26. The Submissive One
TWENTY-SIX
The Submissive One
Tuesday, 10 September, 11.30pm
Another day. Another message. Another date arranged. It’s not worth writing about him until I meet him. I’ll decide then if the date deserves a detailed description.
Wednesday, 11 September, 11.30pm
Had a sad call from my client Daniel. I met him when he’d just moved into a house with his fiancée, Maria, and wanted me to arrange a surprise for their return from honeymoon – a backlit white onyx wall behind the bath, etched with their initials. Corny but sweet. Now they’re divorced, and his new girlfriend wants it removed. You never know how relationships will pan out. I keep thinking, I could meet someone, fall in love and live happily ever after. The glass-half-full in me believes that. But of course, that’s not real life.
Thursday, 12 September, 11.30pm
It was a mad date. I won’t be seeing him again – for reasons that will become obvious in the poem – but it did make me giggle afterwards. For all the wrong reasons. I might be practising openness and want to experience new things, but there’s a limit to what I’ll be open to when it’s presented to me in the first five minutes of a date.
You look like a pretty regular guy
But that impression is certainly awry
How sweet, you brought me a gift
I wasn’t expecting one so swift
Maybe it’s chocolate or perfume
I open it and you say ‘vroom, vroom’
The shock makes my chin drop
And my eyes involuntarily pop
Where did you buy these beauts?
It certainly wasn’t in Boots
It’s a gift of handcuffs covered in fur
I don’t know what to say, er…
There’s more – a black satin eye mask
To keep you in the dark during the task
You lean over and whisperingly quip
‘Back at my flat I also have a whip’
I swiftly drink my Colombian blend
This date is definitely at an end
‘I have to go,’ I say, ‘it’s half past six.’
‘Keep the gifts, hope you find your dominatrix.’
Friday, 13 September, 11.30pm
Went dancing at Bar Baile with Izzy tonight. A properly hot guy – I’d guess in his forties – chatted me up. Somehow, we got talking about the gender orgasm gap, and he told me that he is an expert at giving orgasms, and did I want him to prove it? Yes please.
Saturday, 14 September, 8.30am
Waiting for Grace to pick me up for our spa day. Really looking forward to a girly day of pampering. I expect to come out rejuvenated and ready to vroom, vroom.
Sunday, 15 September, 7.30pm
The spa hotel was beautiful with acres of neatly landscaped grounds, a cosy restaurant, and an amazing outdoor pool – thank you to the weather gods for arranging the hot sunny day. Over brunch, we checked out the pamper menu and planned our day. I wanted to relax in the sun by the pool for a bit while Grace had her facial.
‘Interesting bikini,’ Grace said.
‘Isn’t it? Bandage bikinis are so in. Do you like the colour?’ I asked, inspecting myself in the mirror.
‘Lime green wouldn’t be my choice, but it looks good on you,’ she said. The twenty-something me would have fussed about non-existent excess flesh hanging over the straps, and Mum would have certainly had something to say about it. But now, I don’t care. It’s liberating. Mostly.
At the pool, there was just one guy doing laps. As I settled on my sun lounger, he swam towards me and said hello. We chatted and flirted for a while. A bonus I wasn’t expecting. Though I did think it would have to stop as soon as Grace came out. I couldn’t risk a repetition of the hospital bathroom incident. The day was for me and her to enjoy on our own.
I swam for a few laps, then he came over again and we were talking as we stood in the shallow end. There were a few other people there now and a couple of children diving in and out of the pool. I noticed he kept looking down at my body surreptitiously. It was lovely to be appreciated at first, but I started to feel uncomfortable as he kept staring for a second then looking away.
‘I hate to tell you this, but your bikini…’ he said, nodding at my body. I looked down and was horrified to see it was completely see-through and the strips of Lycra were not quite where they were supposed to be. On this occasion, I wished I didn’t belong to the ‘full bush’ school of aesthetics. It was like I had a black poodle trying to escape out of my bikini bottoms, and my nipples were out and proud.
‘Oh my God!’ I shrieked and doggy-paddled to the edge of the pool. I hauled myself up and got out, only for the bra to get dragged down by water collected in the cups, revealing way too much boob. I stood on the side of the pool for a second trying to cover my modesty with my hands and ran over to my sun lounger. The rest of the day is a complete blank and I only know what happened from what Grace and Ace have told me.
Apparently in my hurry to get to my towel, I tripped over a discarded flip-flop and hit my head on the edge of a bench as I fell. I was knocked unconscious, and they had to call an ambulance. Grace had run out of her rudely interrupted pamper session, her face covered in green algae, and screaming, ‘oh my God, oh my God, the blood,’ as she hopped in circles in hysterics.
