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IT’S RAINING IN LONDON. Gray, dull, and depressing. No wonder Max prefers New York; even if it’s cold in winter, the skies are so often blue back home.
Emma’s mother is a sweetheart. She lives in a little house in Hampstead near Hampstead Heath, a wild and sprawling park where people take their dogs for rambling walks or play soccer on Sundays. Although part of London, Hampstead is like a village full of adorable pubs and quaint shops. Emma’s mom, Doris, has set me up in a cozy room at the top of the house, decorated with flowery wallpaper – quintessentially English – and she’s treating me like a daughter – she misses Emma so much.
I’ve done some wonderful sight-seeing here: the Crown Jewels, Big Ben, and the Houses of Parliament, Portobello Rd, a street market on Friday and Saturday mornings where you can pick up silver for nothing and vintage clothes. Actually, despite the weather, this city really does have its charm. It feels like dozens of villages melded together, each with their unique character. I’ve been going out with some of Emma’s friends who are more than welcoming. They have been taking me to local pubs, the theatre, and walks along the Thames. The food in England is not the terrible cuisine some people describe. Those days are long gone. Now, the cuisine is eclectic and plentiful with fabulous restaurants on every corner, the best of all being Indian food, inexpensive and delicious.
I have had some business meetings here, too. I couldn’t justify to myself coming all this way to basically stalk Max’s ex-fiancée. I needed a better reason, so I have visited some television stations – making a few connections and fanning about some ideas. The British have always done great documentaries – so far, I have been taken seriously and given a list of people to contact for future projects. Cecile needs my input more than ever.
I flew here straight from Costa Rica. I couldn’t face New York, so I still haven’t ventured into my new apartment, and I haven’t worked out what I’m going to do. I’ve called Max several times, but he is always too busy to discuss things in detail, or doesn’t want to. He simply won’t let me return the gifts. The Mercedes must be sitting in the garage in New York by now. I called Sylvie. She had a wonderful trip with her friend driving across the States. It was she who provided me with Natasha’s address.
It is my final day here in London.
I have left the most daunting task until last.
I STAND BY NATASHA’S front door nervously. It doesn’t look dissimilar to number 10 Downing Street where the British Prime Minister lives, with a big brass knocker and letterbox. The wood is painted in a high gloss black, flanked by matching wrought-iron railings. It is all extremely ‘grown-up’ and intimidating. And it screams serious wealth. I wonder if Natasha bought this place with all her modeling money or if her husband’s rich. I seem to remember Max once mentioning that he works in the City; a hedge-fund manager or something – the type that makes a million or two just for his Christmas bonus?
Finally, I pluck up the courage to rap the doorknocker: the threatening head of a hefty brass lion.
Nobody answers.
My heart is pounding. Is it because I’m uninvited? Or that Max was once so in love with Natasha, all those years ago? I don’t know the answer, but blood is drumming in my ears and my hands are clammy with trepidation. Finally, I hear footsteps.
The door opens slowly, guardedly. A head peeks out. By the way the person is dressed, I guess that she’s a member of staff. “May I help you?” the voice inquires with suspicion.
“Hi,” I say beaming to try and hide my nerves. “I’ve come to see Natasha.”
“Mrs. Curtis?”
“Yes, is she in?”
“Do you have an invitation?”
Er, no. “I tried calling,” I manage with a dry throat. Why am I so nervous?
“Who should I say is paying her a visit?”
Jeez, this is so formal. “Arielle.”
“You’re a salesperson?”
“No, my name’s Arielle. Arielle Watson.”
“Wait one moment please.”
I’m already feeling as small as a sparrow, but when the door is closed on me, I feel as if I might as well be invisible. I wait. Five minutes later, the door opens. Wide. My jaw drops. A tall woman in her early thirties stands before me, who is achingly beautiful. She must be at least five ten or eleven because I’m like a shrinking violet in comparison. She’s dressed in tight jeans, her legs go on forever. Her hair is wavy, long and blonde, her smile broad, with perfect, movie star teeth. She holds a black cane in her hand with a mother-of-pearl handle.
