One In A Million

by Coleen Singer

  “Fine, Phoebe, have it your way. If you’re determined to self-destruct, then so be it. Just don’t expect me to hang around and watch!”

  And with that, he grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair and left without another word.

  Phoebe remained frozen to the spot for what felt like hours, listening to his car start up, reverse, then crunch away down the gravel drive. She wanted to tear after him, but her legs felt leaden, as though she were struggling to run in a dream. And the adrenaline rush of the last few minutes left her breathless and weak. Her mind spun with conflicting, tangled emotions.

  “Good riddance to him!” “

  “What the hell have I done?”

  “I don’t want a dictator!”

  “I can’t live without him….”

  “Has he gone forever?”

  Phoebe slumped onto a chair. A well of tears overcame her as she realised she’d just cut off her proverbial nose!

  Two miserable hours and a box full of tissues later, Phoebe sat at the table with the telephone before her. She’d half-dialled Tom’s number a dozen times and lost courage. She’d rehearsed her speech over and over, but no matter how many times she thought she’d got it just right, the moment she began to dial, it seemed trite and inadequate. She’d threatened to have him arrested for assault, for God’s sake! How could those words have even entered her stupid head, let alone come out of her mouth? She’d never do a thing like that! It would be the most heinous of betrayals! No wonder he looked so utterly destroyed. He’d never once spanked her without damned good reason and her earlier behaviour—Jesus, her behaviour of the last few weeks—was just cause if ever there was one.

  She’d been miserable, irritable, snappy and morose ever since she’d been invited to speak at the conference. A stupid, five minute address that wasn’t really of any consequence to anyone but her. Christ, it would probably be forgotten ten minutes after she’d made it! And she’d made such a song and dance over the whole paltry affair; she’d just jeopardised the single most important thing in her life—her relationship with Tom. And now she was struggling with what most probably would be the most crucial, life-changing speech she’d ever have to make—an abject, unconditional apology that would bring him back to her. But she’d been utterly thoughtless, insensitive, cruel and selfish for weeks. He’d now seen that dark side she’d warned him about. Could he ever forgive her? Would he want her back after everything she’d put him through? She could hardly blame him for telling her to get lost.

  She considered herself a pretty damned good wordsmith, but right now she might just as well be a total illiterate for all the sense anyone could make of her scribbled entreaty. Why the hell hadn’t she just let him spank the childish stubborn streak out of her? It would all be over and forgotten by now—no recriminations, no anger and only residual pain on her part. They’d both feel oceans better for it and the unnecessary angst of the last few weeks would all have been placed clearly into perspective. What a stupid bloody fool she’d been!

  There really was only one solution to the whole sorry affair—she’d have to go round to his place and offer herself up for deserved retribution, and hope he didn’t tell her to get out of his life for good.

  * * *

  Phoebe’s heart pounded with nervous anticipation as she pulled into the drive of Tom’s splendid house. The porch lights were on, but the rest of the house was dark. She glanced at the clock—only 9 p.m., too early for bed, especially for a man who was prone to pacing when he was angry. Going to bed and brooding wasn’t his style.

  She pulled on the handbrake and took a deep, calming breath. It was pointless rehearsing any more speeches; she’d forget everything the moment he opened the door to her—assuming that he would! She looked down at the leather strap lying on the passenger seat and sighed tremulously. The instrument had left an immutable image on her memory. Of all the tools of punishment Tom had ever used, the strap inflicted the sharpest and most lingering bite. He’d once experimented with a tawse, and it had stung quite badly, but the strap covered a larger proportion of her behind and after a few expertly applied strokes, there wasn’t an inch that didn’t burn like a furnace. This was the tool he would choose. She picked it up gingerly, almost as though it had a life of its own and might bite, then stepped out of the car.

