2
Natasha
“I’m telling you he’s cheating,” Bridget whines.
“Oh fuck, not this again,” I mutter, running my hands through my hair, my elbows resting on the table. “Just dump him already.”
“No, I need proof.”
“Why?” I scoff. “I’m over hearing about this wanker, it’s doing my head in.” I take my phone from my bag and check my messages, trying to block her out.
“Listen here, you.” She points her teaspoon at me to accentuate her point. “You listen to all kinds of crazy shit at work and you’re going to damn well listen to mine.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, but I get paid for that and my patients actually respect my opinion and besides, you’re different. I can tell you what I think, and I think you should dump the prick.”
“So, you think he’s a prick now?”
“No, you think he’s a prick.”
“When did I say that?”
“When you said he was cheating on you.”
“Oh god, don’t start your shrink shit with me, you’re twisting my words.”
I roll my eyes. “Listen, if you don’t want my opinion, don’t ask for it.”
“Fine, I won’t.”
“Good, suits me.”
“What are you two arguing about?” Abbie joins us from the restroom.
“We are not arguing,” I moan.
“Yes, we are, Tash thinks Jeremy is a prick.”
Abbie laughs and nods. “Who doesn’t? Jeremy is a prick.”
We are at our favorite coffee shop, Oscar’s. We meet there a couple of times a week. Oscar’s is small and unassuming. Its walls are dark timber paneling with big green glass pendant lights hanging low over oversized chocolate leather lounges that have colored cushions scattered all over them. Big wooden coffee tables adorn the center of each setting. The clientele is eclectic, from normal girls like us to doctors and lawyers, punk rockers to gorgeous gay men. Great coffee music always adds to the ambience and atmosphere, although on the last four or five times it hasn’t been as enjoyable as it normally is. Abbie, Bridget’s and my best friend, and I have had to endure countless hours of Jeremy crap.
Bridget rummages through her bag. “Abbie, I bought you something.” She pulls out a white paper bag.
Abbie frowns. “What is it?”
Bridget smiles. “It’s a bumper sticker for your car.” She pulls it out and we all burst out laughing. It reads:
If you’re going to ride my ass,
can you at least pull my hair?
“That’s funny.” I can’t stop laughing.
“And you bought me this because?”
“Because you told me you like it when guys pull your hair.”
“When did I tell you that?”
“Oh, fuck off. Are you denying it?”
“No, yes, shut up, stop it.” She laughs. “Show me a red-blooded woman who doesn’t like having her hair pulled.” Bridget and I both look at each other sheepishly and raise our hands in unison. She pulls a disgusted face. “God, you two must be shit in bed.” She rolls her eyes while we giggle. “Anyway, I can’t put this on my car, my dad will freak.” She shakes her head as she stuffs it in her bag.
“OK, back to the conversation. Once and for all tell me why you think he’s cheating. I want ten reasons.” I wave my teaspoon at her. “No excuses.”
“OK.” She nods. “We used to see each other every night but now he’s a partner in his law firm. I don’t see him much through the week.”
“OK, maybe he’s just working,” I answer.
“Maybe.” She nods. “The sex has dropped off.”
“By how much?”
“Well, it used to be three or four times a week and now it’s like once a week and usually I initiate it.”
“Maybe he’s tired and stressed.” Abbie pipes in.
“Bullshit.”
“Abbie, you can’t comment. Boyfriends are different to one-night stands,” I mutter.
“OK, agreed.” She nods.
I love Abbie, she’s a self-proclaimed sneaky slut. By sneaky slut I mean when we are out and having a great time dancing and drinking, she just disappears. Twenty minutes later we get a text telling us she’s gone home. She has a few boys in her kitty as she calls it. We know them as number one, first reserve, tall guy, hot guy, army guy and she has a tradie as well, although I don’t know what he does. Number one always has right of way if he’s out. Although I think army guy is rising through the ranks pretty quickly.
Bridget and I know them all by sight but, in all honesty, we have probably not spoken more than a dozen words to any of them. She likes it like this. We love her honesty and good for her if she can do it without guilt—why not? I could probably take a page out of her book and loosen the hell up.
“And,” Bridget continues, “he’s started to guard his phone.”
“Hmm, that’s not good,” We all silently sum up the situation.
“And get this, last week when I stayed at his house, I was looking in his drawer and he has bought all new underwear.”
“Yeah, but maybe he just needed new undies.”
“No, they were nice like nice nice, not everyday undies.” We stay silent and sip our coffee as we listen. I purse my lips as I think. “And then there’s the manscaping.”
Abbie chokes on her coffee. “Manscaping,” she blurts out.
“Yes, please stop laughing. This is not funny.”
I want to laugh myself but instead I frown at Abbie, hinting for her to shut up. My ability to keep a straight face when I hear ridiculousness is an added benefit of my job.
“Last time we were together I noticed he’s like….” She whispers and leans in to the table, and we both lean in instinctively to listen. “You know, done some extreme grooming.”
Abbie narrows her eyes. “Did you ask him what that is about?”
“Yes, when I first noticed it, he seemed embarrassed and then said he did it as a surprise for me.”
“Do you think it was?”
“No, I don’t. And, get this, he’s shaved off his chest hair.”
“God.” I breathe and sit back. “I hate manscaping.”
