I stopped for him even though I had no guarantee that this was not just a lie from a lazy rapist with an eye for good shoes who couldn’t be bothered to run to catch his prey.
‘Right, if I’m out of line I’m sorry, but we’ve seen you walk this street twice and firstly, if you’re a prozzy then you’re wasting your time here as we’re all gay, but if you’re not, then what are you doing out at midnight in these temperatures?’
I replied by starting to cry.
‘As I suspected, come with me love, I’ll get you a coffee.’
I followed this leather clad man to an all-night café bar. I was now calm enough to notice how all the buildings around me were almost blue from the intense shine from the moon. I sat with him and his partner and I lied to this kind couple that I had drunk too much and I had left my loving husband at a party and I foolishly got lost. I said that at one point I tripped and hit my head but I was fine and I just wanted to return to my hotel and return to my husband who was clearly very worried about his exceptionally foolish wife.
I don’t remember their names, I only remember how safe I felt walking next to them. They made sure that I could enter my hotel at this time and when they parted one of them hugged me and told me I was too beautiful to be so silly but if I ever was again then I should wear a coat and easy walking shoes.
As I approached my door my heart quickened but it was for nothing as the room was in darkness and when I crept in to the bedroom Mark sleepily muttered, ‘You’re back then.’ I slid into bed and silently cried myself to sleep.
The next evening Mark returned with emerald drop earrings.
‘To match your eyes my lady. And he signed. At last he signed the contract this afternoon,’ he said sweetly.
I chose to take it as an apology and so I decided to stop crying and be grateful for this gift.
I’ve never worn those earrings and they still reside in their black leather box, inside a black leather jewellery box, inside a steel safe.
When I returned to England I saw my luncheon friends and I duly boasted about the wonders of New York.
‘Such an incredible time… Mark spoiled me when I saw him but thankfully it was mainly a business trip for him, which allowed me time to explore New York to my heart’s content.’ I said.
‘Amazing!’ they all replied.
I didn’t mention about being abandoned in an unknown city wearing the Louboutin shoes I had shown them before I left for this enviable trip…
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Olivia
About twenty-two years ago
Three years into our marriage we moved to Surrey. The house had seven bedrooms plus the obligatory swimming pool. I had not seen the house before I moved in as Mark had found and bought it without telling me. The first I understood that the London apartment was no longer my residence was over breakfast on Easter Friday.
‘It’s on Cavendish Avenue; seven bedrooms, swimming pool, summer house with sauna. I’ll be installing a gym above the triple garage but other than that everything is ready for you to move in – you’ll like it. A big white building, newly refurbed, plus London Interiors in Holborn are choosing the furniture for you – though I’m sure you can choose the odd cushion if you want.’
All this Mark said whilst reading a newspaper article about the slump in oil prices. Eventually he looked up as I had not replied.
‘You’ll like it. It’s on Cavendish Avenue which is the road to be on, the best; even getting a house on this street is difficult let alone affording one. It’s definitely the type of place that ordinary people just look at and dream about having.’
Mark looked directly at me.
‘But the little people could never achieve in reality,’ he continued with a wry smile. I was distracted by a small dab of marmalade that had escaped from his toast and settled on his stubble chin.
‘Seriously, the kudos you’ll have from me buying this place means you’ll be thanking your generous husband for the rest of your life. You don’t understand now but you will. Matt and Steve play golf literally in that road – golf course – best in the country – on that road. They can’t believe I’ve bought a place there.’
Mark paused and with a quizzical expression continued.
‘Well? Are you going to say anything or just stare at your coffee mug? Anyone would think I’m sending you off to sea not sending you to a seven-bedroom house with a swimming pool on Cavendish Avenue – I’ll say again, Cavendish Avenue, as you’re obviously deaf to what I’m saying to you.’
His left eye lifted up pulling that side of his face to a crunch just beneath his dark hairline.
Mark was still wearing his plaid pyjamas at noon as his tribute to a religious holiday was to return home late then take church service in bed watching the TV.
These long weekends or holidays crunched my stomach until it ached as my apartment returned to him for these days. I avoided the rooms he was in or if I was trapped by him, such as now over breakfast, then silence with a smile was my guard tactic.
‘Sounds nice,’ I smiled. This released his face back to the stern expression it usually carried. He brushed away the marmalade which then smeared across his right index finger.
‘Don’t you want to look at it?’
His voice softened and became slightly childish.
‘I tell you what, Ol, I know last Tuesday we argued and I know you’re sorry.’
He leant in and pulled my hand towards his and gently stroked each finger in turn transferring the sticky marmalade onto my hands. His dark eyes sought mine and, when they were locked with his, he stroked my face transferring any residual mess onto my cheek.
‘You know I’ll always look out for you and make sure my girl has the best. You’ll love it there and we can start fresh, just you and me in the country.’
His voice was as soft as a lullaby.
‘How about I get you a new car? You’ll need one and I want to buy my lady a new car. I think a Porsche will suit you.’
