Fool Me Twice

by Lilliana Anderson

“This guy never leaves any prints, so it’d help if we could get a DNA sample to see if he’s in the system.”

  I nodded my understanding then watched the bathroom door to see if they found anything. The officer stepped out and shook his head.

  “It was worth a try.” The senior constable looked at his notebook then sighed. “You said you were sober-ish. Do you remember much about him?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you think you could sit down with a sketch artist? We have a very vague description so far. He tends to choose women who’ve had a bit too much to drink, so their memory is always hazy. They report getting home and offering him a drink, then passing out shortly after. It seems he’s changed his MO with you.”

  “Because he slept with me? Maybe he was just randy last night,” I offered, laughing a little even though there wasn’t anything funny about the situation. At least he didn’t steal my sense of humour.

  “Your detailed description of him could really help our investigation.”

  “Of course.” I could recall every inch of that man in vivid detail. My cheeks heated as I thought of the most prominent part of his body. I wasn’t going to have to describe that too, was I?

  We organised a tentative time for me to go to the station and work with a sketch artist, and I gave him Alesha’s number since I no longer had a phone of my own.

  With a set of keys to my apartment in the thief’s possession, I felt it best to stay at Alesha’s until I got the locks changed. Once there, the rest of the day was spent cancelling my credit cards and phone, dealing with my insurance company and organising a locksmith. There was so much work involved, so much that needed replacing. If I ever decided to take a man home on the first night again, I hoped someone would slap me in the face to knock some sense into me. There was a reason a lot of girls had a three-date rule.

  Alesha set a glass tumbler on the table next to me with orange juice in it. “It’s laced with vodka. I thought you could use it.” I’d set myself up at her kitchen table with her laptop and phone so I could work through my to-do list while periodically groaning into my hands.

  “Thank you,” I said appreciatively, gulping at the cool alcoholic beverage and closing my eyes. “I just can’t get over it, Leesh. He was… amazing. He said all the right things, did things to my body I never imagined liking. He made me feel special, wanted. But it turned out that all he really wanted was to clean me out.” Draining the glass, I set it back on the table. “They completely maxed out my credit cards. There’s a freeze on my line of credit now, but still, there could be some woman out there already pretending to be me. I hate that I was so easily duped.” I was trying so hard not to cry about it.

  She pulled out the chair beside me and sat down, placing her hand in the centre of my back. “He was very convincing, Holland. It could’ve happened to any one of us.”

  “But I should’ve known, right? I mean, you saw him. As if a guy like that would ever be truly interested in me.”

  “Don’t sell yourself so short. You’re amazing. Anyone who gets to know you for more than five minutes knows that.”

  “That’s what he said in his stupid note,” I scoffed, shaking my head and sniffing, my eyes burning with unshed tears.

  “He left you a note?” I nodded. “Why didn’t you show the police?”

  “Because I flushed it. I was annoyed that he gave me the brush-off in a letter. I hadn’t even seen the empty apartment yet.”

  “What did it say?”

  “It said that he was sorry, I was amazing, and he wished things were different but this was just what he did. I took it that he regularly fucked women and then left during the night. I didn’t realise he meant that he stole everything they owned.”

  “Do you think he felt bad about what he did to you?”

  “What? Who cares. He still did it.”

  “Yeah, but he slept with you first. The officer said he didn’t do that normally.”

  “Don’t romanticise this, Leesh. Maybe the other women were just keeping it a secret?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Either way, what difference does it make? Am I to be so grateful for the awesome sex that I view his taking my stuff as payment for services rendered?”

  “I don’t know, was he that good?” Her eyes shone and her mouth twitched on one side. It was never too soon to make a joke about something in Alesha’s world.

  “Worth the entire contents of my house?” I closed my eyes and thought about how amazing having him inside me had felt, the way my body had shattered from his touch. “Hmm, if he’d just taken my car… yeah. But I think I’d need a bit more from him to make what he took fair payment.”

