Captive Hearts

by Harper Bliss

  “I am easy with you,” I reply.

  “Like putty in my hands,” she says.

  “Perhaps.” I pull her closer and, as I do, another image makes its way forwards. A moving image of me and Joy at Sagres, blue sky all around us, and she’s holding my hand.

  Chapter Eleven

  It’s Sunday morning and my stomach is bunched together with dread. Joy is packing up her few belongings in her room. Her plane leaves at midday. She has to leave in one hour. She told me it would be foolish to follow her to the airport in my rental car, that it would be far better to say our goodbyes here, in private.

  I sit on my bed—the bed where everything changed—and let my gaze drift over the pool the way it did when she first jumped into it topless. The past few days, all we’ve done is sunbathe topless. I try to remember how it vexed me, how it cramped me up, how unseemly I thought it the first time.

  A knock on the open door startles me. “Hey,” Joy says. “We should probably talk.”

  We should, because we have done anything but talk in the past four days. We drank sangria, gin and tonic, and wine. We grilled squid and sardines on the barbecue. We basked in post-orgasmic glory. We fucked against the tree two more times, and in the pool after dusk, and in the sea only last night. We slept with our skin glued to each other, our limbs entangled, and my mind fuller and fuller with images of a future that’s impossible. But now that I have experienced the other me, and as the days have progressed, I find it hard to go back to my former self. I’m meant to stay here for five more days, all on my own, with only Joy’s memory to keep me company. It’s bewildering how, after a lifetime of being untouched, a mere few days can leave me so in need of more. Of her lips against my shoulder when she kisses me good morning. Of her finger circling my belly button before it meanders down. Of her hand gently squeezing my shoulder when she offers me a glass of wine.

  “Are you all set?”

  Joy nods and heads towards me, sits down next to me on the bed. “I know this is hard.” She leans her head on my shoulder.

  “It is what it is.” A phrase so devoid of meaning, it seems like an utter waste of time in the hour we have left together.

  “It was glorious and refreshing and restorative and bloody satisfying,” Joy says, “and now it’s hard.”

  “It was a holiday… thing.” I can hardly use the word ‘love’.

  “Look, Alice, I’ve been thinking,” Joy starts, then turns towards me. “Holiday thing or not, we live in the same city. I mean, we could see each other if we wanted to.” Never has Joy’s voice sounded so robbed of confidence. She might be a tad arrogant and very self-assured, but she’s not stupid.

  “I think we both know that’s not an option. We can’t even tell anyone about this. No one, okay?”

  “It’s our dirty little secret.” Joy reaches for my hand and takes it in hers. “I’m going to miss you.”

  God, me too, I want to say, but this is no time to be overly dramatic. “You have so many things to look forward to, Joy. A new job. New people in your life. A new routine.” And as I sum up all the new things Joy has to look forward to, in my head, I recite all the actions that make up my old routine—all the things I don’t have to look forward to. All I see when I think of my elliptical, of many a dinner consumed on my own, of arriving at the office before anyone else, is a loneliness I don’t know how to handle.

  “But you, Alice.” Joy’s voice is still soft, careful. “You only have one life and it’s now.”

  Inwardly, I chuckle at the generic phrase she utters. I chuckle because otherwise I might cry, because what she says is true.

  “What are you going to do when you get back?” Joy asks.

  “Get on with my life.” Even as I say the words, they sound so hollow and untrue. “Go back to work. Do what I always do.”

  “Promise me you’ll do more fun things. More out-of-the-box activities.”

  This time I chuckle audibly. “Such as?” While we’re having this meandering, ultimately going-nowhere conversation, dread multiplies in my gut. The fact of the matter is that I don’t want Joy to go. I’m afraid of how I’ll feel once her car drives off the driveway. Whatever will I do with myself? Perhaps I should check in with work. It feels like months since I last really thought about one of my clients, like something I did in a different life.

