Kept (13 page)

I’m sat at the dining room table, having now been back in
Hampshire for one week. I must say, if I’m completely honest, I am going
insane
with boredom. There is
nothing
to do here. I’m insured on Mum’s
car but there’s nowhere I can go really. Pathetic.

‘Are you phoning Piers tonight?’ Mum asks, interrupting my
inner onslaught of abuse of all the redeeming plaudits I lack. Her daily
question, my daily headache-causer.

I shake my head, and she looks so disappointed. ‘Maybe
tomorrow,’ I offer. Since I moved back in I am trying to be the model daughter
but it’s quite straining. I’m not perfect after all. Far from it.

‘I’m sure he’d love to hear from you.’

‘A-huh.’

‘Maybe you could invite him here when we go away on
Saturday. You could have a lovely chat face-to-face, clear the air.’

I don’t think her use of the word
chat
is a euphemism either like it would be if this was a
conversation with Ob. Oh, I miss sex.
  

‘
Mmm
.’ My answer is without
conviction, and I’m thinking
over my dead
body
. I plan on doing sod all when my parents go on their three-week
Caribbean cruise with Frank and Alice. Absolute glorious nothing. No stress. No
thoughts of men. Just nothing.

‘Well, think about it anyway,’ she tries one last time.

I’ve not found out what exactly Piers said to her to
convince them I’m the lovely daughter they’ve been treating me like these past
few days, but whatever he said, I approve. Even with all this Piers talk I know
it’s an adequate price to pay.
 

‘Will do.’

‘Ooh, Arielle!’

Shut up, I think. Just shut up. I am not phoning Piers to
invite him here. I’m not going to London to see him. Leave me alone, and just
hurry up and bugger off on your seedy sex cruise with Frank and Alice already.

‘What?’ is what I ask her instead.

‘Remember, you need to pick up our currency tomorrow.’

‘It’s on my list,’ I tightly say.

‘Good girl.’

She smiles at me like I’m twelve, but thankfully switches
her attention to Dad to grill him about what he’s going to pack. Finally! Peace
and quiet and no more mention of the P-word. But yes, I have a list of daily
chores to complete. Glam, huh? I can’t wait to wake up and begin my riveting
day, but strangely I find the tediousness quite comforting. It’s the exact
opposite of my life with Piers. It’s probably exactly what I need.
 

‘Arielle?’

Now what?

‘Mmmm?’

‘Can you pop in the attic and grab our suitcases please?’

Great. I just hate going in the attic. Call it a leftover
childhood fear but it has disturbed me ever since Ob cruelly told me a tale of
a little girl who went into the attic and found her twin locked away. She was
overpowered and the twin took her place, so she was forced to eat dust and
drink rainwater every day. I shudder at the memory.

‘Arielle?’

I stand up. ‘On it.’

I do not have a twin. I won’t get locked in the attic. It’s
just a room, albeit a creepy one, and nothing can hurt me up there...

Ah. That box. Nestled in the far corner is a box, right by
the suitcases Mum needs, a box I wish I could throw out but have never done so.
Filled with school reports, old diaries and cinema stubs, there is one precious
photo in there of me and
him
, the
only one of us, snapped at arm’s length on a disposable camera. I know exactly
where I’ll find it – tucked away in my school’s copy of
Romeo and Juliet
that I forgot to return. I grab the book from the
box, the suitcases, and head back downstairs...

It’s the next day and I’m heading into town in a daze. I
didn’t get much sleep last night having finally plucked up the courage to look
at that photo before I ripped it up and tried to think of anything but
him
; sleep eluded me though until the
sun was rising and I’ve just rolled out of bed feeling sick and miserable but
glad the photo is gone. It’s Piers I love; my schooldays need to be left in the
past, that all needs to be left in the past.

The delight of picking up currency has to be done now, but I
am meeting Ob for lunch at the pub. He won’t care though if I’ve not showered
or made myself up for him, not that any concealer available in the free world
could mask these puffy eyes.

I’m about two metres from the pub door when a hand grabs my
shoulder. I roll my eyes – typical Ob trying to scare me.

‘I don’t think so, missy,’ a stern, unfamiliar voice says instead.
‘You’re going back where you belong.’

‘Excuse me?’ I spin around and find myself faced with a
strange woman, one I’ve never seen before, but one who seems to know exactly
who I am.

‘You heard me,’ she replies, trying to pull me somewhere by
my shoulder. ‘You’re coming with me.’