  She rang the bell at least a dozen times—no answer, not even a twitch of the curtains. Damn, he hadn’t come home! He’d probably driven straight to a bar somewhere and was drowning his sorrows, or fury as the case may be. But Tom never drank and drove! Phoebe walked around to the garage block and peeked through the window—his car was inside. For a moment Phoebe was mystified. His car was home, but he wasn’t? He had to be at the Red Lion. They’d been there a couple of times together for lunch—it was within ‘staggering distance of home’ as Tom had put it.

  Phoebe shivered as a bitter May breeze whipped around her legs and she wrapped her coat tightly around her. She hadn’t bargained on facing him in a public place, but he might stay in the pub for hours—might even get legless drunk, and then how would she handle the situation? She cut across the front lawn to the footpath and jogged the three hundred yards or so to Topsham village green. When she was only fifty yards from the pub, she realised she was still clutching the leather paddle as though it were some kind of talisman.

  “Jesus, woman! Really smart move, walking into a busy pub with this in your bloody hand! He’ll definitely think you’ve flipped your lid!”

  She folded the stiff leather as best she could and stuffed it into her coat pocket. It bulged oddly, the strap stretching the fabric as the leather strained to straighten. Phoebe buttoned the flap down over it and prayed it would hold as she pushed the pub door open.

  The bar was quite busy for midweek—a blessing as far as Phoebe was concerned, the more background noise and activity going on, the better.

  Tom sat at his usual table by the fire, his back to the door. She saw two empty pint glasses on the table and hoped that was all he’d consumed. With her heart pounding and her breath caught in her throat, she approached him with mounting trepidation.

  “Is this seat free?” she asked, trying hard to keep the nervous tremor from her voice.

  Tom looked up at her. He appeared unsurprised and unimpressed by her presence. Phoebe felt her heart drop to a cold, empty place.

  “Please yourself, I was just leaving anyway,” he muttered darkly and swallowed the last drops of his beer.

  Phoebe crushed the inner demon voice that usually stoked up her pride at such a rebuttal and she hurriedly sat down.

  “Tom, please! Don’t leave. I need to talk to you. To apologise. I can’t tell you how sorry I am! The things I said ... they were unconscionable ... odious ... I—” She faltered as his eyes turned on her; with a bitter coldness and disgust the like of which she’d never felt before.

  “Trust, Phoebe. Does that word mean anything to you? Do you have any idea what you did to me tonight? Do you?” he snarled through clenched teeth.

  Phoebe swallowed hard, fighting to keep her breath steady and the tears from spilling. His anger was so intense; it raised panic in her heart. A seamless stream of inadequate replies sped through her mind and were discarded. All she could do was shake her head as a trickle of insistent hot tears descended her cheeks.

  “You made me feel dirty.” He spat out the word as though it tasted as bad as it sounded. “You made me feel like the lowest form of animal life. Violent, cruel! You’ve sullied everything that’s been special between us. Spoiled that mutual trust ... need ... understanding, that I thought we had.” His voice faded to a whisper and he cast down his eyes from her face in such a way that it made Phoebe feel ugly and offensive to behold.

  “You’re always so full of apologies and remorse, Phoebe, but this time, I’m not so sure I want to hear them.” He shrugged and stared at the bottom of his empty glass.

  Phoebe struggled against the tide of hopelessness threatening to sweep her away. He was right,
of course. Every time her mouth engaged and let loose a tirade of wicked abuse, it revealed the suppurating core of her being. Trust; it was a two way essential, in any relationship. But in theirs it was more than essential. Whatever means he used to punish her when she deserved it, was with the understanding that it was with her consent. The moment she spewed that vicious threat, she shattered all trust.

  A deathly calm settled upon her, an acceptance that this time she’d gone too far. Her dark side had triumphed again and she would have to live with it for the rest of her miserable life.

  “You’re right,” she whispered hoarsely. “I don’t deserve another chance and you don’t deserve me. I shouldn’t have come.”

  She stood. He didn’t look up; made no move to stop her. As she turned to leave, she felt her pocket button pop and the leather paddle uncoil itself. It sprang from her coat like a captive animal and slapped onto the fire hearth with a resounding splat that caught the attention of at least half a dozen other people. Phoebe froze with embarrassed horror, but Tom snatched it up quickly and slid it onto his lap under the table. Without looking up at her, he snarled furiously, “Just go, Phoebe! Just get out of my sight!”

