The Pretence

by Linus Peters

  With that, she kissed me goodbye, and I watched her go into the house, not driving away until I was positive she wouldn’t find a reason to reappear.

  I felt such a mixture of emotions. Most of all, of course, the kind of happiness that makes your body feel like a prison, where you want to leap around like a new-born lamb. Where even the most trite of love songs take on profound meaning, and you think you might try your hand at poetry. However, spreading out across that, like a poisonous cloud growing ever bigger, ever darker, were my terrible feelings of guilt.

  What had I done? Dear God, what had I done? And more to the point, what was I going to do about it? I knew Frances was right, that this situation couldn’t be allowed to last for long, but equally, the thought of telling Juliana made me feel quite sick. How could I, knowing what I did about her, how fragile, how damaged, she was?

  And so, of course, I did, what everyone else seems to do in these situations, at least for a while, which was nothing. Or nothing other than to stand defenceless in the face of my guilt. And believe me, there didn’t seem to be a minute of the day when it wasn’t taking a swing at me. Worse still, despite never having been unfaithful to anyone in my life, I found myself committing all the usual clichés. One moment feeling so bad, I indulged in foolishly elaborate acts of kindness and concern towards Juliana - buying her little gifts, insisting on doing things she was quite happy to do herself - the next, getting so frustrated by the situation, by my apparent impotence, I became irrationally irritable.

  Naturally, Juliana noticed. How could she not? And again I found myself adopting well-worn excuses of the unfaithful by blaming it on work. The extra hours I was having to put in - that I would have to continue to put in - because of the ongoing absence of Charlie.

  Infidelity makes such liars of us all. It also searches out endless means for self-justification. In my case, it was my terrible sadness at losing Frances in the first place that had caused me to act in such uncustomary fashion, to embark upon an absurd relationship with an unknown woman. Which, to be fair, in many ways is true. And, of course, Frances should never have run away, nor Juliana pretended she was my former lover. I’m more than willing to shoulder the entire blame, but it is true that there were other factors. I’ll leave you to apportion the blame. All I know is, now that I’ve been reunited with Frances, now that I’ve seen how instantly and naturally we reignited what we once were, it feels as if, for anything other than us to be together would be wrong.

  And yet, if you’ve ever been in this situation - and I hope for your sake, you haven’t - you’ll know the transfer of feelings never runs that smoothly, that a total shift of allegiance is only achieved through seemingly endless changes of heart.

  So many nights I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering what the hell I was doing. Feeling such a bastard with Juliana sleeping peacefully beside me. An assassin who’d gained the complete trust of his victim and now found the hit almost embarrassingly easy.

  The only place we seemed to find each other now was at the bottom of a wine bottle, or whilst making love, and even that wasn’t guaranteed. Of course, I knew it was wrong. That I shouldn’t. But if I hadn’t, she would’ve demanded to know why, and I wasn’t ready for that conversation yet.

  To make matters worse, it wasn’t long before the same activity arose with Frances. One evening, after yet another snatched early drink, I took her home, and after a little kissing and fondling in the car, she got this look about her and invited me in. You didn’t have to be a genius to work out why. We didn’t hesitate through the hallway, nor on the stairs, both of us racing to be the first to the bedroom, tearing off our clothes on the way.

  I won’t compare them. It wouldn’t be right, and I couldn’t do it anyway. All I’ll say is that, just as Frances and I almost immediately fitted back together mentally at the Spanish bar, so we did physically in bed.

  However, when I returned home, I felt so guilty, so leaden and nauseous, I could’ve sworn I was about to die. The scent of Frances felt so strong upon me, it’s a wonder I wasn’t followed by a pack of dogs. I was dreading that first look from Juliana, what it would tell me, what it might accuse me of. It was one helluva relief to find that actually she wasn’t in, that she was out at the gym.

  I heaved a sigh of relief and went to grab myself a beer, only when I turned to head for the bathroom and a shower, noticing the letter on the kitchen table.

