Belonging: Two hearts, two continents, one all-consuming passion. (Victoria in Love Book 1)

by Isabella Wiles

  ***

  We walk the ten minutes or so it takes to arrive at the entrance of the Grand Bazaar, a large indoor market in the centre of the oldest part of the city. A sprawling maze of long and twisting corridors, lined with stalls and shops selling their various wares. Luxurious silk carpets, Turkish slippers, spices, pottery, fragrances and every other imaginable trinket are all available for purchase and all housed under the one roof. As with much of the other traditional buildings we’ve been in since arriving in Istanbul, the floor is made of marble and the ornate ceiling is painted yellow and blue in a traditional Turkish style. The place is teeming with people, noise, colour and exotic smells. Mel and I can’t wait to take a slow walk around, immerse ourselves in the atmosphere and see if anything takes our fancy.

  “We need to find something really special for our illustrious shelf of tat,” I say.

  The illustrious shelf of tat is a joke shelf which we’ve filled up with cheap souvenirs from our respective travels. It started out as a joke between us, where we would buy each other rubbish souvenirs but now we’re sharing a house we’ve combined our respective collections. So the illustrious shelf of tat is now full of plastic Eiffel Towers, small stuffed donkeys wearing sombreros, imitation Loch Ness Monsters and the like. It’s just a bit of daft fun that Melanie and I have added to over the past fourteen months.

  We linger at various stalls and shops as we potter around taking in the atmosphere, deciding if we want to purchase any souvenirs, but it’s not long before we realise we’re beginning to attract a lot of attention. As much as we attempt to inconspicuously blend in with the mix of locals and tourists we soon notice that a number of young Turkish men are following us. I suppose it’s unusual to see two unaccompanied western women of our age wandering around town. Also, the fact we are Hijab-less would suggest we are not local (or at least not Muslim) and therefore we stand out sharply from the majority of local women.

  I’ve only experienced this type of staring and unusual attention once before in my life. It was two years ago on holiday with my family in Bali, when visiting a local Hindu temple. It wasn’t long before I had a crowd of people around me, all trying to touch my long blonde hair. Although it had taken me by surprise at the time, there was definitely a part of my ego which enjoyed the attention and that’s the same sensation I feel now. It feels strong and powerful to be in the focus of all this male attraction.

  It’s not long before Mel and I are chatting to a couple of blokes who we assume own the carpet shop from which I’ve just made a purchase.

  “You like to come out for dinner with us?” one of the guys asks. “My cousin owns this amazing restaurant. Traditional. You not find food like it anywhere else in Istanbul,” he says.

  Although we haven’t come to Istanbul to hook up with any guys per se, both Mel and I are single so there is no reason at all why we shouldn’t go out for dinner when asked.

  “Are you sure, Mel?” I ask quietly, while the two guys linger, waiting for us to make a decision. They look only a few years older than us and they seem sincere. Why shouldn’t we go out on the town, eat, drink and enjoy ourselves? As our experience of discovering the unexpected Hamam earlier in the day has shown us, amazing experiences are waiting to be discovered with the help of local guides.

  “Why not, Vicky? Come on let’s live a little.” Mel makes the decision on behalf of both of us. She turns back to the curly-haired guy who’s just asked the question and says,

  “Yes, we’d be delighted.”

  They give us the address and we agree to meet them later after we’ve taken our purchases back to the hotel, showered and freshened up ready for the evening ahead. At 7pm we turn up at the restaurant and immediately spot the guys waiting for us, standing next to a tree, looking down the street, presumably looking out for our taxi. The taller of the two is leaning casually back against the trunk, the sole of one foot bent up against the tree behind him. Both are smiling expectedly, seemingly happy to see us.

  “Ladies!” the darker haired one of the two exclaims as we walk down the tree-lined street towards them. “You came.”

  “Of course we came,” Mel says, air kissing them both as we arrive.

  Both men are devastatingly good looking. Ripped muscular bodies just visible from under silk shirts. Clearly related, we assume they are either brothers or possibly cousins. One is slightly taller and with dark straight hair slicked back, a few gelled strands falling softly round his face. The other has more naturally curly hair and looks to be younger of the two. Mr Tall Dark and Handsome reaches for my hand and kisses the back of it as I approach.