She greets me like a long-lost friend. “Arielle, come in.”
I step into the immense hallway. The floors are white marble, and a huge bunch of calla lilies adorns a big round table in the middle of the entrance, the table draped with pale blue shot-silk.
“Sorry, I wasn’t expecting company, the place is a mess,” she says with a faint giggle.
The ‘place’ is immaculate. Natasha is immaculate.
I offer her my hand. “So nice to finally meet you. Max always speaks...always spoke,” I correct myself, “so fondly of you.”
“Well, I’m sorry he’s not here right now but he’s been in a meeting all day – you know how it is with him? Always jetting off on a plane somewhere to make another deal, always wheeling and dealing. Come through, would you like some tea?”
Did I hear that right? ‘Sorry, Max isn’t here right now?’ No, she must have said his name by mistake. It must be her husband she’s referring to.
I follow her through to a grand room. She has a slight limp but nothing you’d hardly notice. I look about me in awe. The walls are hung with what look like grand masters, the vast sash windows are letting in an afternoon glow. I notice she’s wearing a huge ring on her engagement finger, not unlike mine.
She sits on a sofa and jingles a little bell. Her back is erect, her posture perfect. “I’ll call for some tea and cake. I always get a bit peckish at this time of day,” she says in a plummy British accent (like some aristocratic character out of the TV show, Downton Abbey).
“Did you mention Max not being around?” I venture edgily.
The same woman who answered the door to me earlier comes in to the room. “You called, madam?”
“Yes, Mrs. Potter. Tea for two please. Lapsang Souchong. Oh no, actually that might be a little too fancy for our American guest – make it basic PG Tips or whatever builders’ tea we have.” She smiles sweetly at me, and I wonder if I have just heard correctly – Too fancy for our American guest?? Builders’ tea?
“Where was I?” she continues in her posh accent. “Oh yes, Max is out. He’ll be so upset he missed you.”
Max? This is crazy, what does she mean? “Where’s your husband?” I creak out, my mouth dry and parched. I need that tea even if it is only fit for builders.
“My soon to be ex-husband, you mean? Or are you referring to Max, my fiancé?”
“You...and...Max...are seeing each other again?” My brain is thumping with blood, I feel as if I’m about to collapse.
“Didn’t he tell you?”
“I haven’t spoken to him...I–”
“We’re going to be married, Arielle.”
“But...but...that’s impossible! He was engaged to me, he was going to marry me. You’re not divorced yet, Max would never—”
“Well, we’re an item again. He had a little...what should we call it...a detour. With you. You were the rebound, Arielle, his solace after a broken heart. I’m sorry, it must be very painful to hear this but...well...he’s always been in love with me, surely you guessed that?”
My hands are shaking, my breathing pinched. I think of her taking her vacations still, at his house in Provence. “But you were happily married to–”
“We never stopped loving each other, Max and I.”
“You’re sleeping with him?” I cry out, trying to keep control of my frayed nerves.
She cackles with laughter. “Sleeping is not exactly the word I’d use.”
“But he was...he was in love with me.”
“No, Arielle. He was in ‘lust’ with you, for a brief spell. But he never had me out of his thoughts, not for a second. You were – oh, I’m sorry, would you like a tissue, there, there, don’t cry now.”
But I can’t help it. Tears are flowing down my cheeks. She hands me a box of Kleenex, and I snivel and blow my running nose into a wad of them, but there aren’t enough to soak up my gushing tears. I’m making a complete spectacle of myself and am about to get up and leave but her cell phone rings. My curiosity’s piqued. She answers and starts laughing and joking. I feel sick. She’s stunning. Fun. And the worst thing of all? Max has been in love with her the whole time. She ends the call and beams at me.
“That was Jenny, she’s coming over in an hour. Do stay, I’m sure she’d love to see you.”
“But you said Jenny was dangerous. That she tried to kill you!”
“No, surely not?”
My voice hitches and heaves, “You called me, Natasha, and told me not to go to Vegas, that Jenny could ‘top me off,’ that she had politicians and police in her pocket and...and...”
