Good Greek Girls Don't
Page 13
‘I’ve got the best, Des. Do you have any idea how much I love you?’
He’s told me before, but there was always that part of me that wondered if he would disappear if he knew.
‘You love me?’
‘Yeah, you idiot. I love you.’
He loves me. All I’ve ever wanted – someone who loves me just for me, unconditionally, even when I go crazy. He loves me.
‘So, I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me.’
Why does this scare me? I know I love him. But I haven’t told him the whole story about Denny. What if I tell him? It’ll only hurt more in the end, when he realises he doesn’t love me or he finds someone better. It’ll hurt too much if I put it all on the line and then lose him.
‘I will never hurt you.’
‘Chris, don’t make promises you might not be able to keep.’ People don’t always choose to hurt each other. It just happens. I didn’t want to hurt Chris last night but I did.
‘Okay, baby. I promise I will always do my best not to hurt you, not to make you cry.’
He’s holding me so tight; he’s telling me just what I need to hear. It’s like he’s got my heart in his hands and he’s bandaging it, healing the wounds.
‘Not all guys are like that bastard.’
‘I know that.’
I realise that I have to take a risk. Chris is not Denny –he’s worlds away from Denny.
‘It’s over, now that you know. It’s finally over.’ I better sit down before I fall down. All of a sudden I feel dizzy. When was the last time I ate?
‘How did this happen, Des? What happened with him?’
Tonight I will finally lay this demon to rest. ‘Denny got made redundant from work.’ Leaning back on the couch with Chris’s arms around me I can talk about this. I can do it. ‘He blew all the money he got and all of a sudden he couldn’t pay his bills and he wasn’t looking for work, so it was Desi to the rescue. I paid a few of his bills and loaned him some money to help see him through. I thought this is what people do, you know? To help each other through bad times. Anyway, I started to get the feeling that as long as I was paying for everything he would never get his act together and find a job or even pay me back the money. So I stopped. I thought that would force him to get his arse into gear. But it backfired, and when he couldn’t take care of things without crawling to his parents he blamed me. See, according to Denny, everything is always someone else’s fault. It was someone else’s fault when his marriage fell apart and it was my fault when he hit me. If I’d only given him the money he wouldn’t have had to get it out of me. If I’d gotten him a job he wouldn’t have had to take my money in the first place.’
I can see the look on Chris’s face; I can read the questions he doesn’t want to ask: Why did I stay? Why didn’t I just leave?
‘I stayed for a while. I thought that I could help him, but he wouldn’t help himself so nothing I did was any use. A part of me thought that he was right; I made him react that way when I stopped giving him money and stopped supporting him. Then there were my parents. They seemed so happy that I was with someone and that their dream of marrying me off might actually come true. I didn’t want to admit that I had gotten myself into such a mess. The longer I stayed, the harder it was to leave. I actually thought, what if this is as good as it gets? What if this is all I deserve? What if there isn’t anything better out there? I wasn’t staying because I loved him. I never loved him. I just got used to him being there. But then I couldn’t do it anymore. I finally figured out that if Denny was as good as it gets then I’d rather be alone.’
It’s over, finally. It feels like the biggest weight has been lifted off my shoulders and Chris’s arms are still wrapped around me. He’s not going anywhere.
‘Well, you’re not alone. You’ve got me, and I love you. But you should have told me about this sooner. You should have let me help you.’
‘I love you, too. I was so scared to tell you. You had me right from our first date.’ And now it feels like I can’t say it enough. I fell hook, line and sinker as soon as I saw that rose. ‘That purple rose clinched the deal. As soon as I saw it I was a goner.’ Why is he laughing?
‘What is it about that purple rose? What the hell is so special about it?’
‘Why did you get me a purple rose that night?’ Okay, it is finally time for this to come out in the open. ‘How did you know to get it for me? And where the hell did you find it?’