  “Still, being worth your car, he must’ve had a golden cock.”

  “Not golden. Just huge.”

  “How huge?”

  “Crazy huge.” I showed her with my hands and watched her eyes widen.

  “Wow. What was it like?”

  “Better than I could’ve imagined. But the memory is just so tainted now.”

  “He seemed so genuine,” she mused, pulling a grape out of the fruit bowl in the middle of the table and popping it into her mouth. “What if it wasn’t him? What if he left, and then someone came in and robbed you?”

  I shook my head. “That doesn’t make any sense. Besides, you heard the officer. This isn’t the first time it’s happened. Robbing desperate women is obviously how he makes a living.”

  “You are not desperate.”

  “Aren’t I?” I locked eyes with her, daring her to object. We both knew my romantic history. I’d had exactly two boyfriends in my thirty-two years: one while I was at uni that lasted less than six months, and one a few years ago when I’d had some weird on-again off-again relationship with a parent of one of my students that ended rather badly. Apart from that, I’d had a handful of sexual partners that lasted anywhere from one night to a couple of months. Primarily, I was single. Painfully single, and longing.

  “Are you really going to try and find him?”

  “Yes. I need that hairpin back.”

  “Is that the only reason?”

  I stared at her for a long time, annoyed that she was suggesting I could have any other motive. “Of course it is.”

  “Can’t you let the police do their job? I don’t think this is a good idea. We don’t know if he’s dangerous or not.”

  “The police?” I scoffed. “Considering they’ve known about him for a while and they haven’t caught him yet, I’m not holding my breath.”

  “Maybe they’ll do better with your description of him?”

  “And maybe Brad Pitt broke it off with Angelina because he realised he was meant for me. Honestly, Alesha, I don’t think they’re looking hard enough. You heard the way that officer spoke to me. He made a point of telling me that he preyed on ‘lonely’ women. He was mocking me. They probably think we get what we deserve for being so gullible.”

  “He wasn’t mocking you, Holland. He was just stating the facts.”

  “Then maybe they’re not looking hard enough. The man is huge. Surely he can’t be too hard to find.”

  She sat back in her chair and folded her arms across her chest. “Fine. Let’s say you find him. Then what are you going to do?”

  “I’ll kick him in that big dick of his, then demand he give me the hairpin back while squeezing his balls so hard he cries like a baby.” I mimed the motion with my hands, imagining him falling to the ground in pain and promising to do anything I wanted to make me stop. He wouldn’t be rocking anyone’s world for a long time once I was done with him.

  “And how are you going to get close enough to do that? He could see you and run, or he could overpower you, hurt you. You’re not thinking this through.”

  Turning my lips downward, I folded my arms and shrugged. “I could do it.”

  “Holland, I’m being serious.”

  “So am I. I could do it.”

  Pressing her lips togethe
r, she released a heavy sigh. “Just consider letting the cops do their job, OK? I don’t want to lose my best friend because she went all Veronica Mars on me.”

  “Hey, Ronnie is my girl. She always comes through. And she’s a teenager. I’m a grown woman. I’ve totally got this.” My best friend needed to have more confidence in me.

  Chapter Five

  Comfort Food and Family

  “You look tired today, miss,” one of my year ten students, Emma, pointed out during fourth period. We were rehearsing scenes from A Streetcar Named Desire, and I wasn’t showing my usual enthusiasm for my work. Honestly, I didn’t have a lot of enthusiasm for anything lately.

  After three months, I still hadn’t found Ben or my mother’s hairpin. I spent my nights visiting bars and nightclubs in Melbourne City and the surrounding suburbs, leaving no stone unturned. Not once did I lay eyes on a tall, dark and deliciously handsome man trying to take advantage of lonely women—I wished I could get that term out of my mind. The need to hunt him down possessed me, made me restless and agitated. Even singing had lost its lustre; every time I got on stage at a wedding, I felt more like pulling an Adam Sandler and singing about how life sucked instead of the love-soaked ballads the bride and groom had picked. I literally could not stop looking for him everywhere I went.

