by Shenda Paul
“What?” she asks at both Sarah’s and my appalled silence.
“Nothing,” I say, feeling defeated. “I just wish you hadn’t said anything about me; especially about my arrangement with Justin.”
“But they asked, and you told me to tell the truth. I didn’t say anything bad about you. I even….”
“I don’t blame you,” I cut in. “I just …” I find it hard to articulate my fears—of drawing more attention to myself, of being publicly exposed, of the effect on Mom and my friends.
“She doesn’t want people to know, Amy. In case you’ve forgotten, the senator’s up for trial, and you’ve just made sure Angelique gets a starring role in the drama,” Sarah hisses.
“Oh—I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” I say, seeing her genuine distress. “They would have found out anyway, and you can’t refuse to co-operate, believe me, I know.”
“Can we please talk about something else? I don’t want to think about Justin, the trial, or anything related to it anymore, not tonight,” I plead.
Samuel calls the next day to say he can’t get here until the day of the trial. He’s so apologetic, but I reassure him I’ll be fine. The rest of the week, much to my relief, flies by without any further news or incident relating to the trial.
Friday afternoon, I leave to spend the weekend in New York. And, as much as I’m looking forward to spending time with Mom and my friends, I know it won’t be as carefree as my other visits—well, not for me anyway. I’ll have to work hard to make sure Mom and Mandi, who know me so well, don’t get an inkling of what’s going on. I know I’ll have to tell them at some stage, but I’m just not ready yet.
It may seem strange that I’ve confided in Samuel rather than Mandi, but Samuel’s seen me at my most vulnerable, mentally and physically. He’s experienced a side of me that even my mother and best friends haven’t. When I’d all but given up on walking without a limp or even dancing again, Samuel bullied, cajoled, and supported me through my bouts of misery, ill temper, and pain. He boosted me and made me feel safe in a way I hadn’t felt since Dad’s illness and subsequent death.
When I land, as I always do, I make my way straight to Mom’s to have dinner with her. I usually alternate between staying at Mandi and Josh’s and Rachel’s on my visits, and this weekend, I’m due at Mandi’s. She and Josh are out to dinner with friends and will probably not be home when I get there, which suits me. It means less time having to pretend that everything’s normal.
“Angel, sweetie, it’s so good to see you,” Mom greets me as enthusiastically as always. She’s looking well and so beautiful, despite her disability. Her hair’s been cut recently, and it’s shiny and healthy, falling just past her chin; her blue eyes shine up at me as she moves to meet me, easily navigating her chair with the specially designed joystick.
We chat for an hour and then eat dinner without her sensing anything amiss. I say goodnight after arranging to take her to breakfast at a nearby restaurant Mom suggests. “I can even navigate the tables myself now,” she gushed when telling me about her visit with Rachel. ‘Remember this when things get tough,’ I tell myself as I burn the joy in her voice, the sight of her coming to meet me in her chair into my memory. That thought, somehow, makes my pretense more manageable because I want to keep that happy smile on Mom’s face for as long as I possibly can.
I make it through the weekend without raising suspicion by keeping Mom preoccupied with anecdotes about my students, what she’s able to achieve with her improved mobility, and taking her on several outings. Mandi’s preoccupied with her and Josh’ relationship and their search for a larger apartment, so she, also, hasn’t noticed anything wrong. I haven’t seen Rachel because she took advantage of my visit to catch up with some other friends. I’m extraordinarily lucky that she invests so much time in helping out with Mom, and I owe her a lifetime’s debt of gratitude. So, as a token of appreciation, I use the key I have and spend my free time cleaning her home, and then, before I leave late on Sunday evening, fill a vase with flowers and leave it in the living room. I settle myself into my airline seat, thankful that I’ve survived this trip without having to hurt Mom—that, and the fact that I’ve survived another visit without running into Dieter Quandt.
Three more days pass without any news on either Justin’s trial or the Cordi cases when Tom calls out of the blue. “How have you been?” he asks, his sudden concern both surprises and rouses my suspicions.
