The Society Game

by H. Lanfermeijer

  They then both had a go at thumping my watermelon and each time they did, I winced in anticipation for my table shattering. Fists gave way to kicks around the room and after that didn’t work they both laughed at the green ball and took turns in shouting at it, as if it was one of their work underlings who had failed to perform. After a while Grant drunkenly disappeared and re-emerged with his weekend shooting gun.

  ‘Ha, Grant, you prick, what are you going to do? Shoot it open?’

  In their stoned, drunk stupor they both paused for a while to laugh, a full belly laugh, at the idea of shooting a watermelon open.

  ‘It’ll teach the bitch to do what it’s told – this is a 308 rifle!’ quaffed Grant. ‘Good enough to obliterate deer, so good enough to smash open this mother of a melon.’

  They both laughed again and I shuddered at the idea of this seventeen-stone sweating sack of blubber aiming at my melon with blurred vision and hitting my beautiful new table instead.

  Fortuitously, Grant dropped the gun and I sneaked behind him to grab it and place it back in the hallway with Mark’s gun (there in preparation to shoot game at the 150 acre farm less than a mile away from my house).

  I returned to my French renaissance style morning room and, to my horror, both Grant and Mark had taken it in turns to stamp on my Tuesday melon. It was not the loss of my detox fruit that I silently screamed out at, but the mess of red flesh across my walls, floors and furniture. They had clearly been kicking and stamping on the fruit with such ferocity and venom that the melon had burst open like a bomb and spread its flesh across my white silk rugs and upon my white marble floor, it was also dripping from the glass table and had smothered itself over two of my white silk dining chairs. As I looked up my head raged at the physics needed to transfer so much energy to a juicy fruit that it could now hang suspended from my delicate wallpaper. In particular, there was a blob of black seeds and red mushy flesh sliding its way down the white velvet butterflies and songbirds; in its wake there was left a red streak which I knew would leave a lasting stain.

  My only consolation to this scene was that, to their annoyance, Mark’s and Grant’s feet and legs were also covered and happily my table had not shattered in the wake of their pummelling my watermelon. After the total destruction of this fruit, both Grant and Mark seemed relieved and exhausted. They left the room as if they were leaving the gym after a long hard work out. They were oblivious to the subsequent footprints their feet were making on my floor imbedding the remnant flesh into the fibres of the rugs.

  They disappeared soon after to go shooting, and I was left to contact Debbie to come in a day early to clean up my morning room for double rate. She arrived an hour after my call and I oversaw the cleaning of the room. As I watched her work I was amazed at how much flesh had been encased in its green skull. It had spread from ceiling to floor and went as far as the kitchen doorway.

  Grant left the next day, and I was left with Mark who had collapsed upon my new plaid sofas. The television was on in the background and he had a crystal whisky glass resting against his throbbing head. He did not look up when I approached him to ask if he needed anything, but instead he kept his eyes shut. I remained standing looking down on Mark lazing across my new cushions.

  ‘I need to talk to you, Olive.’ His voice was close to a rasping whisper but the surprise of him actually talking to me took me aback as much as a balloon bursting in front of me.

  Our conversations were non-existent in the past few years; last Christmas Eve, Mark slept in the second reception room and when I walked in early Christmas day I was greeted with an explosion of red vomit splattered across the furniture and white carpet. Mark was slowly waking and spied my look of horror to which he responded with a kick to my legs and a, ‘Clear it up, bitch.’

  By lunch I had finally mopped away the foul vinegar smell of last night’s Chateau Neuf du Pape. When he came in to check my cleaning he graced me with a hung-over apology.

  ‘Sorry. It keeps happening but alcohol doesn’t mix with my anti-depressants, but what can I do? Nothing! Merry Christmas!’

  That was the last conversation I had with Mark until now, a rainy day in October.

  ‘Yeah, sit down Olive, I need to explain a few things.’

  ‘Yes?’ I replied.

  ‘I need to talk to you as there are going to be a few changes.’ He sipped his whisky and continued, still with his eyes closed.