“Why?” Abbie pulls a disgusted face. “There’s nothing worse than a hairy guy.”
“You’re kidding,” I snap.
“Don’t tell me you like hairy guys?” She pulls a disgusted face.
I smile. “I do actually.” I nod to accentuate my point. “I like the difference in their body to ours. We are soft. They are hard. We are smooth. They are rough. You know, the whole yin and yang thing. It’s the differences that turn me on.”
“Ugh, all of the guys I’m with manscape and if they don’t I comment that I want them hairless before I see them again.”
Bridget and I are both shocked, our eyes wide.
“You actually say that?”
“Yes, of course, wouldn’t you?”
We both shake our heads. “No, god, no.”
“Girls, have I taught you nothing. Ask for what you want. Men are stupid. They will do what we ask.”
Bridget scrunches her nose up in disgust at Abbie. “The guy I’m going out with is a lot of things. He may be an adulterer and a prick, but stupid isn’t one of them, and Tash is so damn picky.” They both turn their attention to me. “When was the last guy you were actually with?” Bridget glares at me.
“What’s with the Spanish inquisition?” I roll my eyes.
Abbie chimes in, “Yes, she’s right. Are you on the forty-hour man famine?”
I smile, “No one really gets me hot. All the guys I meet are just so…average.” I hunch my shoulders.
“Oh no.” Abbie scowls toward the counter.
“What?” I ask as I sip my coffee.
“It’s Tunnel Cunt.”
I can’t help it, I spit my coffee all over Bridget.
“Oh fuck, Tash, watch it.” She starts to wipe the coffee from her top as I am in a fit of giggles.
“Who in the hell is Tunnel Cunt?” Bridget laughs. “And how in hell did the poor girl get that god-awful name?”
“See that blonde at the counter?” We all lean in, “She’s an ex-stripper and she has her eyes on James.”
James is Abbie’s flatmate who she worships.
“How do you know she has a tunnel cunt? Actually, what is its definition?” Bridget and I are in fits of giggles.
“Shut up, you two.” Abbie scowls. “This isn’t funny.”
“How do you know she has the hots for James?”
“He told me.”
“Oh,” I answer as I nod.
“Does he like her?” Bridget asks as she continues to watch her.
“He said not, but I’m keeping my eyes on her just in case.”
We all nod. “Good idea,” I mutter. We all watch as TC, the new girl on our radar, passes our table.
“OK, anyway, where were we?”
“Oh, I know, and I don’t like to pick up someone random for the sake of it, you both know I’m not like that.”
Abbie shakes her head in disgust. “You’re missing out. One day you are going to be forty-five, married and bored as hell and you’ll look back to these years and think I wish I had slept with all those hunks that were hot for me when I had the chance, and my body was smoking hot. You know the well dries up and turns into cellulite.”
I smile at her. “It’s OK, Abbs, I’m pretty sure you’re fucking enough for the three of us.”
She scrunches up her napkin and throws it at me and we all giggle.
“OK, back to you, Bridget. I think we need to set a trap.” I smile as I call the waitress over to order more coffees.
“Ohh, I do like your wicked mind,” she purrs.
“Now let me think.” As I rub my chin.
The movie screen plays a rerun.
“Natasha, make love to me. I need this connection with you.” His lips linger over mine tenderly. “It won’t hurt as much this time, baby. It’s getting easier, isn’t it?” His open mouth runs down the length of my neck.
Buzz. “Natasha, your ten o’clock is here.”
I rein in my now-pounding heart. “OK, thanks, Marg.” I buzz her. What the hell. Christ, how can he still affect me this much after seven years apart? I drop my glasses and put my face into my hands on my desk. With my left hand I rub my face in disgust. I literally still have a physical effect from my memories of this man. Why can’t I stop thinking about him? My heart rate, my breathing. I’m wet for fuck’s sake. Good god! With disgust I head to the bathroom, shaking my head.
Five minutes later, I stare into the mirror in my office bathroom and blow out a deep breath. I look like crap. I wash my face and pull my shoulder-length chocolate hair back into a ponytail. I am in my green scrubs, a mandatory uniform at SSAC, which stands for Sydney Sexual Awareness Clinic. Our boss feels it desexualizes us. If we are all wearing hospital scrubs, we look more professional, more clinical. I have to agree. I actually look sexless. I could be male or female and you wouldn’t be able to tell. I don’t wear any makeup to work as a twenty-four-year-old, perhaps semi-attractive female. I try to play down my looks.
My patients are damaged, beautiful but damaged. They all have a problem relating to sex or sexualization. They don’t need a psychologist throwing her sexuality and seemingly normal life in their face. What a joke. The irony is I’m just as damaged as them. Some days I feel like I should be the one on the black leather recliner chair telling them my problems, venting my insecurities. Today being a prime example. I take a deep breath and talk out loud to myself, like a total nut case. You’re just unsettled because he’s coming back. I take a deep steadying breath. He’s long forgotten you, Natasha, it’s time you forget him. With a resigned shake of my head, I mutter into the mirror. I wish.
I read through my clinical notes.
Patient: Bethany Marcus
Symptoms: Anorgasmia/inability to orgasm
Clinical Notes: Bethany has been unsuccessful in climaxing for a period of three years. It began when she went through a traumatic experience, i.e., her husband had a twelve-month affair. The marriage has survived; however, Bethany has been troubled since the ordeal. Bethany also suffers violent sexual dreams, which are distressing to her. Bethany blames herself for her husband’s infidelity.