  “Go to a Bruce Springsteen concert,” she says. “And look out for me.” She looks at me from under her lashes. “Look, Alice, I know you have many perfectly plausible reasons why this can’t work. I understand that. I won’t ask you to sum them up so I can contest them. It’s hardly the time for that now. But, I want you to know that it’s different for me. I don’t care who frowns upon who I’m with. I truly, honestly don’t give a toss. Because it’s my life, and no one else’s, and when I see a chance at happiness, I grab it. That’s the kind of person I am. I know you’re different, and I respect that, but all I’m asking is that you leave the door open just a fraction.” She holds up her hand, her thumb and index finger an inch apart. “This much.”

  And now I can’t hold the question in any longer. It was easy enough at first and under the circumstances, but now that she’s expressly alluding to life after this holiday fling, I need to know. “I’m flattered that you would even ask, Joy, but really, what’s in it for you? I’m in my fifties. What do I have to offer a girl like you, with the world at her feet?”

  She scrunches her lips into a pensive pout before speaking. “I normally wouldn’t answer that question because it’s so bloody obvious, but for you I will.” She puts a hand on my knee. “I assume not many people are aware of this. Hell, I even assume you’re not aware of it, but beneath that stubborn coating of properness, and righteousness, and work ethic, and being a lady and all that, you are a stunning, kind, passionate and sexy woman, Alice. I’ve seen it. At first I was just teasing you, trying to draw you out, but I saw something brewing within you. Behind those ever careful eyes of yours, behind your ever polite behaviour. I mean, yes, I have a thing for older women, but, for the life of me, I never expected this to happen. I never thought I would be sitting here with you, saying goodbye, and it being so bloody hard, because I don’t want to say goodbye.”

  “Neither do I,” I blurt out, overtaken by emotion and so immensely touched by Joy’s words, by her sweet assessment of me, that, if it were an option at all, I’d pack my own bags, go to the airport, and hop on the plane to London with her.

  “Your turn, Alice.” Joy changes the tone of the moment by using a cheerful voice. “What does a successful, patient—and I know this because you’ve been best friends with my mum forever so you must have inexhaustible amounts of it—and accomplished woman like yourself want with the likes of me? With someone who had to quit her job because she slept with her boss? With someone with no discernible career path and no immediate desire to even pursue a career?”

  We haven’t discussed work much. We haven’t discussed many things much. Yet, the answer to Joy’s question is staggeringly easy. “You’re absolutely gorgeous and so… so alive. So funny and such a force, such a bundle of energy. You thoroughly rocked my world when you arrived.” If anything, this is Miranda’s fault, I think out of the blue, my brain frantically looking for excuses. It’s her fault for allowing Joy to come here.

  Joy turns fully towards me, her big brown eyes scanning my face, her expressive eyebrows perked up. “Promise me one thing. Just one little thing. Promise me you’ll at least think about it. For all we know, this really is just something that happened while we were on holiday, something that could only occur under a Southern-European blue sky, where inhibitions are so easily cast aside, and it won’t stand a chance in real life. It could be. But I think we owe it to what has happened here to at least ask ourselves: what if? What if it’s more than that, Alice? What if it’s more and we just walk away?”

  I have no recourse. Joy has certainly inherited Miranda’s argument skills. Miranda always wanted her to become a lawyer like herself. Sh
e would have made an excellent one.

  “I promise,” is all I say.

  “Thank you.” Joy scuttles closer, nearly onto my lap, and starts pushing me down onto the bed. “Now enough of this depressing stuff. We have fifteen minutes left for kissing and other things.” Her lips find mine in a flash, and all the time her mouth is on mine, her tongue inside, I can only think about how this is our very last kiss, and how much I don’t want it to be.

  * * *

  I stand at the gates of Miranda’s property for a long time after Joy’s car has vanished. She’s gone. She’s actually gone. Whatever will I do now? Finally learn how to successfully masturbate? Only yesterday Joy asked me to touch myself while she watched and, while I was willing to go very far for her, and she broke through many of my boundaries, I had to draw the line somewhere. But, as I keep standing there for a while longer, as though willing her yellow Mini to return to me and undo this knot in my stomach, I know this isn’t all about my sexual reawakening. It’s about these feelings she has stirred in me, and how I have absolutely no means to deal with them.