“I’m fine. What can I do for you?” I reply with reserved politeness. I’d already determined that, should he call, I’d refrain from asking about Justin. A moment of awkward silence passes, time, he’s probably using to assess my mood.
“Justin and I are pleased you’re doing well; also, I was wondering if you and I could meet, so I can bring you up-to-date on his situation.”
I could ask how on earth Justin, or even he, would know how I’ve been, but I hold my tongue. “Can’t you just tell me now?” I ask instead.
“Angelique,” he says. I’ve grown to hate the way he says my name. It’s not quite the same smarmy way Dieter used it, but it fills me with a similar feeling of distaste
“I’d like to take you to dinner as it’s a rather complicated matter. Also, I think that as both Justin’s friend and lawyer, and given that he can’t see you, it’s the least I can do,” he says.
Again, I don’t mention that Justin had, in fact, never thought it suitable to be publicly seen with me. I still don’t trust Tom’s motives, but I agree because I’m hoping to learn more about Justin’s case and what it could potentially mean for me.
“Good, I’ll make the reservations and pick you up on Friday.”
“I’d prefer to meet you, Tom. Just text me the details,” I say firmly. He protests, but I remain adamant, and, with an irritated huff, he concedes.
He texts on Thursday morning, his message, asking me to meet him at Bistro du Midi at seven-thirty on Friday, includes a postscript, saying Justin’s second arraignment is scheduled for today.
The evening news reports that Justin’s entered an Allen Plea. The newscaster explains that, in effect, he’s acknowledged the evidence against him but hasn’t pleaded guilty. I’m not sure about the significance of it all, but I make a note to ask Tom the following night. I also learn that Justin’s trial has been set for two months from now and that he’s stepped down from public engagements until after. His office has released a statement announcing that the senator will still be serving his constituents and getting on with the business of the Senate, albeit out of the public eye.
I don’t want dinner with Tom to feel like a date, so I dress in a simple, gray sheath dress and black pumps. I apply subtle make-up and twist my hair into a knot at the nape of my neck. I arrive at the restaurant to find Tom waiting at the entrance, where he greets me with a light kiss on the cheek. His over-familiarity irritates me, but I dismiss my feelings by reminding myself that he’d probably greet any female dinner companion in the same manner.
We’re ushered to one of the best tables, and he almost smugly informs me that he’s well known here. I remain singularly unimpressed, smiling politely without comment. Tom makes quite a show of discussing the menu and takes what I feel is an inordinate amount of time ordering wine to accompany our meal. I remind him that I don’t drink, but he brushes off my comment.
“One or two glasses won’t do any harm; in fact, it might relax you,” he smiles, but I remain on guard. I accept a glass of white wine, which I plan to make last for the duration of dinner.
“How’s Justin?” I ask when the waiter leaves.
“He’s doing as well as can be expected. We’re determined to clear his name, and then he can resume his political career in earnest. He has dreams of going far, you know.”
“I know his ambitions, Tom; he’s told me about them,” I reply tersely, not liking his veiled inference that I couldn’t possibly understand drive or potential.
“Then you’ll understand why Justin
can’t afford for any more information about his association with Liaison to get out; especially his arrangement with you,” he says pointedly. So, we’re back to this, I think, and now I see the reason for his invitation.
“Tom, I’ve already said I have no intention of doing anything to harm Justin. I meant that, but you should know that the DA’s office has approached me.”
“What the fuck? I thought I told you not to speak to anyone without contacting me,” he hisses.
“Please don’t swear at me, and I don’t need your permission to talk to anyone; you’re not my lawyer. I had no choice, as you’d well know.”
He’s taken aback by my tone, but I don’t care. “Who interviewed you?” he asks with narrowed eyes.
“Assistant District Attorney Thorne,” I reply.
“Son of a bitch!” he spits. “You have to be careful of him, Angelique. What did he want?”