Aim: Bethany would like to stay happily married to her husband, Anthony. She would like to fulfil her role as a wife and mother to her family. Bethany would like to be able to forgive her husband and resume a satisfying sexual relationship with him.
I blow out a breath. I really like my next patient. Bethany is beautiful and smart, with absolutely no confidence. Her cockroach of a husband has done a total number on her and then lets her blame herself for his inability to keep it in his pants. If I had my way, I would just tell her to leave him, but I can’t do that. I have to help her work toward her goal, which unfortunately is a happy life with Anthony. I would like to see Anthony but Bethany won’t allow it.
I open my office door.
“Hi, Bethany.” She smiles shyly and walks into my office. I gesture for her to take a seat. “How have you been since I last saw you?” I ask.
“Not very well,” she quietly answers.
“Oh, why is that?” I ask. She stays silent as I sit and wait for her answer. Sometimes waiting for answers is the hardest part of this role. She shrugs her shoulders.
“I see.”
“How have you been?” she asks me, and I smile. This is typical Bethany; she always puts others before herself and she sees me as a person and not just her therapist.
“Me? I’m good,” I answer. “A little demotivated this week.” I shrug and smile. “You know how it is.” She nods, grateful that my life isn’t perfect. “Tell me what’s happening,” I urge.
“Anthony told me I am terrible in bed.” Her devastated eyes meet mine. What the fuck.
“How did this come about?” I ask, trying to control my anger.
This guy is a total worm.
“We were in bed and you know my problem.” I nod and stay silent. “I just can’t come, I don’t know why. It doesn’t matter what I do, what I think about, it just doesn’t happen.”
“I see.” I nod. “And what happened then?” I keep my voice monotone so as to not throw her train of thought.
“As usual, he got frustrated and asked what the fuck was the matter with me.”
“OK.” I nod. “What did you say?”
“I told him to just finish off as it wasn’t going to happen.
And then, well he just finished off and rolled over.”
“I see.” I stay silent to let her finish, but she remains silent. “What happened then?”
“I told him I was coming to you.”
“Had you not told him before?”
“No, I hadn’t.”
“And what did he say?”
“He told me that no expensive doctor could make me receptive in bed, that I’m a cold fish and that he’s never been with a woman who is so unresponsive.”
“What do you think of that?” I ask.
“He’s right,” she sighs.
“I don’t believe that,” I assert. “You may be unresponsive to him at the moment, but it’s not physical, it’s totally emotional. Bethany, I treat both men and woman who suffer from anorgasmia and they are in loving relationships with a person they can trust.” She nods as she listens. “Have you thought about what we talked about last visit?”
“Yes,” she says. “It’s not going to be possible.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because he doesn’t know I haven’t orgasmed in three years.”
I cross my arms. “What do you mean?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“I’ve been faking it all along.”
I nod. This is common. “Do you think you should come clean?” I give her a small empathetic smile.
“No, he would be devastated.”
I nod. “So, it’s OK if you’re devastated, just not him.”
“I know how this looks,” she whispers.
“How does this look, Beth?” I urge.
“That I am a martyr.”
I smile. “Is that what you think?” I ask her softly.
“Do you?” she asks.
“No, I don’t think you’re a martyr. Would it matter to you if I did?”
She nods her head.
“It shouldn’t matter what anyone thinks, Beth, only you.”
“I care what you think.” She smiles. “You’re the only person who knows about this.”
I frown. “You haven’t confided in a friend?” I ask, a little shocked.
“No. I don’t want my friends to judge Anthony, or me for staying with him.”
“I see,” I answer. “Beth, do you think that the friends you keep are really on your side?”
She looks at me as she processes what I have just asked her and then she shrugs. We both sit in silence as I wait for her to speak, but she doesn’t.
Mmm, we will come back to this. “Did you speak to Anthony about foreplay?”
She shakes her head.
“Mmm OK, so can I guess you didn’t do as I suggested and ask him to try Viagra?”
“I just can’t.” She looks so vulnerable; my heart goes out to her.
“I don’t want him to think that I think he’s not good enough for me in bed.”
“But it’s OK if he makes you feel lacking,” I sigh. She nods. “Bethany, I don’t know a woman alive that can come in seven minutes of penetrative sex with no foreplay.” She nods. “You know, Beth, and this is off the record, but I take at least twenty minutes to get in the frame of mind and then another twenty minutes, at least, of foreplay before I even want to think about sex. He needs to know that it’s not happening. Maybe he would try harder if he knew.”
She nods. “Maybe.”
“Isn’t that your grudge with him?” She frowns. “That he was
dishonest?”
She nods and hangs her head, knowing what I am going to say next.
“Are you being totally honest with him, Beth?”
“No,” she answers.
I stay silent, waiting for her to process the information.
“Last time I saw you we talked about trust.”
“Yes.” She smiles.
“How are the trust levels at home?”
“I try, I really do, but I just can’t seem to get there.”
