Captive Hearts

by Harper Bliss

  “I’m not attacking you, Alice. I swear. I’m just trying to understand.”

  “You and I are very different people. I grew up in a time when everything was different. Unlike you, I wasn’t raised with the belief that the world was my oyster.”

  I can feel Joy’s stare boring into me, but I keep looking straight ahead. “I understand that we’re different and from other generations and all that, but, come on, my own mum is older than you and she’s very prone to some hedonism. So, in my humble opinion, it’s definitely not just a generational issue.”

  “Of course not. Everyone is different.” And I know all about Miranda’s hedonism—and the number of days she’s taken off because of it since we went into business together. But Miranda’s life has always been the opposite of mine.

  “Mum will kill me if she ever finds out I told you this, but we used to have a running joke in our house. Whenever one of us didn’t feel like doing a chore, we’d say ‘Better call Alice’ because, even when Mum was absent from work, you’d still get everything done. Mind you, apart from the joke, Mum has the greatest respect for you. She really appreciates everything you’ve done for her over the years. I know that much.”

  “It works both ways.” I’m not at all offended by Miranda’s family’s joke, more flattered than anything, really. “Jones & McAllister is our law firm, but from the very beginning, I’ve had to call all the shots, which has allowed me a degree of control I probably wouldn’t have had otherwise.”

  “And let me guess… Alice McAllister likes being in control.” Joy chuckles. “By the way, you have me to thank for that. If I hadn’t been born when I was, your life might be totally different. You basically owe me, Alice.”

  “I don’t believe a person owes another anything simply because they exist.” Perhaps my voice is more serious than I want it to sound.

  “I was only joking,” Joy says quickly. “Oh, hold on. If we go off the main road here, I know just the spot for lunch.”

  * * *

  After a delicious meal of cataplana and grilled squid, during which Joy somehow manages to consume three Portuguese beers, which she claims were not strong at all, we approach our destination.

  The wind is fierce, bringing the temperature way down, and I feel a chill on my skin as I exit the car. This drop in temperature doesn’t seem to affect Joy at all, as she bounds out of the car, nearly jumping up and down with excitement, the way a child would. “This is one of my top spots in the whole wide world. There’s just something about it. But you have to see it to believe it.”

  I follow her to a curvy white building that looks a bit like a church. All around us we’re surrounded by the bluest of water. We walk through a courtyard with some stalls selling coffee and souvenirs, then end up in front of one of the most stunning views I’ve ever come across. Blue can’t describe the colour of the water, nor of the sky. It’s like a condensed version of all the existing blues in the world, intensified by the white of the building flanking the ocean on the top of the cliff where we’re standing.

  “Bottom left corner of Europe,” Joy says. “This can only mean one thing: selfie time.”

  For the first time since she arrived, and despite having had many an occasion to do so already, I roll my eyes at her. “You go ahead, dear.” I mean to sound every bit as condescending as I do.

  “Just one picture of the two of us?” Joy looks at me like a toddler who wants to beg one more sweet from her parents after they’ve already closed the packet.

  For the life of me, I can’t refuse her. “All right then.”

  “Brilliant. Come on.” She opens one arm wide, indicating where I should stand. Her other hand holds the phone at arm’s length.

  I step into her half-embrace, and she clutches my shoulder with her fingers, pulling me close to her. Her body heat is welcome in the brisk wind that blows our hair in all directions. I can feel the side of her breast press into me, and the same sensation as last night—the one I ran away from so ungracefully—hits me with full force again.

  “Smile!” Joy says.

  I try, but I’m not keen to see the result.

  “Okay, we’re going to have to do another because you look as though I’m pinching your arse in this one,” Joy says.

  “I don’t photograph well,” I say, scolding myself for letting myself be talked into having a ‘selfie’ taken. I mean, really.

  “This one’s much better.” Joy lets go of my shoulder, but not without giving it a gentle squeeze first. “Look.” She shows me the phone screen, but the sun is too bright and I’m glad I can’t really see the photo.