‘Get off me,’ I yell.

‘There will be none of that language, young lady. I’ll write
you up for that.’

She’s not making sense and she’s trying to roughly pull me
away. Pull me somewhere I’m now not sure of. Her hand is painfully clawing my
shoulder.

‘I have no idea who you are,’ I growl. ‘But get the fuck off
me, you crazy bitch.’

She laughs. ‘Someone’s mouth needs washing out with soap.
Now move.’

I’m scared, but also debating whether to try and whack her
with my
Chloé
Paddington bag
– thank goodness for the heavy padlock – and try to make a run for it in my
gorgeous but impractical brown suede, five-inch Marc by Marc Jacobs boots.
Luckily, I spy Obélix – lucky because my boots were made more for display
purposes than running footwear. Obviously the crazy woman is wearing flat,
sensible, Clarks-looking shoes in dependable black. Yuck. That’s not the point
though. The point is she’d catch me in seconds and I’d probably damage my boots
in the process.

‘Ob,’ I shout. ‘Obélix!’

‘Oh, so that’s who you’re meeting.’ She looks disgusted. ‘Do
your parents know you’re seeing an older man?’

I find this quite funny seeing as I’ve always had a thing
for the older man, but I’m actually two months older than Ob and he’s
definitely not
my man
.

‘Ob,’ I shriek.

He
finally
runs
over, like he’s just clocked what’s happening. I bet he doesn’t have his
contacts in – like me he’s too vain to wear his glasses in public.

‘Get off her,’ he demands firmly, but calmly. Well, it is
his job to soothe savage beasts.

‘Oh, I think I’ll be calling the police. You do know she’s
only fourteen.’ She looks disgusted, like Obélix is some kind of paedophile
instead of the respected member of the community he actually is.

‘She’s twenty-five,’ he says calmly, not even rising to her
disgusted look. ‘Let go of her.’

‘So, she can run off? I don’t think so.’

‘Who are you?’ I ask trying to free myself of her tight-iron
grip with no success.

‘An Education Welfare Officer as you jolly well know, young
lady. Your school sent me your description this morning after you ran off for
the fifth time this month.’

She
actually
thinks I’m
fourteen
? I don’t know
whether to be fuming or flattered, but I choose fuming. After all, her claws
are painfully digging into my shoulder. There’s nothing nice about this
scenario.

‘Let me go!’ I shriek angrily. ‘You’ve got the wrong girl…
woman.’

Ob looks like he wants to laugh but he grabs my bag and
starts rummaging through it. I would have whacked her with it. ‘Look.’ He
thrusts my driving licence at her. ‘She
is
twenty-five.
Look
.’

She does look and turns bright red. ‘Oh my, I’m so sorry.’
She finally lets go of me and I move my arm up and down trying to shake off the
pain. She has a firm grip. ‘I thought you were… I’m so sorry.’

‘You stupid bitch,’ I spit angrily at her.

I feel so humiliated. She has accused me of being fourteen
in front of the large crowd that is now gathered watching this scene play out.
I have never felt so insulted, apart from the parental-Piers-prostitution
thing, but I can’t look
that
young.
It’s definitely an insult.

I storm into the pub, ignoring the babbling psycho woman’s
apologies. Poor school children. Ob follows me in laughing. I’m glad someone
finds it funny because I certainly don’t.

‘Shut up,’ I snap.

‘Come on, look at what you’re wearing, Arielle. It was an
honest mistake.’ How can he sound so calm? I’m wearing black trousers (Donna
Karen), a white shirt (Tommy Hilfiger), and a blue and white striped blazer (Ralph
Lauren) – a tribute to Americana. Seeing my confused face, he continues: ‘The
girls at Trinity wear a similar uniform. You’re just missing the beret and tie.
It was an honest mistake to make.’

‘Yes, well,’ I fume. ‘I’m not a schoolgirl, am I? Deluded
cow.’

‘Funny,’ Obélix answers back. ‘You’re certainly acting like
one.’

I glare at him.

‘Hey, come on, Arielle! See the funny side. At least you
look young. Take it as a compliment.’

‘I hardly see why I should. I feel like I’m fifteen here,
stuck in some time warp. I need out. What I don’t need is some crazy bitch
paying me
compliments
,’ I snarl,
‘that are hardly fucking complimentary.’