“Beth, trust is not something that happens. It is a decision you make. You either decide you will trust him from now on, or you move on. Do you have trust that you will be OK if he leaves you?” She shakes her head. “I see, but if you move on with him and you haven’t made that decision to trust—to trust him and to trust yourself to be strong—you are setting yourself up for a lifetime of misery.”
“I know,” she whispers. “It’s not completely his fault. I was so engrossed with the kids. I was just so preoccupied that I didn’t realize that he needed more sex and I let myself go and I didn’t even try to be sexy for him.”
“Beth, don’t you dare sit there and defend him to me. For the record, you were busy with his kids. His children, not someone else’s. And you let yourself go. How ridiculous. I sit here and I see a beautiful, smart English girl who has left her family and her country to move to the other side of the world for a man who has taken her for granted.”
“He would never have cheated if I was, I don’t know, more attractive.”
I sigh. “Beth, what do you see when you look at me?”
“What do you mean?” she asks.
I stand up and walk around in front of her and do a twirl.
“Now, when you look at me what do you see?”
She smiles, “A really pretty, smart girl.”
I laugh, “That’s funny, Beth, do you know that in my past I have had not one but two—” I hold my fingers up to accentuate the point, “—two boyfriends cheat on me.”
Her mouth drops open. “But why?” she mutters under her breath.
I shrug my shoulders. “Who knows, but it has absolutely nothing to do with me.” She frowns at me. “Men cheat for a number of reasons, Beth. But the main reason is that they are lacking something within their own self-esteem. They need to feel desired or wanted or need their ego stroked. Whatever the reason, Beth, infidelity is the path of a coward. Staying loyal to one person is hard work, and it’s something that both you and I strive for. And you can be proud of that. Many women when faced with an affair go down the payback route and only end up feeling a lot worse for doing so.” I stay silent, waiting for her to say something but she doesn’t. “There is only one way to receive equality in your marriage, Beth.”
“How?” she asks.
“Demand it. People in life treat you how you believe you deserve to be treated. If you think you don’t deserve to be satisfied in bed, then you won’t be. If you believe your husband can do better than you, then he will think he can too. Beth, what you need to realize without me telling you is that you and you only can make changes in your life. Forget about Anthony and his problems. Let’s work on you.” She smiles a shy smile at me, which I return. I sit on top of my desk with my legs crossed. “Now, I have some homework for you.”
“OK,” she smiles, as she sits up in her chair, feeling a little empowered.
“I want you to go to the adult warehouse and buy yourself a vibrator.”
Her mouth drops open. “What?” she whispers.
I nod and smile. “It’s time for you to take your sexuality back into your hands. Literally.”
She swallows a large lump in her throat. “I’ve never, I don’t think. Anthony will freak,” she adds.
“Anthony is not to know about this.” She looks at me wide eyed. “What I want you to do is every day fire up the vibrator and give yourself foreplay without the expected orgasm at the end.” I wait for her to speak. She doesn’t. I smile. God, I love their faces when I start talking sex toys. I walk over to my desk, open my bottom drawer and pull out my large demo vibrator. I turn it on, and her eyes widen.
“Don’t worry, it’s not like that.” I smile.
“Oh god.” She laughs and puts her hand on her chest in relief.
“See how this feels?” I rub the side of the shaft over the palm of her hand. She smiles and nods. “If you rub the side of the shaft over your outer lips and clitoris, it feels like the best oral sex you’ve ever had.”
“Oh,” she whispers, eyes wide.
“Have you ever watched any porn, Beth?”
She shakes her head. “Only in high school,” she whispers. “And I didn’t really see the appeal.”
I smile and nod. “I want you to watch a few things for me.” She frowns, not understanding. “I want you to go onto a website called YouPorn. It’s the same as YouTube, but it’s people posting videos of sex.”
“Um, OK.” She looks worried.
“On the left-hand side of the page there is a category list.” She nods. “Click on love.”
She frowns. “Love?”
“Yes, there are some really tasteful lovely videos of couples in love having sex and trust me it’s nothing like the wham bam come in the woman’s face porn most woman are exposed to. Watch it with no sound, a lot of women are very audile, and the sound of porn is what turns them off.”
“Oh.” She nods.
“And also click on the massage tab.”
“Massage tab?” she repeats.
“Yes, a lot of my patients find it really erotic watching someone get a slow massage finished by an orgasm.” I smile. “It’s very tasteful and kind of hot.” We both laugh. “And I want you to try something else.”
“Um, OK.” She nods.
“I want you to go and buy yourself some lube and begin to explore your body with your fingers again.”
“Oh, god.” She looks down and twirls her hair between her fingers.
I smile. “Beth, don’t be embarrassed, I talk sex all day. It’s my job.”
“OK,” she mutters and smiles.
“Most woman have not brought themselves to orgasm with their fingers since they became sexually active and it really is a good way to reconnect with what you like and what you don’t like. Women’s bodies change when we have children and what used to arouse us doesn’t necessarily do it for us anymore. Remember, Beth, you need to take responsibility for your own sexual health. Trust me, your husband will thank you later.”
She smiles as she stands up to leave my office and shakes my hand. “Those two boyfriends were idiots.” She winks.
“I know.” I smile, and I wink back. “Their loss.” I laugh and scrunch up my nose. “Remember I want thirty minutes a day private time.”
She smiles. “OK, OK, I will. I’ll tell you how it goes next week.”