  ‘You won’t understand but the business hasn’t been doing as well as it should. I need to release some assets and I’m toying with the idea of selling this place.’

  I froze as he uttered the word ‘selling’.

  ‘You can’t,’ I appealed. ‘Please you can’t.’

  ‘I can do what I like, this is my place – I bought it and I own it. That said, there is another option, I have another place I can sell that will release some funds… Oh stop squealing Olivia. Seriously shut up!’

  He finally looked up at me to indicate that I was to stop crying at once.

  ‘As I said I have another place in Putney – don’t look like that woman; you don’t know about it as I never told you. Anyway, I can sell that, but it would mean that you will have a roommate. I’ll be here more often, but I’m keeping my flat in London so you won’t have me here all the time… ah jeez, Olive, stop crying! I’m trying to sort this mess out and, believe it or not, your crying is putting me off.’

  Mark then sat up and gestured that I sat down. His tone became solemn.

  ‘Her name is Monika and I’ve known her for about three years. She’ll be living here until I can figure out a better solution.’

  My tears gave way to bewilderment.

  ‘Eh?’ I said.

  ‘I’m not explaining myself any more to you; go figure this out yourself.’

  He looked at me waiting for me to drop my surprised look and adopt an acceptance look.

  ‘You’re a woman of the world Olivia, I know it’s not ideal but hey, I could have just divorced you and where would you be then? At your sisters? I don’t think so! Personally, just understand that these things happen. Divorce would bankrupt you as there’s no way you could afford to fight me, you can’t go anywhere, so actually I’m doing the decent thing and owning up to the situation. Think about it: I could have been a complete wanker and thrown you out of the house with nowhere to go.’

  Questions raced through my head trying to reach the finish line at my mouth and be the first question released onto a stunned silence. But there were so many of these questions that they tumbled over each other and lay on my tongue helpless until I could forcibly coax one of them out.

  The first question I pulled out was, ‘Who is this woman?’

  ‘She’s someone I’ve been seeing and I’m tied to her and I can’t let go.’

  ‘You can’t let go? What about me? Why my house? Where would she stay?’ fell out the rest.

  ‘Look, I can’t answer these. Be grateful that I’m probably not selling the house. It’s Sunday today and I’ll be bringing her here on Tuesday. She’s not moving in just yet, nothing is finalised. In fact, the Putney house isn’t even on the market but she knows about you and wants to meet you. I have a function that evening – some Halloween thing, which you can both come to. She’ll be discreet and so will I – I trust, by then, you’ll be a woman and stop your incessant whimpering, and be discreet as well; otherwise I will have to forbid you to come.’

  ‘Here? She’s coming to visit me on Tuesday?’

  They were feeble questions but the stronger ones were still lying injured on my tongue and these were just spontaneous thoughts that popped out of my head. Mark appeared blasé about the questions given to him in a high-pitched tone, as he merely answered with a nod.

  ‘Not here on Tuesday. It’s detox day on Tuesday!’ I garbled; that was the lowest and weakest of all my defence, but it was all my paralyzed mind would offe
r and understandably Mark just looked at me with disgust.

  ‘Tuesday Olive.’ And out he went.

  The next couple of days were spent in a heightened state of worry. I was unable to concentrate, especially with my devil heckling me from inside my head.

  ‘You really are pathetic,’ it would shout to me. ‘You have nowhere to run to, you have no other house to live in and of course he’s right when he said that a divorce would leave you penniless after your lawyers extracted their fee for losing in court. This means you are trapped in your own home and so you need to pray Mark doesn’t sell this house. Ha! You actually need his mistress to come here. I bet she is prettier than you, of course she is; she’ll certainly be younger.’

  I rebuked my devil by saying, ‘I don’t care about this woman, who is she anyway? Nothing, she’s no one.’

  But my chest would seize when my devil replied that my house, my home, my possessions would all be lost if Mark should decide he preferred her and, subsequently, I would become obsolete in his life; so this time she was someone.

