Don't Marry Thomas Clark

by Celia Hayes

  ‘So, are you ready?’ asks the captain, clearly desperate to get away from dry land.

  ‘Of course,’ Thomas responds, starting to climb the steps of the boarding ladder. ‘Coming, darling?’ he says, stopping halfway, noting that I haven’t moved an inch.

  It looks like I’ve got no choice.

  ‘This time I’ll get you. I swear I’ll get you,’ I mutter to myself, contemplating my revenge.

  ‘Glad to welcome you aboard the Othello,’ Captain Foster says as soon as we set foot on deck. ‘Please leave your bags here. Jack will take them to your cabin. Did you have a good journey?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ replies Thomas. ‘There wasn’t much traffic, and it’s a beautiful day.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ he confirms, calling a young sailor who moves quickly to take our luggage. I guess it’s Jack, so I nod at him.

  ‘Would you prefer a cool drink or would you rather take a tour of the yacht first?’

  ‘I don’t know… Darling, what would you prefer?’

  Whisky!

  ‘Let’s take a look at this contraption,’ I say instead, pushing him by the shoulder. ‘I’m eager to see my prison cell.’

  After a moment of embarrassment at my last statement, Captain Foster takes us on a brief tour of the Othello. On the bridge, he briefly explains how the crew’s shifts will be organized. From what I can understand, there will always be someone aboard to deal with our every need, but, as per Thomas’s request, apart from them, nobody will be allowed to sleep on the yacht. Precisely for this reason, we will be anchoring in a different port every day until we reach Dublin. On that occasion we will travel at night, weather permitting, and the crew will remain with us until the next day. Next, Thomas starts asking a number of technical questions about the management of the ship, and the captain is overjoyed to have the chance to go over what, to me, sound like incredibly boring lists of pointless information that my brain refuses to take in.

  I stop listening, walk away from them and go over to the balustrade. The wind tickles my face, but the feeling is pleasant, so I breathe in deeply, lean on the handrail and try to relax. I must admit, the view is beautiful, what with the gunmetal-grey horizon, the oil slicks along the coast and the reinforced concrete buildings in the distance…

  Without realizing it, I start daydreaming. What are my friends in London doing? It seems like a lifetime since I last saw them. We’re constantly in touch via web or phone, but it’s not the same thing. I feel excluded from what was, until a few weeks ago, my life, and it’s not a pleasant feeling at all. And I miss Rufus. I miss him terribly.

  Suddenly I think of Mike.

  On impulse I take the phone from my pocket and scroll down the names in the phonebook, stopping at his. I haven’t heard back from him, just as I’d imagined. He’s probably going out with someone else now and most likely wouldn’t even remember my name.

  What about if I call him? But, even if he answers, what could I say? ‘Hello, Mike. I’m Sandy, do you remember? The one who stood you up at that Nightwish concert. Hey, you know what? I’m getting married! No, don’t worry, it’s not forever. It’ll only last ten years. Think you’ll be about after?’

  ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ asks Thomas, joining me.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The view…’

  ‘Ah… Yes, beautiful. Sure,’ I answer, dismissively.

  He notices that I’m miles away, so he lets it go, ‘Shall we carry on with the tour?’

  I agree, because what choice do I have? I shake my head, letting the cascade of negativity flow down my slender back and follow the others, looking from time to time at what the captain proudly points out to us.

  After showing us the oval pool and solarium, the captain takes us below deck, where there are the crew’s bedrooms, the two suites reserved for guests, several bathrooms and recreation rooms, which consist of a living room with a corner piano bar and bookcase, an open-air dining room and a media room equipped with a television so big that it could almost be a cinema.

  The last room we visit is ours. Particularly bright and tastefully furnished, the first thing I notice is the solarium. From here it feels intimate and cosy. There are comfortable wicker chairs with large white cushions that look soft and inviting. I’m just about to sink into one when my attention is drawn towards the bed. Nestling between the pillows is a red rose, still in bud, a veiled warning of what might appear to be a voluptuous promise but in reality is nothing more than the simple reaffirmation of a simple and inescapable constant in my life: a tendency towards the tragicomic.