They checked me out at the hospital, said I was OK but had a concussion and should stay overnight for observation. Grace called Leila and couldn’t get hold of her, but she got through to Ace, who came and took over from her as Ajay was going away and she had to go home to the kids. Thank God she didn’t call my parents. She knew I wouldn’t have wanted to worry them.
Now I’m writing this, I wish I’d been conscious to see Algae Woman freaking out over Full-Bush Woman and her poodle.
Monday, 16 September, 3.00pm
Feeling better today, but what a weekend. Our pamper day certainly wasn’t relaxing, especially for poor Grace having to deal with my accident. She’s always in control and I can’t believe she fell to pieces. I think after what she’s been through, her tolerance threshold is low.
Ace stayed last night to make sure I was OK. Apparently, I drove him and Grace mad at the hospital with my short-term memory loss.
‘Why am I in hospital? What happened?’ I’d ask, touching my bandaged head.
‘You fell and bashed your head, but you’re OK,’ they’d reassure me.
Then a few minutes later, ‘What’s happened? Why do I have a bandage on my head?’
‘You slipped and knocked yourself out.’
‘Did I? Are they going to operate?’
‘No, you’ll be fine. They’re keeping you in for observation.’
A few minutes later, ‘Why am I in a hospital bed?’
And so on and so on.
8.00pm
Leila came round earlier. She’d been on a weekend retreat and hadn’t turned on her phone till earlier today. Ace let her in.
‘About time,’ he growled at her before he left us to talk.
She stood at my bedroom door, looked at my bruises and started crying. She came over and gave me a hug, but I didn’t hug back, so she sat at the end of the bed.
‘How are you feeling, honey?’ I didn’t reply but carried on staring at the mascara stain on my white duvet cover. ‘When I listened to the frantic messages from Grace, and the thought of losing you…’ she trailed off. ‘I came as soon as I heard.’
I glanced up at her, then went back to the stain.
‘I’ve missed you so much. I’m so sorry. I’ve been a bitch,’ she said.
I locked eyes with her and said, ‘I won’t argue with that. I don’t know how you could do that to me. Like fifty years of friendship count for nothing.’
‘I’m truly sorry.’
‘We’ve never once let men come between us,’ I reminded her.
‘I’m so stupid. I knew you wouldn’t have made a move on Jude. Ever. I know he’s not faithful. But I don’t want to lose him.’
‘You knew he was unfaithful? And you still chose to believe him?’ I was right. She’d known all along but has been pretending it was all my fault.
‘I’m pathetic, I know. You’re so strong, but I’m not. I know you were looking out for me. You always have. I’ve been vile. So shabby and cruel. Please forgive me.’
‘I’ve been miserable, and I needed you in Valencia. You abandoned me,’ I said, my eyes dribbling.
‘I know, honey. I’m so sorry. If it’s any consolation, I’ve been miserable too. There’s no one else I can giggle with the way I do with you. You know I love you, don’t you?’ She came over and hugged me hard.
‘Ouch, mind my bruises.’
‘Sorry. Will you forgive me? You can’t stay mad at your bestie forever. Will I make you a cup of tea? Go on, go on, go on, go on, go on,’ she said, in an Irish accent mimicking Mrs Doyle.
We laughed, our cheeks still wet with tears, and I gave her all the gory details of my fall. She said she couldn’t bear it if anything had happened to me. She asked me to forgive her again.
‘OK, OK. I suppose you’ve grovelled enough. I forgive you. You’re here now and I didn’t die.’
I asked her about Jude.
‘I’ve been acting like nothing happened, but I don’t know how much longer I can pretend. I can’t decide what to do,’ she said. ‘I’ve missed your wise advice.’
‘What’s more important? Keeping him despite his infidelities or letting him go because he’s making you unhappy? That’s the choice,’ I said. She nodded.
‘And … sorry about your Versace top,’ I said. We burst into laughter.
P.S. Just had a flashback of coming round after my fall. I opened my eyes and saw Grace, The Algae Woman, leaning over me and I screamed.
Tuesday, 17 September, 10.30am
Starting to feel human again. Ace has been wonderful at looking after me. He keeps me hydrated, bustles about the kitchen making meals, dabs ointment on my scratches and generally anticipates my every need. He’s so generous and kind-hearted, with a core of goodness. He is a ‘good man’. A short phrase with such a big meaning. A good man who drops everything to help a friend in need, shows his love by caring for people, and forgiving others’ stupid mistakes. That’s why I’ve trusted and treasured him as a friend for so many years. If I didn’t know him, I’d say he’s too good to be true.
I can’t help remembering what Tony hinted at and wondering whether Ace rushed over to the hospital because he’s a good friend or because he has feelings for me. Or both. I need to work it out somehow. But then again, he’s not Mr Perfect. I don’t know the circumstances, but he did cheat on Kelly, and I couldn’t possibly be romantically involved with someone who does that. Not after The Traitor. I can’t put myself through that kind of agony again.
