s supposed to be every little girl’s dream to marry a movie star, isn’t it? I can’t say it was ever mine.
It’s not even like I have a good reason or excuse for getting married—it was just a mad weekend fling in Vegas and a drunken night when things got out of hand. You know that phrase, when in Rome? Well, when in Vegas for a wedding, why not do the deed? Hook up with a stranger then get spliced. Yes, it was completely out of character and a little bit mad, but compared to strangers marrying sight unseen on TV shows, it doesn’t seem that bad.