Kept (9 page)

Obélix is enthralled. I can tell because his pint remains
untouched and the sleeve of his ancient Barbour jacket – it looks suspiciously
like his dad’s old one – is actually resting in his beer’s foam. Who says men
aren’t gossips?

‘So, you told the agency to stick it, but then what
happened?’ he demands as I pause in my recollections to sadly reflect on what I
had and what I’ve stupidly now lost.

He reminds me of a three-year-old wanting to know exactly
how
Cinderella and Prince Charming lived
their happily ever after, after discovering Prince Charming hadn’t really run
off with the ugly sister like previously told, that it had all been a ruse to
foil some dastardly plot. He sounds too excited; he needs a life.

‘This is not a soap opera, Ob,’ I scold. ‘This is my life.’

‘I know, but come on, what happened?’

I sigh. ‘I’m a terrible person, aren’t I?’

‘No, you’re not,’ he loyally says. ‘You love Piers. Why
shouldn’t he look after you? Just because you girls have it drilled into you
that you have to be high-powered career women, it doesn’t mean to say you have
to follow that path. You don’t have to rule out the old-fashioned option.’

‘Sexist pig,’ I tease, even though I do agree with him.

‘Although, what I don’t understand, Arielle,’ he says with a
blatant tone of concern, apparent even to me, ‘is why you lied to them? Why did
you tell your parents you were a successful career girl? Couldn’t you have just
told them the truth?’

I snort at that one. ‘Oh come on, Ob. Don’t be so naïve. If
I had told them the truth, they’d have dragged me straight back here from the
hospital. Piers and I may be through now but we had… Well, I know it was crazy
to trust a complete stranger, but I did from the moment he knocked me over. I
doubt the parentals would have seen it that way.’

‘You were scared they’d
judge
you?’ he offers, finally taking a sip of his pint.

I twirl the straw in my coke – no runaway rums for me – I’m
unsure of how to answer. ‘I whored myself out so I didn’t have to work,’ I say
eventually. There’s no point sugar-coating the truth with Obélix.

‘You didn’t, Arielle.’ He takes my hand, and I almost snatch
it out of his way in childhood deference, but also because I keep getting a
whiff of cow dung and his nails are looking a little grubby. Yuck.

‘You have to stop thinking of yourself that way because I’m
certain Piers wanted to keep you happy. And, I’m definitely certain you made
him happy. How could you not have? I’m sure this is just a blip,’ he naïvely
continues. ‘You’ll get back together, I just know it.’

I snort, unconvinced, sounding like a New Forest pony let
loose in the pub. Oh, the infamous summer fête of 1994… What a palaver
that
was.

‘Face it, Arielle. The term is “corporate whore” for a
reason. You’d have sold out to some company with all your time and effort, a
company which wouldn’t have appreciated you. I’d love to have someone to be
there for me like that.’

He wistfully says that, like I’m the champion of women for
staying at home to be at my boyfriend’s beck and call. But he’s wrong. It
wasn’t like that at all.

‘I’ve not been there for Piers though,’ I slowly admit.

‘Stop putting yourself down, Arielle,’ Ob scolds. He is
starting to look angry. ‘I’m sure Piers knows how much you love him. You’ll
sort out your silly argument and be back together before you know it. You’ll
laugh about this.’

I know he’s wrong though.

‘That’s the thing, Ob. I’m not sure if I have been there for
him, at least not properly, and I suspect he knows that. I think he’s always
wondered if there has been something, or someone, else.’

‘You’ve not been there for him and he
knows
it?’

I nod. In a way I can’t have fully been there for Piers
because I never told him about my fashion aspirations, my desire to be Coco
Chanel. He’s never had the true me, not really.

‘So you mean you’re
really
a whore and you whored yourself out whilst Piers was at work?’ Obélix asks. He
sounds aghast and shocked, but I know he’s winding me up. He rushes on before I
can interrupt, leaning back so I can’t hit him. ‘And now,’ he continues with a
vulgar smirk on his face, ‘let me guess. You’ve fallen in love with a client?
No, no! You’re pregnant with your client’s baby!’

I groan. Deciding to confess to Ob was a big mistake. I’d
forgotten how he gets.

‘Why do you never listen? And why do you make up stuff?’ I
wearily ask.