  Every day that ticked by was another drop of disappointment in an already overflowing bucket. I’d even lost my appetite and dropped two dress sizes from not eating. Seemed the handsome thieving bastard of a man had also stolen my love of food. What kind of sick monster did that?

  “I’m sorry, girls. I just didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.” I sighed, dropping down in my chair and closing the play book.

  “Maybe some fresh air would do you good. We could rehearse outside,” another girl suggested.

  I smiled and stood up again. “You know, I think that’s an excellent idea. We can do the final scene at the tables in the senior area.”

  As the girls all filed out the door, my mind returned to my troubles. My insurance company had paid out and I’d replaced my car, my furniture and most other things I’d owned before, but there were so many times that I went to look for something as simple as a book I owned before realising it wasn’t there anymore. It sucked. It made me angry. Made me sad. Hurt.

  Why couldn’t I find him? It wasn’t like he was a forgettable character. I’d even started taking the police sketch around, asking people if they’d ever seen him. The response I got to the sketch was mixed; some people said no and others looked at me like I was crazy and laughed. Weird. But the question remained—how did a man so large manage to remain so hidden?

  I was tired. I was cranky. And I was beginning to lose hope. But I kept going, searching for him in every crowd. Stupidly—and embarrassingly—my unconscious mind couldn’t separate my obsession with finding him to get back my mother’s hairpin and the reason my vagina wanted to find him. I’d woken in a panting ball of sweat more times than I cared to admit. Honestly, the fact that he was the best sexual experience I’d ever had really messed with my head. Lust mixed with anger and sorrow—it was a terrible combination.

  I wanted to hate him, but I also wanted him. A desperate, lonely woman. That’s why he’d preyed on me, right?

  “This final scene really is the most important of the play,” I explained to my students as they gathered around the wooden tables outside. “Blanche’s behaviour reflects the way being raped by Stanley has scarred her. Think about her earlier scenes in which she performs for Stanley’s friends, seeking their attentions. But now she’s hiding and hoping they don’t notice her. She’s broken, crazy. Her tenuous grip on reality is long gone, and she spends most of the scene in the bath, preparing for an imaginary meeting with Shep Huntleigh when in fact, she’s getting carted off to a mental hospital because her sister would rather believe she’s crazy than believe her husband was capable of rape.”

  I paced back and forth in front of them, the script open in my hand as I stared at the words and stage directions I’d looked at so many times before. The crimes committed against us were different, but I couldn’t help feeling an affinity with Blanche Dubois. I was struggling with my own grip on reality after having my illusions torn apart by a man. It was our trusting nature that did us in, our belief that the faces people showed us were honourable and true.

  I stopped moving and stood in front of my students, who were surprisingly staring on in rapt attention. “It’s the culmination of everything these people have gone through, filled with tension, grief and guilt. I want you all to keep that in mind while we work on this scene, feel it as you deliver your lines, remember it as you interact with the other characters.” Placing my hands on my hips, I surveyed the area, deciding how to set the stage. “I want Blanche over there.” I pointed to the last table in a block of four. “Stella and Eunice sit here.” I pointed to the closest table. “And the poker players sit back there with Mitch and Stanley. We’ll keep the doctor and nurse waiting in the wings.” I pointed to a patch of grass. “Everyone else sit on the benches and follow along.”

  As we worked through the scene, my chest grew tight and my blood pumped faster through my veins. Why did men think they could treat women any way they wanted? What gave them the right to take from us without guilt, as if they were literally owed something just for being born? What Ben had done to me shattered my trust in my own judgement. I’d believed him when he’d called me beautiful, was elated when he’d hinted at something more. But it was all a lie, a scam designed to trick me just long enough to clean me out. It made me look stupid, made me feel naïve. More than that, it felt so damn unfair. What kind of a person did that to another? I would never be able to trust a man’s interest in me again. Especially if that man was even remotely attractive. I’d always be questioning his motives and expecting the worst. I would never be fooled by a handsome face again.

