by Eva Mazza
Frankie’s friends had organised a substantial spread and the mourners were milling around with cups in one hand and plates in the other.
“We just caught Jen sneaking out.”
John turned around, his mouth full of cake, to see Shelley, hands on hips, looking like a school mistress.
He swallowed. “She needed to go somewhere.”
“She said that she’s leaving you. That she did me a favour by stealing you from me. Apparently, she saved me from you. What did you do this time, John Pearce?”
What the fuck? He didn’t know what to say. He was hardly ever at a loss for words, but this had stumped him. Shelley waited for him to say something. It was as if he had to give her some explanation for not handing in a homework assignment.
“Well, then,” he said, downing the last of his coffee, “it seems you know more than me.” He handed the mug and the plate to her, and then kissed her condescendingly on the cheek.
Shelley visibly seethed.
“You’re such a chauvinist. I’m not here to clean up after you. If you wanted me to do that for you, you should’ve married me.” She shoved his plate and mug back into his hands.
John scanned the foyer to see if anyone was looking, then leaned in closer to her and whispered in her ear, “I’ve lived with that regret all my life, Shelley.” He gently bit on her earlobe, teasing her with his tongue. “If Jen goes, then who knows?”
He winked at her and left her gawping after him as he sauntered across the room to find a place to dump his dirty dishes.
Their group of friends had been invited, along with their wives and offspring, to a lunch on Frankie’s farm after the service. Frankie had not extended the invitation to John, but he was going anyway, taking Brigit with him.
Faith had set a long table on the veranda, overlooking the Franschhoek mountain range in the background and in the foreground, the farm’s vineyards.
All through lunch, Frankie refused to meet John’s eyes. When he spoke, she ignored him, snubbing every attempt to include him in the conversation. After everyone had finished their lasagne, Lee’s favourite dish so lovingly prepared by Faith, he noticed that she was missing, and he discreetly left the table to find her.
Frankie had retreated to the bathroom to fix her hair and touch up her make-up. She had had an exhausting day, but she felt, somehow, satisfied at how smoothly everything had gone. Faith’s thoughtful and unsupervised preparation of the lunch did not go unnoticed. Faith had made sure that the tables were dressed with Frankie’s crisp white cloths and the family’s finest silver. The lasagne was accompanied by a green salad. The cold tomato soup as a starter was refreshing and light on such a hot day. She was also surprised at how many people, some of whom she had never met, had come to pay their respects. She had even spotted Patty and Jen in the hall.
She jumped with fright as she opened the bathroom door. John was waiting for her. “Get away from me!” she whispered, afraid that somebody would hear her. “What do you want? You have no respect. No remorse.”
“I want to say how sorry I am, Frankie.” John seemed to be speaking with uncharacteristic sincerity. “I know that this has been a tough time for you, and I’m sorry for everything.”
Frankie was taken aback by his kind words but didn’t entirely trust him, particularly as he’d obviously been drinking.
“Okay. Thanks,” she said, trying to walk around him. The bathroom was through Frankie’s dressing room, which made the chances of being discovered slim. As Frankie tried to pass him, John grabbed her arm and twisted it around, pushing her up against the dressing room wall in the way she used to love.
But now it was sinister, and it scared her.
“You make a shit-hot widow,” he whispered lustily in her ear.
“Don’t! Please!” she begged.
“Are you playing hard to get? Is this the game you want to play, Frankie?” He reeked of alcohol.
“I’m not playing hard to get. I don’t want anything to do with you. Do you hear me? We’re done. It’s over. What don’t you understand?” She was desperately trying to break free from his grip.
John’s hand moved under her dress and his fingers ran up her inner thigh.
“Stop, you fucking bastard!” She tried again to break free, but he only tightened his grip around her hands.
Pressing himself against her, he kissed the nape of her neck.
She heard a gasp. Someone was there!
“Wha…what are you doing?” It was Brigit.
John quickly withdrew his hand from under Frankie’s dress, and let her go. The look on his face told Frankie that he knew exactly how much trouble he was in.
All Frankie could say was, “It’s not what you think it is, Brig.”
Brigit shoved her father aside and made one of her characteristic dramatic exits. This time Frankie could not blame her; in fact, she was grateful she had saved her from John, who left the room as abruptly as he had arrived. Frankie watched out of her bedroom’s bay window as Brigit sped down the driveway in her car, braked hard for a moment to allow a clutch of ducklings to pass in front of her, and then zoomed off, away from the farm.
John stepped back out onto the veranda.
“Boys, let’s go,” he said, and the men all rose from the lunch table.
“That’s enough for one day,” Shelley scolded Frans.
“Maybe for Frans, but not for the rest of us. We don’t have to ask your permission, now do we, Shelley?”
“I don’t have to either!” Frans retorted. “It’s my mate’s wake. You’ll see me when you see me, Shelley.”
He heaved his considerable weight up from the lunch table and joined his friends. John knew Frans was making a point: no woman was going to dictate to him, especially not in front of his mates.