‘In the hope my twisted desires will one day materialise
into truth and make my lifetime?’ he offers with a cheeky grin.

‘Fair point,’ I concede. ‘But no, Obélix. There is no other
man, nor another man’s baby. If there was, do you not think I would be with him
right now instead of enjoying your charming company?’

‘Busted.’ He smiles, a little
too
nicely. ‘So you’re in love with another woman then?’

I stretch forward and pummel him hard for that remark, but I
have to smile. Dear Obélix, how I’ve missed him, even with his beer-soaked
sleeve and, wait, that
is
poo smeared
on his Levis. Yuck.
 

‘Ouch, ouch, OK! Stop it! I’m joking,’ he says. ‘But, in all
seriousness, I don’t get it, Arielle. If there is something, or someone else,
what or who is it?’

‘You really don’t want to know,’ I mutter wrinkling my nose
at both the possible animal excrement on his jeans and the thought of
that
man, fashion aspirations aside.
There has never been great love between them; there will never be a Mrs Ob if
he doesn’t sort himself out.

‘Tell me!’ he cries out, causing him to earn a few strange
looks from nearby patrons. He can be such a girl sometimes – not an attractive
quality and yet another reason why we’ll never be together in a million years.
I know there must be someone out there for him though. He may lack attractive
qualities to me but I begrudgingly admit he’s not hideous.
 

‘It’s better if I don’t,’ I say darkly.

‘Why not?’ he demands, reverting into childish Ob. I half
expect him to call me “stupid” or “Ariel”.
 

‘I don’t think you’ll approve.’

I know he won’t, and I don’t even know why I’m bringing this
up. This is ancient history, ended not so far away from where we’re sat but I
guess being here is making me think of how things were and what could have
been.

‘So I know him? But I’ve not seen you in years,’ he
deliberates before I can answer. ‘So, it must be someone pre-uni?’

I blush. Being with Obélix makes me feel like a teenager all
over again.

‘I do know him!’ he declares triumphantly. ‘You’re
blushing!’

His face is twitching in concentration. I can see him
mentally trying to recall those oh-so-wonderful teenage years. Suddenly his
face drains of colour, amazing considering his ruddy complexion.

‘Ob?’ I ask uncertainly.

He looks like he’s seen a ghost. Not surprising considering
the history of our Hampshire local, but then I realise he
has
seen a ghost, a ghost of our shared past.

‘It is, isn’t it?’ He asks me almost breathlessly.

Oh crap, he knows, and by the look on his face it’s a shock.
Clearly Ob thought I hated him too but it was all a big act.

He clears his throat nervously, making me almost hit my head
on the low-beams in surprise. I’m on tenterhooks.

‘Ob?’ He’s just staring at me. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I am now, Arielle,’ he beatifically smiles. ‘It’s me, isn’t
it? The man you loved, it’s me.’

It’s not a question, it’s a statement. My mind freezes. What
am I supposed to say to that? Strangely though, it reminds me of a moment with
Piers...

‘Tell me,’ he demanded. ‘Tell me you love me the most.
Because I love you more than any other before, Arielle,’ he fiercely said.

He leaned over and kissed me quite roughly because of his
morning stubble. Tall,
dark
and
handsome has some drawbacks they don’t highlight in fairytale land, like the
permanent need to apply concealer to try and mask the stubble rash on my chin.

‘Of course, Piers.’ I smiled back at him after he had
finished eroding my face, even though I felt sick at the thought of love. I had
tried fighting it but
he
lived on in
my head, making himself known with a worrying frequency. Could I love Piers if
I still thought of someone else?

He planted a kiss on my forehead and beamed at me, then got
out of bed, stark naked. I should have been spontaneously combusting from
happiness at this, at Piers full stop. He was the perfect boyfriend, one with a
finely sculpted rear that I marvelled at as he headed to the bathroom, and one
with a fondness for giving presents like it was an Olympic event. I know I
should have been deliriously happy – truly gaga – but I’ll tell you another
thing, money is not the solution to giving someone what you think they want. I
was starting to feel materialism was severely overrated and if Piers knew my
fearful thoughts then my worth would be more bargain basement than Balenciaga.