  “Guzelsin!” he says in Turkish, which I have no idea what it means, but judging by the twinkle in his eye I assume it’s a compliment.

  “Thank you,” I reply.

  As soon as we sit down the drinks begin to flow. I ask for vodka and coke. From experience I know if I stick to one spirit all evening I can hold my drink, whereas if I drink wine or mix my drinks, I’ll be absolutely legless by the end of the night and wake up with the hangover from hell tomorrow morning. The gentlemen pull out our seats for us as we join them at the table. The balmy evening air only cooled marginally by a light breeze, which makes the fairy lights in the trees twinkle above our heads.

  “This is going to be a good night,” I lean forward, whispering to Mel who is sitting opposite me.

  The men are absolutely charming, and they order dinner on our behalf. Before long the table is covered with a variety of meze dishes which we tuck into with gusto, tempting our taste buds with all the different flavours and spices. Everything tastes delicious, even to our western palates.

  “There is no way we would have found this on our own,” Mel says to me back across the table. The gentlemen ask us about our lives in England, how we’ve ended up in Istanbul and what we’ve been up to since we’ve arrived. We tell them about the Hamam that morning, our purchases from the Bazaar and the other things we’ve done. They tell us more places we have to see, or things we must do tomorrow before we leave.

  “Perhaps we show you?” the curly-haired one says, patting Melanie’s hand looking into her eyes as he speaks.

  Neither of them has been to the UK, although they have friends and relatives who’ve emigrated to London. Mostly, they tell us, to open restaurants. As the conversation continues, they try to teach us some basic phrases in Turkish that Mel and I attempt without much success, dissolving into fits of giggles as the alcohol begins to take effect. At no point am I aware of our drinks being topped up, but our glasses are never empty all evening.

  At some point a Turkish Rakassa dancer appears in the restaurant. Long, dark hair flowing down her back, hips swaying, jangling the coins and beads that hang off the bottom of her bra and her hip scarf. We all cheer and encourage her as she twirls her arms in the traditional Romany movements. I have no idea whether she is here for our benefit or whether this is a routine she performs every night, but I feel very lucky to be here in this exact moment experiencing this, even if I’m beginning to feel more than a bit woozy as more alcohol is poured. She climbs up onto our now cleared table to dance directly in front of us, ending her routine with the famous traditional Turkish backbend where she first kneels up before rolling her shoulders back, arms twisting in front of her, as she continues to lean back, until her shoulders reach the floor behind her. It’s a move I’ve attempted unsuccessfully in many a yoga class, yet she completes it with ease, her back now flat on the floor, her legs wrapped either side of her of her body.

  At some point during the meal, Mr Tall, Dark and Handsome has draped his arm over the back of my shoulders and is gently stroking the nape of my neck with his thumb, while Mr Curly-Haired has done the same with Mel. Neither of us do anything to remove them; if anything, it feels rather nice to have the attention of such charming, good looking guys.

  The meal over, somehow the bill is paid. Neither Mel nor I are asked to contribute, nor do we see either of the men ask for or be given the bill. This co
uld be because we’re having such a good time, or could it be something else? I’m feeling very, very drunk now and I need Mr Tall, Dark and Handsome to hold me upright as we stand up to leave. The guys hail a cab and we willingly step inside, no idea where we’re planning to go next.

  I must have fallen asleep leaning against his shoulder on the back seat of the car as the next thing I’m aware of is half-walking, half-being-carried up some stairs and through a door. Could this be a hotel room, or an apartment, or even the entrance to an exclusive club? I have no idea. My brain is so foggy I can’t make sense of what is going on around me. I’m aware Mel is in a bad state as well, but that she’s still there behind me being half-carried by Mr Curly-Haired. Once through the door we’re instantly plunged into darkness and I struggle to make out any of the shapes inside. I flop onto what feels like a couch or it could be a bed, I can’t be sure. All I want to do is go to sleep, I feel so tired and drunk. Amazingly I don’t feel sick. In the past if I’ve ever been this inebriated before I’d have thrown up by now, my body instinctively rejecting the overload of alcohol, but everything just feels foggy and I’m struggling to stay awake.

