SHE DECIDED TO CALL PETER. See if he was free after work. Invite him out for a drink. Get drunk in bars down laneways, like secret lairs.
He came to meet her at their old favourite, a basement bar with old world décor, chesterfields and rich wood panelling, crystal globe lamp shades hanging from ornate ceilings. He’d come alone but had already told her that Gerard would be meeting them there later. At first, Elena was horrified at the thought, then curiosity filled her. The idea of meeting the person who, at least in her imagination, had usurped her husband’s affections. Ex-husband, she mentally corrected herself.
They went to sit at the far end of the bar where there was an L-shaped bank of seats, high tables and scattered stools. They ordered cosmopolitans and antipasto, sank back into the plush red velvet cushions.
“So what’d you do today?” Peter asked.
She shook her head. “You don’t want to know.”
“What – no details of your hot date?” he continued with a sly grin.
“How did you know about my date?”
“You told me.”
“Oh, that’s right.” She took a swig of the potent drink. “Anyway, it wasn’t a date, just a catch-up.”
He nodded – still smiling. “Semantics, El. But you still have to tell me all the details.”
Elena took another gulp, swallowed sharply. She set the glass down, and settled further into the cushions.
“So?”
“It was good. He’s nice.”
“And?”
Elena raised her eyebrows. “Well, I don’t know. I’m seeing him again on the weekend – he’s coming down. It’ll be nice.”
“Nice. There’s that word again. God, it’s like pulling teeth.”
She laughed at that – what else was there to say? She could hardly tell him of how she’d asked for a gun from Tom, and the way he’d agreed to help, although not in the way she’d expected. The way he hadn’t pressed for further details, just listened attentively, the quiet contemplation, the complete lack of judgment. And the way he’d roused something in her so long forgotten. When was the last time she’d felt like that? Not since the early days with Peter.
“I’m doing what you told me to do,” she said finally, decidedly. “I’m claiming my life back.”
“So you do listen to me?”
“Apparently so.” She smiled.
The waitress came over with their antipasto, and slid it onto the table with a flourish. Elena smiled up at her. There were olives and skewered slices of ham, bocconcini and elegantly sliced slivers of carrot and cucumber. There was a ceramic pot in the middle filled with a luscious creamy dip – hummus, perhaps? – and a fistful of bread sticks standing upright, as though at attention. Peter asked for more drinks, gave the girl a smile.
“You know you’re supposed to order at the bar,” she said, raising tapered fingers to her face, an unconscious gesture.
“Well,” he replied slowly, conspiratorially, “I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.”
The girl had a stud in her eyebrow and a big pink bow tied on her hair, ruby red lipstick. She looked at Peter, lips slightly pouted, and turned to Elena for guidance. As though she might be the one to pull him back into line.
Elena gave her a shrug. “He usually gets his own way.”
“Well,” the girl said in a flirtatious manner, “I suppose I could make an exception … just this once.”
He grinned. “That’s the way.”
The waitress floated off, throwing a smile over her shoulder as she went. Peter had that effect on women. His disarming sociability – the ease of his manner – combined with those looks: tall, impeccable, startling blue eyes. You could get lost in them. You could forget yourself. She’d been there; she knew how intoxicating that feeling was, like you were the only woman alive.
Elena rolled her eyes. “You’re incorrigible.”
He raised an eyebrow in mock surprise. “What?”
“A little false advertising, don’t you think?”
It was his turn to laugh. “I know, I know. But it’s fun.” He was folding up a piece of ham, a piece of goat’s cheese and cucumber parcelled inside. “Anyway, I’ll be on my best behaviour once Gerard arrives.”
“I’m curious,” she said.
“It’s not too weird for you?”
She gave him something between a nod and a shake. “Yeah, a bit. But it’s good too. Boundaries, you know. We’re still too much like an old married couple, except without the marriage.”
“And the sex.”