The men spilled noisily into the popular pizzeria in Dorp Street that was frequented by students, tourists and families alike. The manager greeted them sympathetically and led them to a table in the bar area where they could resume their drinking. Before long, they had the whole pub singing ‘We Are the Champions’, much to the chagrin of the residents of the block of flats nearby. Someone – it could have been John, but he wasn’t sure – decided they should all drink until they passed out. But by one in the morning, the manager, well known for his no-nonsense style, had closed the bar after they had finished their round of free drinks.
John was far too drunk to drive, but he got behind the wheel anyway. He made his way back to the farm, weaving from side to side along the treacherous sand roads. It crossed his mind briefly that he was way over the limit, but he was John Pearce. He could do anything.
The farmhouse stood dark and empty.
At least Jen was home. No way could she ever leave him. She didn’t have enough money to finance a move, and she had no family or friends to run to. She must have come straight home after the service, and she was probably asleep right now in their bed.
Make-up sex with his wife was always passionate. He stumbled to the bedroom and whispered in the dark, “Jen, I’m home. Are you ashleep?”
He fell on his stomach onto the bed.
“I’m home!” he slurred.
He felt for Jen with his hand, but it just swept through air. He pushed himself up to make sure she really wasn’t there. He winced as he rolled off the bed, removed his shoes and his suit jacket, undid his tie and finally pulled down his pants. He was standing in a pool of clothing, swaying from side to side, with just his shirt, jocks and socks on.
“Jen! Where are you?”
He staggered past the kitchen towards the spare room. As he pushed the door open, he called out his wife’s name again. This room, too, was dark, and there was no answer.
“Come on, Jen,” he said. “Let’sh be friends. Fuck it, Jen, life is too short. You fucked Lee and I fucked Frankie. We’re even. Anyway, I need you.”
He switched on the light to find a neatly made bed. At the foot of the bed was a sealed envelope with his name on it. He grabbed it
, tore it open and shook the contents out on to the bed. Out spilled all the incriminating photographs of him, the same photographs Frankie had thrown at him. It had never crossed his mind that there were copies! He fell to his knees, photographs in hand, as he looked at every one of them. He felt as if he’d been punched hard in the guts. Jen had evidence of the life he had kept from her – a secret life he knew was unforgivable, let alone unacceptable. Even in his drunken state, he knew that leaving the envelope was her way of saying ‘over and out’.
“I need you, Jen.” There was nobody to hear him. “You can’t leave me,” he moaned.
Never had he loathed himself so deeply. He had pushed his wife away and hurt his children. Everyone had deserted him, even his best friend.
Thirty-six
A distraught Brig had messaged her brother to come to her place as soon as possible; she had just caught their dad and the grieving widow together. Pete had driven as fast as he could through peak-hour traffic to get to her. Overcome by anger, he had phoned Clive.
To his surprise, Clive was not at all shocked. He thanked him for being brave enough to be upfront about Frankie’s affair.
“It just endorses what I’m about to do, Pete,” he had said. “My mother told me some hectic stuff last night. Some hardcore shit went down. I’m stopping this now and I hope you’ll be able to do the same with your dad. This is not good for my dad. For any of us, really. Send love to Brig, and tell her I’m really sorry. I’m really, really sorry,” he said, his voice breaking.
When Pete finally got to Brigit’s flat, she hugged him tightly.
“Thank you so much for coming, Pete. You have no idea what this means to me,” she sobbed.
“I know, I know,” he said, wiping her tears from her face. “You’ve been through a shitload, Brig. And now Frankie and Dad!”
“Did you know about them?” she asked, searching his face, which – he knew – showed no hint of shock or surprise.
“I did,” he admitted. “Look, Ma knows too. This is really the straw that broke the camel’s back. They’ve been fucking each other for months.”
“The bitch! And to think that Lee wouldn’t touch me because he was married to her!” her voice petered out, and Pete took a step back.
“What? What the fuck you telling me, Brigit? That you made a move on Lee?”
He interpreted Brigit’s silence as an affirmative.
“Oh, my fuck! You must be Dad’s child,” he blurted out. They looked at each other, aghast at the tactlessness of what he had just said and, for a second, he worried that she was going to cry, but instead, she snorted. He started laughing, too, and then Brigit was crying and laughing at the same time.
When they finally calmed down, he spoke.
“Look, Brig, if anyone has no right to judge, it’s me.”
“Well, anyway, I never did sleep with Lee. He was a true gentleman. I now wonder if he batted me because he knew I could be his daughter.”
Pete shuddered. “Can you imagine if he, you…”
“Stop it!” Brigit put her hands over his mouth. “I don’t want to think about it.”
“What are we going to do, Brig? Dad has a problem, let’s face it.”
Brigit just shrugged.
Pete inhaled deeply before speaking. “Ma and I had a serious conversation last night. She had a proposition she wanted to discuss with me, regarding the farm and her assets. I met with her attorney, Leonard Mazwai, after the service today. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to go for it, until now.”
He could see Brig had no idea what he was talking about.
“Go for what?”
“Go for the jugular.”
The next morning, Pete waited for his father in the kitchen.
“What the fuck do you want here?” he barked.