I was starting to feel guilty and it had only been three
weeks since the art gallery-agency incident. In those three weeks I had
increasingly felt smothered by Piers’ love. I knew from nights out and the
looks women shot him – come-hither bed eyes, I’ll do
anything
for you – that Piers was a catch, but was
I
really the best thing since sliced
bread like he insinuated? If I was, I was mouldy bread because that’s how I
felt.
Stale
. I spent a lot of time
having thoughts like this – unsurprising really, since I had a lot of time in
which to think.

These particular thoughts were interrupted by Piers shouting
through from the bathroom: ‘Can you meet me for lunch?’

‘I’m meeting Lydia,’ I called back. ‘But I can rearrange?’
Of course I would if Piers wanted me to; he paid for me to be at his beck and
call.

‘No, no. Don’t do that.’ Besides,’ he added cheekily,
walking back into our bedroom and treating me to a full-frontal viewing which
sent me a deep red, ‘you’ll be no doubt talking about me at lunch so I’ll be
there in spirit!’

‘Ego,’ I exclaimed, trying to calm my burning face down and not
look
there
because I knew I wouldn’t
be able to control myself if I did. I looked at his face instead. He’d had a
quick shave at least, but there was still a shadow there.
  

‘I’ll show you ego,’ he filthily retorted, diving on top of
me and pinning me down.

‘You have to go to work,’ I told him as he started nibbling
my neck. ‘You’re a very naughty boy.’

I don’t know why I said boy because Piers had just turned
twenty-eight. He was definitely a full-grown man as I could tell from what was
urgently digging into me.

‘I can be.’ He growled, stepping up his delightful attack a
notch. ‘But only if you’re a
very
naughty girl.’

‘I’m a very naughty girl,’ I purred at him, lost to his neck
nibbles.
 

I meant it in both senses. I suspect a lot of people would dub
me as immoral over naughty with my conflicted love issues, but hey! I was an
economics, not an English graduate. What did I care for semantics?

However, I did care for easing the bad feeling that sprung
up every time Piers was lovely to me. As he was lovely to me practically 24/7,
I had my work cut out, but it wasn’t work without its rewards. Oh no. The
benefits package was large and substantial, very satisfying with no complaints.

I’m not saying we never had bad days – usually when the
market failed him on the trading floor – but he always tried not to inflict his
mood onto me. He’d usually hit the gym to try some boxing to get all his
pent-up rage out of his system before he headed home to treat me to massages
and gentle actions. He was so considerate to me, even when his life was a mess,
but I think his angry side scared him.

As he’d not yet been to work, he was in an exceptionally
good mood. In his good moods, it was appropriate for me to be
bad
. How does the saying go? You have to
be a fab cook, a stupendous hostess and
lively
in the bedroom, or words similar. Mae West, right? Whoever it was, I was always
lively in the bedroom in ways I’d never known possible pre-Piers.

I figured if I gave him the performance of a lifetime in
that department, it was like I was earning my keep. Not that I was performing.
Piers was a
pleasure
, and I’d never
had sex like it.

‘Filth,’ he murmured afterwards, nuzzling into my neck.

‘I’ll make you breakfast if you’re hungry, darling,’ I
teased. ‘There’s no need to eat me.’

‘I could eat you up right now all over again,’ he muttered,
planting a volley of kisses from my jaw line, down as far as my breasts before
I rolled him off me. ‘Hey!’ he protested, as I grabbed one of his dirty shirts
to put on.

‘You’ll be late for work,’ I warned. Don’t get me wrong, I
wanted him to continue, but he was going to be late and too much sex can make a
girl feel broken at times. ‘You’ve been late these past two days already.’

‘I don’t care,’ he said, trying to pull me back to bed but I
knew I was in danger of making myself off limits for a day or two if I did cave
in.

No doubt he’d tell anyone who asked – not that they would –
that he’d been schmoozing someone at a breakfast meeting. Everyone at his
company used that as a code for extended morning sex with the missus. He’d
probably get a bonus for his
performance
.

He continued, oblivious to my semi-disapproval. ‘You’ve
given me an idea though.’

‘What?’

It seemed I was always the inspiration for some idea of
Piers – not a good thing. I often felt like a show pony. I found it all bizarre
back at the start. I mean, I loved fashion,
loved
it, but the levels of primping and commitment were something else in Piers’
circle. It wasn’t merely that you had to keep on-trend, you had to anticipate
and be two seasons ahead or face the wrath of the circle. Even Lydia before she
left the circle, Lydia who I loved the most, would turn into a hard-core bitch
if she detected I wasn’t following the rules. Those rules could change randomly
depending on the whim of whoever was in power that week.