I am seething – I can’t explain my rage and I know I’m
over-acting, but it doesn’t stop the anger. I’m past my school days, past
stupid photos in attics and hideous memories. I am twenty-five. At my age I
should not have to relive that feeling of inferiority ever again.

‘Well, what are you going to do about it?’ Ob rolls his eyes
at my outburst, snapping me back to the sound of low chatter and ringing fruit
machines.

It’s a good question, but why is he always so calm,
collected and rational? I do the only thing possible. I glare at him and snatch
up a menu to hide my tears from him, purely because I don’t know the answer.

What am I going to do about anything? I am in big fat
denial right now so the answer is nothing. Wait. Wait and see what happens, I
guess. My head is a spin from seeing that photo of
him
last night, of
us
,
and I can’t help but think that Christmas is approaching and maybe he’ll come visit
his parents who still live in the vicinity of mine.

I’ve not really thought of him since Piers and I got back
from our impromptu trip to New York but he’s re-entering my thoughts because of
where I am, of seeing that photo last night, and because I don’t want to think
about Piers, Piers who I miss dreadfully. This is the longest I’ve been apart
from him in four years, but even when we
were
apart we had regular contact via phone and e-mails. However, despite this lack
of communication, I still keep seeing this as an extended holiday, not a
break-up. What does
that
mean?

My parents are on their cruise, no doubt being corrupted
some more by Frank and Alice, and I’ve spent the past three weeks vegging and
hanging out with Ob. It’s like school hols all over again, especially with
Obélix’s mum checking up on me.

Obélix, annoyingly, continues to tell me off for not doing
anything productive with my life – sitting in the house is not going to get me
anywhere he tells me. In thanks I tell him off for sitting in the house with me
and neglecting his love life. His animal patients are his life, which is sweet,
but it’s hardly keeping him warm at night.

But, seeing as tomorrow my parents are due home, I have to
phone Piers. I can’t put it off any longer as it’ll be the first thing Mum will
ask. I do miss him, heightened every time I head into the garage to rummage
through my luggage by glimpses of some of our Tiffany photo frames, including
my favourite snap of us – the photo of us in Tokyo. We look so happy, so in love.
It’s now in my bedroom and it’s a photo I would never rip up though it’s going
to be a constant reminder that I miss Piers.
A lot
.

To be honest though, most of the things in Bertha’s garage
are redundant in the capacity of my new life here, but I still like trawling
through the luggage and marvelling at my things. It also wastes time; I have a
lot of time, not helped by Ob being busy with work. Animals don’t adhere to 9
to 5 hours. He was supposed to give me moral support with the phone call this evening
but there’s a cow giving birth... I passed on his kind offer of tagging along
to watch that – I’d rather phone Piers and that’s saying something.

I can do this though because it’s just a quick call to
appease the parental units. Pleasantries. I can do this, I can hit the last
digit I’ve hovered over for the past ten minutes. This will be a quick call to
thank him for his generosity and then I’ll let him head to bed… Unless he has
some new girlfriend already to keep him up. Oh, I feel sick now. More so than
before. Hurriedly I hit seven. It’s ringing.
  

‘Hello?’ Piers answers. He doesn’t sound preoccupied and
breathless, thankfully. ‘Hello?’ he repeats.

Oh, I have to speak.

‘Hi you, it’s me,’ I say, completely forgetting we’re no
longer together and therefore I shouldn’t address him in our old familiar way.

An attack of nerves is bombarding my tummy region and below
merely at the sound of his “hello” – this is going to kill me. I can picture
him in bed talking to me. I wish I was with him, not separated by the miles and
break-up.

‘Hi me, it’s you,’ he answers softly. My breath catches, my
heart misses a beat or two. It’s nerves, nothing more. It can’t be anything
else. ‘I’ve missed you, Pony,’ he continues.

I don’t know what to say to that either. Well, I do, but my
mouth seems incapable of producing speech.
 

‘Arielle?’

‘I’m here,’ I manage to croak out.

‘How are you?’ He sounds disappointed.

‘Fine,’ I squeak.

More silence.

‘I’m fine too,’ he finally says, but he sounds sad.

‘A-huh.’ I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m acting like
a breathless, love-struck teenager – fitting considering where I am, but not
really useful to either me or Piers in the art of conducting this conversation.

‘You’re smiling, aren’t you?’ I blurt out.

I have the image in my head of him sat grinning in his big
leather study chair. Forget him in bed, I definitely sense his chair. Oh, if
that chair could talk. I miss that chair.