“Good, I look forward to it.” As she exits my office, I smile to myself. I should open a sex shop—I would be a fucking millionaire.
Monday mornings is definitely my hump day. Hard to get out of bed, harder to go to the gym before work, a healthy breakfast tastes more like cat food than All-Bran and it’s damn near impossible to get motivated for the week at work. It’s freezing cold, too, to add salt to my wounds. It’s windy as hell. God, I’m whining today. Normally I have the excuse of too big a weekend, still silently suffering a hangover, carb overload, no exercise. Not today. I know the reason. It’s like the frigging day before Armageddon, like I’m walking to my execution; I’m so nervous I feel sick to my stomach. I thought I would be excited.
Though I’m looking forward to seeing him this weekend, I know that after Saturday night, the beautiful man in my memories will be dead to me. He has long been dead. It’s just that damn movie screen inside my head keeping him alive, hero-worshipping him. I know this is probably going to be the last week I can dream about him from afar, but reality is a bitch. A bitch that’s going to bite me hard in the ass on Sunday morning. I’m dreading it. It’s like I’ve already started to mourn the loss of him, even though he’s not even mine to lose.
I am on the train, it’s a one-hour trip to work as I purposely looked for a job well out of my zip code. Don’t want to bump into any of my patients at the coffee shop or grocery store. It’s a hassle getting to and from work, but I feel safer having that bit of anonymity away from my patients. In the line of work I do, my patients don’t want to bump into me either so it’s a win-win both ways. I shuffle up the aisle and take a window seat. I lean my head on the window, close my eyes and start to doze. I just need to get through the week. My mind wanders back to the man who haunts me, even in my sleep.
Finally, this week is over; it’s been a marathon just getting through it. I am sitting on the plane waiting to exit at Melbourne airport.
“Why do they take so long to open the doors?” Bridget yawns as she stretches in her seat.
“Hmm, I know,” I answer as I stretch my legs.
Brock, our brother, is sitting across the aisle with our parents and gives me a wink. I love Brock, he is in the navy, a SEAL. He is home in Sydney for three months, which is unusual for him. He’s hardly ever home. You know, off saving the world and all that. He is six two and pure hard-ass, he dotes on Bridge and me. Way over-the-top protective but I kind of like it. Bridge hates it. Brock punched her last boyfriend in the nose at Christmas lunch a couple of years ago. It was hilarious, although Bridge didn’t see the humor. What I didn’t tell her was that if Brock hadn’t done it, I might have. Mark was his name, of course a total wanker. Boy, she sure does attract losers. I smile at the memory.
“What’s so funny?” Bridge asks me. I shake my head. If she only knew what I was thinking about. I finally enter the aisle and Brock grabs me from behind in a headlock and gives me a rough hug.
“Your snoring kept me awake,” he whispers.
I nudge him with my elbow. “Shut up, I don’t snore.”
“Yeah, you do,” he laughs, and he pushes me forward, so I bump into the guy in front of me who turns around and glares at me.
“Sorry, I tripped,” I whisper. He glares at me and continues up the aisle.
I turn around and punch Brock. “Cut it out, how old are you?”
“Let’s go out for dinner on the way to the hotel.” He gestures to Dad to go into the aisle.
“Good idea,” Mum answers. I roll my eyes at Bridge. I want to go straight to bed. I’m exhausted. I’ve had a shit of a day. My most hated patient, Roger, the sex addict, had a two-hour block appointment. Why does the receptionist make those appointments anyway? I will have to put a stop to it. I had to listen to every last detail of his latest orgy. Seriously gross. Why he feels I have to know everything is beyond me. Imagine a 1980s bad porn movie and that is the exact vision of Roger: bad moustache, comb-over, dyed hair, rates himself big-time, overdose on the aftershave that smells more like fly repellent. Seriously, he is beyond help. Gives me a cold shiver just thinking of him. God, I feel sorry for his wife. Imagine having him for a husband and he’s a sex addict who wants it all the time. Shit, it doesn’t get much worse, poor bitch. I wince.
“What’s wrong? Why are you pulling that face?”
I smile and shake my head. “Nothing, I’m tired. Can’t we just get room service?”
“Tash, just lighten the fuck up,” Brock chimes in. “We are on vacation. Chillax will you.”
Five hours later, I lie in bed in my hotel room. It’s the night before the wedding, and my mind wanders. Tomorrow is the day. I’m going to see him. Thank god Bridget and I have a room each or else she would be on to me. I have been tossing and turning for two hours now. I am punching the pillow and changing positions, trying to get comfortable. Trying to calm myself into a slumber. How am I supposed to look tempting with no sleep?
The movie screen plays a particularly painful memory, one that I hate and desperately wish to remove from the memory bank. It has the same effect every time, bringing me to my knees. Reactivating my guilt that usually ends up with me on my knees in the bottom of the shower, throwing up and in tears.
Two weeks after Josh’s and my beautiful lovemaking holiday, I was missing him like crazy, crying by night, depressed by day. I lost five kilos in two weeks and had bags under my eyes. I didn’t leave my room except to go to school. This pain was self-inflicted. Both Josh and I knew he was going to America for four years shortly after our holiday. We knew we had no future together. That didn’t make it any easier, and we had had no contact. My tender teenage heart was utterly devastated.