‘Look, Katerina told me two things: that purple is your favourite colour, and that if I managed to get you a rose, our date would definitely go well. So I put two and two together and spent the whole day trying to find a purple rose. Once I told Katerina what I was doing she kept telling me it had to be deep, dark purple – no lilac crap. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a bloody dark purple bloody rose?’
Yes I do. ‘So how did you get your hands on it?’
‘I got a florist near work to dye one for me. She went through a dozen before she got it right.’ Finally, the truth is revealed after all this time. ‘So are you going to tell me what it all means? Katerina wouldn’t tell me so it’s up to you.’
Okay, this is probably going to make him split his sides laughing. ‘It’s simple. The purple rose is a test. I told Katerina that if a guy could get me a purple rose, I would be his forever.’
I am his, no matter how much I tried to deny it. I’m his. And there is that twinkle in his eyes I was terrified I would never see again. It hasn’t gone anywhere.
‘So did I pass the test?’ Is he kissing my neck? That’s not fair. Chris knows I melt when he does that.
‘Yes, with flying colours. You had me then and there.’ Bingo, he’s hit my weak spot. He knows me so well.
‘So are you mine?’
Get to my lips Chris before I burst.
‘Forever.’ I don’t think I ever had any choice in the matter. My heart made that decision a long time ago without consulting with my brain. It just took the rest of me a while to catch up. ‘But only after you shave. Your stubble is tickling me.’
----------15----------
I’ve really dropped myself in it this time. To try to make things up to Chris for my little freak out, I’ve offered to make him his favourite meal – gnocchi with wild mushrooms and fetta – from scratch. My aim is to do this without making a huge mess or burning his apartment down, but now I’m not so sure either is going to be possible. You see, I have about five basic meals that I work with and improvise around. I am not a chef. On the contrary, I am generally a disaster in the kitchen if my mother or grandmother aren’t there to save the day when it all goes wrong. What made me think I could do this all on my own? I even said I would make dessert. I think I need my head examined. I should’ve just bought some takeaway and dished it up, pretending it was mine. Chris would be none the wiser and I would not be standing in his kitchen covered in flour. Too late for that now – he’s going to be home soon and I’ve barely starting cutting the dough into pieces.
I like that Chris gave me the keys to his place. It means he trusts me; it means that I am becoming a part of this place now. It means I can surprise him. It means I can escape here whenever my family is just about ready to drive me to psychiatric care. It means this is serious.
I’ve completely surprised myself – I actually managed to make fresh gnocchi! The little gnocchi balls are ready to be boiled, the sauce is simmering slowly and the desert is setting in the fridge. I, however, am an absolute mess. How do women do this every day of their lives and still manage to look decent? How come the women on the cooking channel never end up wearing their ingredients? Dough up my nose and sauce all over my top is definitely not a good look. Five minutes later and I’m out of the shower and squeaky clean – but without any clean clothes to change into. I’m sure Chris won’t mind if I rummage through his closet for a T-shirt to wear.
This is freaky. I have never seen a neater wardrobe than Chris’s. This is not normal. All shirts together, al
l suits in order, jeans in one section. And not just sectioned –everything is also colour coordinated. You can see the jeans fading from darkest to lightest and there’s no white shirts mixed in with the blue. This is the sort of wardrobe that would make my mother proud. And it’s all wooden clothes hangers – not a wire one in sight. I thought only a gay man knew that wire hangers are a no–no. Oh well, freaky as it may be, at least the guy takes care of his things – nothing wrong with that!
As I reach for the pile of T-shirts, folded and stacked like they belong on a shelf at Country Road, something behind the pile falls to the floor. A red envelope with a heart on it. Oh, what’s this! I know I shouldn’t be snooping but I’d rather preview any grand protestations of love he’s planning to bestow on me with this envelope, rather than look like a stunned mullet when he gives it to me. This isn’t snooping; this is just preparation for what’s around the corner. Besides, if I wasn’t meant to read it, the envelope would be sealed.
