“Rupert Rochester of Ruttington—Baron? You’re called Rupert Rochester?”—Then, more slowly, “And you’re a bloody baron?”
“You know, you really shouldn’t wander around after dusk wearin’ your wallet on your sleeve.” These were Kit’s first words upon finding her peering at his passport beneath the cabana torch lights, his wallet lying discarded at her feet. Kit picked it up and rummaged through it, relieved to find all the cash accounted for.
“Rupert Rochester?” Shelly repeated, numbly.
“Oh. Ah. Well, yeah,” he said casually. “Didn’t I mention that I’m travelin’ under a false name?”
“Of Ruttington? Baron?”
Her husband seemed to be able to shed identities with snakelike ease. Who was this man? Her spouse wavered in the heat of her scrutiny. The truth about him was proving harder to find than Calista Flockhart’s pantry. Like all good con men, Kit knew to both conceal and reveal at the same time. It was psychological sleight of hand.
“Why?”
“’Cause, um, well—that’s my married name.”
“You’re married?” The word jolted through her. “To someone besides me? What are you? A mormon? I’m pretty sure question number one on the entry form was, ‘Are you single?’!”
“Well, mentally, emotionally and physically I’m single. But technically I am married, yeah.”
“So you’re a”—she tried to rev up her stalled brain and put it back into gear—“a bigamist?” Kit had thrown not a wrench but an entire toolbox into the works.
“Hey, it sounds more excitin’ than it is. In reality, it just doubles your chances of havin’ to take the garbage out.”
A few responses occurred to Shelly simultaneously.
1) Why couldn’t she see his lobotomy scar?
2) How the hell did he fit his cloven hooves into those running shoes?
3) Flee!
With option number 3 seeming the most sensible under the Salt-Lake-City-esque circumstances, Shelly spun on her heel and bolted as fast as her jarred ankle would take her, through the driving rain, back into her bungalow, where she deadlocked the door behind her. She’d been in a fog. But the fog was starting to lift. Kit Kinkade had merely been orchestrating her emotions and she had played along, as though responding to some invisible conductor’s baton. But this latest revelation had cooled her ardor to the temperature of a polar pond.
Oh, thank you, vagina! she raged at her body organ. Thank you for getting me into this. She thought about disconnecting her sexuality. Yes! That was it. She just wouldn’t pay the bills. She would ignore the reminder notes in red ink. She would allow her libido to be cut off. There was a knock at the door. But having renounced sex, she was a free person. She would simply ignore it, then leave first thing in the morning to live in a cave somewhere and study calligraphy.
Kit was still knocking at her door. “I know it looks bad, but really it’s not what you think. Let me in, Shelly. Give me a chance to explain.”
“Go away, Rupert!” Shelly stashed the gun at the back of her underwear drawer, changed out of her ridiculous outfit and, taking a pack of cigarettes from the minibar, ripped it open and lit up. And this was a woman who didn’t even smoke.
“Just open the door and let me in out of the goddamn rain. It’s a total downpour. I’m gettin’ drenched out here!”
“Well, I’m getting bleeps on my psycho-radar in here.”
“I’ll come clean, okay? Please, Shelly, come on. Lemme explain.”
“Piss off, Kit. I don’t know how else to say it…except perhaps with a stun gun.”
“I do have a wife, worst luck. Though you’re welcome to refer to her by her real name: Spawn of Satan.”
“The picture in the wallet,” Shelly deduced. She slumped against the door, placing her ear near the keyhole while puffing frantically on her cigarette. She was pretty sure that was what she’d seen people do in movies whenever they seemed on the brink of stabbing a swizzle stick into a temporal lobe. “Go on. I’m listening.”
“Like I told you, I went on hiatus from that crappy soap opera and hit the backpackers’ trail: Kathmandu, Goa, Koh Samui, Chiang Mai, Marrakech, Bali, Bondi…I met Pandora in Koh Samui. She was a Trustafarian, bummin’ around the world. We had some crazy adventures. It brought us together, you know? And, I guess, the attraction of being so opposite too. When goin’ travelin’ I got inoculated against malaria, typhoid and hepatitis…but not against Pandora-itis.”
“Look, could we do this in fifty words or less?” Shelly asked frostily through the door. After all, she had a hermit’s cave to get to. “So how did she become so toxic? This ‘wife’ of yours?”
“Okay. The shortened version. Can I come in? I’m still gettin’ real wet out here.”
“Good!” Shelly shouted through the door. If she had her way, he’d also be whipped raw with a salt-soaked rope, and pegged, twitching, in the sand for the crabs, like the true pirate he was.
