Kept (10 page)

We went to New York. Just like that. It was so simple. In
one phone call Piers sorted out the trip in the time it would have taken me to
pop to the shops and pick up a pint of milk. But, everything was always
effortless for him.

I’d been once before to New York, a rushed three-day affair
where we flew economy and, well, economised. Despite being planned months in
advance it was a big hassle. Should we have paid the extra £40 to stay in a
better hotel or would we rather have the extra cocktail money? Who would share
a room with whom? What would we see? Did we really want to pay an extra $3 to
climb the crown of the Statue of Liberty when they should have been paying
us
to climb all those stairs? Shouldn’t
we just wait until that must-see musical came to the West End instead of seeing
it on Broadway?

The trip caused so many arguments that Piers’ ease in
booking this trip only seemed to further prove to me how unsophisticated I was,
that I shouldn’t have been allowed a glimpse into his sophisticated world. Oh,
and it is completely worth climbing to the top of Lady Liberty – just wear
sensible shoes if you do.

That trip with Piers though, despite my panic that I would
be exposed as an imposter and kicked out of The Plaza – and which curbed some
of my initial enjoyment – was incredible. Little did I realise at the time it
was to be the first incredible trip of many.

Our suite at The Plaza was bigger than most people’s homes.
We had use of their Rolls Royce whenever we wanted. We shopped until we
dropped, partied at Bungalow 8 and the various party hot spots of four years
ago. We decided last minute what we wanted to do; unsurprisingly we could
always do it. There was just something about Piers that opened the right doors.
We even dined at The Waverly Inn where there’s not a reservation number to book
a table; naturally, Piers knew someone who knew someone. The chicken potpie was
to die for, yet all the places we ate at had food to die for. Even eating at McDonald’s
with Piers made the food taste divine because he made my life divine – I see
that now.
 

At first, with my curbed enjoyment, I was reluctant to shop,
shop, shop. To go “crazy” like Piers insisted. But eventually with the
combination of his fierce insistence and my love for pretty things, I soon put
an end to my protests. Besides, Piers was right. At the time the pound was
strong and it really did make bad financial sense
not
to abuse the exchange rate.

I never protested again about spending his money after that
trip. More shockingly, sometimes I even forgot to thank him towards the end. My
luxury knowledge may have improved a thousand times over, but my manners were
stripped away in consequence. On that very first trip I was humbled though –
awed Piers thought that much of me.

Over the past four years, we’ve been
everywhere
. My passport stamped over and over with exotic visas; my
replacement passport quickly filled up too. I’ve clocked-up more air miles in
four years than a normal family would in a lifetime.

When we were in London, we were even worse. That’s because
in London we had our competitors. We had to prove our worth; we had to retain
our crown as the ultimate couple. We clubbed at Mahiki. Had membership at M1nt.
Ate regularly at Le Gavroche. Shopped on Sloane Square. If it was hot around
town, we’d have done it before the ink had settled on the review. I embraced
the hedonistic lifestyle like a heroin addict embraces their first hit of the
day, deemed it
necessary
to keep
ahead of the trends. I had plenty of time to stay ahead, to achieve that fickle
necessity.
  

The high from it, I admit, was incredible. Inevitably the
comedown was going to be bleak. Naturally, I was too absorbed in stupid
things
to even see it coming; only now
it’s too late do I realise that.

The front door slammed shut. I was sprawled on the sofa in
a soft burgundy Prada tracksuit – designed with the idle rich in mind –
flicking through a travel brochure. I was toying with the idea of Kenya. Giraffe
Manor sounded a winner. I adore giraffes and I could live with them there – how
utterly fabbity! Thinking about it, it had been eighteen months since we’d last
been to Kenya, although only six weeks since our trip to Saranda on the
Albanian Riviera. I was slipping up. I would have to book Giraffe Manor
immediately to rectify my blunder.

‘At it again?’ Piers snarled at me, clocking no doubt the
precariously balanced stack of brochures. I was too absorbed to give him the
slightest glance.

‘Bad day at the office, dear?’