  I couldn’t talk to anyone as I could barely breathe, and the thought of anyone’s pity further crippled my lungs. The only one I could speak to was my devil and he successfully whirled my world down to the depraved base pit it belonged.

  My devil took pleasure in ensuring I didn’t sleep or eat as he plagued me with scenarios of what might happen if Mark threw me out of my house, such that, by 2am on Tuesday morning I pictured myself living in a ditch under the A3 gyratory with only rats for company.

  On Tuesday morning I received a text to tell me I would be picked up at seven and driven to the Imperial War Museum for the function held there. Mark added that I was to make sure there was a room made up for Monika, that I was prompt for the driver and I was to be dressed appropriately for the black-tie event; ‘maybe the midnight blue gown?’ He wrote.

  I knew the blue Dior dress he was referring to; it was nearly ten years old. I had bought it for a trip to Barbados. I was curious as to why he would want me in this dress, as on the evening I wore it last, under the Caribbean moonlight, he barely noticed me or my dress. Nevertheless, I did as I was told.

  At 7pm Mark’s driver picked me up and deposited me outside the entrance to the Imperial War Museum. As soon as I walked in I was summoned by Mark who had been waiting for me in the entrance. It was the typical grand affair in an imposing building. The exception to this evening was the majesty of the Spitfire hanging above the heads of three hundred guests in dinner suits and gowns. In amongst these people stood theatrical statues of ghouls and monsters and all the waiters wore Halloween costumes.

  ‘At last you’re here, stay by my side and shut up. If any of my colleagues mention Monika just change the subject to your usual inane drivel,’ barked Mark in hushed tones.

  ‘Is she here then?’ I said, whilst my eyes swept across the room for a young woman possibly looking my way.

  ‘Somewhere, I don’t know. She wanted to come so I’ve brought her, but I told her to keep out of my way. She’s here with Pete who owes me a favour.’

  Mark then pulled my arm towards a group of black dinner jackets surrounding a bloody, monster mannequin. Mark clicked his fingers to usher me to his side which signalled the beginning of my evening.

  Eventually, a six-course dinner was served in one of the museum’s banquet rooms. The banquet room walls were covered in plush red velvet and adorned with gold cornices. Upon the table were giant candelabras, which shielded each guest from viewing anything more than the people sitting next to them. The view to my right was of Mark’s back. The view to my left was of an elderly man with half-moon glasses perched on the end of his nose. I was not interested in either eating or talking to anyone around me as I was preoccupied with searching for a woman I didn’t know.

  When Mark released me from my duties, I escaped to the dressing room to check my lipstick and my hair. The light in the toilet was too dim to see anything with much clarity. I peered into the mirror to adjust my makeup but I needed to squint to make out the line of my lips. I ruffled my newly dyed blonde hair to plump it up, then looked around the room.

  The style was Victorian vintage with a blood red, velvet love chair in the middle. The walls were covered in floor to ceiling cracked yellow mirrors that reminded me of an old-fashioned fun fair hall of mirrors. When I stepped back to look at myself in the dim light I accidentally kicked over a tall vase with fluffy pampas grass. I bent down to pick it up and as I did another woman entered. I watched a pair of silver diamanté stilettoes walk pass me as she stepped to adjust her dress in one of the wall mirrors. After replacing the vase I returned to look in the mirror next to this young lady of no more than twenty-five. She was plump with a voluptuous bosom trying to escape the confines of a red corset bodice dress which looked like it once swung upon a hanger in the wind of her local market stall. Her face was sweet with bright blue eyes resting upon chubby rosy cheeks. Her strawberry blonde hair was long and fully coiffed to a bouffant above and around her face; she reminded me of a toddler in a deep southern American beauty pageant.

  Standing next to her I could make out another woman who was much older. The age gap was at least thirty years and was discernible by subtle differences in appearance. The girl’s arms were white and podgy with dimples in the elbow. In comparison, the older woman’s arms were so thin that her blue veins protruded from along her hands and forearms. The young girl resembled a childish Marilyn Monroe with a tiny waist, a billowing bosom and huge hips. Lumps and rolls of fat misshaped her red evening gown, but the overall shape was sexy and tantalising. The older woman looked like a starved Disney character next to her. The only thing that protruded from this woman were hip bones and two round balls stuck to her chest. Their faces were similar, but the older lady had ludicrously large lips that looked like they came from a Christmas cracker; they floated slightly away from the pale white face as though they were two dinghies floating on smooth layer of royal icing.