“It was a mistake. We married within two measley months. We had to get hitched fast to avoid immigration hassles. Then Pandora’s brother was killed in some drug-related incident and she inherited the stately pile—”
“What’s that? A royal’s hemorrhoid?” Shelly puffed cinematically on her cancer stick in a caustic, Lauren Bacall kind of way.
“Ha ha. From that moment on she started to change. No more laughin’ at my stupid jokes. She started criticizin’ my clothes, my music. She enrolled me in elo-fuckin’-cution classes. She made me give up my buddies and only hang out with her snobbish pals: ‘I’ll let you play with my hyphen if I can play with yours.’”
“Oh poor boy, my heart bleeds,” taunted Shelly. “Forced to go social climbing when he had no head for heights. Call Amnesty International.”
“It may be news to you, Shelly, but when someone you love turns on you, well, it’s a kinda out-of-body experience.” (Tell me about it, she muttered, incinerated in a cloud of cigarette smoke.)
“‘Denial,’ I think shrinks call it,” Kit elaborated.
“Yeah, yeah,” Shelly ho-hummed. “That thing that’s not just a river in Egypt.”
“I remember feelin’ that I wanted to just crawl into an ashtray and die. I’d adored her so much.”
Shelly groaned contemptuously. “Just wait while I turn down The Jerry Springer Show so that I can hear you better…Oh! Wait! It is you. If you loved her so much then why didn’t you try to save the marriage?”
“I did, goddamn it! I read all the books, saw all the therapists. She, meanwhile, was lookin’ for a recipe that would best disguise the taste of strychnine. Although, would it really matter? Now that I’m about to die of pneumonia?”
Why should she believe him? This was just another case of Nothing but the Truth, the Whole Truth, the Varnished Truth.
“So.” Shelly put her head into her hands. “You want me to believe that after all the dangers you’ve survived on your travels—the avalanches, by tumbling with the snow and swimming to keep at the top; the forest fires, by heading into the wind and jumping over the flames; the tornadoes, by staying at right angles to its course; the lightning storms, by lying flat on the ground; the snake bites, the hypothermia, the earthquakes—you couldn’t survive one puny little marriage to a pissant trustafarian?”
“Spare me the Third Degree Sarcasm, Shelly. I got enough of that at the goddamn Stately Pile. Look. Bottom line. In marriage you can survive without love, but there’s got to be like.”
“Go on,” Shelly mumbled, snidely, almost inhaling her whole cigarette in one breath. “By now she won’t even talk to your plants unless it’s through her solicitor, right?”
“Right. What I didn’t know about the upper-class English,” Kit persevered, “is that they don’t marry for love. There’s always a lifeguard by their gene pool, ya know? Pandora only married me to get back at her dad. She never stopped talkin’ about what a rip-off artist he was.”
“Ho hum,” Shelly yawned. “The old ‘family tree full of sap’ routine. You’ll have to do better than that, Kinkade.”
“Oh, believe me, I wanna do just that. That’s why I left. Anyway, when her corrupt old man dies of a heart attack—shock, Pandora reckons, after her big brother OD’d—Pandora takes over his company.”
“And?”
“Let’s just say that she’s now followin’ in her father’s fingerprints.”
“You can talk, Rupert. None of this explains your false name.”
“Oh that. Well, at the time Pandora was worried about my drug conviction in the States, and…”
“Drug conviction? A bigamist fraudster who is also a wanted felon with a drug conviction?” Shelly sucked so hard on the ciggie she nearly swallowed it. “Oh, this just gets better and better.”
“Only for Ecstasy.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” she said, her voice dripping in disdain.
“Pandora thought my drug conviction would hinder her world travels, so she got me a false passport. When I married her in Thailand, it was under the name she’d chosen—Rupert Rochester. She added the Baron bit to impress her chinless pals. But Kit Kinkade’s my real name. Anyway, what I’m tryin’ to say, Shelly, is that I made a dumb-ass mistake. I wanna start over. It was only because I was broke and desperate that…”
“You thought you could parlay a spontaneous wedding and tropical honeymoon into an all-expenses-paid escape route from England,” Shelly clarified, huffily.
“Well, yeah, basically.”
“Which is why you were wearin’ that blonde wig when we got married?”
“Well, um, yeah. I’ve always found the best way to deal with any crisis is to stand firm, face your fears, then lie your goddamn head off.”
Shelly cross-examined him further. “What about Gaby’s film footage? You’re not in disguise now. If you’re on the run, won’t a prime-time slot on T.V. slightly blow your cover?”
“By the time her shitty show’s screened in England, I’ll be safely in Madagascar where no one can find me. But I can’t get gone until we get the rest of our cash from Gaby tomorrow.”
