The Pretence

by Linus Peters

  “Say something,” she eventually said.

  “I don’t know what to say,” I told her, even the effort of summoning up those few words, seemingly weakening me.

  Again there was a long pause. I was shocked, I was hurt, and also aware of this voice inside my head endlessly repeating: ‘You can’t take this. You’re not strong enough’.

  “Still want to ‘work it out’?” she asked, sarcasm poison-tipping every one of her words.

  I gave a long sigh, to be honest, in that moment, not knowing what I wanted. “Have you always been careful?”

  She grunted to herself. “Why did I know that would be one of your first questions. Yes. Even if I was offered a ‘bareback bonus’. Never without a condom. No matter how much they promised. And we have regular checks, too.”

  For some time I just stared at her, though she pretended not to notice. What the hell was she talking about? ‘Bareback bonus? .. Regular checks?’ What kind of world was this? Where all this beauty, this class, this elegance, I saw before me, that I’d thought so special, was actually available to anyone who had the cash.

  Suddenly she stood up as if she’d come to a decision. “I’ll go,” she said, heading for the bedroom.

  “No! ... No!” I screamed, when she looked like she was about to ignore me.

  She hesitated for a moment, as if she didn’t know what to do, and without another word, I leapt up, grabbed my coat, ran out, down the stairs, and out into the welcoming darkness.

  I spent many a torturous night walking the streets of North London after Frances and I broke up, but none more painful than that one. I felt emotionally winded, that one blow had exploded all the life out of me. This woman who I’d joined in her fantasy because she seemed so special, so dedicated to me, had, in fact, been had by the wealthy of the world. The thrusting little sewing-needle dicks of the Japanese, the lancing long dongs of the Arabs. Old men, young men, all of them had been inside her behaving like uncaring hooligans in the place that I foolishly went to worship. How could I forgive that? How could I ever forget? More to the point perhaps, how could she ever forget?

  And yes, I know what you’re thinking. Exactly the same thing that Luca would’ve said if I’d had the nerve to phone him: “Simon, what did you expect? It serves you right”. And it was true. That basic urge we all have to be loved, a need to find something to take my mind off Frances, and, if I’m really honest about it, a superficial pride in having such a spectacular partner, had all played their part in bringing me to that moment.

  Again it struck home that what she’d told me made perfect sense, that the truth I’d sought for so long was now unquestionably mine. All those vehement outbursts towards men. I also realised that, by some unbearable irony, it was probably the means by which she’d come to me. That amongst an endless list of men who only wanted her for her body, who used and abused her, had strayed the letters of this broken-hearted Englishman. Writing about emotions, feelings, love and pain, the worship of a special woman. Which is why she’d decided to play the game, to hijack Frances’s life.

  I walked streets familiar and streets unknown, totally unaware of my surroundings. What the hell was I going to do? Or more importantly, what was I capable of doing? Were my feelings for Juliana such that I could get over this? I mean, no matter how hurt I felt, I still knew that what had begun as a synthesised relationship was now unquestionably real. I did love her. But whether I was strong enough to cope with this or not, I wasn’t sure.

  ‘Prostitute’. Not exactly a pretty word, is it? Hey, but I mean, it’s fashionable. This is the 21st Century, after all. These things happen. Plenty of documentaries on television - male prostitutes, female prostitutes, transsexual prostitutes – perfectly socially acceptable behaviour. Well, you try listening to what I just had to. You try thinking about all those customers going through the person you love, see how you feel, how many gallons of blood and bile it makes you want to puke up.

  For hours I chased such thoughts in and round my head. Thinking it was okay for a while, that I could take it, that her old life and most of her customers were far away in different countries. Yet later, screaming out with rage, that she’d done such a thing, that I’d been fool enough to have been taken in by such a perfidious slut.

  I arrived home about three, for some reason having mud on my shoes, smearing it on the carpet as I climbed the stairs. The flat was in total darkness. I didn’t turn on the lights. Just walked through to the sitting room and sat on the sofa, enveloped by the familiar, and at that moment, comforting shadows of my home.

  She was still there. I heard her breathing coming through the open bedroom door as I’d walked up the hallway. I sighed to myself, took off my shoes, and made myself comfortable. Aware that, despite everything that had happened, I felt an overwhelming sense of relief. That of the two possibilities, that was the one I much preferred.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I didn’t exactly feel good about it, but for days afterwards I couldn’t bring myself to go anywhere near Juliana. All I could see were those men squirming all over her, sucking and licking at her naked body. I started imagining all kinds of stuff. Big, fat hairy sweaty guys, pawing at her, abusing her in any way they wished, making her go down on them, forcing her to do all kinds of stuff. And yet, she would’ve had to have been willing. She would’ve had to have been good at her job if she wanted to make big bucks. And maybe that was what I hated most of all. The thought of her participating gladly, having a good time, laughing, getting off on it all, climaxing over and over at the sheer ease and excitement of what she was doing and how well she was being paid for it. .

  Course, she noticed how I was keeping my distance. A couple of times, when she got really upset, she talked about leaving again, but I wouldn’t let her. I mean, I wasn’t exactly sure what it was - love or whatever - but I still knew that somewhere deep inside me was something that was a whole lot bigger than this.