“I’m serious,” she protested, although she was feeling the vodka, the warmth of it in her belly, and sounded anything but.
“I know, El. Nothing’s changed – I still love you. But you’re right – boundaries are good.” He held up his hands up in agreement. “We need … boundaries.”
“So,” she said, warming up to something else.
But the waitress had come back. She put the cosmopolitans on the table, between the side plates and the big platter. Peter had fished a fifty from his wallet and held it out to her. She lit the candle on the table, a flicker of blue then vibrant orange, before sliding the note into the pocket of her apron and leaving with a happy swish.
Elena was reaching for the bread sticks, eyes on the dip. They finished the first round before she spoke again: “I went to Boonvale today, to see the old place. Dunno why. Spoke to the lady who lives there. She doesn’t know what happened to mum.”
“Oh, El,” he said, almost sadly. “What the hell did you do that for?”
She fingered the stem, pushed away the empty glass. “I have no idea. I, uh, missed the turn-off and ended up out there.” Elena chuckled softly. “I mean, Boonvale of all places. I should’ve left, but …”
“Did you think you might see her?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“So why go?”
“Like I said, it just happened.”
There was a pause.
“Elena, she doesn’t deserve your love. Never did.”
“I know. But part of me still wants hers.” She dipped her head. “Even after everything she did.”
“That’s understandable. Every kid wants to be loved.”
She blinked away sudden tears. “God, why am I even talking about this?”
Peter smiled a sympathetic smile. “The cosmos, I’d say.”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to kill the mood like that. I’m just —”
He waved a dismissive hand. “Get it off your chest. Better out than in.”
Elena shrugged tiredly, and reached for the fresh drink. She wanted to change the subject, to drop it entirely, but she’d been the one to bring it up. A dark thought surfaced; came out before she could check it. “I’m not good enough.”
“What?”
“Sometimes I feel like I’m not enough.”
“Not enough for who?”
She shrugged again. “You, her, Daniel … everyone.”
“You,” Peter said. “You’re not enough for you.”
“You might be right,” she replied softly.
“I am right.” He leaned back and rested an arm along the top of the seat. “Have you seen the way the kid looks at you? The adoring little face. Hell – I do it too. For the rest of us you’re the sun and we’re just your shadows.” He laughed, then reached for his drink.
“Thanks,” she said.
“I mean it, El.”
“I know you do.”
He smiled and held out his glass in a cheers. And that old feeling rose inside her: that regardless of what had happened his devotion would endure for a lifetime. It was still tinged with loss, which often washed over her like a wave, but something had shifted. Elena wondered if she was finally moving on, if she had finally accepted their marriage was over.
Suddenly, appearing from a sea of bodies crowding the bar, a man came striding forward – tallish and pale, his movements jarring in the bustling space.
“That’s him.” Peter squeezed her elbow and pointed.
They both waved, and watched Gerard approach. Elena’s heart pounded and soared. She swallowed her nerves, and gave him a genuine smile as he finally reached the table, one hand already outstretched towards her.
“You must be Elena.” He took her hand and leaned in to give her a kiss on one cheek, then the other.
“Gerard Bates, the movie star?” She smiled.
He chuckled. “Gerard Butler. I wish. I might not have to work such long hours then.” Gerard squeezed her shoulder. “Peter’s told me all about you. I confess to feeling slightly intimidated to be in the presence of such beauty and grace.”
Elena tapped the seat beside her. “Well, I do what I can.”
Gerard snorted. “I like her already.”
Peter was on his feet. She watched as he went around the table to kiss Gerard on the cheek, the lingering hand on his arm, the smile like an inside joke. She felt a twinge of jealousy, swallowed it down.
“Great place.” Gerard looked around the room with its sparkling orbs and the powder-coated steel panels that separated the bar from the restaurant. Stainless steel army ammo boxes were used as coffee tables, throwing the overhead light across the parquetry floor in slivered patterns. For a moment, Elena saw the space as he might: a magical sight to behold.