  To hide my irritation, I walk aimlessly around, pretending to be fascinated by the prints hanging on the walls. I notice that our bags have already been brought in while we were doing the grand tour and placed by the wardrobe, along with a box containing an endless series of ties rolled up in a glass drawer divided into square compartments.

  ‘Everything in order?’ enquires the captain at that moment.

  ‘It’s a lovely vessel,’ says Thomas. ‘I’m sure we will be fine.’

  ‘I’m sure you will. Mrs Clark, is it to your liking?’ he asks, turning to me. I still haven’t said a word.

  ‘I’m not Mrs. Clark,’ I answer instantly, slamming the wardrobe door with a thud.

  ‘Oh, I apologize, I imagined…’ Captain Foster stutters, taken aback.

  ‘Captain, this is Miss Sandy Price, the future Mrs. Clark. For the moment we are only engaged, but we’ll be getting married soon,’ Thomas says, in an attempt to ease him out of the tricky moment.

  ‘Well let me give you my heartfelt congratulations,’ he responds with relief. ‘What wonderful news!’ And he shakes Thomas’s hand vigorously.

  I force a smile, but inside I feel like running up to the bridge and throwing myself into the sea.

  How the hell did I get myself into this mess?

  Why didn’t I listen to Rufus when there was still in time?

  How will I survive a week of this hell? Why me? Why me? So absorbed am I in my own existential psychodrama that I don’t even notice that we are alone. They’ve all gone. They probably wanted to give us time to freshen up.

  ‘Did you hear?’ Thomas asks, unbuttoning his shirt.

  ‘What?’ I mumble, snapping out of my trance.

  ‘Lunch will be served in about an hour. Would you prefer to eat in here or shall I ask them to lay the table in the dining room?’

  ‘What difference does it make?’ I reply dejected.

  ‘We’re going to be leaving the coast. You might want to enjoy the scenery,’ he proposes, joining me next to the wardrobe.

  His naked torso.

  Oh God. Where did all those muscles come from? And I find myself staring at the ceiling, looking for cracks.

  ‘Sandy, did you hear me?’ he asks, making eye contact while trying to button up a cuff.

  ‘I heard you! I heard you!’ I snap, hiding my face in my hands and banging my head against the wardrobe.

  ‘So?’ he insists, not realizing that there is a problem.

  ‘So what? What do you want? And, above all, why are you stripping off?’ I shout, now extremely embarrassed.

  ‘I thought I’d put on something comfortable,’ he says quietly.

  ‘And you have to do it in front of me?’

  ‘Well, you might as well start getting used to it. We’re going to be married soon, right?’ he says, twisting the knife in with a cheerful grin. ‘Will you give me a hand with this?’ And with an innocent expression, he holds out his arm. ‘It doesn’t seem to want to go through the buttonhole.’

  ‘Argh, for God’s…! Oh all right, give me the bloody thing so I can finally take refuge in the bathroom. And I’m not coming out until lunch is ready!’ I shout, tugging vehemently at his white shirt. ‘What a brilliant idea, let’s lock ourselves away for a week in a ten foot square cabin,’ I grumble as if he wasn’t there. ‘This is a pre-booked bloodbath. Oh, keep still! If you keep fidgeting like that, I’ll never get
it in,’ I continue to rant. ‘Seven endless days without Internet, without any books, without anyone to talk to, and nowhere to hide from you. Nice trick you’ve played on me! This is why you didn’t want to tell me where we were going – you knew I’d never have accepted.’

  I look at him. ‘What were you thinking? And explain to me how you’re going to be able to work? Can you really take all this time off?’

  ‘Actually this is work,’ he says, making no effort to hide his amusement at seeing me so upset.

  ‘I forgot,’ I say, realizing only now that the will, for obvious reasons, must be his principal problem.

  ‘I didn’t mean the two of us,’ he says, with a smile. ‘Do you remember the email I sent you?’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The one where I said I’d been having problems trying to buy that company?’

  ‘I vaguely remember something.’

  ‘It’s quite an important company which is based in Dublin. They deal mostly in telecommunications, a sector that normally doesn’t interest me, but it would give me the opportunity to expand my portfolio in Ireland.’

  ‘Why would they want you to sell their factory?’