“Oh, poor Arielle, so gullible. I just didn’t want Max to marry you. I had to stop him somehow.”
“So it was all a lie about Jenny?”
She lays her cane down and smoothes her slim hand over her luscious blonde locks. “Jenny’s a pussycat at heart. Okay, she can be a bit frosty sometimes but it’s just her manner. In fact, if she says mean things it’s her way of communicating. It’s when she’s silent you have to watch out. I can’t believe you thought she was out to kill you.” She laughs raucously. “Max told me as much – that you were suffering from delusions about Jenny. Tut-tut, Arielle, not the best way to warm him up, you know how close they are. You couldn’t have picked a better way to alienate yourself from him. Oh, and bossing him around the way you did. Not the best of moves.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Sweet, charity-giving Natasha is a total bitch!
She widens her huge, blue eyes and talks on. “Ironically, Jenny actually rather likes you, likes your quirkiness. It took me years for her to warm up to me, yet you...well, you two could have been friends if you’d given her more of a chance. She’s had a shit life so she’s a bit tough on the outside, but actually, she’s really sweet when you get to know her.”
I’m silent now. The sound of my tears has been taken over by my heartbeat, which feels as if it’s about to explode in my chest.
“So how did your accident happen? Nothing to do with Jenny, then?” I ask.
“Of course not! It was bad luck, that’s all. A load of children’s toys had been left on the steps. I was tipsy. I tripped. I fell. End of story.”
“But it’s not the end of the story! You split Max and me up! You told me a lie!” I screech at her.
“Far better that you broke up before that silly marriage of yours took place. Max would have come back to me no matter what, even if it meant divorce. He’s been desperately in love with me Arielle, from the day we met. And I with him.”
“Then why did you marry your husband...James?”
“Because I was a cripple, for fuck’s sake. You think I wanted Max to look after me, to shackle him like a slave to a disabled person? I loved him too much for that. Besides, he had no money then. He was just starting up his company, he didn’t have a bean – I needed stability, someone who could look after me properly.”
“You used your husband?”
“James wanted to be with me. It wasn’t ‘using’ him. But the moment I was really better, able to lead a normal life...well, it seemed right that Max and I should get back together. I mean literally, all I had to do was click my fingers and he was waiting for me. He’d been hoping all along, that’s why he’s always been in touch and remained friends just in case, in case I changed my mind. All this physical slog I’ve put my body through – the physiotherapy I’ve been slaving away at – has been so we can be a normal, functional couple again.”
She used her husband as a means to an end. I want to shout at her, but all I can do is start blubbering again like a child who has fallen off a bicycle she realizes is too big for her to manage.
“Now, now Arielle, don’t cry. You’ve come away with all sorts of goodies – he’s been more than generous when he didn’t need to be. Two fuck-off apartments, two fuck-off cars, a ready-made business, all sorts of gorgeous jewelry, oh, and let’s not forget that Birkin bag I see you carrying. Obviously you could never afford to buy that for yourself. Max offered me a Birkin but I thought it was too passé – preferred a Kelly, myself. But still, do you have any idea how much that’s worth? That color’s unusual – looks like a one-off. That handbag must have cost a bloody fortune, not to mention the fact that there’s a queue as long as my arm to even get one in the first place. Max must have pulled some serious strings. That pretty bag probably cost him...ooh, I don’t know, upwards of forty grand. Beyond generous, I’d say. So why, Arielle, are you feeling so sorry for yourself?”
The way she uses ‘fuck-off’ as an adjective to describe something fabulous is typically British – I’ve heard it before – yet it rings in my ears as if I have been punched in the head. ‘Fuck off’ – that is basically what Max has done – told me to fuck off, yet sweetened it with all his amazing gifts. But nothing has been sweet, just sour and bitter. And this is the sourest news of all.
I manage to get out in a rasp, “I don’t care about material stuff, it’s Max I want.”
Natasha tosses her head. “Well, you’re too late. And anyway, he was fond of you, it’s true, but he thinks you’re a total loony. All that lesbian bondage nonsense – oh and your slutty past. So not his style.”