  Dear Juliana,

  I’m sorry I can’t really speak to you properly at the moment. I’m not angry with you. It just hurts, that’s all. I can’t stop myself from imagining all kinds of things. I’m sure others could handle this better. Maybe I’m being old-fashioned?

  A dinosaur? Or maybe I’m just weak? I don’t know. What

  I do know is that, like some fire raging through a forest, everything may seem like it’s destroyed now, but one day it’ll

  start to grow again.

  I’ll be back on Friday night. Maybe the break will do us

  good? Perhaps we both need a couple of days to clear

  our heads.

  Love,

  Simon

  PS I’m sorry if I’ve said or done anything to hurt you

  in the last few days.

  I went to the Czech Republic. A country famous for two incredible acts of metamorphosis. The first one being a story by Franz Kafka, the second, being what’s happened to the Skoda Car Company.

  It used to be part of an Eastern European triumvirate that the mere mention of was guaranteed to get any comedian a laugh. Skoda, Lada, and Trabant: three perpetrators of the most appalling automotive crimes ever known to man. Donkeys on wheels. Now look at them. The British car industry has long gone, imploded into memories of proudly polished chrome and real walnut facades, and here we are, a party of British journalist, over to appraise and admire the latest Skoda sports. I mean, go figure.

  I spent a very enjoyable first day driving through some truly spectacular countryside, then in the evening returned to our hotel in Prague. Later, several of us went out to sample some of the famous nightlife. It was something of an irony that I got dragged into a bar where there were several girls pole-dancing. I hung about for one drink, then made my excuses and left, spending the rest of the evening wandering round the old city on my own.

  I really didn’t know if this was working or not. There had been moments when I’d been able to forget, but they hadn’t lasted for long. No matter how much I tried to strangle those torturous i
mages, they still kept bursting back into life. I was determined not to phone Juliana. I wanted to make it a real break, with no contact at all. However, when the time came for us to pack to return to London, I was aware of not looking forward to it, that I still wasn’t ready to see her again.

  The phone rang just as I was doing my last check of the room to make sure I hadn’t left anything.

  “Simon, when are you going to get a mobile?” begged Luca, echoing a complaint I must’ve heard a thousand times from a hundred people.

  “I’ve got one,” I told him, reminding him how my parents had tried to bring me up to date last Christmas.

  “One that’s out of the box.”

  “Oh,” I said, not having the slightest idea where it was. “What’s so important anyway?”

  “I just thought you should know. Charlie’s in hospital. Prostate cancer.”

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man look more embarrassed about being in bed than Charlie. He would’ve done anything to have leapt up, welcomed us to his private room, pretended that nothing was amiss. As it was, he just gaped rather stupidly, dread at our sudden appearance somehow combined with a seeming inability to recognise us in such different surroundings.

  “What do you two want?” he eventually grumbled.

  “We came to see if there were any pretty nurses,” Luca told him.

  “Probably right,” Charlie commented weakly. “Well forget it, they’re all after me.”

  Luca chuckled, as did I, but already we could sense that discomfort that seems so endemic to such places. That knowledge that, no matter how great your relationship outside, it’ll be crushed in here.

  “Don’t know why you bothered,” Charlie muttered.

  “Oh, thank you,” Luca said.

  “I wouldn’t. Hate the bloody places.”

  Again there was a lengthy and uncomfortable pause.

  “How long are you going to be here?” I asked.

  “How do I know? They’re not even sure how they’re going to go about it yet.”

  “What are the choices?” I asked.

  Charlie grunted, as if there weren’t any. “Don’t ask me. I’m just the bloody patient.”

  I nodded my head. Again silence filled the room, and it finally occurred to me that this was obviously what had been on his mind the night he’d come to my place.

  “Does it include the possible loss of rumpty-tumpty?” asked Luca, as tactless as ever.

  Charlie didn’t reply, just stared out of the window, and for a moment I had this awful feeling he was going to crack. That this great generous mass of a man, who had probably won cups at public school for his ability not to show any emotion, was in danger of losing it.

  “The Italian Nightmare,” I said limply, trying to somehow ease us out of the situation.

  Charlie chuckled, but only half-heartedly. “Too bloody true.”

  We stayed for another twenty minutes or so, trying to act normally, to get some kind of solid conversation going, but without success. In the end, we all fell before it - the undeniable threat, the gravity of the situation - as if it hunted us down one by one. Only finding brief respite in the usual haven of work and the office.

  “Oh, it’ll run itself,” Charlie told us. “Haven’t done anything there for years.”

  “But you’ll be back soon anyway,” I said.

  “Christ, yes. Need a bloody big cushion to sit on for a while I should think, but apart from that, you won’t know the difference.”

  As we took our guilty yet grateful leave, I turned back one final time to see the fixed grin on Charlie’s face again looking that bit fragile.

  Some people just don’t look right sick. Fathers for some reason should never be sick. Never look weak and vulnerable, never lie palely with greasy dishevelled hair and several days of stubble. To see Charlie like that, so big, such a larger than life character, seemed somehow more disturbing. As if, any illusions you ever had of living forever could now be officially forgotten. If Charlie couldn’t make it, then the rest of us couldn’t either.