  ‘Because it’s not a factory. It is an intermediary company.’

  I stand corrected.

  ‘So why would they want you to sell their intermediary company?’

  ‘Because the company’s founder, Jake Doyle, has decided to give up the business. He has a son who moved to Spain four years ago. He’s married, teaches languages at the University of Madrid and has no interest in the his father’s business. His other kid isn’t interested – wants to go into other things too, apparently. The only thing they care about is not laying off their employees and getting a reasonable price for it, taking advantage of the popularity the company has acquired over the years. We sent in an offer to the board of directors a couple of months ago and they were willing to consider it, but the negotiations are still ongoing and we haven’t signed anything, so the other day I contacted Jake and suggested that he spend a couple of days on the boat with us, hoping that might help speed things up.’

  ‘So this is just a business trip, then?’ I say, slightly more calmly than before. ‘In that case, why did I have to come with you? Couldn’t you have managed it on your own?’

  ‘Yes, but Mr. Doyle is an old-fashioned man, and particularly close to his family. I’m sure he’d rather deal with a devoted husband than with a tireless libertine.’

  ‘And the tireless libertine would be… you?’ I ask, raising an eyebrow. ‘Thomas, without wishing to put a damper on things… I’ve been watching you, and the most obscene thing I’ve seen you do was when you put your elbow on the table when they served dessert.’

  ‘Are you at it again?’

  ‘What?’ I really don’t understand what he’s referring to.

  ‘Demeaning my manhood?’ he says, putting his hand on his chest with resentment.

  ‘Ah,’ I sigh, impatiently. ‘There you go – I’ve done it. Do you want me to do the other one or can you manage it yourself, Dorian Gray?’ And I let go of his hand and raise an eyebrow in a gesture of defiance.

  ‘I’ll do it myself,’ he says, obviously having decided to show me all his skills but only managing to get the second cufflink through after a dozen attempts.

  ‘Very impressive!’ I say, feigning amazement. ‘Now I understand why women fall at your feet.’

  ‘OK. You asked for it!’And with an unexpected leap he grabs me by the waist before I can get away. I try to wriggle out of his grasp but his grip is too strong and I can’t stop him even when he throws me on the bed, and himself on top of me with his shirt still unbuttoned.

  ‘Get off me immediately!’ I shout, but he isn’t at all intimidated and starts to tickle my hips, something I’ve never been able to resist for more than two seconds flat. Needless to say, I lose control and immediately start squirming and gibbering hysterically.

  ‘Please… stop… enough!’ I manage to say, breathlessly, my shirt pulled up under my breasts, my hair tousled and my fingers desperately gripping the blankets.

  ‘Where do you think you are going?’ he asks, holding me to him when I try to pull away, taking advantage of a moment of distraction.

  ‘No. No. No, come on…’ I beg, trying to stop him. ‘I can’t stand being tickled.’

  ‘Yeah, I remember,’ he whispers in my ear, sliding his way between my legs.

  He lies gently on top of me, taking my hands in his, and when he finds my wrists, he grabs them and pulls them up over my head.

  ‘Now you’re totally in my power,’ he says as his chin tickles the tip of my nose. Breathing heavily, my lips parted, I look around for a foothold, but when I try to free myself from his grip, I realize that I can’t move, so I give in and relax, letting myself surrender into his arms.

  Our eyes meet. Finally, after all this time, I see it. He’d never gone away. He was just so hidden behind that mature-seeming exterior and deep voice that I couldn’t find him. I feel the electricity of his touch on my skin and the pressure of his body pressing me down onto the bed. Instinctively I arch my back and at that moment he closes his eyes, then opens them again to stare at me with such intensity that I melt completely.

  ‘Last wish?’ he asks, smiling.

  ‘Have mercy, my lord,’ I say half-jokingly. ‘Spare a young life.’ My voice is gruff.

  He seems to procrastinate, then mumbles doubtfully: ‘I don’t know. Yours, my lady, was a very serious offence. I don’t think I can let the insult go unpunished.’

  ‘A bold gesture dictated by inexperience and foolishness,’ I continue, attempting not to laugh and adding, with an averted gaze, ‘I don’t deserve your indifference.’