  “Hm,” is all I say, but Joy is busy on her phone anyway.

  “Let me just upload it to Facebook. You can have one guess as to who will be the first person to ‘Like’ it.”

  “I have no earthly idea.” I turn to take in the view some more. The ruggedness of the ocean, the vastness of it, allows me to put what I’m feeling into perspective. Either way, it’s of no importance. Just some stress release mingling with the frivolity of being on the road with someone so much younger than me, and with such a different view of the world. It’s no wonder I’m a bit shaken.

  “Mum, of course. She’s even worse than I am.”

  “Miranda is on Facebook?”

  “Yep, and she’s what? Seven years older than you? Eight?”

  “Meaning?”

  “Nothing, Alice.” Joy bumps her shoulder into mine. “Anyway, all the younger people are moving onto Instagram these days now that their grandparents are all on Facebook.” A vibrating sound stops Joy mid-speech. “Ah, here she is already.” She unlocks her phone by holding her thumb on a button at the bottom. “What did I say? Here, check this.” Joy thrusts the phone in my direction and I see a comment below the picture of Joy and me:

  Beautiful picture. Glad you two are getting along. Alice: don’t forget to relax!

  “Instant attention and gratification,” I say, pushing the ‘getting along’ part of the comment to the back of my brain as quickly as possible. “Is that why these, uh, technologies are so popular?”

  “It’s just a bit of fun. And it keeps Mum happy that she can follow me around—at least she thinks she does. You should see my Instagram account.”

  Despite myself, my curiosity is piqued. “You’ll have to show it to me then.”

  Joy clearly wasn’t expecting that reply. “I will. Tonight. Promise.” She draws her eyes into slits as she scans my face.

  “When did you come here last?” I ask, eager for a change of subject, and to not have Joy look at me anymore the way she’s doing now.

  “Not too long ago. I make a point of coming here every time I visit Portugal. There’s something about standing at the edge of the world that, I don’t know, frees me of all the bullshit that life brings. The wind. The azure of the sea. The pureness of it. It levels me somehow.”

  I can fully relate to Joy’s words. She’s not that much of a brat then.

  “Dad loved it here as well. We used to come here, just the two of us. Stay for hours while, usually, tourists tend to come and go pretty quickly. We’d have a coffee or an ice cream, then, sometimes, crawl down those rocks there.” She points to her right, to a precarious spot on the slope of the hill where a brave fisherman has set up.

  “You went down there? How did you manage that?”

  “Fearlessness, I guess. And a little arrogance. Definitely the Perkins side of the family.”

  I can imagine Paul clambering down. It does sound like something he would have done. “Can I buy you an ice cream?” I offer.

  “Only if we climb down afterwards,” Joy says.

  My limbs stiffen at the thought.

  “Only kidding.” Joy flashes me a wide smile. “But I will have that ice cream.”

  On the way back, Joy nods off. Before she drifted off into sleep, she put on Darkness on the Edge of Town and I hum along to the lyrics, surprising myself by remembering the full chorus and singing along to it without hesitat
ion. Out of the wind, and with the steady thrum of the car, I feel a drowsiness settling in my bones despite the two espressos I drank before we left, and this day out has given me a new kind of energy. A buzz humming underneath my skin, like a neon light flickering to life. Only four more days with Joy, I find myself thinking. Whatever will I do with myself when she’s gone?

  Chapter Six

  After dinner, Joy initiates me into the secrets of Instagram. She shows me picture after picture—all of them spectacular-looking and boasting amazing colours—of her in various spots in London. One at Miranda’s house. One at a bar called Sax in East London. One of her cuddling an adorably fluffy puppy.

  “This is Alex,” she says, when we reach a picture of her and another woman.

  I had expected someone similar in age to Joy and, perhaps also, similar in looks, but the woman in the picture looks nothing like Joy. For starters, she’s at least in her late thirties, if not early forties, and is dressed up in a pants suit and crisply ironed blouse.