  “Please may I have a glass of water,” I ask Mr Tall, Dark and Handsome as I desperately try to clear the fuzziness in my head.

  “Of course. I get it for you now,” he replies as he disappears momentarily. I can’t see Mel, where is she? She must be in another room. He returns with the glass of water, which I take from him, taking a sip. It tastes funny. It must be the minerals in the water here. I know that the water in the South of England tastes very different from the water in the North, which is all to do with the mineral content, so I assume this must be the explanation.

  “Thank you,” I slur my words of thanks. My brain struggling to stay conscious. Every blink of my eyelids feels heavier and heavier, as if being pulled down by weights attached to my eyelashes.

  He takes the glass from my hand, placing it on the floor next to him, before he turns and smiles at me, but not the nice warm smile he’s given me all evening. This smile has turned into a leching smirk, and instantly I sense danger.

  His next move is so fast I have no time to react, he is on top of me before my brain is able to catch up. He’s lurched forward, his full weight pinning me down as he licks the side of my face.

  “What are you doing?” I scream, totally taken by surprise, all his earlier chivalry having evaporated instantly. He has his left arm across my windpipe as he holds my shoulders down, my arms flaying, trying to push him off me. His right hand reaches up my skirt, hooking one finger into the gusset of my knickers. He yanks sharply, ripping them instantly and pulling the remnants of fabric away from my body.

  “No, No, Noooooo!” I scream again, the adrenaline that suddenly shoots through my body clearing the fuzziness in my brain just enough for me to comprehend what is actually happening. This is not the first time I’ve ended up in an unsafe situation like this where a man has been able to force himself on me.

  Suddenly all the long-buried memories of that night at college come flooding back. How charming he’d been in the early part of the evening, buying me drinks, holding out my chair, laughing at everything I’d said. I had thought he was genuinely interested in me, that this could be the beginning of a new relationship, that he could be The One. Our flirting appeared mutual. In every way he’d appeared the perfect gentleman - until he’d got me alone, that is. That’s when he locked the door to my bedroom in our halls of residence, hiding the key from me and wouldn’t let me go. Despite all my protests and pleading he wouldn’t stop until he’d got what he wanted, raping me over and over until he’d had his fill, discarding me instantly as soon as he was spent, and I was of no further use to him.

  For weeks and months afterwards, no matter how much I washed myself, I never felt clean. I would sit for hours in the bath scrubbing myself until my skin bled. I told no one. What would be the point? Who would I have told? Who would have believed me? Everyone had seen us together earlier in the evening, drinking and laughing, so it would have been his word against mine. Mostly though, I was angry with myself. How could I have been so naive to think that he would want me for anything more than sex.

  My mind sharpens back to the here and now, my body flooded with adrenaline, my fight or flight instinct heightened. How could I have been so naive - again? How could I have let myself get into such a dangerous situation - again? Fuelled by fury, the anger and fear coursing through my veins sharpening my still fuzzy senses just enough for me to muster all of my strength. I struggle to breathe, his forearm pressing down hard on my neck, as other hand begins to loosen his belt. Despite this I lie flat for just a moment and stop struggling, seemingly giving him the impression I’ve surrendered. It’s just long enough for him to relax slightly and give me enough space to knee him in the balls as hard as I absolutely can.

  “GET OFF ME!” I scream at him, my voice sounding possessed.

  “Siktir! You bitch!” he shouts as he rolls off me and onto the floor, clasping his crotch. I know I have only a few seconds to get out of there before he’ll come after me. I pull my skirt back down, grab my bag, and even though I still feel unsteady on my legs I run around the apartment shouting for Mel.

  “Mel. Me-lan-ie. Where are you?” I push through the only other door I’ve noticed, which turns out to be a bedroom and in the dim light I’m shocked to see Mel bent over, face down, over a dressing table, almost unconscious. Mr Curly-Haired is holding her down, one hand firmly placed in the centre of her shoulder blades, her dress pulled up over her back, her bare bottom exposed, her knickers long gone and judging by the scene in front of me - he is just about to enter her.