He lent in further to hold my face in his strong hands. It was a tender moment which I grasped and snuggled into, a moment which diffused the memory of his angry screams. At that moment I wanted to believe that it was Mark who held me and stroked my hair but the pressures of his job turned him away from himself to Mr Hyde. There could not be another explanation as how a man could be tender on a Friday but a spectre on the Tuesday – just four days before:
He had returned to the apartment on Tuesday night just before 10pm. I knew he was angry the moment he opened the front door as he threw his case to the right instead of taking it to his study. He didn’t look my way but instead walked pass me as if I was a ghost he had not yet sensed in the room. I stood up as soon as he entered and patiently waited for him to speak to me.
Whilst he poured himself his Hennessey cognac, I secretly cancelled the call with Carolanne who had been telling me about James’ new girlfriend. I silently closed the phone cover then stealthily placed it in my jean pocket.
‘Who were you on the phone to?’ He said in a monotone solemn manner.
‘Oh, erm, no one.’
His face snarled in reply.
‘Well just Carolanne,’ I said, ‘nothing special.’
There was silence which I foolishly tried to mask.
‘James has a new girlfriend. I don’t think I’ve ever known him to have a girlfriend, so…well, that’s all it was, nothing special, really Mark, nothing.’
Time had slowed to a heartbeat straining to recover from a heart attack but, with the jolt of a defribrillator, time sped up to race ahead as Mark swirled around on his feet and grabbed my hair and yanked me towards the bedroom. I pulled on his firm grip to alleviate the sting from my hair follicles popping out of my head. When close to a wall he pushed me against the hard brick and held me there by propping me up, his left hand wrapped around my neck. I was consciou
s of the pain from the loss of hair but my main focus was on the pain I was inflicting on myself by involuntarily crying when I should have been breathing. By whimpering I couldn’t breathe and so I would panic and splutter, gasping for air like a seaman overboard in a storm. Mark was hollering down my ear making my eardrum vibrate.
‘You’re a selfish woman only thinking about yourself.’ He began, ‘You’re an ugly disappointment’ was another sentence I caught between valued breaths. ‘You’re always here in my apartment lounging around calling your pathetic little friends… ugly… stupid… pathetic.’
I could only make out words from Mark’s rant about my pitiful existence as my eyes began to pulse in time with my throbbing veins in the side of my head.
Without warning Mark threw me to the ground in the bedroom and my lungs pulled on the air for blessed oxygen. I wrapped my hands around my throat to comfort it and reassure it that once more, it could swallow air. Mark then left me in the bedroom to go back to his cognac.
He didn’t speak to me for the rest of the evening and I did not dare to speak to him. Instead, I indulged in self-pity, berating myself that I was indeed pathetic and useless. I remained on the bedroom floor for over an hour before I crawled to the bed and hauled myself up. There on the bed I tried to ease the pain in my throat by stroking it, but my sobs caused my throat to vibrate and my head to spin, yet I could not stop my eyes from crying for a further hour.
As night crawled on I reflected on how this had happened again. I concluded that in some ways it was my fault; a year had passed since New York and in that time, I had learnt to slither into the background to avoid Mark’s rants; sometimes I won and sometimes, like that night, I lost. Still, I admonished myself for not escaping sooner when I recognised the change in his eyes when he walked through the door; I could easily have escaped before he turned his attention on me.
My tears immediately stopped flowing when Mark entered the room and prepared himself for bed. I was scared and apprehensive so I quietly got dressed and slid in beside him but only when he was sprawled across the super king-size bed and his low heavy breathing indicated that he was in his slumber. I lay awake at the edge of the bed for six hours watching the blue night light from the city dance across my room. I wallowed in hatred of myself and reasoned that if I was not such a useless woman then I too would be sleeping as soundly as the man lying beside me.
As soon as daybreak knocked on my window I was up and racing to get dressed before Mark’s 6.15 alarm went. When I looked in the mirror I could see the distinct reminder of Mark’s left hand around my neck; the colour matched the red rim around my eyes.
I avoided Mark until he left for work forty-five minutes later and as soon as I heard the door slam I resumed the crying of the previous night until boredom of self-pity allowed me to drift off to sleep at midday. When I woke my heart was racing again as it was a text from Mark: ‘Hi Hun, not home tonight. Should be back late Thursday x.’ It read.
‘Thank you,’ I whispered.
My thumping heartbeat softened to its usual tone. I wandered around the apartment trying to ignore the pounding in my throat and head. I had taken tablets but nothing worked and even by Friday the pain was still tapping in my head stopping me from concentrating on anything else. Even when Mark was waiting for a reply from me over breakfast and wondering why I was so ignorant as to not be excited about moving to Cavendish Avenue, my head and neck throbbed in my thoughts, stopping me from processing what I was hearing.
The pain momentarily stopped nagging me when I was being held in Mark’s arms over Good Friday breakfast. When Mark let me go he stroked my hair and stroked my face then held my hands.
‘A new start my lovely lady, a new car and a new home. I’ll give you all of this as you’re my wonderful girl. Yes?’
