‘It’s not like I planned it.’ And it’s not like we hooked up or anything. After Rory, there was no way I was going there again. I just happened to keep seeing him around. First time was a few days later in the nearby little town. Then in Pattaya the following week. I was flattered; because it was obvious he was following me, arranging these crazy sort of meet-cutes. I was dazzled, in truth. Who doesn’t want to be desired after being used, then spurned? At least, that’s how I considered it then.
At the time, he was a perfect gentleman and it wasn’t long before Ella and I stopped staying in the awful back-packer hovels to hang out with him. Five star hotels, champagne, and parties on massive yachts with the older, more sophisticated man. But I didn’t sleep with him. Maybe that’s what appealed to him. He referred to me as his princess. At least, in the beginning. And by the time Ella had flown on to Australia, he’d asked me to marry him.
I realise Ivy’s still speaking, though yelling might be more appropriate.
‘—you need to live. Twenty-one and married! You’ve never lived by yourself—never had to support yourself! You don’t know anything about paying bills or balancing a bank account or any of those things.’
‘You make it sound like such a cliché. Like he was my sugar daddy or something.’
‘That’s like saying Goebels was slightly racist!’ She slaps her head, a bit more dramatic than her usual tact. ‘He was the ultimate sugar daddy! Yeah, sure, he was hot, in that tanned, sophisticated older man deal. And loaded. He took care of you, though not always in a way like a husband should.’
‘He was barely thirty when I met him! And he loved me. He treated me like a princess.’ She murmurs something under her breath, something I don’t catch. When I ask her what, I wish I hadn’t.
‘I said like fucking Rapunzel, locked away in an ivory tower!’
‘That’s not fair—I had a social life. I worked!’
‘In his circle where he could keep an eye on you. Fin, you never came home. Never visited me, not while I was here, or in America, or on location. I only ever visited you.’
‘I thought you liked to visit?’
‘Of course I did. Staying in the lap of luxury was the icing on the cake, but did you never stop to think why you never kept in contact with your friends from uni? Why you never travelled anywhere without him?’
I instantly feel disloyal, because of course I did. Especially after our honeymoon year, but speaking ill of the dead just doesn’t seem right. It sounds so pathetic, but at the time I couldn’t help be endeared—to be loved so much he couldn’t bear to be parted from me. Later, maybe not so much. Later it seemed, at best, like a lame excuse. At worse, a lie to control.
‘I thought you liked him,’ I say quietly.
‘No, you liked him. Loved him, whatever,’ she says with a dismissive twist of her hand. ‘That was enough for me to keep my mouth closed. I tolerated him, kept my words and thoughts to myself because I love you and he was your choice. But I hated how condescending he was to you. It was almost like you were walking on eggshells around him. I hated how quietly controlling he was. Hated it, Fin.’
‘We fought about it plenty,’ I mutter, unable to meet her gaze. ‘It was just so much easier to live his way. Look,’ I say, my voice stronger now. ‘I wasn’t some bullied wife.’
This isn’t the first lie I’ve made in his defence, but Ivy’s expression is so unyielding, I make a confession of sorts.
‘He was manipulative, I know. But in all successful marriages, compromise is key.’
The truth is, I think in all relationships one partner compromises a little more than the other and that happened to be my role.
I instantly feel ill; playing the grieving wife when I’ve no right to be. It’s not that I don’t grieve, because I do, but my grief is nothing compared to the guilt that weighs me down daily. And now I feel guilty that I never confided in Ivy. To tell her that I’d begun to see these very things. Guilty that I continue to have such disloyal thoughts, even though he’s gone.
‘And even now, you want to hang onto that line? That love? Even after everything he’s done?’ Incredulity fills her face and her tone.
‘You don’t know for sure.’ My heart rate peaks again. I don’t want to talk about this—it’s not like it’s not there in the back of my mind every day.
‘I’m not talking about his suicide.’
‘Please don’t say that.’ I come up from the sofa as though pulled by invisible strings. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. ‘No one knows that, not for sure.’ No one can know—it could’ve been an accident, and if no one knows, maybe I can convince myself it wasn’t my fault.
‘Oh, babe,’ Ivy says softly. ‘You need to face the facts.’
‘I do face facts—everyday! I examine the probability of him taking out his yacht, weighed against the clothes left on the deck. Did he go for a swim, get a cramp and drown? Did he have a heart attack? Or did he—did he do it on purpose? Did he—did he...’
‘I’m not talking about how he died. I’m talking about the other stuff.’
Stuff enough to make him kill himself.
‘Stop. Just stop.’ My hands are at my temples; my head feeling like it’s ready to explode. ‘I can’t do this right now, all right? I just can’t.’ And I’m back to pleading again as I lower them, wrapping them around my waist and curling into myself.
‘If not now, then when? You won’t speak to me about it. You refuse to acknowledge any of it. Even when the reality of the mess he left you in stares you in the face. Every time you tuck yourself into that tiny bedroom, every time you hesitate from buying yourself a coffee, contemplating the balance of your bank account. He did that to you—he left you in this limbo. It could’ve been worse, if it wasn’t for your friend Soraya, you could have ended up in prison. You know that’s true.’
‘I do know, but I can’t... Not yet.’
‘You need to pull yourself together, maybe get some counselling. And a job. You need to come back to the human race.’
As she sighs, I can see the strain of it all on her face, but I can’t think of her right now. As usual, I choose not to think about any of it.
‘I—I’m going to refill my cup.’ Without giving her a chance to speak, I spring from the sofa. ‘Want one?’ I pretend not to hear her deflated sigh.
Welcome to my Saturday.
