Guilt

by Sarah Michelle Lynch

  He’s looking fondly into the invisible sunset. We’ve always known about Vernon’s penchant for bringing dramatis personae to life, whether in the classroom or at amdram, but I still don’t quite believe he really likes it. Should I trust his opinion, or not?

  Vernon grabs a glass of champers from a passing waiter and once he’s downed it, he looks at me with wide eyes and uses flamboyant gesticulations to address my fears.

  “Liza, you can write. How many times do we have to tell you? Few people these days can actually string a sentence together, but you my petal can bloody write the hell out of anything you damn well want to. Now, listen. Yes, it was a little rough around the edges. Yes, a little tweak and whatever here or there, but our company loved it or else we wouldn’t have performed it. The point is, we got what it was about. We understood what you were trying to say, and isn’t that the most important thing?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  He squeezes my shoulder with his big hand and leans down so I can see the whites of his eyes, insisting, “Don’t give up, seriously. I remember when Jules first told me about you, an exceptional pupil languishing in middle sets. She told me that you were a born writer. You must not give up.” He’s about to leave me to go off and mingle, when he adds, “I was robbed of the lead role. Robbed, I tell you.”

  I watch with wonder as he walks off. Sam sidles up to me after that.

  “What was that about?” he chuckles.

  “Oh my god, I’m in shock. Good shock. I think I’ll have to tell you later.”

  Sam looks worried. “Bad, or good?”

  “Really good, but really scary.”

  “Oh, well…” He puts his arm around my shoulder and steals a kiss from me.

  It’s at this point Hetty stands on a chair and taps a knife against a champagne flute. Hilariously, she cracks the champagne flute and it disintegrates inside her hand. Joe quickly rushes forward with a hanky and divests her of a potential trip to A&E. Everyone in the room has a laugh about it, and then Hetty stares awestruck for a moment or two, before she starts talking.

  With a big smile on her face and a hint of nerves buried in her stiff demeanour, she tells us, “The reason I’ve put on this event is that I’ve been so inspired by how old and new crafting methods have the potential to bring people together. It’s really starting to become something of a little social gathering here every week, and I’m so pleased about that, and I want everyone to know about it. So that’s why…” She loses her rhythm for a moment, but when she looks at me, I nod for her to keep going. “There are a few people I want to thank. My partner in crime Liza, first and foremost. I couldn’t have done any of this without you. Seriously. I wouldn’t even be alive without you. I’d have gotten myself into so much trouble. I would’ve never believed in myself if it wasn’t for you.” Cheers and claps ring out and I almost want to be swallowed by the floor again, but then Sam stands clapping next to me and moves away from me so that everyone can see me in my dress. “Liza kindly offered to wear one of my more daring designs tonight and I think you’ll all agree, she looks absolutely stunning. Liza not only keeps me sane, she is the technical wizard behind this place. Whenever she puts her mind to something, she gives it her all, and I admire that most about her. I would’ve plodded along for years unless she’d forced me to see what I was capable of. Anyway, I think she deserves a toast.” Everyone raises their glasses and bellows, “To Liza,” but I almost fall right through the floor, yet again. Hetty carries on, thankfully changing the subject. “I also want to thank my foster mum, Carol who’s not here because she’s looking after all the children tonight, but I want to mention her because she’s another reason why I’m doing what I’m doing. I also want to thank Jules and Warrick whose love and support over the years has gone above and beyond the roles of teacher and social worker. You guys are the epitome of stratospheric in terms of how much you give to your community and I couldn’t love you more. You’re the rocks on which Joe and I lean on.” I catch sight of Jules, desperately wiping her eyes. “I want to thank my partner and the father of my daughter for believing in me unwaveringly and standing solidly by my side through everything.” Hetty wafts a hand in front of her face, finally unable to curb her emotion. Joe chucks a tissue at her and she dabs her eyes. “I also want to thank all the people who didn’t believe that someone like me could change and grow, develop and excel. A year or so ago, I failed to get into the police and honestly, it was the best thing that could have ever happened to me. When you lose something you thought you wanted, it actually makes you realise what it is that you do really want, and I wouldn’t be here now without everything life has thrown at me. I’m just so grateful you’re all here, and before I bore you all to tears, I just want to say please, buy some dresses, tell your friends and take a swag bag away with you!”