  As I stared at the startling difference in the shape and look between a woman at the beginning of her adult life; youthful, plump and innocent, and a woman in her later years; manipulated, thin and fake, I realised that this was me and my replacement.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Jason

  And that’s how I remember my Aunt Olivia. She was the Aunt who bought great toys with her when I was a boy. She was the Aunt I boasted about to my school friends as she always had the latest sports car. She had a massive house, a huge swimming pool with slides, she even had a full-size gym with a climbing wall at the back.

  But she was also the aunt my dad and I laughed at as she totted up our driveway in her stilettoes and tight skirts. She was the aunt my mum would leave in the living room whilst she made excuses to check on the lunch just so she could silently scream ‘bloody woman!’ Then rant to Dad, ‘Did you just hear what she has just said to me?’; Mum would quickly reel off a synopsis of the conversation with her sister about how much bigger, better, brighter her life is compared to ours. Then Mum would straighten her dress, humph and walk back in.

  As I grew older these conversations became a power struggle between Aunt Olivia’s boasts about her life and Mum’s boasts about my school achievements mixed with sarcasm.

  ‘Indeed Olive, what’s the point of New York without a new pair of Jimmy Choo shoes to enjoy them in? It’s a good thing I’ll never go as all my shoes are from M&S.’

  So, I remember the toys, I remember her cars, I even remember the clothes she wore but I don’t remember her face, right up to the point my aunt no longer resembled my Aunt Olive.

  The face and body I remember today is the one Aunt Olive saw in the cracked mirror on that Halloween evening: there were no red curls as they’d been replaced with huge blonde hair that barely moved. She had a two-tone tan; her body looked as if it had been dipped in creosote which became weaker as it approached her face, a face that varied between ale bro
wn to white emulsion paint depending on her outfit and style at that time.

  Her body, so thin I’m amazed it could support a woman in her fifties. Her legs and arms, spindly bones covered in skin and blue veins. Her chest was a point of fascination when I was growing up as it seemed to grow each time I saw her, but her sternum still managed to protrude between her cleavage; as though it was fighting for recognition between two alien domes.

  But it was her face that held the most fascination. I don’t remember the original one, only the one in recent years. By the end, it was a face I couldn’t relate to as living. My brain couldn’t process how it moved or how it sat upon the front of her head like a mask, smoother than the dashboard plastic of my car.

  Her face looked swollen as though she had an allergic reaction to the air she breathed. Her mouth and surrounding area, in particular, sat away from her face in the same way Fred Flintstone’s mouth bellowed out. Her nose was reduced to a size where I wondered whether it was fit for purpose as it was so tiny she couldn’t have breathed in without becoming light-headed. Her eyes were large almonds with heavy makeup, making her blue eyes the only natural human part of her face.

  ‘Jason, she wanted youth and beauty and Mark paid to rip away the glory God had given her with love, and replaced it with a plastic mould designed by a surgeon,’ Mum said, when she came around to discuss Dad’s sixty-third birthday surprise.

  ‘A bit harsh mum, don’t you think?’

  ‘Why do you think she chased youth? Why do you think she starved herself for the whole of her marriage? Why do you think she smiled more than she spoke?’

  Mum had become agitated and shuffled in her seat.

  ‘Dad’s always wanted a balloon ride, how about that as his main present?’ I pointed to the online brochure.

  ‘Mark wanted an ideal woman; he wanted a doll he could paint and dress then put away in a box when he was finished. He didn’t want a woman, a living breathing, thinking and feeling woman. He didn’t want his wife to challenge him or ever disagree with what he was doing or saying, or reprimand him and demand respect. He wanted a nodding, smiling doll.’