He laughs. ‘I am now. Are you?’

I smile at that. ‘I am now.’

‘Good.’

‘Good.’

More silence. Until: ‘I’m sorry, Arielle.’

‘Oh, Piers. No, no. I’m sorry. You were right,’ I babble.
‘I’d become a monster; I’m not the girl I want to be and I want to make y–’

I stop myself in time. I was going to say “I want to make
you proud of me”. I leave the sentence hanging realising the implication of my
words.

‘Oh Pony, come home. I miss you,’ he says, ignoring my
left-open remark. ‘And trust me, it’s completely my fault. With the market
being so uncontrollable, I realise now I’ve tried to control you. It’ll be
different this time, I promise. Please come home.’

I can’t trust myself to speak.

‘Arielle?’

‘Thank you for sending me everything.’ I can’t answer his
home request; I don’t know if I can go
home
.
This was supposed to be a quick parental-appeasing phone call. I have to change
tack. ‘It’s so very kind of you.’
Who am
I?
Jane Austen
? So very kind.
Pfiut.

‘It’s all yours,’ he quietly replies. ‘But the house seems
empty with it missing. Just like my life without you.’ He sounds devastated.

‘That’s very sweet of you to say,’ I choke out, ‘but–’

‘No. No buts. I need to see you. Arielle… please,’ he
implores when I don’t answer. ‘Even if it really is just to say goodbye, I’d
still like to see you.’

This is killing me. I must sound like the biggest bitch, but
I feel frozen. Why is this so hard?

‘OK,’ I stutter.

‘OK? As in you’ll see me to talk, or you’ll see me to say
goodbye?’

He sounds choked up now. I’m desperately trying to stop the
tears rolling down my face. Each word of his reminds me why I love Piers.

‘I’ll see you.’

‘OK, great.’ He realises not to push it. ‘Do you want me to
come to you?’

‘No, no. I’ll come to London.’

The last thing I need is Piers here when I have yet to work
out my home-demons. I can’t clash the two worlds together. I’m not that strong,
not yet.

‘When?’

‘Next month?’

‘Arielle, please. It’s been a month already.’

‘Well, you could have phoned me,’ I snap. ‘But you didn’t.
You threw me out.’

‘I’m sorry, Arielle. Truly, I am, but I knew you’d be fine.’

I know I have no right to behave like the injured party, but
it’s not going to stop me. ‘Cheers,’ I reply dryly. ‘I might not have been fine
if Lydia hadn’t been nice to me, I might have been sleeping on the streets for
all you knew. Did you think of that?’

That was unnecessary. We both know I would have swallowed my
pride like I eventually did and contacted my parents.

‘I’ve been in touch with your mum,’ he answers defensively.
‘I knew you were OK.’

‘Oh, even
better
,’
I snarl instead of thanking him for sorting things out with my parents. ‘You
phoned my
mum
, not me.’

‘She said you’d phone me when you were ready, that you
needed space.’
He
sounds angry now.
He has no right to be angry.

‘Oh, did she now?’ I seethe. ‘Well I’m claiming back my
space now. I’m hanging up. Good–’

‘Arielle, don’t,’ he cuts in before I can hang up.

I’m on the verge of tears and the last thing I want is to
start blubbing at Piers because I know I won’t be able to stop for a very long
time, though when I finally do I’ll be on the first train back to London. I
have a long way to go before I can head permanently back there. I need to
figure out what I want to do with my life for a start, a decision I can put off
no longer and one that would be put off if I return to my whirlwind lifestyle
with Piers. At twenty-five, I can no longer allow myself to be this
kept
woman. Pathetic.

‘I didn’t mean it that way, Pony.’ He sighs. ‘You know that.
Please, meet me. We need to sort this out face-to-face.’

My tummy is tingling at the sound of his voice. It’s very
unfair.

‘I’ll come to London next weekend.’ I’m fearful of next
weekend already. ‘On Saturday morning?’

‘That’s great, Arielle. I can’t wait!’

‘A-huh.’ I need to get off the phone quickly because I am
about to cry. ‘Goodnight, Piers.’

‘Goodnight, Pony.’

I keep the phone on and I can hear him breathing. I’m
tempted to say something else but click off. I feel so confused; I had expected
Piers to be hostile. I’m about to call Ob to fill him in – hoping there’s a
signal at whatever barn he is in – but my phone starts to vibrate to alert me of
a text message: ‘I love you, Arielle. Come home. xxx’

When Friday rolls around I’m on a train heading for
London. This time I have a ticket, paid for by Piers, and he even sent me one
of my cards along with three dozen roses. Mum thinks wedding bells will be on
the cards soon. I’m certain of nothing. I know not to assume anymore.