  Everyone applauds Hetty as she jumps down from her chair. Joe grabs her tight in his arms and she tries to hide herself against his chest. Sam whistles as does Warrick, creating a wave of whoops and cheers. She’s really an utterly amazing person and I’m so lucky she’s my friend.

  After that, the music comes back on and people go back to their conversations. People push their way to the front as Hetty unveils her mannequins which are dressed in some of the new designs we just worked up this week. Hetty’s couture collection also gathers interest and she talks one-on-one with interested parties to discuss how she makes the clothes – and how long it takes. As I observe the action unfold, it just seems so surreal and magnificent. She’s doing it. Hetty is really doing it… and I’m amazed.

  “Do you want some more champagne?” Sam asks.

  “God, yes.”

  “No problem.”

  The stuff on the racks quickly flies off and the girls at the tills have a queue in no time. I receive admiring glances of my dress and quite a few people stop to ask if Hetty made it for me, just to double check. When I say yes, they quickly make their way to the appointment booth to make an appointment with Hetty. Some are keen to have something one-off made for them. There’s even mention of a wedding dress requirement.

  I’ve agreed to work alongside three or four other machinists to quickly work up batches of her upcoming summer collection. Hetty’s found some really good women who used to work in factories and are expert at what they do – not to mention they are deliriously happy to be working somewhere they are finally valued. It takes time to familiarise yourself with Hetty’s designs, but once you have, we work quickly after that.

  Still, I can’t help but feel a twinge of something… a yearning. Yes, I will get paid well for doing this, but it’s not my dream… it’s Hetty’s. I’m beyond proud and fascinated by the journey stretching out ahead of her, but I also – in my heart – still feel an incredible pull towards exploring my writing.

  I think, as with everything in life, it will all come good eventually. It has to. Right? If you work hard enough, eventually it all has to fall into place. Right now, I sense Hetty needs me and so this is where I shall be for the time being.

  I look up, wondering where Sam has got to, when I spot him in a corner, having been accosted by Warrick. Sam’s holding two champagne flutes, as if he was on his way back to me when Warrick made a move on him. The two of them are talking intimately, and nobody but me appears to have noticed that they’re having an impassioned conversation – not with all the other action going on around here.

  I’m baffled when I spot them move into the backrooms, even more baffled that there would be a need for this. I give it a couple of minutes, but when they fail to re-emerge, I decide to take action.

  I push through the throngs of excitable, drunken people spending all their money and quietly sneak into the back, making sure nobody has seen me as I scan the crowd over my shoulder. Thankfully everyone still seems to be invested in the dresses and Hetty, nothing else.

  I remove my shoes and tiptoe down the corridor, heading towards the sound of voices. At the back of the shop there are a few different sections. Th
ere’s the tiny, and I mean tiny, kitchen. Then a small room where we keep our stores, plus the utility closet. I discover they’ve gone past all of these rooms and are standing outside. They’ve left the backdoor open, so I stand against the wall just next to the window which looks out over the concrete backyard. I can hear everything they’re saying because not only is the door open, but the window needs replacing – all the seals are broken and it’s one of the reasons I hate working here in winter.

  I steady my breathing and listen carefully. All that seems to have transpired so far is a bit of back and forth about Sam’s work and whether he will be able to look after me properly. God love Warrick, but he’s fucking old-fashioned. Or maybe not…

  Maybe he’s working on Sam, trying to get him to… slip up.

  “So, would you like to tell me what really happened that weekend?” Warrick just slips it in, like a pill into a drink, quick and potentially deadly, or perhaps even with some sort of healing power. Either way, he’s sly.

  “What weekend?”