  Chapter Twelve

  On Friday I’m at the airport hours before my plane is set to leave, but I couldn’t stay at the house any longer. Although Miranda assured me a cleaner would come by after I had vacated, the place is spic-and-span. Not a shred of evidence is left of my stay there—and what happened during it.

  Unlike when I picked up the car from the rental agency, returning it is a breeze. Faro airport is poorly air-conditioned, small, and, because it’s a holiday destination, full of couples and families.

  The question that’s been nagging me the most since Joy left is why I chose to be alone. Because, at some point in my life, it must have been more than just a subconscious choice, something that happened, more than a logical consequence of the sort of life I lived and the aspirations I had. Why, after Alan, did I not let anyone else in? I’ve come up with many possible answers—the divorce must have traumatised me more than I knew; I didn’t have time; I had no interest in the men who pursued me; I was secretly a repressed lesbian; I valued my privacy and my routine too much—but none of them conclusive.

  I find a seat in a noisy replica of an Irish pub and order a glass of wine. Joy’s words have echoed in my head constantly, but no matter how nicely she put it, how eloquently she delivered the message, and how much, in an ideal world, I would want to ‘leave the door ajar’, it’s simply not an option. I have examined the issue from every possible angle. I sat at the patio table, overlooking the pool now devoid of life, with a sheet of blank paper in front of me and a blue and red pen, listing pros and cons. There was only one pro; there were many cons.

  Happiness. That was the pro. The only word written in blue, flanked by a long list of what it would cost me. Miranda. The company. A life-long friendship and the accompanying trust. My life as I know it and that I lived, if not with zest, at the very least always with dignity and respect for others and myself. At the bottom of the sheet of paper, I’d written in big red letters: it’s simply not possible. Then I burned it to remove all trace of it.

  I hear my phone beep in my purse. I know it’s Joy. She has texted me every day since she left. Nothing untoward—nothing that, if Miranda were to accidentally find her phone and read the messages, would cause suspicion. Just short messages to check in with me, as she put it in her first text. I have never replied. Because replying would be the first step to giving in, to believing in Joy’s fantasy. And she may not care what others think of her, but I certainly do. My reputation is all I have. And gosh, the number of middle-aged male lawyers I have known to sleep with their twenty-years-younger paralegals and assistants over the course of my career. There is no way I would ever want to be lumped in with the likes of them, because I have always found them profoundly pathetic—perhaps even more so because Alan left me for a younger woman as well.

  I dig my mobile from my bag and read Joy’s message: Have a safe flight back. J. xo

  A harmless enough note. She’s persistent, though. Tenacious, like Miranda—and like me. Last night, I drank almost an entire bottle of wine by myself and tried to imagine breaking the news to Miranda. I imagined her face. The look of disgust and disbelief. The judgement. I put myself in her place and cursed myself for being so weak, because, no matter how much I hide what happened with Joy, it did happen. I have slept with Miranda’s daughter—and thoroughly enjoyed it at that. I deserve only punishment for that. I certainly don’t deserve to be rewarded with happiness. The truth is that, despite my promise to Joy to keep an open mind, to allow a sliver of hope to permeate my thoughts about the future, I put a lid on that the very day she left. I had to. But it stings, because to have to actively conceal—to have to pretend it never even happened—one of the very best experiences of my life, is a painful matter.

  As always, I don’t reply to her message. I don’t delete it yet—I will do that on Sunday, before returning to work on Monday. Before I face Miranda. She tried to call me last Thursday, but I couldn’t pick up. I just texted her an hour later saying I was out and missed her call and everything was fine. But when her number appeared on my phone screen, the first thought in my head was that Joy let something slip and Miranda was calling to give me a piece of her mind. I realise this will be my first instinct for a while. I want to trust Joy to not spill the beans, but she’s young and reckless and she drinks too much. And what if she gets in a fight with Miranda one day and, as an act of revenge, just blurts it out? I have no choice but to put my faith in her. The other option—coming clean—is not even a possibility.