‘I can’t tell you,’ Piers teased, his brown eyes crinkling
in the sexiest way, ‘because I have to get ready for work.’ He smirked, stood
up and slapped my bare bum as he walked past me. ‘Bacon, please,’ he called
back.

As I was grilling his bacon – I had a no frying rule,
despite Piers’ protests, because of his cholesterol levels – I could hear
fragments of his voice. When he walked into his trendy kitchen ten minutes
later, dressed in one of my handpicked, vomit-free ensembles, with a big grin
on his face, I knew he’d been scheming with someone.

‘What have you done, Piers Bramley?’ I demanded feeling very
excited.

‘I don’t know if I should tell you,’ he taunted, pouring
himself a mug of coffee from his alien-looking Bugatti coffee machine – and
there was I thinking they were a mere car brand.

‘Trade you,’ I offered.

‘For what?’

‘Your bacon sandwich.’

‘Excellent bargaining tool, gorgeous!’ He kissed me. I
really needed to brush my teeth. ‘Guess where we’re going?’

‘The theatre?’

Piers has the greatest love for musical theatre that I’d
ever known in a straight man. We’d seen
Mary
Poppins
(my choice) and
The Lion King
(his) recently. I was glad he hated opera and was low brow, like me. His
friends mercilessly teased him but he refused to give up his show-stopping
tunes for which I was utterly grateful – I don’t think I could have sat through
jaunts to the Royal Opera House on a regular basis.

‘Nope,’ he said, sticking his tongue out – if only his
colleagues could see him now. Then, unable to wait, he excitedly exclaimed:
‘New York!’

I gasped.

‘Yes!’ He nodded, grinning at me. ‘I thought about what you
said about having to go to work and I decided I didn’t want to. I want to spend
time with you, Arielle,’ he said grabbing me and pulling me towards him.

‘Piers!’

I squealed at his grabbing, not at New York! A part of me
was already there in that moment.

He misunderstood though, thought I didn’t approve.

‘Now, now. Don’t start that again, Pony. Why can’t you just
enjoy this like most normal women would? Don’t answer that,’ he continued
quickly, ‘because that’s what makes me love you even more. You’re not like
every other gold-digger out there. You are unique, Arielle.’ He finished his
spiel with a cute kiss on the tip of my nose.

Piers was always singing my praises like this, but he really
had the wrong measure of me and I felt guilty about his generosity. He was just
so giving in
all
aspects of life. It
didn’t seem right; I was a terrible person.

‘I can’t go with you, Piers,’ I said sadly, even though the
little voice in my head was crooning “New York! New York!” Frank Sinatra-style.

‘Arielle, don’t be like this.’ He sounded almost cross. A
first.

‘You’re just too much, Piers.
It’s
too much,’ I hastily corrected, seeing his pained face.

I really hadn’t meant to air that thought out loud, even
though he was too much. Normal people do not have a whim to go to New York –
well, they do, but it’s a dream that’s unlikely to happen instantaneously.
Piers never had to wait to achieve his dreams. He could make all his dreams
come true. Like New York. Just like that.
 

He seemed so genuinely excited about taking me to New York;
could I really disappoint him? Piers had already decided the answer to that,
no. No, I wouldn’t disappoint him. We would go to the city that never slept –
perfect for Piers who much preferred other activities to sleeping.

‘Tough cookie,’ he told me, taking the bacon-laden plate
from me before scooping me up in his arms and carrying me back to the bedroom,
all thoughts of breakfast (and his work) forgotten. ‘We’re flying tonight and
our tickets are non-refundable so we have to go.’ He smiled triumphantly.

‘Is that true?’ I asked as he threw me on the bed. It was
one thing to moan when Piers spent money on me for refundable things but quite
another on non-refundable things. I couldn’t let him waste his money.
   

‘Probably not, but how about you thank me instead of asking
adorably silly questions,’ he saucily suggested.

‘Yes sir!’ I grabbed his dangling tie and used it to pull
him towards me on the bed… and people say ties are out-dated and have no use in
today’s world. Please, I thought of quite a few uses that morning.