I tell him about my interview, deliberately omitting information about my first run-in with Adam Thorne or our heated parting at our last meeting.
“He threatened to call you as a hostile witness?” he clarifies, looking concerned.
“Yes, and he made my options very clear; each one of them ended with me answering his questions in court.”
“You’re right about having no choice, but I can prepare you for his questioning.”
“Tom, I don’t want a lawyer. I haven’t been charged. I can’t be as you’ve already pointed out. Having a lawyer would make me look guilty, and I don’t want any more scrutiny than I already have.”
“Angelique, for Justin’s sake, you should let me help you with what to say. You don’t know Thorne like we do; he’s like a dog with a bone. Sanctimonious prick,” he mutters at the end.
“Do you and Justin know him?”
He snorts derisively. “Yes, we know him,” he says, but doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t press because I know Tom’s penchant for playing games. I ask about Justin’s trial, instead, but Tom doesn’t really reveal much more than I already know. When I ask whether he passed on my concern and good wishes to Justin, he says he did. “Justin’s a bit preoccupied right now,” he tells me. His dismissive tone, no doubt, meant put me in my place.
The idea that Justin could so easily dismiss my concern for him upsets me, even though I know it shouldn’t, that I’d been stupid to think he cared for me. When it becomes apparent that Tom’s said as much on the subject as he intends, he makes light and quite entertaining conversation. I’m even more confused about his reason for inviting me to dinner because he could easily have given me the little information he revealed over the phone.
He offers to order dessert, but I decline, using the excuse of an impending headache. He looks at me searchingly before he motions for a waiter and asks for the bill.
Tom places his hand at the small of my back when we leave. I cringe, hating his touch, but I reprimand myself for being churlish when he’s behaving like a gentleman. My snarky, inner voice reminds me that he’s never displayed gentlemanly tendencies around me before and that I’m right to be cautious.
“Good evening, Counselor,” Tom’s voice stops my internal monolog. I turn my head and look up into the derisive eyes of Adam Thorne. My heart lurches painfully.
“Working hard, I see,” he says disdainfully, seemingly addressing Tom, but I have little doubt that the dig had been aimed at me. It’s obvious that he thinks I’m here with Tom in my capacity as an escort.
“Still an ass, I see,” I answer coolly, even though I’m burning with chagrin. I turn my back on him, no longer willing or able to withstand the censure in his eyes.
“Don’t mind him, he’s always been a bit of a prude,” Tom whispers in my ear. I move away instantly, irritated that his action could be misconstrued as intimate. My stomach flutters with nerves as we walk away. I swear I can feel Adam Thorne’s eyes like a scorching laser on my back.
Tom offers to drive me home, and I find it hard to come up with an acceptable excuse. It would seem more than petty given that I haven’t driven and just cited the onslaught of a headache. I stare out at the passing traffic, fuming and feeling more than a little upset at the memory of Adam Thorne’s contemptuous behavior. I’m mad at myself for having accepted Tom’s invitation to dinner and placing myself in this position, and I’m mad at Tom for pulling me into whatever unspoken, testosterone-induced battle he’d been having with the prosecutor.
“I’ll walk you up,” he offers outside my building.
“There’s no need,” I protest, but he’s already out of the car. I beat him to opening my door, but I can’t make it out before he extends his hand to assist me. I reluctantly accept. When we reach the foyer, he insists on seeing me to my apartment. At my door, I retrieve my keys from my handbag and turn to thank him.
He’s right behind me and pushes me against the door, roughly grinding his hips into me as he latches onto my mouth. I try to protest, but he forces his tongue between my lips. I nearly gag, pushing him away with all the strength I can muster.
“W…what are you doing?” I stammer.
“I want you. I’ve always wanted you, and now your agreement with Justin is void, I can have you.” We’re both panting, he because he’s worked up, and me, from the exertion of fighting him off.
“Tom, I no longer do that. I don’t want to do that,” I try to reason.
“I’ll pay you; you must need the money, Angelique.”
