A year ago…

“Ma, it’s me.”

“Oh darling, I thought you’d never call,” exclaimed my mother, happiness trembling in her tone.

“Of course I would, ma,” I sighed.

“I just thought, well,” she hesitated then switched to her former delight, “I’m just so glad to hear you again. I, no, we thought we had lost you.” By now tears would be filling her eyes, that’s my mother- the sensitive sought.

“You’ve not lost me, ma.”

She sniffed into her handset, “I’m so glad to hear that.”

Time for a change in subject, “So, ma, how is everyone?” and so begins a tirade of endless gossip.

“Well, Martha had a baby boy. Ooh, he’s a gorgeous little thing, big eyes just like his father and little ruddy cheeks. Martha’s well and all- but John is quite taken with his little boy. Don’t know what to call him yet though I see Parker or Peter; named after that Spiderman fellow. Now, what was his name?” my mother paused, her brain scouring for the information, “Percy Plum, no that’s not it…”

“Peter Parker, ma,” I supplied.

“Oh yes that’s it, wonderful name. Absolutely wonderful,” my mother was now lost to the realms of little tykes and their chubby mamas.

“Ma, ma?”

“Oh, sorry dear just got a little lost. You know what I’m like, old age and all that.”

“Yes, ma.”

“You would not believe whose getting married!”

“Who, ma?”

“Your cousin, Lu,” excitement glittered in her voice. My mother and weddings are an exhausting combination. She’s desperate to get me married off- preferably to wealth, the best marriage in the family etc. My gaze wanders toward the mantle, a little red box with golden borders sits on it, its contents deciding my future. “Dear?”

“Sorry, ma. So Lu is getting married. Who’s the lucky man?”

“This musician,” my mother waits for a reaction but receives none, “he has tattoos as well, Joanne’s furious threatening to disown her and Phil is only too happy for Louise.
So now Phil’s moved in to the house and I have- reluctantly I might add- agreed to be their messenger.”

Eager to end this conversation I switch topics, “Ma, how’s Susannah?”

“Susannah?” my mother asked, quite clearly shocked at me asking.

“Yes, ma. Susannah.”

My mother stuttered and then mumbled something incoherent, “Well. She’s,” my mother searched for the word, “coping,” she concluded. Knowing this was all I was going to learn I asked to speak to my father.

“Is that my little girl?” my father exclaimed.

“Daddy!” I cried. Oh! how I had wanted him to say that.

“How are you darling?” my father asked his voice flowing with emotion.

“Fine, daddy, fine,” I replied not wanting to stress him.

“Get home okay?”

“Fine, daddy, fine.”

“Work treating you well? The boss isn’t mad is he?”

“No dad, he’s not,” I sighed into the receiver, my body sinking into sleep.

“Good, good.”

The hesitance in my father’s stance proved he was desperate to tell me what my mother had been afraid to say.

“Dad, what is it? What’s happened?”

Inside I already knew the answer, the answer I had long denied. Tears surfaced and slid down the smooth curve of my cheek, my complexion pale. It didn’t matter anymore. I was over that chapter in my life. Wasn’t I? My head throbbed in agony, vivid memories emanating within my troubled emotions, the thoughts shrouding me from perspective: a cloud obscuring my view.

I could hear my mother and father silently quarrelling. They stopped. My father came back on the phone. “Darling, Susannah and Hayden are getting married.”

And with that I put the phone down.


 

‘The hardest challenge is to be yourself in a world where everyone is trying to make you be somebody else.’
E. E. Cummings

Prologue
The air of privilege hangs in the air like burnt rubber, and I‘m gagging for freedom. The air hostess remains oblivious. If flying to England means I have to submit to this torture, perhaps I should have avoided going there all together, but - as with most things in life- I have no choice. With an inheritance to claim and a father to lie at rest, I have to return home even if that means being subjected to the eau de wealth. I would have, should have, flown economy, but being the private person I am, I like my space, comfortable seating and a delicious view of the blackened skies out of my window. Ah, perfect.

Slouching further into my seat, I drown the remaining contents of the plastic glass till only a dewdrop of water lay in its wake. Fortunately, the seat beside me is vacant allowing me a good view of the others in my row. A man is tapping away at his keyboard, the tips of his fingers numb and white, as he stabs in another set of numbers. He pauses for a minute, studying the screen in front of him, his neck bent slightly, his crop of chestnut hair disheveled and scruffy - clearly in need of a good wash - he sighs and his shoulders droop pulling back his head, as he stares up at the ceiling of the plane, his hands at rest on his keyboard. He looks around, as if he’s searching for some thing, some thought. Then, his eyes rest on me. His face is slightly drawn in, his jaw masculine and rather square. His cheekbones defined and straight, heading from his temple to the flares of his nostrils, his nose short but slightly hooked, stubble littering his face. His eyes, green emeralds, flicker as if beneath the jewel exterior lies a raging fire. My breath catches. His presence is calm and assuring, yet, the passionate fire darting in his pupils entrances me and I am captivated.

He smiles, his lips drawing into a coy grin like that of a schoolboy. I revert my gaze, so no meaningless words pass his or my lips. I pick up my book, my actions lacking enthusiasm and I find the page I was at and begin reading.


I think I must have spent half an hour on that single page, my mind clouding with thought and wonder, all directed at the man sitting to my left- so much for a vacant seat. He mutters something, incoherent to others, but to me it was like a sweet lullaby playing effortlessly into my ear. His voice was deep and lustful. I giggle. It felt so good to be flirted with, a feeling that had been rare for the last six months. My cheeks redden as his flirting escalates. My book is my only chance for sanctity from this outrageous man.

He lowers my book, drawing my head towards him.

I do not resist.

He ducks his head so his lower lip is just floating above my own.

I do not resist.

He closes his eyes and wraps an arm around my back.

I do not resist.

He is just about to kiss me when I catch a sight of his laptop screen almost closed, yet, open enough for me to catch a glance at its contents. There are words scrawled on a newspaper template, sentences that I have seen before, paragraph after paragraph of lies.

He kisses me and I resist.

I stand up and take my leave to the bathroom. His expression shot with confusion, my face a maelstrom of tears. I walk into the little cubicle, close the door, and sit on the toilet seat. My head in my hands and I cry.