In other romantic news – or lust news – The Orgasm Expert has been texting and wanting to know how I’m doing, which is sweet. I do get fanny flutters every time I hear the ping of his texts – how can a ping be such a turn-on? – but his banter is annoyingly limited.
Wednesday, 18 September, 11.30pm
Told Sara about my accident today. She was annoyed that nobody had told her before, but then it doesn’t take much these days. She might be angry about not being contacted earlier, but I wonder if she would have rushed over to my aid like Ace. Anyway, the accident seems to have softened her and she’s coming over tomorrow night. I haven’t seen her since she walked out on me at the pub back in July.
Thursday, 19 September, 11.30pm
I was happy that Sara was coming to see me tonight. She brought me chocolates and looked concerned sitting across the sofa from me. Like the old Sara. It was all going OK until I started to confide in her about my love life. That flicked a switch, and the disapproving, judgemental Sara was back in full force.
About the bikini, she said, ‘You should wear age-appropriate stuff.’
About Mr Snappy, she said, ‘What do you expect if you get your tits out after five minutes?’ I let that one go too.
I giggled as I told her about the Bus Stop Boys, and thought she was bound to laugh about the mum picking up one of them. But no.
‘For God’s sake, Sophe. What the hell are you doing bringing home young men less than half your age? It’s undignified.’
It’s not like I’ve deliberately chosen to be single. Even after all the horrible experiences, I’m still looking for love. Probably. I wanted to make her understand how hard it is to find love, especially at sixty years old. I wanted her sympathy, not judgement, so I told her about THO and how distraught I’d been about the whole saga.
‘It’s not surprising he dumped you. You can’t keep chasing men and expect them to respect you. You have to play hard to get.’ That was below the belt insensitive. I saw red.
‘You criticise me, but you don’t always play hard to get, do you, Sara?’ My heart was thumping in my chest, and I felt the colour drain from my face.
‘What are you talking about? I’ve been with Laurence for the last twenty years and we’re way past playing hard to get.’
‘Just Laurence? There hasn’t been anyone else? Anyone at all? Not even once?’
‘No, nobody,’ she said, but she was hesitant.
‘At least I didn’t sleep with my sister’s boyfriend,’ I shouted. It was her who turned pale this time, then she blushed deep.
‘What do you mean?’ she asked in a timid voice. The penny had dropped.
‘I saw you with him. In MY bed. Didn’t you wonder why he disappeared out of my life straight after your visit that night? I threw him out the next morning. His pathetic excuse was that he didn’t know I’d let you sleep in my room. He said he’d got into bed and had sex with you, thinking it was me. Did you not wonder why I went off to travel round the world all of a sudden?’
‘Why didn’t you tell me you knew?’ she asked after a pause, shell-shocked.
‘Because I knew you were vulnerable. You’d found out Laurence had an affair, and you probably needed to prove to yourself somebody wanted you or to get revenge. He … The Traitor just happened to be there. It could have been anyone. I knew you were drunk and had probably lost all judgement. And because you’re my little sister. Lovers come and go but sisters are forever, even if they behave as badly as you did. We always said sisters forever, didn’t we?’
She looked at me for a moment as her eyes filled up, then picked up her bag and headed for the door.
‘Don’t run off, Sara. We need to talk!’ I shouted as she banged the door behind her.
I should have set fire to her aura like the witch doctor in Peru told me. Instead, I took a hallucinogenic, mind-altering, gut-wrenching, foul-tasting magic mushroom concoction in Colombia, because another witch doctor said it would help me come to terms with what she’d done. I fucking hate mushrooms!
Friday, 20 September, 11.30pm
Been texting Sara all day. She’s read them but she’s not replying. I’ve been walking around the house, slamming doors and kicking cupboards. Anyone would think SHE was the wronged party. I protected her from the shame and embarrassment of what she’d done with The Traitor by not acknowledging it. Do I get any thanks? No.
But … if I’m completely honest, the other reason I kept quiet was that I didn’t want to face the fact that I’d spent three years of my life with a man who could do that. I loved him and thought we would grow old together. I wasn’t going to admit he didn’t love me. I’d had my doubts for a while. I knew it deep down but chose to ignore it. I didn’t want to be the wronged woman, so I brushed it under the carpet. Now I know that wasn’t the right thing to do. It was bound to explode at some point. I should have had a massive row with Sara at the time and tried to put it behind us. He wasn’t worth losing my sister over. What do I do now? I don’t need this heartache on top of everything else.
Saturday, 21 September, 11.30pm
Met Leila for brunch. She thinks I should leave it for a while, let Sara cool down and hope she comes to her senses and apologises soon. She’s probably right.
Leila told Jude she’d made up with me. Apparently, he brushed it off and said he’s forgiven me anyway. He’s been particularly attentive to her since then. I bet he’s worked out she’s onto him and wants to throw her off track. The little shit.