  “Wow,” I say.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I sense a small shift in Joy’s energy, like she’s going on the defence—like a secret has been unearthed.

  “She’s not what I had expected, that’s all.”

  “What had you expected?” Joy puts the phone on the table.

  “Gosh, I really don’t know. Like you said earlier in the car, we barely know each other, so it’s hard to say.”

  She reaches for the bottle of wine and pours herself another glass—I stopped keeping count a few hours ago, quickly realising there’s no point.

  “I’m sorry. It’s just that you really sounded a lot like Mum just then.” She gazes into the dark liquid in her glass.

  “How so?” It’s only natural though, I think, considering my connection to Miranda—and how close in age we are.

  “When I told her about Alex, she said the exact same thing. That she wasn’t what she had expected.” At last, Joy drinks.

  “Because she’s older than you? Or because she’s a woman?”

  Joy sets her glass down and rubs her palms over her forehead. “She was my boss. It was bad judgement on both our parts. I quit, so she didn’t have to fire me.”

  I’m not a keen watcher of soap operas, but this is beginning to sound like one. “Christ.” I’m also beginning to think that Miranda might not have such an issue with her daughter’s sexual preference as with her taste in partners. “Was she your, uh, first, uh, female partner?”

  “God no. I started dating women when I was at UCLA. It was so easy to hide it from Mum. She wasn’t on Facebook yet back then.” There’s room for a small chuckle. “I only told her when I moved back to London and I started seeing someone seriously. She didn’t approve of Tamsin either, even though she was a barrister.”

  I’m starting to understand why people enjoy dramatic television so much: to completely let go of their own woes and focus on someone else’s is so liberating for the mind. I do, however, notice that Joy is in distress. For someone so confident and loud-mouthed at first sight, she’s struggling to find the words now.

  “How old was Tamsin?” I might be wrong, but I think I may have detected a pattern.

  “Thirty-six at the time. Really not that much older than me.”

  I quickly do the calculation in my head—and disagree. “What happened? Why did it end?” I might as well know it all now.

  “She had huge problems with the fact that I was still living with Mum at my age. But I was only twenty-six and had just moved back to the UK. Personally, I think that’s completely understandable, what with the ludicrous rental prices and all that. I was just taking my time after leaving the States. Just chilling a bit before finding a job. In the end, it felt more like having two mothers.”

  “I’m so sorry, Joy.” I empty my own glass of wine. I have a burning question on my mind, but need more liquid courage before I can even contemplate asking it.

  “Oh, it’s fine. I’m not really looking for anything serious, anyway. I’d prefer to get settled in my new job first.” She pulls up her shoulders. “Coming here was a good idea, although I hadn’t expected to have these sorts of conversations with you, Alice, I must admit.”

  “I’ve always been a good listener.”

  “And you like Bruce Springsteen.” Under the table, she bumps her knee against mine. “But enough about me, let’s talk about you. How long have you been divorced? Ages right? Since before I left for the States. You must have had some romance in your life after Alan?”

  “Not really.” I’m so unaccustomed to speaking about my own feelings, I had thought it would be more difficult. “Lionel certainly didn’t float my boat.” I admit to myself that I’m trying to elicit a snort from her. “There was this solicitor from Chauncey & Wagner who took me out on a few dates. His name was Pierre, although he wasn’t French, but I guess I wasn’t forthcoming enough to keep him interested.”

  “Goodness, Alice, what do you mean by that? You didn’t put out?” Joy is giggling now.

  “I honestly don’t know, but that’s how I label it. To put my mind at ease. But, if I’m truly honest, I just didn’t want another Alan. We didn’t have the best marriage, but certainly not the worst I’ve seen either. When he left me, simply discarded me for that woman, it hurt to become this huge cliché. It wasn’t just that he left, and I was alone, but it wounded my pride also, and it left me deeply sceptical of humans in general.”

  Joy is no longer chuckling. “Well, fuck him, Alice. Really, fuck him.”