There is no such thing as good snooping. I will never ever again go where I shouldn’t. Why couldn’t that epiphany have come to me five minutes ago? Now I’ve discovered what I don’t want to know. Now all I know is that I don’t know anything about my boyfriend. That envelope was definitely not for me. It’s a photo and a letter. And the photo is not of me and it’s not a letter I’ve written him, because I don’t have blonde hair and my name is not Danielle.
It’s a love letter. I can’t bring myself to read it but I can’t stop myself either and I end up skimming enough to know that this woman had a relationship with Chris. Had … or has? There’s no date on the letter.
The photo is of an attractive blonde woman, taken from the waist up. She’s wearing a bikini and leaning against a railing. The glistening bay is in the background, and I realise with a sickening feeling that the railing is on Chris’s balcony. This photo was taken here.
I feel nauseous. The worst bit is, I can’t ask Chris about this because then he’ll know I’ve been snooping. Although technically I wasn’t snooping – I was just looking for something to wear and the envelope was right there – but I shouldn’t have opened it.
‘So? What do you think?’ I used the fax in Chris’s home office to fax the letter and a copy of the photo to Michael at the shop. A little nuts, I know, but I need Michael’s opinion.
‘She’s hot.’
Not helping.
‘I mean the letter, Michael. Avert your eyes from the Amazonian fake books.’
‘This is pretty heavy, Des. She’s obviously got it bad for him.’ But does Chris have it bad for her?
‘She’d be ready, willing and able if Chris said the word.’
‘Michael, that is not what I wanted to hear!’
‘Look, Des, the letter could be old and Chris probably just forgot it was there. Relax.’
‘The envelope doesn’t look old, and you don’t know Chris like I do. He is so anal-retentively organised. Why would he keep it? I didn’t think guys did that whole
“memories of relationships past” like girls do.’
‘Don’t obsess, Des. I don’t keep memories of disasters past, but not all guys are like me. Not all guys just quickly move on and forget. But he’s with you now. He’s so mad about you; I thought I was going to throw up all over the garlic sauce when you guys were at the shop. Just forget about it. She’s the past, you’re the one in his apartment, cooking dinner and trying not to give him gastro.’
I know he has a point … But …
I hear the front door open and the jangle of Chris’s keys as he throws them in the wooden bowl on the hall table. I quickly hang up the phone and stuff the letter and photo back in the envelope and throw it behind the pile of T-shirts. I grab one of the shirts, pull it over my head and quickly close the wardrobe doors.
‘Babe, you did it! You made gnocchi from scratch!’
It’s what I’d promised to do, but apparently he doubted my abilities as much as I did. Can’t blame him there. I wander into the kitchen and he plants a kiss on my forehead. ‘Nice, but it doesn’t explain why you’ve got my T-shirt on.’
‘It got a little bit messy.’ That’s an understatement. ‘You don’t mind that I went through your wardrobe, do you?’
‘So long as you didn’t mess it up.’ Shit. I can’t remember if the envelope is back where I found it. By the look of Chris’s wardrobe he would notice if there was a loose thread. I wonder if I can sneak back into his room and check. What are the chances I would remember exactly where it was originally? I’m screwed.
‘I might have messed it up a bit.’ That’s taken his attention off the pasta for the first time. ‘I’ll help you straighten it up if you want.’ And then I can turn his attention to the envelope hidden behind his T-shirts and he’ll have to tell me what the hell is going on. Why is he shaking his head? Obviously he doesn’t want me anywhere near the wardrobe. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s no big deal.’
I wish I could believe that. ‘Is there something there you don’t want me to see?’ Whoops. Me and my big mouth. I can almost see him looking right though me and knowing what I’ve done.
‘No.’
Are men really that dense? He knows. He has to know that I found that note from Danielle. By the looks of it he’s got everything in this house catalogued by colour and alphabetical order and probably by size as well. He wouldn’t have a stray envelope tucked away in the midst of his super-straight wardrobe and not know about it. And he knows I’ve been into his T-shirts.