  Frowning, I picked it up. My name was hand-written across the front of the envelope, and as I tore it open, it went through my mind that perhaps she’d left me, and that maybe I should stop for a moment and see how I felt about that.

  Dear Simon,

  I don’t know why I’m saying this to you in a letter. Perhaps because once so much of our

  relationship was based around us writing to one

  another, because sometimes I miss those days. Or

  maybe because I find it easier?

  I have this terrible fear that something’s happening to

  us. That you’re no longer ‘walking with me every step

  of the way’. I know you say I just need to get a job,

  that I have too much time to think, but it feels like more

  than that. Please, if it’s my past, I swear to you, if I

  could erase it, if I could tear out every one of

  those memories, I would. But I can’t. As much as I love

  you, I can’t. Please, try to understand that.

  If something was to happen between us, I don’t think I

  could go on. All my future and faith are tied up with

  you. These are the things you gave back to me.

  Without them, there would be nothing, only emptiness.

  Please, whatever’s wrong, don’t stop loving me. I

  couldn’t bear it.

  My love forever,

  Juliana

  I can’t tell you how disturbing those words were, how badly they made me feel. I hated the situation, and I hated the person I’d become to survive it. I went and took a shower, setting the water temperature as hot as I could stand, staying in there for almost half-an-hour, emerging only when I heard the front door close.

  Slowly I dried and dressed myself, coming out to find Juliana in the kitchen.

  “Hi,” she said, rather apprehensively, obviously wondering what effect her letter had upon me.

  Immediately I went to take her in my arms. “I’m sorry.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  I smiled and shook my head helplessly. “For not deserving you,” I told her, for some reason feeling close to tears.

  She returned my embrace but not with the same amount of urgency. “Simon, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “I told you, I’ve just been tired.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes! Look, I’ll have a word at the office. Tell them I’m going to cut back on my work load.”

  “What about Charlie?”

  “They’ll manage. There are other people there besides me.”

  She stared at me with those beautiful blue crystal eyes. I held her to me, ran my fingers along her scars, probed inside to where she was so badly damaged, and in that moment, realised I just couldn’t do it.

  “How could I stop loving you?” I said, referring to her letter.

  “I don’t know,” she replied.

  “Well, I can’t. Even if I wanted to ... And I don’t.”

  That’s the trouble with not wanting to hurt anyone, more often than not, you hurt them more than if you hadn’t given a damn. I desperately needed to resolve the situation, yet simply wasn’t strong enough, and the more I hesitated, the more confused I became. Juliana’s letter really moved me. If you’d asked me then and there what I intended to do, I might well have said that, having made my bed, perhaps it was only right I should lay in it. Yet deep down I knew it wasn’t true, that come tomorrow, I’d be back to thinking about Frances again.

  Okay, so I’ve got a pretty good idea w
hat you’re thinking. Who the hell do I think I am, right? Mr Ordinary, Mr Poor Man’s Motoring Journalist, thick of gut, thin of hair, living off an overdraft, dallying over choosing between two truly out-of-this-world women. I mean, let’s face it, there’s no way I can lose. Not when either of them is far more than I deserve anyway. But the thing is, it doesn’t feel that that way to me. Is doesn’t feel that way at all. Somewhere at the back of my mind I have this idea that I could lose. That, in fact, I might end up losing everything.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  How long the situation would’ve gone on, I don’t know. What with Juliana becoming undeniably more suspicious, and Frances forever warning me that she wouldn’t play the role of the other woman for long. There was no doubt about who I wanted. It was Frances. But to get to her, I had to hurt Juliana, and I just couldn’t bear to do it.

  However, as so often happens when you start to vacillate, Fate loses patience and barges you aside, making things a helluva lot worse than you ever could have. Just as I’d feared, my brief period of ascendancy was about to come to an end, and the decision I was agonising over, that I foolishly imagined was mine and mine alone, was to be snatched from me.