  ‘Actually, I shouldn’t have to waste my time defending myself from these low insinuations, but I shall not tolerate further additional insults,’ he clarifies after careful rumination. ‘Of course, I could try to be lenient, if you make it clear that you have no more doubts about my innate ability of persuasion.’

  ‘Doubts? Me?’ I ask. ‘Your Grace needn’t worry, because there is no woman in the whole kingdom more convinced of your skills as a lover,’ I say, in enthusiastic praise, ‘and I would gladly sit here for hours listing your qualities, if only I remembered them. But even though I do not, I know for a fact that they must surely exist because if they didn’t why should you be so vexed by a comment as harmless as mine?’ I flutter my eyelashes. ‘You would not, I’m sure, want all and sundry to think that yours is simply repressed anger at being caught out by a representative of the poor common folk?’

  ‘OK. Say your prayers,’ he says.

  Preventing me from reacting, he pushes himself onto me and traps my lips between his, and I moan in response. Losing all contact with reality, I close my eyes, feeling his breath on my skin and the gentle caress of his fingers, which slowly release their grip, letting his arm slip so he can run his fingers through my hair. Without moving away from him, I push myself up from the crumpled sheet with a slight pressure of my hand and he pulls me towards him, forcing me to open my mouth to receive him. I let his tongue gently penetrate me and cling to him, feeling almost afraid of falling. I wish I could stop, but it’s too late. I should have thought of that before. Should have stopped while there was still time, but I couldn’t. I can’t… I… I simply can’t push him away, so I circle his waist with my legs, rubbing myself on his jeans and feeling the increasing intensity of his desire for me. And in that moment his hand grabs angrily at my trousers and I feel him rushing to unbutton them. I offer no resistance even when after undoing the button he grabs the zip and hastily pulls it down.

  ‘Mr. Clark…’

  There’s a knock on the door, and it’s as though someone has broken a window and showered us with fragments which fall crashing to the floor.

  ‘Mr. Clark, lunch is ready,’ someone in the hallway informs us.

  He has to repeat it a second time, because neither of us is able to re
act.

  ‘Mr. Clark?’ asks the timid voice.

  Reluctantly, we pull away from each other. We’re both breathless. His hand is resting between my legs and he doesn’t make any move to pull it away. I open my eyes and look at him with a face that betrays all my embarrassment.

  ‘Thank you very much. We’ll be there in a few minutes,’ he says huskily, glancing briefly at the door.

  My strength completely gone, I fall back onto to the mattress and he rolls onto his side, rubbing his forehead.

  ‘Sandy,’ he says when he notices my total lack of reaction.

  ‘I still have to change,’ I say, coldly.

  Sensing that I have no intention of talking about it, he wearily gets up and shuts himself in the bathroom. A few minutes later I do the same, finding refuge in the wardrobe, where I choose something comfortable to wear. I grab a pair of pants, a bra and my beauty case then I tiptoe out of the room, looking for somewhere to get changed, somewhere where he can’t find me. If possible on the other side of the Othello.

  I’m on the run.

  Whatever there is to say will have to wait until I’ve stopped shaking.

  Chapter 24

  ‘And to finish, sole fillets gratin, accompanied by julienne vegetables and citrus cream.’

  It is the voice of the maître d’ speaking. Yes, we also have a maître d’. I was surprised a sommelier didn’t appear to advise us on a wine that might make me forget the foie gras with mushrooms in the first course. I know it’s Nouvelle Cuisine, but I wouldn’t have minded if he’d brought me a hamburger with fries, dripping with ketchup and a dash of mustard and a tomato, to be honest. Good grief, am I going to have to eat goose pâté for seven days? I’m starting to wonder if I’ll be able to last out.

  I move back from the table to allow a maid in uniform to serve the second course. Across from me, Thomas is prodding his sole with a fork, giving me a fleeting look every so often. To defuse the tension, I crunch breadsticks and watch the coastline slowly disappear as the Othello heads for the open sea.

  ‘Is it not to your liking?’ the maître d’ asks Thomas, noticing that he hasn’t tried anything, but Thomas shakes his head and reassures him that everything is delicious. Satisfied, the man goes back into the kitchen, leaving us alone in the company of the sound of the waves.