The market had been going crazy because of problems with the
US sub-prime market and it was impacting the FTSE, or so I had skim read
in-between my new craze of Internet shopping – why fight the tourists when
everything is online? Piers had told me not to be so naïve as to believe it was
as straightforward as that, sarcastically hinting I could have a think about it
seeing as I had an economics degree. Pfiut. I had better preoccupations than
the economy, like Earnest Sewn jeans and Rodarte dresses. Besides, he
knew
I hated my degree subject; it was
insensitive of him to mention it.

That had been the fourth night in a row Piers had arrived
back home later than I had ever known. Once more, he was in a stinking bad
mood.

Even though it was Friday, I knew he would be back in the
office first thing… until he returned in a rotten mood.
Again
. After the second night of his filthy mood – not filthy in
the way I liked it – I decided to ignore him. The market would sort itself out
eventually; it had to. This was the 21
^st
century. Surely we were
beyond recessions? Stupidly, I told him that.

Storming over to me, he grabbed the brochure out of my hand,
a look of blazing fury on his face. ‘Read about the market in this did you,
Arielle?’ he snarled. ‘Oh no,’ he continued angrily, throwing the brochure to
the floor, ‘you can’t have done because you don’t read anything useful, do you?
You only read about things that cost me money.’

‘You can shout at me all you want if it makes you feel
better,’ I replied in a bored tone, not batting an eyelid.

He didn’t like that though. ‘What would make me feel better,
Arielle,’ he screamed at me, ‘is if you got off your ever-increasingly fat ass
and got a job. You are nothing but a filthy, manipulative lay-about.’

I snapped my head up. This sounded serious. Piers had never
once reproached me for not working and usually he would storm out of the house
at this point to re-emerge a few hours later, calmer, but often quite drunk.
This seemed serious.

‘What?’ I stammered. My ass wasn’t fat! I might have been
indulging more of late, but so had Piers. Relatively, we looked the same.

‘You heard me.’ He glared at me. ‘Get a job because this
ship is sinking.’

A sea reference. Oh, how I hate sea references, anything
nautical-related for that matter. I had even refused to go on a cruise aboard
the
QEII
, that’s how deep my hatred
runs.

Surely he didn’t mean that? We’d never properly argued
before, just petty resolvable tiffs over the years, but I could sense, even
without his market worries, that something was building up. Instead of
addressing it back then like I should have I had stupidly let him reach boiling
point.

‘You told me not to work,’ I calmly told him, even though I
knew my calmness would serve only to infuriate him further. That night he was
baying for my blood, regardless of what I said (or did).

‘If I told you to jump off a cliff, would you? Wait, you
probably would. What happened to the girl I fell in love with? When did you
become so greedy and selfish? You’ve become dull. You’re not the Arielle I
thought I loved, and...’ he paused only for the briefest of seconds, ‘… I want
you to go.’

‘Go where?’

‘I don’t care. We’re over.’

‘Piers–’

I stood up, trying to grab hold of him, trying to plead with
him. We couldn’t be
over.
This was
just our first much-needed argument. We were the perfect couple,
everyone
said so. He couldn’t split us
up; I wouldn’t let him.

‘No, Arielle,’ he said firmly. ‘I need you gone.’

‘We’re over? Just like that?’ It sounds awful but at that
moment I was more concerned with where I would be going, not what I would be
leaving behind.

‘I need space. I need to seriously think if we have a
future.’

‘We do, we do,’ I insisted, trying to reach up and kiss him.

He pushed me away. ‘Don’t.’

He had such a steely look in his eyes that I knew it was
pointless, he had made up his mind. This was a side of Piers I’d only ever
heard about from Lydia. I had never witnessed it first-hand. The shutters were
down.

‘Where should I go?’ I asked in a tiny voice.

‘I don’t care,’ he snapped. ‘I’m not your keeper. Just go.’

‘But, what about my belongings?’ I asked, of all the stupid
things to say.

‘You mean
my
belongings,’ he corrected, his temper flaring up. ‘You’ve got ten minutes. Pack
a weekend bag.’

Ten minutes!
Ten
minutes?
But then I thought about it. If I was only packing a weekend bag,
I must only be going for the weekend. He just needed some space to calm down. I
would let him have that and when I came back, I would be a better girlfriend. I
would sort myself out, even get a job to keep him sweet. With a little nod, I
headed into our bedroom, leaving Piers slumped on the sofa, his head in his
hands.