No! he would never share that – it’s my personal life! “He told you?” I ask incredulously.
“Of course he did, we don’t hold any secrets from each other.”
“But that’s not like him, he would never do that.”
“I’m his best friend, Arielle, as well as his true love – he tells me everything, he confides in me. He can’t believe he took you so seriously. Look, I have to be cruel to be kind here...” she lowers her voice almost to a whisper... “he doesn’t love you. He never really has. You had a laugh, that’s all. You had some steamy sex, maybe, but it’s me he loves. And besides, you couldn’t even give him a child, you never even managed to get pregnant. He wants a family. You and he were all wrong right from the word go. Do yourself a favor, Arielle, get over him, find yourself a nice American boy with whom you have something in common.”
“Max and I have so much in common!”
“Bollocks. You Americans don’t get our acerbic sense of humor. You’re all so earnest and, ‘have a nice day’. We’re different from you lot. You need someone more your own age, too. Ah, look the tea’s arrived. Do you take milk?”
Mrs. Potter waddles in with a tray. I get up, unsteady on my feet. I feel as if I’m going to faint. “No thank you, I need to go.”
“Please yourself. I’ll tell Max you dropped by.”
I turn around. I need to know one last thing. “What about Prince?”
She throws up her hands. “Prince? Well, we’ll have him shipped over here, of course. I hate New York, wouldn’t dream of living in that shithole, so we’ll be in London full time. That’s when we’re not wintering in the Caribbean, that is. I’m not big on dogs but you know, he’s Max’s pride and joy so I suppose I’ll have to deal with the creature.”
The creature? I want to slap her face and would, but she’d probably beat me with her witch’s cane.
I slowly begin to slink out of the house feeling like the most worthless human being alive.
Natasha remains cheery and nauseatingly jolly, waving as I leave. But just as I reach the door, she calls after me, “Shame about your divine Mark Finn wedding dress – what a waste.”
I pretend I don’t hear. It’s as if she has sucked out all my energy with her painful words. I have no gumption, no force or ammunition left inside me to defend myself. There I was talking with Emma about women needing armor and I had none. I feel shamed. My head is slung low like a beaten dog, I pad out of the house, my misery trailing me like a murky shadow.
I am so crushed and weak that I decide to sit on a park bench by the square that faces her grand house to regroup my fragmented dignity. I get out my iPod and put on the first song I see – the Blues – Billie Holiday, Foolin’ Myself. How apt. I stay there for a good few minutes mulling over all the cruel but probably truthful things Natasha has told me, or rather, fired at me like a relentless machine gun. I agree with Billie Holiday, I am through with love and I’ll have nothing more to do with love. What’s the point ever opening myself up again? Even if I had gone through with the marriage in Vegas with Max, it would have, at some point, come to an abrupt end. Max is still in love with Natasha. As she said, I was just a ‘detour’. The ‘rebound’.
I think of my beautiful wedding gown, probably being worked on right now. Crystals being hand-sewn on the train, the exquisite silk smoothed and pressed, a myriad of tiny, feminine fingers working on all the details. I noticed Mark Finn had mostly women in his atelier, busy as dedicated bees, their keen eyes supervising every fine stitch, every delicate fold. What am I going to do about that dress, that work of art? The truth is it would be better off in a museum.
And just when I’m praying that there may have been some mistake, some misunderstanding, or that it could all be a fantasy on Natasha’s part, Reality slaps me in the face. I see the thing I’m dreading most in the world – Max approach Natasha’s front door.
I observe the scene, wishing I could look away but I am transfixed. He’s holding what looks like a gift-wrapped box. She opens the door, tosses her golden mane and throws her loving arms around his broad shoulders.
Then the glossy black door with its brass lion’s head shuts with a bang. I feel as if it has slammed right in my face.
It wasn’t Jenny who was my enemy. No.
It’s been Natasha all along.
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END OF BOOK 2
To continue reading Book 3, My Knight Shining CLICK HERE