  She ran out of the pub sobbing like a scolded child.

  * * *

  Phoebe spent the best part of the following week in the deepest depths of depression. She was due to leave for the conference in London on the Friday evening and by the morning of that day hadn’t even packed her suitcase. She’d seriously considered cancelling altogether and had concocted at least a half dozen excuses—sudden death in the family, an incapacitating sickness, serious injury ... and so they went on, but in truth she realised that the only thing she had left now was her career. Her heart was broken and bleeding, but the fault for that lay entirely at her door. Feeling sorry for herself only compounded the initial crime. If her dark side was determined to triumph every time something good came into her life, then she deserved no pity even from herself.

  She never actually got around to entering her short stories into the contest due to an irrational feeling that if any of them should win, then it was at the cost of something infinitely more important—another act of self-flagellation. Neither did she care if her speech fell flat on its face. She’d spent most of the week composing a letter to Tom, and it had ranged from a lengthy twenty pages to a paltry half dozen lines, yet still failed to express the depth of her regret and sorrow. Realising that it could never convey what was actually in her heart, she settled for a note saying simply, “I have never been so sorry in my life, for what I’ve done to you and what I’ve done to us. But I cannot ask you to forgive me, for I can never forgive myself.

  My love always, Phoebe.”

  She’d muttered a thousand curses for being unable to come up with anything better, but the right words always seemed to evade her when she needed them most.

  She packed her suitcase without feeling the slightest hint of excitement or enthusiasm, drove to the village and posted her pathetic excuse for an apology, then on to London.

  * * *

  Tom had bawled out two secretaries, three drivers and a customer, within twenty-four hours of his bust up with Phoebe, and decided that for the sake of his business and friends he’d best take a few days off. He’d since spent most of the time moping about the house trying to convince himself that the damned woman wasn’t worth the grief and aggravation. If she wasn’t getting herself into life-threatening scrapes, she was beating herself up over trivialities and riding roughshod over his feelings without a second thought. She was insensitive, selfish, arrogant, mouthy and impossible to reason with ... but she was beautiful, sexy, loving, generous, and more often than not, kind and giving. He’d known there was a wild streak in her—an instinctual beast that lashed out before thinking and he also knew that her threat to have him arrested was an empty one.

  She would be too embarrassed, for a start. There was no way she’d stand up in court and allow her private life—especially the circumstances of how they met—be broadcast to the world. The tabloids would have a field day with her! No, it was the mere fact that she abused his trust, sullied that special understanding between them. The image of his leather paddle leaping from her pocket like a live salmon made him chuckle, though. She had looked utterly mortified, and if it hadn’t been for the fact he was in an unforgiving mood at the time, he might well have bent her over the table and given her a few good whacks just to compound her embarrassment. Knowing the locals the way he did, they’d probably have cheered him on. But, in truth, he was almost as stubborn as she and, given the enormity of the insult, he fully expected her to make at least one more decent attempt to apologise. But he’d seen nor heard nothing from her since, and he was damned if he was going to crawl back to her asking for an apology! She was probably at home sulking, or not even thinking about him at all—she had that damned conference on Saturday. Her mind was probably fully occupied with that. She was most likely waiting for him to call her. Well, he was damned if he would give the spoiled little brat the satisfaction! Damned!

  Nevertheless, for the next three days, his thoughts never strayed far from her and his heart ached like the devil. He missed her so desperately. But her continued silence began to stoke his temper once again and by Friday morning he’d resolved to teach her the lesson of her life and give her an ultimatum that would decide their future one way or another. But, he was going to have fun doing it.