For some reason, I lost my mind with what I packed. In went
some random holiday trinkets and my passport. I put my Burberry mac on over my
tracksuit, even though it didn’t match, but it was better than packing it. In
went a few pairs of jeans, some tops, some underwear. I packed light, zipped up
my Prada holdall, then headed back into the sitting area where Piers was
waiting. Even at this point I was still convinced this was a ruse, that he
needed to let off some steam and wouldn’t let me walk out of the door. He
loved me
. More than anything he had
said,
forever
. He wouldn’t let me
go.
 

‘This is silly, Pony,’ I cooed using our pet name. ‘Can we
not talk about this?’

My selfish thought was not about us, but that I really
couldn’t face checking into the Mandarin Oriental Hyde Park for a spa weekend,
having only been there the previous weekend.

‘No,’ he replied flatly. ‘Here.’

He held out my Chanel handbag, the one I’d used that morning
when I’d had the
tiniest
look in the
shops. OK, so maybe I was still a regular shopper alongside my online shopping.
I was too absorbed rummaging through my bag to notice the expression in his
eyes.

‘Is the market that bad?’ I asked flippantly, finally
finding my purse and phone. Translation: Am
I
really that bad? ‘We can talk about this,’ I added, like I was making a big
gesture, one which he should appreciate and accept.

It almost sounded like he sniggered at me in response. Or
perhaps it was the onset of a panic attack. His chest sounded tight. Now I
realise what a stupid, self-absorbed idiot I was last week. Piers had realised
it in that moment. Yes, I am very ashamed.
 

‘Talk? Talk, Arielle?’ he had rasped at me. ‘You’ve barely
acknowledged me all week and only now you realise I wanted to talk when I’m
kicking you out! You really are a manipulative bitch,’ he flung at me. ‘I
thought I might have been wrong…’

His words had a surprisingly truthful ring to them. They
stung deep and I realise now that whereas Piers had never doubted our love
before, I had never valued it.

‘But–’ I tried to begin, to explain, but he stopped me.

‘No. I’ve made up my mind.’ With that, he grabbed my bag
back off me and extracted my bank cards and took my house keys from me. ‘This
is it,’ he chillingly stated. ‘We’re truly over. Now leave.’

‘My cards,’ I stammered.

‘No.
My
cards.’

I was lost for words, all magical realisations of my
appalling behaviour also vanished as I realised I wouldn’t be able to check
into a hotel. How could I survive with no cards? I had no money. Where was I
supposed to go?

‘Out.’

‘No.’ I wailed, panic taking over as I realised the full
extent of what was about to happen. ‘You can’t do this to me.’

Like a girl possessed, I dropped my bags and ran towards the
bedroom to lock myself in so Piers could calm down and realise his error. I
didn’t clear two metres before Piers had grabbed hold of me and was
frogmarching me towards the door. He shoved me, then threw my Prada holdall out
and stood there threateningly in the doorway. Piers! Stood threateningly! Like
I was some riffraff on his doorstep. I’d seen him treat the local campaigners
with more respect and that said something.

‘Goodbye, Arielle,’ he had said, and it chills my heart to
remember his expression. What have I done? How was I so blind?

‘Piers, no!’ I had screamed. ‘What about my stuff?’
 

I’d meant to shout, “What about us?” but I wasn’t thinking
straight. I hadn’t been used to things going wrong in years, especially since
I’d been with Piers. I was unrealistically out of practice.

‘I hope you chose wisely,’ he sarcastically said, ‘because
you’ll need to buy new
stuff
out of
your own money. Now money, Arielle, is what you get
when you work
.’ With that he actually slammed the door in my face.

In shock, I sank to the floor and started crying. I was
homeless. I was without funds. I had lost the man I loved. The adage “you don’t
know what you’ve got until it’s gone” hit home, not that I had a home anymore.
In a blink of an eye my life had gone horribly wrong. I had nowhere to go
because all my London friends were Piers’ friends, except Piers had thrown me
out as easily as you throw out the rubbish… probably because I am rubbish.