“I’ve come to have a conversation with you. One that’s long overdue. And I’ve come back to work here, on the farm.”
Pete had been waiting for this day: John’s day of reckoning. He was no longer intimidated by him. In fact, his father’s misdemeanours had made him lose all respect for him.
“I don’t want you back. You and everyone else can just fuck off.”
Pete waited until Gladys took her leave before launching into his attack.
“Brigit told me how she ran into you and Frankie yesterday: the grieving widow and grieving best friend.” John tried to interrupt, but Pete stopped him. “I’m not finished. I’m really not here to judge you or try to save you from yourself. It’s too late for that. What I am here to do is to take over Ma’s share of the farm.” John was silent and then he was in Pete’s face, grabbing his collar. “Don’t you fucking think of it, you cu…”
Pete head-butted his father with such force that he fell back against the kitchen counter. “You can fuck whoever,” he hissed. “Fling your reputation in the dirt, I don’t give a shit. But you won’t sink this farm in the process. This, I give a fuck about, so let me tell you about our new arrangement. Partner.”
Leonard Mazwai and Jen had come up with a solution regarding the divorce and the splitting of the assets. As Jen and John were married in community of property, John would be forced to allow Pete – who would be Jen’s employee from now on – to take over her share of the farm. This meant that Pete would ostensibly hold a fifty percent partnership of the land, the buildings on the farm, the vineyards and the business itself. He would draw a salary from this, and his share of the profits would go to Jen. His mother would open an account for Brigit into which she would split her share of the profits.
John would be “pushed” (Leonard’s word) to leave his share of the farm to his daughter. No other spouse or future children, following the divorce, would be entitled to Jen or John’s portion of the farm. This was considered a fair exchange in lieu of Jen’s capital, which John had used to upgrade the farm and the business during their marriage.
Pete would be employed as Financial Director alongside his father. He would have signing power and they’d have equal say over everything.
“So, you see, Ma’s making sure that she’s in on the profits of the business while taking care of us and making sure that we will eventually be the rightful owners. She’s making sure she gets paid, for a change. And she’s got our interests at heart, too. Which is more than I can say for you,” Pete finished.
He left John in the kitchen, in his shirt, underpants and socks, to consider how much his life was about to change. But before doing so he said, “By the way, don’t you ever call me a cunt again.”
Thirty-seven
While spending a week away at a game lodge, Jen had begun to glue together the broken pieces of her life.
It was a rocky start to her so-called freedom, and it certainly hadn’t given her the much-needed rest she had hoped for.
The time alone had forced her to reflect on her past. She’d felt bitter about John and the humiliation he had caused her. She’d derided herself for being such a weak and subservient wife. She was to blame for the kind of woman she was – or had become – and she reproached herself for the example she had set for her children. It’s no wonder Brigit has no respect for me. I never once took a stand or showed any backbone.
Although she knew that John’s problem was pathological, she couldn’t help placing the blame on her inadequacies. She had never counted sexual prowess as one of her qualities, but she had been sure that she was no dead weight in the bedroom, either. She reflected on her perceived prudishness. She could never measure up to Frankie, who had made it her mission to be sexy. Her body, her clothes, her swagger – everything had been carefully honed to entice and please a man. No wonder John had strayed into her taut, toned arms. Who could blame him?
Especially since she, Jen, hadn’t given much thought to her own figure. John had begged her to have her breasts lifted and had nagged her for years to go to gym. He had basically been telling her that she didn’t excite him.
God! Had she forced him to stray? Maybe his sex addiction was all her fault?
She thought a lot about her parents, too, remembering how her father had stripped her mom of her dignity and pride. Why had she not shown strength of character by leaving him? Surely, if she had taken a stand against him, she would have shown Jen that women do have choices and, moreover, that women have power? Her mother was also to blame, then; she was the reason Jen had believed she had nowhere to go.
She fell into a deep, dark hole during that week. In fact, she didn’t venture out of her suite at all, not even to the restaurant, nor on any of the lodge’s complementary game drives or guided hikes she had been so looking forward to.
Jen spent all day in a darkened room, agonising over her past – her lost youth and her sad childhood – all the while berating herself for allowing her mother to persuade her to withhold the truth from John. To marry him, through fear! She hated herself for having been swayed by the expectations of others.
She ignored all phone calls and after the first day, she didn’t bother to dress, lying in bed in a foetal position, allowing herself simply to cry and to hate, to weep and to blame. Her desire to move forward had been crippled, paralysed by depression.
She was amazed to see Claudia and Sharon, who had decided to check in on her when she hadn’t answered any of their messages or calls. She was overjoyed to see caring faces. They even pretended not to notice her greasy hair and swollen eyes.
Their presence inspired Jen to get dressed and go out. They’d each booked into a suite of their own for the weekend, and the three of them drank in the tonic that is nature: the wildlife, the bushveld, the fresh air. The healing power of friendship and laughter was just what she had needed, and, by the end of the week, Jen was ready to face life as a single, middle-aged woman. She felt a fluttering of excitement at the thought that she was about to embark on a brand-new adventure.