  Sam and Warrick’s shadows are reflected on the wall opposite the window, which they’re standing right beside. I watch as Sam drinks one flute, then the other, in rapid succession.

  “If you’re innocent, you may as well just get it off your chest. So that we can all move on and I can revoke the card I’ve got marked against you.”

  Say what you want about Warrick, but he was a good cop because nobody ever looks at him and immediately thinks ruthless bastard. Beneath it all, I guess he can be that when he needs to be.

  “You’re referring to what? I have no idea what you’re going on about.” Sam tries to make light of it, but there’s a reason he just downed the fizz.

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Gage.”

  Sam takes a deep breath. “Yes.”

  “I’ve beat on guys three times bigger than you and still got confessions out of them. Liza is my wife’s pride and joy. You had better tell me the truth.”

  “I’m not scared of you.”

  “You ought to be. I could have you done over and they’d never find the body.”

  Warrick’s stance right now is that of cop, not husband or dad, friend or concerned citizen. The cop is who he is, first and foremost, and he did once say to me, “There’s no such thing as coincidence.”

  “You don’t scare me,” Sam asserts. “The only thing that scares me is losing her. Leaving her on her own. I would never leave her. Not like he did.”

  There’s a pause while Warrick considers Sam’s apparent earnestness. Should I go outside and tell them to pack it in, or should I hear it out? Should I rescue Sam, or let him suffer Warrick’s interrogation?

  “Just get it off your chest,” Warrick demands, unrelenting.

  Sam sighs loudly, clutching his head in his hands, the moonlight behind them shining their reflections onto the wall so it’s like I can see everything they’re doing… and how they’re saying it.

  He lowers his voice, admitting, “I spent the night with Liza and she was so utterly miserable, mate. You weren’t with her, so you don’t know, but I’ve loved her for years and in all that time she was married to him, I respected that, told myself it was a no-go. I didn’t pursue her or manipulate her. It just happened. I even told her that night that I’d been frightened to make a move, in case it ruined our friendship and left me with nothing. We only ended up in bed together because she was so demoralised and desperate, because she was lonely and needed me. But after that…”

  He loses his train of thought, scratching his head.

  “Yes, after that,” Warrick prompts.

  “I knew she was in a bad way. A really bad way. She was crying non-stop in my arms. It was horrible. She confided in me about Gage, about how he never… made an effort in the bedroom. My company sponsors one of his teammates and I’d heard the rumours about Gage… about him being a player, about his behaviour on nights out… how everyone covered for him. Now if you were in love with a woman and knew the very reason for her misery was someone like that, would you stand by and watch, eh? Or would you do something?”

  Fuck. Fuck. I don’t know if I want to hear more.

  What the hell is he going to say?

  “I would do something,” Warrick admits, “in fact, I did do something. An old fling of Jules’… he deserved the guillotine, but instead I let him hang himself with just enough rope.” It’s said with such ferocity, you can hear the ruthlessness in his voice in regards to the man who hurt his Jules.

  I’m sure that’s a story for another day, but anyway…

  “Well, all I did was bunk off work. I bunked off work and waited in my car outside their house.”

  Sam’s cradling his own head, not sure he can say it. I didn’t even know he knew where I lived; we always used to meet in coffee shops and our real lives never converged until that weekend. Perhaps he checked my driving licence?

  “You waited for him to show up,” Warrick says, helping Sam fill in the blanks.

  “I waited… and he arrived home, with his mate. Marvin.”

  “Go on…”

  “They went inside and were in there for ages. I was waiting for Marvin to leave before confronting Gage. I was going to tell Gage that Liza deserved better, and that’s all I knew. I was winging it. But that was my plan.”

  “Then what happened?”

  It’s impossible to miss the nerves in Sam’s voice as he spills his guts. “If I hadn’t been staring at the house, anyone passing by would’ve missed it. Nobody would’ve seen it, but because I was looking and trying to figure out what he was doing, I saw it. In the picture window upstairs. Fleeting, but there. I saw him… and Marvin. Kissing.”