They ordered more food – Turkish bread and dips – and another round of drinks. Elena sat between them, sinking back into the pillowy back rest so that she might see both their faces as they spoke. Up close, she could see what Peter saw in him. He wasn’t handsome. He had sallow skin, and slightly jerky hand movements. His features were sharp, a long nose, pointed chin, and mousy brown hair that was thinning at the temples – even though he was only in his early forties – but when he smiled his eyes sparkled and seemed to light up his whole face. And most of all, he exuded an aura of such calm energy that she felt utterly enthralled by his presence.
When he got up she took her chance to tell Peter what she thought of him. “Oh, my goodness. He’s absolutely magnificent!”
Peter beamed like a proud parent. “What did I tell you?”
“I’m really happy for you, Peej.”
“You really like him? You’re not just saying that?”
Elena saw the way his lips pursed, as he waited for her reply. In that moment it became clear that if she truly loved him, that if love was really everything, she needed to let him go. And his asking her this wasn’t a simple thing, like a clothing choice, or a weekend plan. All his life he’d done what other people wanted – including following in the family business, getting married. Even his own name had been inherited from his grandfather. For Peter, being a Jameson was more a curse than a privilege. A set of rules to be adhered to, regardless of the personal cost. And even though she knew he had truly loved her, he hadn’t been in love with her. How hard must it have been, then, to admit he was gay? How hard must it have been to walk into the bar and not even be able to kiss his boyfriend on the mouth?
“Yeah, I do,” she said, and put one hand to his cheek, as if to reinforce her point. She felt a swell of pride, and something like relief, because, as the saying went, the truth really did set you free. “You’ve done well, boss.”
Gerard came back. Slipped back into his spot. He gave her an awkward smile.
Elena rested her head against the back of the seat, calming her nerves. It heartened her to know that she wasn’t the only one feeling the strange dynamic of the old partner meeting the new one, like the passing of a baton.
Peter must have felt it too because he cleared his throat, muttering something about getting more drinks, and sailed into the throng. They both watched as he weaved his way towards the bar.
“So,” Gerard said.
“So,” she replied.
He cleared his throat. “Are you sure you’re OK with me being here? It can’t be easy for you.” His words came out staccato, infused with a genuine fear that they might offend. Fortunately – and she would soon put him out of his misery – there was none. A blush crept up his cheeks, a florid bloom.
“Not at all,” Elena replied, too emphatically. She frowned. Tried again. “I mean, it is kind of weird.” Another pause to steady herself. “But it was always going to be, wasn’t it? You know, the person you loved …”
“Now loves somebody else,” he finished gently.
“Exactly. But,” she sat up and placed her palms on the table, the empty glass between her splayed fingers, “now that I’ve met you I feel better.”
Gerard smiled with visible relief.
When Peter came back he eyed them suspiciously. “What are you two talking about?”
His tone was light but there was an edge to his expression, as though he had factored in there might be some awkwardness, but not that they would connect so easily. And now, didn’t know what to do about it. This peculiar jealousy.
She grinned up at him, toying with his discomfort. “You, of course.”
“Yes,” Gerard muttered. “And it’s all bad too.”
Peter was putting down the tray, Gerard swapping the new glasses for the old. There was no room left on the table, the detritus, for the second time that day, she realised, of half-eaten food, glassware, and crumped serviettes.
Peter smiled a slightly drunken smile, and clambered back onto the seat. “You lie!” he said, jovially, a little louder than necessary. “Admit it – you both love me more than life itself.”
There was a moment of silence then as the words settled on them.
They stayed until closing time.
“We should go,” Peter said, far from sober. “Before they lock us in.”
“Fine by me,” Elena said. “Can’t remember where I left the car anyway.”
“Come to the apartment with us,” Gerard said. He turned to Peter for approval. “You don’t mind, do you?”