I came home from school one afternoon to find the house in uproar. It was one of the few times I heard my father swear. As I opened the door my father yelled at my mother, “What the fuck does that boy think he’s doing?”
I stopped mid-step as I was slowly heading down the hall. I heard my mother talking way too fast while pacing. I slowly walked into the kitchen and looked at the two of them, raising my eyebrows.
“What’s going on?” I whispered to my mum.
Dad was on the phone. “Good god, he’s gone fucking mad,” he yelled.
I frowned. “Who?” I mouthed at Mum.
“Joshua,” she replied.
Oh shit, this can’t be good, what happened? Do they know? Am I next? I quietly made myself a cup of tea as I listened to the conversation.
“He said what? And then what did you say?” He listened. “And did you tell him that’s ridiculous? Surely he can’t be serious?”
“What?” I mouthed to Mum again.
“Joshua seems to think he’s fallen in love with a girl from Sydney and he’s not going to America.”
My eyes widened. Holy shit. “How do you know this?”
“I’ve been on the phone to Margaret all day on and off. He seems to think he’s transferring to Sydney Uni, apparently to be near this girl.”
My father hung up the phone. My eyes were the size of saucers.
“Who is she?” I whispered.
“Some fucking idiot, no doubt,” my father snapped. Shit, he was really mad. “He’s known her for two frigging weeks, and he’s throwing away an internship at Apple. This is the opportunity of a lifetime; he will never get this chance again.”
I sipped my tea in silence while my parents continued their outrage.
I asked my mum, “Why is America so important?” I was genuinely interested.
“Josh developed an app as a hobby; it was a carb counter for diabetics.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“It has ended up being used all over the world. It had to be tweaked a bit, but doctors and hospitals are using it to educate diabetics.”
“What’s an app?” I asked.
“It’s the way computers are heading, something to do with Apple computers, new technology stuff.”
“Oh,” I murmured. “I had no idea.”
“No, and Joshua doesn’t get it. He gave this technology away but if it were designed on the market it would be worth millions.”
My mouth dropped open. “Millions,” I repeated.
“Yes,” said my mother. “Steve Jobs, the founder of this organization, has personally invited Joshua to come and work with him.”
“Who’s Steve Jobs?” I asked.
“He owns Apple, he’s one of the smartest, richest men in the world.”
“And he wants to work with Josh,” I replied. Suddenly, the very serious ramifications if he didn’t go became all too obvious. My dad nodded and I raised my eyebrows. “Shit,” I whispered.
“Exactly.” My father nodded. “Joshua is going to throw his whole future away for a girl he hardly knows and in twelve months down the road will leave anyway.”
“You don’t know that,” I snapped.
“True.” My mother nodded. “But if she did love him, surely she wouldn’t let him give up this chance. He can’t be that stupid, can he?” she muttered to herself as she rubbed her forehead.
I wandered out into the backyard and sat on the back step idly patting Sadie, our cocker spaniel. Shit, this was heavy. I knew I was the girl and part of me wanted to jump off the step and punch the air. He’d missed me, he did love me. I was thoroughly thrilled with myself and trying to stifle the huge grin threatening to cover my face when the phone rang again. I walked to the door to listen to the conversation.
“Well, where is he now? Well, find him, go out and find him and then what did you say? What? He’s going to marry this bimbo…for heaven’s sake…he said what? …Good god, he’s lost his fucking mind…yes, I know…hang on, I will see. Natasha, have you heard from Josh?” I shook my head. “Yes, you’re probably right, they are close. If he rings you, tell him to ring home, everyone is frantic.” I nodded in agreement. “Seriously, Robert, if you have to get on a plane and kick his ass all the way to America, you do it; he can’t screw this up. He will thank you in years to come.”
My elation was very quickly turning to shit. I went into my room, shut the door and threw myself on the bed. Shit, Josh, this is extreme. I jumped up suddenly to check my phone to see if he had rung me. No, nothing. Poor Josh. All that pressure and now he’d taken off. Maybe I should ring him? I checked my phone again, still nothing. I hoped he was OK. This was a total fuckup, shit, what was I going to do? I started to pace in my room, shaking my hands as if they were cold. Should I ring him? Maybe, no he didn’t need my interference.
Three hours later I was so worried I had started dry retching. I was really starting to freak out. My parents were waiting up to hear if he had been found. It was 12:50 a.m. when I heard my mum’s phone receive a text message. I bounded down the hall.
“Thank god.” My mum smiled. “He’s home. We can all go to bed now.” She put her arm around me and led me to the hall. “He’s safe.” She smiled. I hauled my sorry ass to bed. That night I didn’t sleep. I knew deep in my gut what I had to do if I truly loved Josh. I needed to set him free so he could carry on with his life’s work, but should I tell him the truth? No, then he would make the decision for me. I knew if I was in his position, I could never leave him. I wouldn’t have the strength. What if he did stay? Would we last? This I didn’t know. I needed a crystal ball. My dad was right. He would fuck up the rest of his life. The cold hard reality was we couldn’t have a future together, not in our family’s eyes. Oh, what to do, what to do.
At 5:00 a.m. I came to a heartbreaking decision. I knew what to do and it turned my stomach just thinking about it.