We eat in silence and I’m vaguely aware of Chris staring at me. Is this mystery Danielle my competition? I can’t get the letter and the image of her out of my head. She must have been something. She must have been really important in his life. More important than me. There is no other reason why he would keep that envelope and its contents. If it didn’t mean anything to him, he would have thrown it out as soon as it arrived. And there’s no postmark or stamp on it, so it must have been personally delivered. How recently did she give this to him? Was it after he met me?
I have to let this go. I have to forget what I saw. If I want this relationship to continue growing, Chris cannot know that I snooped through his private stuff.
We finish dinner and I collect the plates to stack in the dishwasher.
‘Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’ Denial is a wonderful tactic. If it works for him then it may as well work for me. Can’t he just let me load the damn dishwasher?
‘You’re loading it wrong. The plates go on the bottom shelf.’
Who gives a fuck where the damn plates go, they all get washed the same. ‘Do it yourself if it’s so important. I’m going for a smoke.’ I really need to be away from him right now because everything he says and does is irritating the hell out of me.
Who am I angry at? Am I angry at this mysterious Danielle for writing the letter? Or at Chris for keeping it? Or at myself for finding it and not having the guts to own up to it? The more I think about it the angrier I get. I’m leaning on the railing that Danielle leant on, watching all these couples strolling hand in hand on beachfront. Did Chris and Danielle walk hand in hand on the beachfront? Did they sit on the ledge having secret conversations, making suckey, kissey faces at each other? Did she enjoy this balcony, which has quickly gone from being my refuge to being my tormentor?
Tonight the sea breeze is not clearing the haze in my head. In fact, it’s making my thoughts foggier. There are only questions without answers. And I need to know the answers. Is there someone else? Do I have a fight on my hands? Do I have what it takes to win it? Because I know, in my heart of hearts, I am not giving up Chris without a fight. But I don’t know if I have it in me to fight dirty if that’s what’s needed.
‘Desi?’
I know Chris is standing just behind me but at the moment it feels like there is a great divide between us. I can’t believe I have let a guy get under my skin so much. But then again, Chris has never been an ordinary guy.
/> ‘Hey.’ Why can’t I ask him the questions that are right on the tip of my tongue?
‘You okay, Des? You’ve been weird all night.’
‘I’m fine, Chris. Just wiped out.’ It’s not exactly a lie. It may not be my body that’s wiped out but the effect is still the same. ‘Sorry I snapped at you before, just feeling a bit irritable. I think I might just head home.’
‘I thought you swung it to stay here tonight?’
Oh, yeah. Well, there goes the idea of going home. There’s no way my mother would believe me if I told her I’d suddenly changed my mind about staying at Ricki’s. Maybe I’ll just go to Ricki’s. At least then I wouldn’t be lying to my mother. Who said, ‘What a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive?’ I remember reading that in high school.
‘Des, what’s going on? What have I done?’
I guess I can’t really avoid the topic. And I don’t have the energy to leave here and find somewhere to stay.
‘You haven’t done anything Chris.’ I have. My curiosity got the better of me. I snooped through your private stuff and now wish I hadn’t. ‘It’s just that, you know, you gave me your keys, told me to make myself at home and stuff.’
‘Call me stupid, Des, but I thought that would be a good thing.’
‘How many other women have you given keys to?’ I probably shouldn’t have asked that question. Did Danielle have the keys to Chris’s place? Did she have the key to Chris’s heart?
‘Is this what this is all about? The past?’ The past is still present, albeit hiding in his wardrobe. All I can do is nod. I don’t trust myself to speak. ‘You’re the only one who’s got my key now, Des.’
So obviously keys have been given out before.
‘And no one but you has ever been allowed to keep them.’
‘I don’t get it.’
‘Keys have been given on a temporary once-off basis. You know, “let yourself in and meet me here” type thing, but the keys always stayed with me after that. I want you to keep these keys. I want you to know you can come here whenever you want, you can escape here and you can come home here.’