His eyes were imploring mine to answer and I sensed desperation in them to know that I was happy and excited about what he had given me.
‘Cavendish Avenue, Wow lucky me!’ I duly gave to my husband.
I had rehearsed ‘the loving wife’ play many times and once more I held the script in my hand and performed for my husband. He in return was an attentive and cheerful audience. I reasoned that something on Tuesday merely upset him and when he arrived home he was upset so took vengeance on the one he loved; that was me. For that, I should be grateful. I also reasoned that I had cried for an hour on the bedroom floor then an hour on the bed. I had lain awake for six hours and I bore the pain of his anger for a further six days. I subsequently lived with a red neck for nine days but his anger had lasted until 10.23pm that evening, just eleven minutes. It was not in proportion; a snippet of anger for six days of anguish. I concluded I was being irrational especially as my happy husband had bought me a huge house on Cavendish Avenue with a new white convertible sports car. This car, with the number plate ‘OL1 V1A’ was waiting for me in the driveway when we arrived just three weeks later.
Cavendish Avenue was a long road; it needed to be to accommodate the enormous houses that resided in its coveted address. Although each house was the size of a country hotel they were difficult to see as they were all flanked by tall imposing gates and long high hedgerows protecting the residents from prying eyes. These inquisitive tourists, however, were few in number as both ends of this road were guarded by a security hut with a security man in a blue security uniform who was there to operate the security barrier owned by the company ‘Security 4 U’. This name was branded across every lamppost, gate and even across the pavement in front of each house. It is the only company name which, over the years of living there, irritated me to the point of wishing to become a graffiti artist just to spray red paint over each banner with the tag ‘bog off security’. Of course, this never happened as my red splodges would have ruined the immaculate look of the avenue. Red did not match the emerald green grass verge with each grass strand standing to attention. Nor would red have complimented the racing green hedges guarding the houses and red certainly did not fit in with the shimmering black gates closing off each house.
There were no pot holes or cracks in the pavement. If any work was needed on the road then the contractor was obliged to resurface that entire section to ensure the road remained an even, dark colour without vulgar markings which could make the road look like an old, withered patchwork quilt like all other roads in England.
There were no stray cats or foxes darting between hedgerows, no dog poo littering the street because no dogs were walked as there were no people along the road. If any resident had a dog then some employee would walk the dog in the acres of garden surrounding their house. Occasionally, a horse and rider trotted by or the odd tourist hiker cyclist tiptoed along but other than these people the avenue was empty, save for the residents who were comfortably ensconced in the comfort of their sprawling mansions.
I was now one of these residents; ‘the wife in the country’, and it was not long before loneliness came to live with me. Mark had deposited me at the house and the very next day he left for London and my old apartment and only returned to the house at the weekend.
I was left with my clothes in my wardrobe and my possessions scattered across the house by Anne, the interior decorator who had clearly struggled to find an appropriate hiding place for my mementos of Australia or the framed photographs of my life as these memories did not fit into the vision of each room. Most of my pictures and artefacts were placed on a shelf in my purple velvet dressing room. Even there, they were tucked in between my hanging evening wear and my ‘autumnal colour’ day wear. Others were conveniently lodged in hidden corners of the newly decorated rooms. These rooms were sumptuously filled with colourful accessories and vibrant furnishings. The hallway had a chequered marble floor with speckled gold leaf wallpaper framed by ornate cornices and coving. The modern staircase was made from mahogany and glass with swirling black metal separating each panel from the foot of the stairway and continuing to the first-floor balcony. It overloo
ked the entire entrance hallway and allowed any guest a peak upstairs, as the glass panelling showed off the white walls with large black and white framed photographs of Mark and me separated by each black bedroom door.
The kitchen was the largest room in the house, with a central island as its focal point. I had every modern amenity, which allowed me to cook for restaurant numbers to the highest Michelin star standard, from a proving cupboard to a champagne cabinet. It was sadly a waste as the most I ever made in there was a sandwich, but caterers were grateful when they were required to cook for Mark’s business guests.
The house was redecorated every two years but our interior decorator would begin her research for our house nearly two months before any work began – although, the house largely remained silky white as the only alterations seemed to me, to be the furnishings. The brief from Anne after the work was completed was mainly written for my florist as the subsequent weekly order of household flowers had to compliment the new cushions and rugs. There was one consistent flower that was ordered amongst the others each week and each year and they were white lilies.
My days were spent doing exactly the same as I had done in London. I met new country friends via my London friends who had followed me to the country.
At the beginning, Mark was there most weekends and he preferred me to be home for the whole duration so I could not plan to see any friends over Saturday or Sundays. When he chose not to come home then these days were a laborious trudge to Monday. Mark often omitted to tell me that he was not returning Friday evening and left it to me to figure this out by Saturday afternoon. Prior to this realisation, Saturday was spent in a frantic, fractious and anxious state awaiting his return. Thereafter, I plummeted to an apathetic state watching television on my own for the remaining part of the weekend.
The Society Game Page 18