  So, I wait for my plane and drink two more glasses of wine. Excessive drinking is a habit I will get rid of as soon as I arrive home, but for now, I’m still abiding somewhat by Joy’s words. You only live once.

  As soon as the plane takes off, I fall asleep and I dream that Miranda finally tells me that Joy is a lesbian and has a girlfriend. Miranda looks happy so I know that the girlfriend she’s referring to is certainly not me. But it’s a dream, so Miranda nudges me in the arm and says, “you old dog, you.” Then I wake up.

  * * *

  On Monday before work, instead of my usual forty-five minutes on the elliptical, I work out for an hour. I still arrive half an hour before my usual time, and the office is quiet and peaceful. To my big surprise, Miranda walks in five minutes before eight.

  “Alice, hello!” She spreads her arms wide for a hug and already I feel like I’m dying a little inside, like I betrayed my best friend in the very worst way, and I wasn’t able to feel the full extent of the grief I caused until I looked her in the eyes. She tried to call me again over the weekend, but I just stared at my phone in horror, thinking: this is it. “You’re a difficult woman to get hold of these days, but I can only assume that’s a good thing.” I used to be in the habit of picking up my phone after the first ring. “I hope you had a wonderful time.”

  “I did. Thank you so much for letting me stay in your house. It’s gorgeous.”

  “It’s such a relief. I was very worried about Joy turning up like that. I’m so glad you got along. Mind you, my daughter is quite an easy person to be around, but she does have her ways.” Miranda squeezes my shoulder. “But she told me you and she had a jolly time together.”

  “We did. It was no nuisance at all,” I reply, and I find it easier to lie than I had expected, although what I’m saying isn’t a lie as such. “She’s a lovely girl.”

  “Well, seeing as you enjoyed each other’s company so much, Joy suggested I’d invite you both to dinner on Friday.”

  Instinctively, I flinch, retreating like someone is trying to slap me in the face. What is Joy playing at? I have no time to consider this, though, because I need to refuse Miranda’s invitation as quickly and efficiently as possible. “Thank you very much for inviting me, but that’s really not necessary. Besides, I have so much work to catch up on, I don’t think I’ll be able to make it.”

  Miranda widens her stance and crosses her arms in front of
her chest. “It’s funny, but Joy predicted you would say that. As did I, by the way. The point of a holiday is not to undo all its effects the instant you come back, you know? There’s absolutely no way you are working after eight o’clock on Friday. My daughter also firmly instructed me to not let you get away with lame excuses like that. She must have got to know you pretty well, huh?” Miranda extends an arm and pats me patronisingly on the upper arm.

  What is this? An emotional sting operation organised by Joy to make me have a nervous breakdown? And what am I supposed to say now? Will it be more suspicious if I try to get out of it more, or should I just accept? “I’ll check my calendar, Miranda, but I can’t make any promises.” I try to buy myself some time.

  “It’s just dinner, Alice. You used to come to dinner at my house all the time, remember?”

  “I do, although not as fondly as I would if you hadn’t tried to set me up with Lionel Ashley a dozen times.”

  “You aren’t still cross about that, are you? That was years ago. I think it’s time to reinstate the tradition. And I swear it’ll just be the four of us. No set-ups.”

  “I’ll let you know.” It’s not in my nature to budge now.

  “I’ll take that as a yes, either way.” Miranda smiles and I see so much of Joy in her smile it’s more like a blow to the stomach. “Nice tan, by the way, Alice. You look good. You have that post-holiday glow about you. I like it.”

  “Thank you,” I mumble, figuring that not a lot of that glow will be left after a few more of these conversations.

  “Let’s do lunch, okay? We have a lot to catch up on.” Miranda walks to her office and I realise that, just like Joy, she is so used to always getting her own way. She has no idea that in this case accomplishing that may leave her very upset.