  “DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE!” I scream at the top of my voice, causing him to turn around in complete surprise. The sound of my scream seems to jolt Mel back from the brink of unconsciousness as her eyes fleetingly focus first on me and then on the situation. She clenches her hand into a fist and with one hand over the over, she thrusts her elbow back - hard, directly into Mr Curly-Haired’s chest, winding him and knocking him backwards away from her. Off balance and shocked by Mel’s blow he stumbles back a few more steps. I run up to him, put my hands on his shoulders, pulling him down as I knee him in the crotch as hard as I possibly can. He falls to his knees, shouting something in Turkish, hugging his exposed genitalia. With one hand I grab Mel’s bag that is lying beside her and with my other I grab her. Without another word we flee out of the apartment, down the stairs and out into the darkness.

  We have no idea where we are, or how we will get back to our hotel, both of us having blacked out during the taxi ride from the restaurant. We can see we’re in a residential area. A modern estate filled by high-rise apartments, and seemingly surrounded by darkness, the lights of Istanbul nowhere to be seen. Still running away from the building we’ve just come out of, we daren’t look behind for fear of seeing them chasing after us. We turn a corner and spot a yellow ray of hope. A yellow cab is parked up, his light showing he’s available for hire. He must have just dropped off a fare. Either that, or it was the same taxi who brought us here and he has been asked to wait, or has chosen to hang around, perhaps aware of what was about to happen to two half-conscious western girls who were being transported away from the centre of town by two local guys. We don’t care or ask and instead jump inside, giving him our hotel details and he speeds off into the night, taking us back to safety.

  The next morning, both our heads are pounding and not just from the effects of alcohol. It’s clear we’d been drugged. With what? We have no idea but there’s no way our judgement would have been so impaired if we’d only been drinking alcohol. We both know our limits and even if one of us had become inebriated, as has happened in the past, the other would have taken charge. We would never have allowed the other to get into such a dangerous situation.

  “Flipping heck, Vicky. We dodged a bullet there,” Mel says, a cool wet towel draped across her pounding forehead.

  “No shit. You
don’t have to tell me,” I reply, still badly shaken by the events of the previous evening. I’m tempted to tell her about my previous experience, to share the equally hideous episode from my past, but what good would it serve? If anything, it would highlight just how stupid we’d both been, especially when I should have known better.

  “Well Istanbul has been nothing if not eventful,” Mel says raising her eyebrows at me as we lie on our separate beds facing each other.

  “I don’t think I’ll forget this weekend for a very, very long time.” I reach across the void between our beds, grabbing Mel’s hand. United in our shared experience we smile weakly at each other, both of us appreciating the gravitas of what might have been. It doesn’t bear thinking about.

  Still badly shaken, and with jackhammers drilling inside our heads, we stay in our darkened hotel room for the rest of the day, grabbing a cab back to the airport in the early evening to catch our flight home. Looking out of the window as the plane climbs up through the clouds, I try and make sense of what has just happened. How can my judgement of the opposite sex be so poor? Why is it that I seem to attract the worst possible men? Men who either want to take advantage, men who want a mother, or men who don’t return my affections. How hard can it be to find a man who will actually want me for me, who doesn’t just want me because I’m an available vagina?

  Chapter 6

  Victoria

  Melanie is like a cat on a hot tin roof this morning. Whilst making her breakfast she’s just put the bread in the fridge and the milk in the breadbin.

  “You OK?” I ask, my eyebrows raised as she flits about the kitchen.

  “Yup,” she replies, “just excited that’s all.”

  Today is the day she’s expecting her little brother, Chris, to arrive. They haven’t seen each other in what seems like quite an age, so naturally she’s excited.

  As an only child, I can only imagine what it must be like to have grown up in a large family like Mel’s. Lots of noise and chaos, I presume. Growing up, my childhood was very different. I had friends, obviously, but also lots of solitude. I suppose that’s why I used to enjoy spending time at the homes of my friends’ families when I was younger. It was nice to feel part of the chaos for a short while, but it was also nice to come home to the peace, quiet and sanctuary of my own room, where no one had been rifling through my stuff, borrowing my clothes without my permission, or screaming at me, “Why is there one of your hairs on my hairbrush? This proves you’ve been in my room without my permission,” or other similar irrational sibling outbursts.