  The odd thing was, how it affected me. I’d hate to say it was exactly what I needed, but in a way, it seemed as if it was. When I finally got home - I’d called into the hospital on my way back from the airport - I was so delighted to see Juliana, so grateful to have her there - in my flat, in my life - I ran in and just grabbed hold of her, squeezing as tightly as I dared.

  “Hey! ... Hey, hey!” she said, initially surprised, and then a little concerned. “What’s the matter?”

  “Charlie’s in hospital.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “I don’t know. Who can tell with Charlie.”

  I started to kiss her. Passionately and repeatedly. For a while she went along with it, then she stopped, pulling back, staring at me a little quizzically.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I love you,” I told her. “I don’t care where you’ve been, what you’ve done; I don’t care about anything other than us, and that it’s me who’s holding you now.”

  I took her to bed and we made love in a way we never had before. So softly, so tenderly, it seemed as if our bodies were barely involved. A gentle catharsis. As if we were somehow cleansing each other, ridding ourselves of everything that had been before, that had caused the other pain. We did it for us, and we did it for Charlie, as if we were somehow praying for him.

  Afterwards, she cried so much, I began to worry she might do herself physical harm. She was beyond all reason, all reassurance. Stopping and starting, shaking and convulsing, almost as if trying to rid her body of something, to cast it out. Yet finally she calmed down, she fell asleep in my arms, and everything was back in its rightful place.

  Here she comes. Here she comes. It’s her. I know it. And you want to know something? The odd thing is, it is her. It is! This time she doesn’t turn into someone else. There is no metamorphosis of disappointment.

  Watch carefully ... Watch! ...You see! I told you so! She isn’t going to change. Not this time. It is Frances.

  “I don’t understand. Where did you come from?”

  “It was me. I wrote the letters.”

  “No, you didn’t. Juliana did.”

  “That’s me. I’m Juliana.”

  “No! You’re Frances.”

  “I’m also Juliana.”

  “No, you’re not!”

  “Simon, haven’t you worked it out yet? I’m Juliana during the day, and Frances at night. Haven’t you ever noticed that you never see her after dark?”

  I paused for a moment. What the hell was she talking about?

  “Who do you think you make love to?” she asked. “Who do you think holds you throughout the night?”

  “Are you holding me now?”

  “Of course”

  “But where do you go during the day?”

  “We swap. I have Juliana’s partner.”

  “But I’m Juliana’s partner.”

  “No. He’s Japanese. Very rich.”

  “No!”

  “It’s true, Simon.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I promise you. It is.”

  “No! Please! ..... Frances? Come back!”

  Kick ... Kick ... Kick.

  I don’t expect many of you have ever had a relationship with a prostitute. A whore. A hooker. I mean, to each his own and everything, but you’ve got to have a certain type of personality, and I’m not sure I do. For a week or so Juliana and I were blissfully returned to love, and then, very slowly, it started. The doubts, the fears, the taunting fantasies as to where she might be, and what she might be doing.

  I wouldn’t say I was a particularly insecure person, but being in a relationship with someone who you know doesn’t need the rituals, the ceremonies, usually attached to going to bed - no, forget bed, just having sex, anywhere with anybody - is a great stimuli to the imagination. As long as things went pretty well to plan, as long as she was more or less where I expected her to be, it was fine. But the
moment she went missing, a timetable or arrangement ignored, I was immediately thrown into the ring with the most hostile aspects of my imagination.

  Most times I managed to talk myself out of it. Yet occasionally, maybe when I was under pressure elsewhere, I’d lose control and end up accusing her of something really crass. Like the day I met her outside this shop in the West End to have a look at a dress she wanted my opinion on, and she turned up twenty minutes late, and with a handbag stashed with money. I accused her of turning a trick for it, that she’d just earned it, the way she apparently always earned her expensive clothes, in some nearby hotel room.

  As it turned out, she’d got it from the cashpoint. Not the nearest one. That had been out of order. Which was why she’d had to find another and been late.

  You’ve got to be careful with that sort of stuff. It can drive you crazy. And no matter who it might be - and I guess the most beautiful prostitute you can imagine, is about as challenging as it gets - somewhere along the line you just have to tell yourself that you trust them. Which is what I eventually did. I simply ignored the men who kept leering at her, the thought that all they needed was a big fat wallet to make their fantasies come true, the occasions when she went missing, when she seemed to spend an awful lot of time doing things that should only take a few minutes.

  Maybe she was still turning the occasional trick? I don’t think so. In fact, I’m sure she wasn’t. But frankly, I’d rather live with the faint possibility that I was wrong than worry myself to madness, or create an atmosphere that would inevitably end in self-destruction. I trusted her, and that was an end to it.

  Maybe not sub-consciously. Maybe inside there was still a lot of whispering going on. Which is possibly why I started having the dreams? It was my mind’s way of seeking out a little extra security, clinging onto someone who I always knew I could trust implicitly, intertwining her with Juliana, making them into one person.

  Well, that’s my theory, and to me it makes a great deal of sense.