Peter slid from the seat, shaking his head furiously. “Not at all. You can’t drive after all those drinks anyway.” He stumbled slightly, collecting the corner of the table and bouncing back. “Even if you could find your car,” he added with a laugh.
Out in the laneway, they stumbled over the cobblestones like a tap shoe shuffle. Gerard had gone ahead to prop up a wall on the corner. Peter and Elena followed. They passed an alcove, with a doorway at the end, the entrance blocked by an industrial bin. Elena stopped, a furry memory at the edge of her recall.
When Peter doubled back, he snorted.
“What?” she said.
“You don’t remember?”
Elena looked again, eyes on the door. “Oh, God,” she turned to him in mock horror. “I do now.”
One night, so many years ago, they’d come out to the deserted street, and ended up in that very alcove. And up against the door, his hands beneath her thighs, her own hands pulling him deeper into her, until she bit down on the collar of his shirt to stop herself from crying out. Strange, what the mind stored for perpetuity. She felt a creeping heat at the back of her neck, whether from embarrassment or remembered lust she didn’t know.
“Don’t tell Gerard,” he whispered quickly.
“No,” she whispered. “No-one needs to know about that.”
Peter and Gerard decided to go back to his apartment. They insisted she come along, but she politely declined, felt like she was overstepping. Elena decided to sleep it off elsewhere and went with them in a taxi to a nearby hotel. They went inside together, and once the room was organised, Peter took her upstairs and hefted her onto the bed with an almighty thud. Then, with one final kiss on the forehead, pulled the door shut behind him and left her in the darkness. The last thing she remembered before sleep were the city lights twinkling through the gauzy curtains on the far side of the room.
When Elena got home the next day the sunshine was impossibly bright. She squinted, even with her glasses on, felt the world swimming. She walked gingerly up the steps, flicking her shoes off by the mat, fumbling for her keys. Then she stepped inside, turned the key in the deadbolt, checked it again for good measure. The house was silent and she saw she had eight messages on the answering machine by the door. And down by the floor, where the jack plugged into the wall, was a loose cable.
A moment’s pause.
She leaned down and plugged the cord back in. Her back twinged, gave her a start. She straightened. To dislodge the pain.
Ya gunna be fuckin’ sorry, Ella.
“What?”
She was shaking her head, suddenly alert.
Each message was a variation on the last: a stream of vile invectives and threats of what was to come. The voice was gravelly and unfamiliar – could have been any one of Anderson’s cronies – and, much to her annoyance, the feral idiot had got her name wrong. It was a trivial thing to pick up on but, then again, there were no manuals for how to respond to this kind of menace.
Ya hear me, ya fuckin’ bitch?
A week ago she would have been beside herself with horror, but found herself listening with a strange detachment, as though this were happening to someone else. It was amazing, she thought, a person’s ability to adapt to a new reality in such a short space of time. It made her glad she’d asked Tommy for the Taser, which he’d promised to bring the following weekend. Perhaps it was just the alcohol. She’d had so many glasses, felt the after-effects in the tingling of her fingers, the fluidity of her limbs. Even after twelve hours. Or perhaps it was the lack of imagination – the way a voice was robbed of its fear when, reduced to tinny message on a machine, you could not see the face onto which it was attached: the cast of the eyes, the turn of a mouth.
We’re coming for you, bitch.
Elena shut her eyes and pressed her fingertips to her lids. Motes of colour sparked behind them. She waited for the spectres of light to fade and, when they did, opened her eyes, blinking away tears of exhaustion. Or pity. She couldn’t be sure.
She deleted the messages, then on second thoughts, unplugged the phone. Straightening, she banged the console table with the back of her head, knocked the handset to the floor. Elena shrugged, left it where it had fallen. She went on, turning on the television, and into the kitchen. Let them come, she thought to herself, defiant, resentment bubbling like a spring. There are still four tines left on the garden fork. And at that, she found herself laughing, softly, deliriously, under her breath.