  I know it sounds unbelievably adolescent for a man of my age, especially if you’ve never felt that way yourself, but there were times when I would’ve done anything to spend a few minutes with Frances. Just to check she still existed, to hold her in my arms and confirm that whatever was between us was still there. Night after night I would sit at home, unable to relax, to enjoy anything, because of this urge constantly tugging at me.

  One evening it got so bad, when Juliana slipped out for a few minutes to get some milk, I was on the phone almost before she’d closed the front door. I knew I was losing control, that I was starting to take chances, but I simply had to see Frances, and would’ve moved heaven, and risked hell, to do it.

  “Hello,” came that familiar voice.

  “I want to see you,” I said, not bothering with any niceties.

  “I can’t. I’ve got a friend here. I’m cooking for her.”

  “Just for a few minutes.”

  “Simon!”

  “Tell her you’ve forgotten something and have to pop out.”

  “No!”

  “Please! I have to see you! ... Ten minutes.”

  She hesitated for a moment, then sighed. “What time?”

  “Eight thirty? In the pub?”

  “It’s almost eight now!”

  I paused, knowing how unreasonable I was being and feeling that much worse because I knew she wouldn’t deny me. “I’m sorry.”

  “I must be crazy.”

  “We both are.”

  I put the phone down and went to grab my coat. As I was running down the stairs, Juliana entered the front door.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Luca’s managed to lose his keys. He can’t lock up the office.”

  She stared at me for several moments longer than I felt comfortable about. “When will you be back?”

  “Not long. We might have a quick drink. I think he’s a bit worried about Charlie again.”

  She nodded rather deliberately, still staring at me, but I hastily kissed her on the cheek and was soon out in the street leaping into this little Korean eco-micro I had out on test.

  I should’ve been more careful. I should’ve paid more attention to her mood, to her in general maybe. Yet in that moment all I cared about was that I was forty minutes away from Frances, and it was going to be a real effort to keep it down to that amount of time in the stupid little buzz-box I was driving.

  I arrived exactly, and ironically, ten minutes late. Frances was already sitting in our usual corner, both our drinks in front of her, a little irritated that I’d not only dragged her out, but now had the nerve to keep her waiting.

  “Sorry,” I said, sweeping her into a slightly reluctant embrace.

  She allowed herself to be held for a moment, then broke away, her irritation provoking a slightly aggressive response. “And where are we tonight?” she asked.

  I gave a somewhat impatient grunt. “At the office.”

  “Huh. Very original.”

  “Yes. Okay.

  “Simon!”

  “I know ... I know.”

  “You have to do something.”

  We rarely met now without this subject coming up. Sometimes we dwelt on it all evening, other times we’d just guiltily joke about it for a few minutes, but it was always there. She hated what we were doing, skulking around, setting restrictions on ourselves, and I guess I did, too. It was just that bit more raw for me because I was the only one who could change it.

  “Look, we’ve only got a little time,” I told her. “Please, let’s not waste it on this.”

  She gave a long and weary sigh, yet it was her final comment on the matter, and having cleared it away, we began to relax; the normally slow steady minute hand of my watch suddenly seeming to aspire to being a second hand sprinter, half an hour rushing by in a matter of moments.

  “Another drink?” I suggested.

  “Simon! I have to go!”

  “Five minutes. Go when you like. I promise.”

  She half-groaned, half-sighed, and I knew she’d stay. “Be quick.”

  I headed for the bar but then decided I needed to go to the toilet. I mean, bearing in mind the situation, what was happening, no one could’ve felt more at ease, more carefree, than I did. I was stealing a precious glimpse of the woman I loved, and just at that moment, nothing else mattered. I was even singing, joking with my reflection in the toilet mirror. Would it sound familiar if I said, ‘my guard was down’?