The next day I faked sickness to get the day off school. My parents went to work, and I started to pace again, waiting for his call. At one o’clock my phone rang. It was Josh—he thought I was on lunch break. I braced myself.
“Hi,” I answered.
“Hi baby,” he said happily down the phone. Oh shit. “Have you missed me?” he asked.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“At home. I have news,” he announced, and my heart sank. “I’m coming to Sydney tonight.”
“Why?” I whispered quietly.
“To see you. You didn’t answer my question, have you missed me?”
“Have you?” I whispered again, my voice too hoarse to speak.
“So fucking much I can’t stand it. I think I’ve come up with a solution though. We will talk about it tonight. Pick me up. What time should I book the flight for?”
I stayed silent and closed my eyes…silence again.
“Natasha, what’s wrong?” His voice betrayed his worry. I stayed silent. “Baby, are you OK?” he asked quietly.
“Not really,” I whispered past the golf ball-sized lump in my throat. He didn’t know that I knew about his so-called solution…again silence….
“Why aren’t you OK?”
“It’s complicated,” I whispered.
“Tell me tonight. We will work it out. I’ll book the flight and text you the details. I’ll be there soon.” This was it. I knew to save his future I had to hurt him and rip my heart out in the process, but again I stayed silent, unable to talk without breaking into full-blown sobs.
“Josh, you can’t come to Sydney.”
“Why?” he whispered. “Why not?”
“It’s not a good idea.”
He stayed silent. This time I could almost hear his brain ticking. “I need to see you,” he snapped.
“No, Josh, you can’t.”
“Why not?” He was getting annoyed.
“I don’t want to see you.” I covered my mouth with my hand so he couldn’t hear my chest quivering with unshed tears.
“You don’t want to see me?” he whispered.
“No, Josh, I don’t,” I lied again. While I closed my eyes, he stayed silent for a minute.
“I don’t believe you,” he yelled. “Have my fucking parents been in your ear?”
“No,” I lied again.
“You know, don’t you?” he snapped.
“Know what?” I acted innocent.
“I’m coming to get you, whether you like it or not,” he yelled.
I started to cry, holding my stomach because the pain was unbearable. I dropped to my knees on the lounge room floor and closed my eyes, trying to catch my breath as I stabbed the final knife into my already broken heart.
“I’ve met somebody else.”
“What?” he yelled, making me jump. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he screamed down the phone. “Two weeks, it’s been two fucking weeks and you’ve met someone else?”
“Yes,” I sobbed. He stayed silent. I knew I’d broken his heart as well as mine and I was now on my hands and knees on the floor. Again, silence.
In a deathly voice he asked, “Have you slept with him?”
I could hardly answer. How could he even think that? My chest was breaking. “Yes,” I sobbed.
He made a guttural noise, and the phone went dead. He had hung up. I collapsed into the fetal position on the floor, knowing he was probably on the floor like me. I was a cold heartless bitch; how could I say that? My heart was broken, my chest hurt. I was crying so loudly I was sure the neighbors could hear me.
I stayed in bed for a week, unable to eat and hardly able to keep anything down, while my mother doted on me, thinking I had a stomach bug. I lay motionless, staring at the ceiling. I had no tears left.
Even to this day, seven years later, that memory brings nausea to my stomach every time I think of it. It is as if it happened yesterday. I am brought back to a young seventeen-year-old girl lying alone on the lounge room floor clutching the phone. The pain is so vivid it’s unbearable. I do what I always do when this memory haunts me. I get straight up, put the tele vision on and get into the shower. Sometimes I stay in the shower for over an hour—it is as if I am trying to wash the lies away. Although it’s not possible, if only I could. I’ve never forgiven myself. I should have told him the truth. He deserved the truth. Something’s got to give as this is unbearable. Why do the memories of this man haunt me…how do I escape him?
“You know what shits me?” I moan as I look into my compact mirror, turning my head. “When I pay good money and say I have a wedding and I want to look hot, that does not mean code for I want to look like the tooth fairy on crack.”
“I know, right,” Bridget tuts. We are in the back of a cab surveying the damage from our hair and makeup appointment. “At least your hair looks good. The silly bitch put so much hairspray in my hair, I’m like a Venus flytrap. I hope there are no flies at the reception as they will all get stuck in my hair.”
I giggle as I pull a disgusted face. At least the makeup disaster has taken the edge off my nerves, only three hours until I see him. I smile out the window as I hunch my shoulders. I feel like a little kid at Christmas.
“Do you think I should have spray-tanned?” I ask.
“No, too much skin. You would have looked like a Penthouse bunny.”
“Maybe that’s the look I’m going for.” I smirk.
Bridget narrows her eyes and laughs. “Well, you do have the makeup for it.”
“Very funny. Ha, ha.”
I look into the mirror at the young woman staring back at me, my long dark brown hair is set very Raquel Welch. I’ve successfully removed my Steve Tyler makeup and reapplied. My bronze sky-high strappy shoes are on, and I am waxed to within an inch of my life. I stare at my reflection. My charcoal Grecian-style dress is fitted but drapes in all the right places. It is backless with a thigh-high split down one leg. The dress is understated elegance, I think; a little sexy without trying too hard. I look good, if I do say so myself. I like this dress better than the other option. Josh has never seen me like this. I was a girl when he left. I’m now a clinical psychologist, fit and in every part of my life confident and assured. Too bad I’m being eaten alive by guilt, suffocated by a love I don’t even have. I pull my shoulders back and take a deep breath. Perk up, old girl, I say out loud to myself, today you start to heal. Time to rip off the Band-Aid.