  “It’s all a bit more complex than just him leaving me for someone ten years younger than me. Other factors were in play, to give him a little bit of credit.”

  “Fuck credit, Alice. He doesn’t deserve it.”

  “He’s not a monster. He’s the man I married. The person I believed I’d spend the rest of my life with, but really, there are no guarantees simply because you exchange vows in front of your friends and family. As soon as I’d signed the divorce papers, I knew I would never marry again. But now, fifteen years later, I don’t blame him for leaving me. We should have been more open with each other before we married, but back then, people got married so young just to be able to move out of their parents’ house. I’m surely to blame as well.”

  “Relationships are complicated.” Joy puts her feet on the chair opposite. “Although I do believe that they don’t necessarily have to be. I think the less complicated, the more chance of success. Even though, of course, I hardly have the track record to prove my theory. Or, in fact, I do. Every relationship I’ve ever had, has always been too complicated. It was never as simple as girl liking girl, falling in love, building a life together. I often ask myself why, you know? Why do I fall for these women whom, in hindsight, I should have so easily suspected of not being a good fit for me?”

  “You’re young, Joy. You’re learning, discovering your likes and dislikes. I think it’s good that you haven’t settled down yet. But, erm…” I’m glad the candle in the middle of the table is dying so the blush on my cheeks is hidden.

  “What?” Joy has finished her glass of wine again. Perhaps Miranda should be more worried about the amount of wine her daughter can put away than about the age of her suitors. “No need to be shy anymore now, Alice.”

  “You do seem to have a propensity for falling for older women.”

  Joy just cocks her head in acquiescence. “True. I do. Even in college I was always lusting after my professors instead of my roommates. It’s been like that for as long as I can remember being interested in other people amorously and… sexually. I don’t really know how to explain it, but I find older women so much sexier than women my own age, let alone younger ones. It’s just my preference, I guess. I’m a real cougar lover, me.”

  “A what?” I’m confused again. I thought we were discussing Joy’s liking of more mature ladies, not wildlife.

  “God, Alice.” She throws her head back in mock-desperation. “You really are so not down w
ith popular culture.” She looks at me again. “A cougar is an older woman who devours younger men or women. I’m the opposite of a cougar, I guess, although I’m not sure there’s a name for that.”

  “Someone who likes old meat. Hm, I’ll have to think about that.” The things I’ve learnt today. Perhaps I will have to start believing what Miranda sometimes says to me: that an entire world is passing me by because I work too much.

  “Quid pro quo?” Joy asks. I do know what that means, although I’m not sure I like the implication of it. “I’ve answered your question as honestly as I could, can I ask you one in return?”

  “Will I need another glass of wine to comply with your request?” I reach for the bottle already, knowing full well that Joy won’t ask me an innocent question.

  “Good plan.” She holds out her own glass as well. I divide what is left of the bottle between us.

  “I don’t mean to be indiscreet, but you just said that you and Alan split fifteen years ago, and that you haven’t really dated since.”

  “That’s correct,” I say, before sipping from the wine.

  “So you haven’t had sex with anyone in fifteen years?” Joy’s voice is surprisingly low and solemn.

  “Also correct.”

  Joy is silent, but at least she doesn’t send me a look of pity, the way Miranda used to do back in the days when she was still trying to get me off the shelf. “Don’t you miss it?”

  “Miss is definitely not the correct word. I miss intimacy, and touching someone just because you want to and you love them, but to say that I miss having sex, would be a lie.”

  Joy sits up and rubs two fingers across her chin. “Was Alan that bad?”

  I burst into laughter. She giggles with me. After the ripples of laughter subside, a silence descends upon us.

  “All jokes aside.” Joy fills the silence. “I’m by nature quite a tactile person, what with having spent so much time in LA, the city of hugs—sincere and, more often, otherwise—and I do have the habit of inadvertently touching people around me. I’ve noticed how surprised you’ve been by that.”