  Emily, who was playing Blanche, paused dramatically, ready to deliver her final line, and I held my breath, wrapping my arms around my middle as I waited for it.

  “Whoever you are, I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.”

  I closed my eyes and nodded. You and me both, Blanche. You and me both.

  And it made fools out of both of us.

  “You look like absolute shit,” Aunt Maya said when I turned up on her doorstep after work that night. She was already wearing her pink dressing gown, pantyhose still on her legs but slippers on her feet. Her brown hair was in a neat French roll, and her make-up was almost perfect despite it being the end of the day. She worked as a corporate secretary in the city and couldn’t stand wearing her business wear for a moment longer than was necessary. It was my strongest memory of her growing up, looking exactly like this every night. And since I couldn’t face another night searching pubs and clubs, finding her this way was a sight for my sore eyes. I needed comfort food and family.

  “I feel like shit,” I sulked, falling into her warm embrace, inhaling her familiar scent—Coco Chanel, her favourite. She’d been with me for every moment since my parents’ passing, held my hand through the good and bad, dealt with my teenage drama and listened to my adult woes. She was my everything.

  “How about I whip up a batch of my mac and cheese? That always cheers you up.”

  Pouting, I nodded. She made the best mac and cheese, with four different types of cheese, full cream and crispy bacon. It was pure comfort in a bowl. If anything could bring back my love of food, it was Aunt Maya’s cooking.

  With an easy smile, she gave my shoulder a squeeze and moved aside so I could follow her into the house.

  “Want to tell me what’s got you so down?” she asked, pulling out pots while I grabbed ingredients from the fridge and pantry.

  “It’s just the search for Mum’s hairpin. It’s not turning up anywhere, and I can’t seem to find the guy who took it.” I set everything on the kitchen counter while she filled a pot with water and set it on the stove.

  “I still think it’s a te
rrible idea for you to go looking for him. What if he’s dangerous?” Aunt Maya had made it abundantly clear how crazy she thought my idea was when I first told her about the robbery. But she also knew how stubborn I was, so there wasn’t much she could do to stop me. She’d learned years before to support my choices whether she liked them or not, knowing I’d just do it anyway. But if she rallied against it, I’d do it and not tell her about it. Supporting me was safer.

  “You sound like Alesha. But I really don’t think he’s dangerous. Of all the things he could’ve done to me, he chose to rock my world and then send me to sleep. He’s not vicious, he’s just a thief.”

  “Still, I don’t like the idea of you traipsing around town looking for him. Anything could happen to you going to all those random clubs. I really wish you’d just leave it alone and let the police find him.”

  Taking a seat on the other side of her bench, I rested my chin on my hands. “Pfft. How hard can it possibly be to find a six-foot-six man with bulging muscles? It’s not like he can hide in a crowd.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe you’re all looking in the wrong place. You said he’s muscular. Maybe he’s hiding in a gym.”

  “A gym?” Oh my God. It was the light-bulb moment I needed.

  Nodding, she handed me the block of cheddar and a grater. “He has to get those muscles from somewhere, and if the police sketch has been on TV, he might be lying low for a while—although, based on that sketch, Hugh Jackman should also lie low.”

  “That sketch does not look like Hugh Jackman.”

  “Yes it does, sweetheart.”

  “It does?” She nodded. “Well, I guess that explains why people kept laughing and looking at me funny whenever I showed them.” I did compare his looks to Jackman’s several times during the sketch artist interview.

  “You know, he probably doesn’t even live around here,” she said after she’d finished chopping up the bacon. The pan sizzled noisily when she dropped a handful in.

  He doesn’t live around here. Why didn’t I think of that?