. . . a cruel confession #2
He whisks me up the central staircase, down the hallway, past the bar and into a side door away from the bustling crowd. The pre-show chatter muffles instantly as the door closes behind us and I take in the new red velvet flooring and walls.
‘This is my box,’ he explains nonchalantly.
A man hands me a glass of champagne and leads us over to our seats.
I make out four figures as I arrive, each one rising to greet Johann with a loud and mildly obnoxious familiarity.
They turn to face me and immediately look back to Johann, perplexed in a way that makes me want to throw myself off the railing, but Johann stands firm.
He cradles the small of my back and introduces me proudly to all of his friends.
They nod back politely before going back to their seats, lips puckered with the words I can tell that they’re holding back.
I settle in, sitting myself next to one impeccably dressed lady who looks me over from head to toe.
‘Nice dress,’ she says, holding back a laugh.
I try to block their othering through the first act, fixing my eyes on the stage and trying to make out the story.
Most of it goes over my head, but the melodies are beautiful so I lose myself in their angelic voices.
Our box buddies rise to their feet in a crescendo of applause as the first act winds to a close.
I hear a bottle pop in the distance and suddenly there’s a new glass in my hand as we meander to their private bar for interval chit-chat.
‘Are you having fun?’ Johann asks me as he pulls me to the side.
His hand is placed lightly on my arm and there’s a soft smile on his welcoming face that puts a small plaster on the wound his friends’ hostility has gnawed at.
‘Yeah!’ my voice comes out in a squeak. ‘I’m not sure your friends like me, though.’
I felt their stares and their whispers, and their small side-glances. They don’t think I should be here and they sadly might be right. I don’t feel comfortable. Not with all of them ogling when they think I’m not looking. But he shakes his head.
‘What? They do! They all think you’re lovely,’ he says.
‘Did they tell you that?’ I ask him.
He tuts. ‘They don’t have to.’ He reaches his hand to my face, twisting a loose tendril of hair between his fingers before tucking it behind my ear. ‘We should take some pictures, but, first, you should freshen up.’
‘Oh, sorry . . .’ I start to panic.
‘No need to worry – you have time.’
He nods towards the direction of the bathroom, prompting me to leave him and make my way back out the box.
I release a deep sigh as I enter the hallway, my ribcage relaxing at the notion of finally having a moment to myself.
I lean over the bathroom sink once I enter, looking at my flushed face in the mirror.
My make-up thankfully looks mostly intact, which is surprising.
Johann made me think I was walking into a disaster.
I readjust a few strands of hair and fish my lipstick out of my clutch, blotting on a fresh new coat, before actually making my way to one of the cubicles before I endure the inevitably lengthy stretch of the second act.
The main door swings open as I hover above the seat, followed by the clatter of two pairs of heels.
‘I cannot believe him!’ a shrill voice sounds.
‘Would you expect anything less? It’s Johann,’ another says.
I hold my breath and freeze in place, mid-squat over the seat as I brainstorm possibilities in my head. Maybe it’s another Johann and maybe I don’t recognise the voices from the box the way I think that I do. Either way I stay still, ears pricked for what they say next.
‘Yes, but even Johann doesn’t usually go this far,’ the first voice says. ‘He didn’t even give this one a free dress for her time; she’s in H it seriously wasn’t that deep.’
That stops him in his stride. He comes over, settling on the sofa as close as he can get to my crumpled body, and reaches his hand out to comfort me.
‘Being used as a racist’s pawn in their weird game to save face is definitely “deep”,’ he says. ‘It’s dehumanising.’
I nod. I’ve been trying to place exactly what led me to cry, but Noah is right. It’s exactly that. Johann took away my personhood and made me nothing more than an object. And his friends laughed around him and let it happen. My body shakes as the tears start to flow again.
‘Oh, shit. Am, I’m sorry, I was just trying to help,’ Noah says.
He reaches under me, scooping me into his arms and pulling me over to him until my head rests on his lip. I turn into his stomach, soaking his T-shirt through with my tears, but he pays the shirt no mind as he silently strokes my hair.
‘I should have picked up on this yesterday,’ Noah says coldly. His voice is steely and jaded.
‘How would you have? You didn’t choose to talk to him – I did.’ My tears are finally slowing down. ‘And you certainly didn’t know how this would turn out.’
‘But I should have known better, had a better radar.’ I can feel his body tense around me.
I snuggle in further into the wall of his stomach and he pulls me tighter into him.
The more our bodies come into contact, the more I feel him relax, each touch setting off a reaction inside him.
We take a deep breath in tandem as his arms snake further around me and I feel my limbs slowly start to grow heavy.
‘It’s not your job to protect me,’ I say, eyelids drooping.
‘That’s not gonna stop me,’ he says softly.
‘I know.’ I tuck in even closer.
I breathe him in, his aftershave the last thing I remember as the room starts to gently fade to black.