  My hand quickly flies to my mouth. Oh, god.

  “When Marvin left about an hour later, you could just tell… it was just obvious, you know? Everyone knows Hetty and Liza always have their conflab every Monday morning. He’d have known the house would be empty and he knew exactly what he was doing, trust me. A few weeks after Gage was dead, Liza told me she went through his phone and discovered he’d been tracking her. When she told me, it made perfect sense. She thought it was because he was paranoid and jealous, but in reality, it was so that he knew when she’d be home… so they didn’t get caught.”

  Fucking… hell. I want to be sick. Can this be happening? Can this be true? I want to look away from this car crash, but I’m unable to.

  “Then, what happened? Did you go and confront him? You must have felt angry.”

  Sam sighs, running his hands through his hair. The champagne flutes must have been placed on the ground at some point.

  “Yeah, I felt an immediate urge to bang down his door and knock him out, of course I did. But that’s not what Liza would have wanted. Besides, it was finally clear to me why he’d been such a bad husband to her. He was gay. I didn’t have any reason to confront him after that. I just needed to figure out a way of telling her what I knew. So, I just drove off and left. That’s all that happened, I swear on her life. I never spoke to him. I didn’t touch him.”

  I can only stand around, feeling horrified. I watch as Warrick reaches out and places a hand on Sam’s shoulder.

  “So, you left him there? And he was alive and kicking the last time you saw him?”

  “From what I saw from across the street, he looked fit and healthy, not stumbling around or anything like that. He looked well.”

  “You really left… you didn’t do anything… you didn’t leave him in a mess?”

  “I swear, I did not touch a hair on him. I never even spoke with the guy. I was furious of course but I knew I had all the information I needed to free Liza… I just had to figure out the right way of telling her, that’s all.”

  There’s a really long pause, then Warrick whispers, “I knew about him being gay.”

  “What. The. Fuck?” Sam exclaims.

  “Listen. It was when Liza left him, a year or so ago. I mistakenly tried to intervene and help out. I visited their house and found
him in flagrante with Marvin. The house was full of people high or drunk and I’d had to bang down the door to get into his bedroom. He told me he would kill himself if it got out. He had me trapped, unable to say anything, because something about the look in his eye told me he would do it. I couldn’t even tell my own wife the truth for fear he’d do it, and I couldn’t free Liza because she would never forgive me.”

  “Now you know why I’ve been worried sick, scared she’ll leave me. If she finds out he was gay and that I knew and didn’t tell her, she would never forgive me. Never mind he was holding her hostage, he was still the father of her kids and superseded me in that respect. Nothing I could say or do would make up for this if she knew. It’s been making me crazy. She’s free of him now and we’re free to love one another, but at what cost, eh? What cost?”

  Warrick pats Sam’s arm. “Come on now. She needn’t know. Gage was unstable. That’s not our fault.”

  “He was. Liza said he had a load of pills he’d never taken. He was clearly messed up in a lot of ways we’ll never even know about.”

  “It’s a real tragedy. I’m glad I’m not carrying this alone anymore.”

  While they hug it out, I tiptoe back into the party and it feels like I’ve entered the twilight zone when I return. Everything’s so loud and colourful and energetic, it’s overwhelming.

  I grab some champagne and toss it back. Anything to numb this feeling of utter and complete betrayal.

  I can’t wrap my head around it all.

  I was actually married to a gay man.

  I fall into one of Hetty’s oversized buttoned couches and try to just breathe. I don’t want to cause a scene and I don’t want anyone to know that I was actually stupid enough to marry a gay man who didn’t love me, not even as a friend. He was so disrespectful… fucking his lover in our family home. I honestly can’t believe it. I don’t want to believe it. However, it’s true. Like finding out my dad wasn’t my dad… this is the same thing. It’s having known the truth all along, but when finally faced with the ugliness of it, not wanting to admit the unpalatable nature of being made a fool of – all this time.