“So what you’re telling me is that basically you’ve just been using me! This whole bloody time!”
“Well, initially yeah. I confess. I was desperate! I had no choice but to pull somethin’ out of a hat and see if it’d hop. But then, well, I…I got feelin’s for you.”
“And I got a nervous breakdown!” Husbands are Novocaine for the soul, Shelly thought, igniting another cigarette from the butt of the last. “Why should I believe anything you tell me?”
“Occasionally a husband makes the transition to person, you know. I could make you really happy, Shelly.”
“Why? Are you leaving?”
“Yeah, with you. To Madagascar. Just as soon as you give me those tickets.”
“Me? With you? To Madagascar! No way. I’m never going anywhere with any man ever again.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Your mom was right all along—all men are bastards and all women are wonderful.”
“Listen, Kinkade, I’m not angry because I’m a woman, I’m angry because you are a prick!”
“You accused me of actin’ like a woman, right? Well, you’re actin’ like a guy. Here I am, pledgin’ myself to you. Only to discover that you’re too scared of commitment. You are just a sex-change waitin’ to happen, j’know that?!”
“I do not have trouble with commitment! Commitment is what got me into trouble in the first place! Commit. Commit. My only commitment will be to an institution for the criminally insane for ever allowing myself to marry you.”
“Okay, your old man let you down. And you got hurt. So now to prevent bein’ let down by a man ever again, you must sabotage our romance, by tellin’ yourself you don’t love me anymore.”
“That’s not true!” Shelly paused for dramatic effect. “I never loved you in the first place.”
“Open the door and say that to my face.”
She opened the door. And said it to his face.
And he said, “Can I kiss you?”
“Only if I can leave my cigarette in my mouth.”
He manacled her wrists and pushed her back against the doorjamb, grinding his hard body against her hips. He tore the cigarette out of her mouth and kissed her so long and so lusciously that when he finally pulled away, she had to check she still had her pants on.
“What would you say if I took you to bed?” he said, his eyes sparkling with dark desires and wicked notions.
“I’d say I can’t talk and laugh at the same time,” she replied, pushing him away. She could control her lust. She must. What was she otherwise? Just an organism. A blind, brainless sea cucumber like the ones she’d seen on the ocean floor.
“Is that right? Here’s the moolah you lent me, by the way.” He pressed the money into her hand, but didn’t let go. “Oh—look at those bumps and bruises! Oh honey. Did you get those on my behalf?” Kit ran a long, cool finger delicately up her arm. “I diagnose complete bed rest for at least a week. Doctor’s orders.”
“Oh right, doctor. Another lie. You know, I’d rather have a lethal injection of Ozzy Osbourne’s bathwater than go to bed with you,” Shelly said, but she didn’t squirm free.
“You can’t deny yourself affection, Shelly. How can you? It’s like denyin’ yourself oxygen. The mortality rate of women who have a lot of sex is less than half of gals who don’t. Sex also gives a woman better resistance to stress, clearer skin, increased tolerance to pain, improved circulation, stronger bones, memory enhancement, less chance of heart disease and healthier breasts.”
“How the hell do you know?”
“The doctor I played in that soap was a gynecologist.” Kit smiled, breezily. “I know your mom taught you to resist males, but I could teach you a different sort of Male Resistance trainin’ altogether…the contraction of the vaginal muscles durin’ orgasm.”
“Oh.” There was that Oh again. Her heart was skipping beats like a boxer in training. “So, what…what would a doctor prescribe for these abrasions of mine, do you think?”
“Full stomach-to-stomach resuscitation,” he said, as he tenderly kissed each scratch on her arms. Her body gave in straightaway. Traitor! she said to her crotch as it moistened insubordinately. Kit scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. His body was solidified light—all pure energy and heat. What chance did a woman stand? The man was the Sperminator—melting all logic and self-restraint in his sensuous wake. As soon as he had placed her upon the pillows he was licking and sucking her with the sort of sibilant exuberance men usually reserve for a plate of oysters. If she’d been able to talk, she would have quipped that she was oysters on the half Shell-y. When he laid his body on hers, feelings exploded in her like champagne. As Shelly Green finally, breathlessly, moved towards the consummation of her marriage, a long, low sigh escaped from her parted lips—as though she’d just reached the next level of Ashtanga yoga meditation.
It looked for one storm-tossed moment as though their leaky marriage might just make it to shore. Nothing could stop them now…
WE INTERRUPT THIS SEDUCTION TO BRING YOU A NEWS BULLETIN.
The sound was deafening and terrifying—the unmistakable, dull thud of a bomb. Kit sprang to the window, half-naked. “The re-enactment ship! It’s on fire. Must be the Liberation Front.”