  A couple of minutes later I returned to the bar, pushing the door open, smiling across at Frances on my way to buy the drinks. Then suddenly I stopped. An icy cold wet sheet instantly wrapping itself about me ... What the hell was Frances doing, sitting there talking to Juliana?

  For a moment it went through my head to just run. To hope Juliana hadn’t seen me and slip away. However, she glanced in my direction, without managing to catch my eye, the way people do in those situations, and I knew I had no choice but to join them.

  Fifteen to twenty feet never felt so achingly far, so utterly insurmountable. I slumped down on the padded bench seat without saying a word, only after I’d done so realising I’d positioned myself closer to Frances, as if seeking out her protection.

  They stopped talking the moment I joined them. God knows what they’d been saying but it hadn’t looked comfortable. For a while the three of us just sat there. Silence had never felt so tangible, nor so hostile.

  Finally Juliana turned to me, glaring as if she despised me more than any creature that had ever lived on this earth. “You fucking bastard,” she said. “You fucking lying bastard.”

  To be honest, if she’d gone through every swear word in the English language, every foul permutation she could think of, I would’ve sat there and taken it. She was right. I was all those things and more. In fact, I was almost tempted to add a few of my own.

  “Shall I go?” Frances asked, but I didn’t answer.

  She went to get up to leave, taking my silence as confirmation that she should, but I didn’t want her to. “Frances!” I said, tugging her back down.

  Juliana’s mouth fell open in an almost cartoonish manner, her face freezing into this kind of horrific mask. “Oh shit!” she moaned.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, having no idea why I would utter such an inadequate response.

  For several truly gruesome moments she just sat there, anger and pain simultaneously erupting on her face, staring at Frances, as if to see what all the fuss had been about, who she’d been pretending to be for all those months.

  “Why didn’t you tell me she was black?” she eventually asked.

  I paused for a moment. “What difference did it make? Why didn’t I tell you she was shorter? Or older?”

  “She’s fucking black!” Juliana shouted, irrationally seizing on this point as if it was the core o
f my betrayal, and people started to turn round to see what was going on. “Did you think that was funny or something? A big joke?” she screamed, her accent suddenly seeming quite pronounced.

  “Juliana! Please!” I said, knowing I had no real hope of stopping this.

  There was another long pause, but, oh God, no peace, no peace at all. Just one look at the set of her face, the way she was breathing, how flushed she was becoming, told you that all that remained was to guess the length of the fuse.

  “Do you love her?” she asked.

  I paused yet knew there was only one answer to the question. “Yes.”

  “You fucking bastard!” she said again, only this time a lot louder, and now most of the people in the bar were looking our way.

  It happened so quickly that even though I’d been aware of the possibility, even though I’d been half-anticipating it, there was nothing I could do. She launched herself at me, swinging blows left and right, hitting me hard on the side of the head, stinging my ear. And as I struggled to get to my feet, she took the opportunity to kick me in the chest, slamming me up against the wall.

  I couldn’t believe it. Forget civilisation, the 21st Century, the New Man, I thought when it came down to it, I would be a lot stronger than her, but I was wrong. She was fitter, angrier, and I was in danger of taking a real beating.

  At first I just tried to parry her blows, to fend her off, so embarrassed at finding myself fighting with a woman in public I even tried to half-smile, as if no-one should take this seriously. However, another hard kick to the ribs told me I had no choice, that I had to actively defend myself here or accept some painful consequences.

  She whacked me once more, on the side of the mouth, and I tried to grab her arm but missed. Frances jumped up, shouting at Juliana to leave me alone, which only went to make me feel even more humiliated.

  Somehow I managed to become tangled up with her, to join in an ungainly wrestle, and in the midst of it, got her in a half-nelson. But she was so out of control, screaming, struggling, calling me the foulest things she could think of, that then I didn’t know what to do with her. I was left hanging on like some rodeo rider trying to stay in the saddle of a viciously bucking horse.