Tonight I’m staying at Lydia’s, meeting Piers in the
morning. My ticket is open on the off chance I decide to stay in London… with
Piers. He did offer me one of his spare rooms to stay in but I would find it
too strange being under the same roof as him, yet being apart.

When I explained I would stay at Lydia’s, he offered to put
me up in a hotel which made me wonder. I’d like to think it was because I had
filled him in on how cramped I’d found it staying at Lydia’s that week and not
because he suspected I would chicken out. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve
had thoughts of cancelling but it’s like he knew I would have doubts. He phoned
me every night to tell me he couldn’t wait to see me so in the end I had to
pick up the phone to ask Lydia if I could stay with her.

She meets me now at Waterloo.

‘Arielle,’ she chastises me straight away as we head off for
coffee. That one word says
everything
to me.

‘I know,’ I sigh wearily.

I’ve not had the best journey here. My carriage was full of
the loudest people in the South West and my head is thumping.
 

‘I’m only jealous,’ she admits, as we sit down for coffee
and we’ve admired each other’s outfits in our time-honoured tradition. Lydia is
wearing a fab little number by Basso & Brooke – how she isn’t frozen, I
have no idea – and I’m dressed in cream Twenty8Twelve jeans and a thick red
Ralph Lauren cable knit jumper.

‘Nigel wanted shot of me,’ she continues. ‘But, as I’ve
always suspected, Piers is a decent one. He must really love you because I’ve
never known him want
anyone
back.
Word in the circle is he’s missed you dreadfully. Home every night pining for
you.’ She only has a slight look of revulsion on her face.

‘Really?’

‘Really.’ She pulls another appalled face. ‘It’s just a
shame you think you love that other guy.’

I had told her about
him
before I headed back to Hampshire. I remember now I had ranted at Lydia when
Piers didn’t phone me, told her I loved someone else anyway, that Piers would
be sorry when he realised he had lost me. Wow, I have grown up a lot this past
month. How childish was I?

‘It is a shame,’ I mutter absent-mindedly. My mind is
elsewhere, SW3. At Piers’.

‘Because you can’t lead Piers on. If it’s over, Arielle, it’s
over.’

‘It’s over,’ I echo, but I don’t mean it.

‘Well, in that case, we’re out on the pull tonight.’

She might be calling my bluff, or she might mean it, I can’t
tell. It snaps me back to reality though. ‘Excuse me, Lydia Green,’ I chastise
her
this time. ‘What about your hunky
pilot?’ The one who made me swallow my pride and head home because he told her
he had something life changing to share.

‘He’s left me for a flight attendant. A male one,’ she adds
tightly.

‘Oh.’ I grimace. How hideous. ‘Well, where shall we go?’ I
brightly ask, realising I’ve been a horrible friend to Lydia as well. When I
didn’t hear from her I assumed she was too busy celebrating her engagement.

‘You can say no, but I could do with being cheered up before
we hit the bars…’

I laugh. ‘Which show?’

‘
The Lion King
?
It’s just so colourful and pretty.’

Lydia is a huge musical theatre fan; I hardly need to be
persuaded. I love the West End and the show is one of Piers’ favourites. Ouch.
Why does everything remind me of Piers? I’ve only been back in London less than
an hour, I have a whole weekend to survive. I know though that the Piers’
references are guaranteed to hit me thick and fast now I’m back in shared
territory. It’s not a thought I relish because I don’t want to be reminded of
past behaviour. It’s what the future holds that is important now – the past
needs to be left there.
  

I smile. ‘How can I say no?’

Leaving the Lyceum after a spectacular Lydia-cheering
show, we’re looking for a bar so Lydia can touch up her make-up. As per usual,
she cried at the end. Everywhere is rammed though so by the time we find a
suitable bar we’ve made it all the way to the tourist trap of Leicester Square.
Far if you’re walking in six-inch heels.

When she finally emerges from her cubicle at the Hampshire
Radisson, after what feels like a lifetime, she pulls out her phone to see
where we’re meeting her friends. Miraculously, it has a signal inside. I’m
relieved – it’s freezing tonight and I really don’t want to have to linger
outside.