With cunnilingus on offer, Shelly found herself curiously indifferent to political reform. She called him back to bed. She was primed now for some meaty lovemaking, festive and zealous. She would have an aphrodisiacal, paradisiacal consummation and she would have it now, terrorist attack or no terrorist attack, goddamn it!
But Kit didn’t return. Reluctantly she threaded her arms into his shirt and joined him on the balcony. The dock was alight also, great tongues of flame licking skywards. The heat ignited the fireworks, which had been set up for the re-enactment celebration but postponed because of the winds. The stormy sky was suddenly a phantasmagoria of fizzing lights.
The manager was scurrying around on the beach below Shelly’s bungalow, alerting nobody in particular that the mini sub was being stolen. “Le sub! Le sub!” The distant whah-whah screech of sirens heralded the arrival of the ambulances and police cars. There was pandemonium below as guests from the fancy-dress party at La Caravelle ran towards the beach to check what had happened. Shelly watched as four Abba-lookalikes collided on the path beneath her balcony and crumpled on top of each other. They were immediately pinned down by a giant armadillo who’d tripped over them and was now trying not to be disconcerted by the fact that his nose was slotted up President Bush’s bottom.
“I gotta go back to my room,” Kit announced, abruptly.
“What! Now? Why?” Shelly followed him back inside.
“Have you got the passport and tickets?”
“Yes, but…” She looked at Kit, bewildered. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but your husband is not supposed to lose interest in you sexually until after you’ve consummated your bloody marriage!”
“I am not losin’ interest in you sexually. How can you say that?” He licked his lips, pointedly.
“Gee, I dunno. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that during sex I looked up to notice that my husband was in another bungalow!”
“Sorry. It’s an emergency, Shelly. I’ve gotta go.” With brusque urgency, he ripped his shirt off her body, and stabbed his arms into the sleeves.
“I’ll go with you, then.” Shelly reached for a pair of jeans.
“No.”
She froze. The mechanically chilled air of the hotel room went clammy. “No?”
He looked at the floor, caught up in some private darkness.
“Why? What are you hiding this time?” Under the surface of his daily life was a whole other life that Kit lived, as if underwater. “Tell me. Explain yourself.”
Kit was guiltily cracking his knuckles as though to punish his hand. “What would you like for dinner, Shelly? A can of worms? ’Cause that’s what you’re gonna get if you keep interrogatin’ me like this.”
“Fine. Let’s ring room service then, shall we?…Waiter!” she shouted into the phone. “One can-of-worms-opener please!”
“Whereja put my passports and stuff?” He started ransacking her room.
“You are not leaving until you tell me what the hell’s going on.” Shelly barred the door.
Kit ran an agitated hand through his hair. “You’ll just have to trust me.”
The “T” word again. Hmmm. Truth and trust—weren’t they the first casualties in a time of war? It seemed Shelly’s only option was to undertake her own undercover work. She meekly handed over his hidden documents and let him out. She dressed quickly and then silently left the bungalow, shadowing him. Together they dodged police, firefighters, hysterical guests and falling coconuts from the storm-tattered trees, but he remained oblivious to his stalker. Eventually they reached his bungalow on the other side of the resort. Outside his door there were room-service plates and she noted, with rising panic, that they were meals for two.
The moment he turned the key in the lock, she was beside him, seizing his elbow. “Who the hell are you hiding in there? Coco? Your mysterious standby traveling companion? Elvis Presley? Osama Bin Bloody Laden?”
Before he could stop her, Shelly Green pushed past him and burst into the room. She stood, transfixed with surprise, dripping rainwater on the carpet. The TV was on; a Simpsons rerun. A Creole woman had risen in alarm at Shelly’s abrupt entrance. But this was not what skewered Shelly with amazement. Sitting on the floor in front of the TV, chewing crisps in open-mouthed absorption, was a little girl, aged about eight.
Shelly reeled around to face Kit, who was hard on her heels.
He paused, not knowing what to say, then shrugged, fatalistically. “Shelly, meet my daughter, Matilda.”
“You’re a…a father?” she asked, flabbergasted. The revelation cleaved her cranium like an ax.
“Yep.”
Shelly shook her head vigorously as though trying to dislodge swimming water from her ear.
“So, not only am I a wife but a stepmother?” She had a coughing fit worthy of Keats before collapsing onto the bed. “Jesus Christ. I teach children all day. I’m allergic to children. On certain days I absolutely hate them.”
Matilda eyed her suspiciously, rose from the floor, approached Shelly and kicked her hard on the shin.
It was obviously the start of a beautiful friendship.