We arrive at the church, which has a lovely old-world feel, sandstone with a large circular driveway, sweeping oak trees and lots of leadlight windows. There are roses everywhere and the crowd is congregated out the front. Eventually we are led in and my grandmother catches my hand as we walk into the church.
“It’ll be your wedding next.” She winks. I smile and roll my eyes.
We are ushered to our place in the second row. Gran looks down and exclaims, “My god, darling, how on earth do you walk in those shoes?” I smile and lift my hem a little to give her a full view of my beautiful expensive shoes that I may marry because I love them so much.
I step aside to let Gran into the row of seats before me and glance up straight into the ice-cold stare of Joshua Stanton. The sight hits me like a physical blow and I involuntarily step back and grab the church pew for support…. Dear Mother of God…he is breathtaking…so different yet so familiar. He is glaring at me…. Holy shit, is he angry? Surely not. I swallow and shuffle up the church pew. He follows me with his eyes, and I can’t look away. My heart has stopped beating. He is mad, or maybe he’s just shocked to see me. My mouth is so dry I can hardly swallow. I look down, suddenly super self-conscious. I think I’m having a hot flush. Oh shit, did I bring deodorant? I’m going to need it. I pat my forehead.
Bridget frowns at me. “Are you OK?”
I nod, unable to speak. I look to the floor to try to calm myself and my heart that is having a fit. I can’t help it; I look back up. He is still glaring at me. Holy fuck, is anyone else seeing this? I pat my forehead again and cast down my eyes. Crap, crap, crap, crap. What did you expect, you idiot? Of course he hates you. I’m getting seriously claustrophobic. I need fresh air. I want to run from this church and do some serious binge drinking. I blow out a large breath.
“What’s up?” Bridget whispers.
“Hot flush,” I murmur.
She screws her face up in question. “What?” she mouths as she frowns at me.
I shake my head to try and signal for her to shut the fuck up, he’s watching. I look up again and see a trace of a smile on his face. Bastard, he’s doing this on purpose. He knows he’s affecting me. Christ, why am I such a loser? Gran distracts me and takes my hand, thank heavens for Gran. I give her a weak smile as she pats the back of my hand. The service begins and I am of course totally distracted. I am not even looking at the bride and groom.
My eyes are fixed on one person only. Every now and then he looks at me and our eyes meet, but he pulls away every time. He’s absolutely beautiful, it hurts just to look at him.
The priest signals it’s time for me to do a reading. Shit, what if I can’t talk? I shimmy out and head toward the steps when Joshua comes over and offers me his hand, and as I grab it, he squeezes it hard. Once again, I am reminded by a strong jolt of sexual energy that he zaps me with. I gasp and look up to see him smile a small, satisfied smile. Shit, OK, he’s affecting me. Its official, I don’t have one cool bone in my body. I may as well be an open book. Please ground, swallow me up now. Why in the hell am I so physically affected by this man? It’s abnormal. I blow out a breath and start my Psalm reading with goose bumps scattering all over my body.
I hope my nipples aren’t on high beam in the house of God. I am achingly aware of his carnal searing gaze fixed upon me. As I read, I see through my peripheral vision that he looks me up and down three times that I count. He clenches his jaw and moves his head to the left side as if trying to crack his neck whilst not taking his eyes off me. I can’t help but let a small smile slip. I know this move, he’s always done it, and it appears he hasn’t broken the habit. He does this when he is aroused. When we were together, he would do this when he saw me naked or in a swimming costume. My insides do a little jump for joy as it becomes clear to me, I still do it for him. Thank god, Operation Slim Down has paid off, and all those gym visits are having the desired effect. I feel a little of my confidence return. I finish my reading and go to return to my seat, and he holds out his hand to help me down the stairs, he squeezes it again and I feel the heat emanate from his body. I smile at him, but he doesn’t smile back. What in the world is going on here?
As I make it back to my seat, the bride and groom and party move over to the side to sign the marriage certificate, Bridget frowns at me. “What?” I whisper.
She leans in and looks around to make sure no one else is listening. “Why was he looking at you like that?”
“Like what?” I whisper.
“Like he was going to bend you over the church pew.”
I open my eyes wide at her to signify shut the hell up.
“Well?” she asks again.
“Don’t be stupid,” I snap as I rearrange my dress.
“I mean it,” she says. “And you, you were all flustered.”
“I was nervous, that’s all.”
“Bullshit,” she whispers. “I can smell his pheromones from here.”
I can’t help it, I smile.
“What’s funny?” she whispers.
For some strange reason I want to laugh. It feels good talking about this to Bridge, even though I have to deny it.
“So how did they smell?” I whisper. She frowns at me and I raise my eyebrows. “The pheromones, how did they smell?”
“Fucking awesome.” We both giggle and then she winks. “Too bad he’s off limits.”
Oh yes, I forgot to mention a small detail, a detail I try and not give too much thought to because it does my head in every time. Joshua and I share more than a history, we share blood. We are first cousins. His father and my mother are brother and sister, so when I tell you I can’t have this man, I truly mean it.
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