  * * *

  Phoebe arrived at the Mayfair Plaza a little after five. The drive had taken every last ounce of strength out of her—six hours of congested highways with road works every few miles slowing the traffic to a crawl, followed by a tortuous dawdle through the overcrowded, narrow streets of London. She detested the city even at the best of times, but now she wished she could just turn around and go straight home again. She threw her case down on a chair and slumped onto the huge crisp-sheeted bed, glad of the chance to close her eyes and relax for a while before getting ready for the gala reception later. She had a blinding headache, caused most likely by the one-way argument she’d been having throughout her journey. Tom was being a jerk, she’d decided. He knew damned well she wouldn’t carry out that threat! The fact she turned up at the pub with that beastly paddle should have been testament enough. He was just being bloody minded! He wanted her to ingratiate herself, crawl to him begging for forgiveness, bend over bare ass naked and ask for a thrashing. Well, fuck him! She had more pride than that and he knew it. She’d tried to apologize, was willing to offer herself for punishment, and he’d told her to get out of his sight. Well, fine! She had. And he obviously didn’t want her back.

  She rolled over and wept into the pristine white hotel pillowcases.

  By eight o’clock, she’d showered and changed into a stunning black, full-length strapless gown. It accentuated her figure beautifully, and was cut just perfectly to enhance an ample bosom; something Tom had pointed out quite disapprovingly when she chose it. In fact, his disapproval made her decision final, it meant that he’d be so busy keeping a close eye on her at the gala, his gaze wouldn’t stray to the host of younger models on display. She’d been dreading this evening ever since their break-up, but after a final bout of tears, she told herself that Tom was definitely out of her system and an evening of admiring glances and male attention was just what the doctor ordered. She added the finishing touches to her make-up, checked all was as good as it could be and went to join the reception.

  Tom arrived at the Plaza around eight. The reception was just getting underway in the Mayfair Suite, but he knew only too well that Phoebe wouldn’t be there. She liked to make an entrance and there weren’t enough people to impress as yet. He’d had a devil of a job booking another room. The hotel was just about full. The only available accommodation was the bridal suite—he took it. What he had planned for this evening’s entertainment was well worth the cost.

  Phoebe’s agent made a superb fuss of her—as agents do on such occasions—and introduced her to as many
publishers, producers and literary critics as a good agent could possibly cram into one successful soiree. Phoebe exuded charm and confidence and having already researched the careers of each individual—standard practise—she stunned each victim with her knowledge of their field of expertise. Once her agent had whisked her around the room for sufficient networking, Phoebe had just about exhausted her tolerance levels. This was all part of the job, but not a part she particularly enjoyed. Polite disingenuousness didn’t come naturally to her. She preferred directness almost to the point of being blunt, but her brand of pragmatism wasn’t acceptable on such occasions. That came later. There was an American film producer, however, a middle-aged man, not unattractive—though he’d obviously spent a fair amount of time and money in a cosmetic surgeon’s chair—who cut through the sincere insincerity and made her laugh quite genuinely. He made a beeline for her the moment she was free and presented her with a frosted glass of pink Champagne.

  He flashed her a perfect, tombstone-toothed smile. “You’re an expert at wrapping these saps around your little finger, aren’t you?”

  Phoebe laughed lightly. “I’ve attended a few master classes, mostly in the States, I hasten to add!”

  He laughed quite raucously. “Oh, yeah! Hollywood has definitely mastered the art of bullshitting with flare! It’s what we’re best at.” He took a sip of his Champagne and resumed his gleaming grin. “But I have a feeling you prefer to cut out all that crap and talk turkey, right?”

  Phoebe sipped then nodded. “Mm, hmm. Quite frankly, I see this room as more of a display of man-eating sharks! Strip away the frippery and honeyed tongues and there are some pretty impressive sets of teeth out there. Enough to make Jaws turn tail and flee!”

  He laughed even more rumbustiously and wiped away a little tear of mirth. Phoebe saw straight through the pretence, though, and recognised his as being possibly the sharpest set of teeth in the joint. His pally ‘we’re different from the rest,” chat up line had obvious intent. But Phoebe was feeling a little predatory herself this evening, for entirely different reasons. Nevertheless, she was going to enjoy playing with this particular shark.