“Perhaps, but I’ll no longer earn it that way,” I say more firmly.
“I’m not good enough, is that it? Are you delusional enough to believe you have a future with Justin?” he ridicules me, then continues before I can respond. “There’s no way that Justin could or would ever have considered you suitable—not even before you became a prostitute. Sure, he may have been enamored, but he knows what’s good for his future; and you’re not it. You’re running out of options, Angelique; you’d do well to accept my offer. Or would you rather be working the streets?” he sneers.
I’m so angry; I raise my hand but manage to control myself before I actually strike him. “Get out!” I practically hiss.
He laughs derisively. “You’ll be begging me soon; mark my words. And don’t bother contacting Justin. He has no further use for you.
19
H is words remain with me, mocking, hurtful, and true. I’d been a fool to think Justin held even the slightest regard for me. Selling myself had been one thing, there seemed no other way out of our financial woes, but to allow myself to be blindsided by his seeming affection had been downright stupid. But that’s not the only thing making me feel sick right now because, despite brushing my teeth several times over and scrubbing myself under a steaming hot shower, I can’t rid myself of the memory of Tom’s tongue invading my mouth or his body pressing against mine.
I realize that it’s not just the most recent events that have caused my near breakdown. It’s the culmination of everything—the anxiety of being found out, the hurt I’ll be causing Mom, the public shame I’m almost sure to face, Justin’s easy dismissal of me. Then tonight—tonight proved yet another disaster. I can’t forget Adam Thorne’s cold disdain, and Tom’s assumption that he could touch me at will, his blatant disrespect. I’m ultimately responsible for the position I’m in, but I can’t help believing that the incident with Tom would not have happened if Justin had expressed just a modicum of regard or concern for me to his friend.
This is only the start of my humiliation, I know. Once I’m forced to testify, I’ll be exposed and publicly degraded. Mom will be hurt beyond measure—Samuel, Mandi, Rachel, Samantha, and Bron, the people I love and who love me, will also be affected. I have no idea how to tell Mom. I haven’t even begun to think about how to tell Mandi, Rachel, and the girls. I wish I could just run, find some place to hide, but I can’t. Adam Thorne, I have no doubt, would track me down. I have no option but to face the consequences of my decisions. The only thing holding me up right now is the thought of Samuel’s arrival. I’ve disappointed
and hurt him, but I can’t wait for his solid, comforting presence to ground me, remind me of the person I was—the person I hope to be again when this mess has died down.
Samuel insisted that he’d take a cab from the airport, and, to avoid argument, I pretended to accept his decision. He’ll be surprised to see me, but it’s the least I can do, given the money he’s spent and the time he’ll be away from his family.
Feelings, both of relief and trepidation, race through me as his tall figure appears. He’s come to mean so much to me, like the older brother I’ve always longed for, somewhat intimidating, yet comforting, everything I’ve missed out on since Dad died.
He sees me and frowns, but then, his beautiful smile lights up his face like the sun breaking through on a cloudy day. I race to him, and he drops his bag just in time before I wrap my arms tightly around his waist.
“Hey!” He squeezes me. “I guess you’re glad to see me, huh?”
“So glad,” I whisper into his muscle-hard chest.
“Well, I’m happy to see you too.” He extricates himself and tips my chin up. “How’re you doing?”
“Fine—especially now,” I say, my voice strangled by emotion.
“Good. We have a lot to talk about, but let’s just enjoy being with each other for a while, okay?”
Samuel’s still able to read my emotional state and reacts in just the way I need. During my grueling months of rehab, he learned my every emotion, every stalling tactic, and every idiosyncrasy I tried to hide behind to deflect what I was feeling or thinking. Now, he’s giving me the time I need to soak up his presence and to get comfortable enough to open up to him.
I nod, my eyes filling with grateful tears. “Okay, show me this new city of yours,” he cheerfully demands, and then, picking up his bag, slings it over his shoulder while casually wrapping his other arm around mine.