Two Can Play (2 page)

And as for dad...well...he lives in Russia.

Very hands off.

As well as lacking in critical personal developmental skills, I can be really funny.

And I don't mean I'm a comedian. I can be odd at times. Deliberately prickly and difficult.

It comes from not trusting people, I guess. And there are a few good reasons why I don't trust people.

But the main one is Ryan.

A fairly recent reason

He scarred me for life. Double scarred me.

Because of what he did, when I caught him in his lie. Something I could never tell anyone about. I'm so ashamed. I know I shouldn't be. It's not my fault. But he ruined me. Violated and demeaned me.

That was fifteen months ago, and I remember every horrific second of it.

I try not to think about it, I don't want to, but sometimes it gets stuck fast in my head, like the worst recurring nightmare.

Since then I've not been able to get close to any man at all.

The closest I've got is one kiss with Marco. And that ended in disaster.

He's a total dream of a guy, a waiter, at a
cafe not far from here.

I was a little trashed and he walked me home on the last night of my stay, three months ago.

I started what should have been a brief goodnight and thank-you kiss on my doorstep. But he got way too heated with me, and I pushed him away. Much too roughly.

I wasn't ready for any intense physical stuff.

My mind exploded in the worst way.

He was hurt and upset by my massive overreaction.

Things were said. Bad and hurtful things. It wasn’t a good way to part company.

I was shocked by the way I reacted, in truth.

I know I need to offload all this somehow, so I can heal, but I just can't.

After I change my clothes I go into my kitchen and put the coffee machine on for a quick caffeine hit. Getting the dried coffee creamer out of the cupboard, I stir a few heaped spoonfuls into the strong brew, and add some sugar, my mind wandering back to Marco and those harsh words we had. It was all so unpleasant and unnecessary.

I settle myself in, going through the pile of junk mail that has accumulated since I last visited.

Lucia, my housekeeper, keeps the place clean for me, picks up the mail, and sends the important looking things to me, just in case something needs to be done in between visits.

There's nothing worth keeping in the paper mountain, so I dump the whole lot in the trash. Italians don't seem to have heard of recycling, not in Venice in any case.

I love it here. Bella Venezia. I took a holiday here with a friend during my degree years, and later bought this small hideaway for myself. It's in a residential part of the city, full of traditional old buildings, off the tourist beat. I retreat to it every so often, for a week here and there, to escape who I am. And who I am is
the
Kate Denton. The super-rich girl, who, unfortunately, attracts the wrong type of guys like bees to a honeypot in L.A. Here I'm just Kate, plain old anonymous Kate. I hardly know anyone here, apart from the waiters at Lorenzo's café, the guys at the bakery, Luigi and Mario, my cleaner Lucia, and my hairdresser, Rachelle. I keep my real self to myself. Marco doesn't have a clue who I am. He thinks I work in a bank. That's what he assumed from my vague description of my “job” and I didn't correct his misassumption.

I take in my surroundings with pure enjoyment. It's such a sweet apartment. Very tastefully done out, if I do say so myself. And all my own work. I'm a closet painter and decorator at heart. There's nothing like the smell of paint and the excitement of a big roller to slap it on with.

I really know how to live, don't I?
I smile to myself.

It's cream and pale blue throughout, with a sizable bedroom sporting a massive, white, four-poster bed. It sits proudly, center stage, complete with cream silk drapes. It makes me smile every time I look at it.

It's my little fantasy. A horrendously expensive luxury I awarded myself one afternoon when I was strolling around, and then shopping on the Internet.

This quaint and feminine apartment is a world apart from my penthouse back in L.A. That's floor-to-ceiling glass windows, black marble bathroom, red leather sofas, and sleek fittings. My L.A. apartment is equally beautiful, but modern and very cosmopolitan in style.

Lucia has thoughtfully left a coordinating white and blue arrangement of fresh flowers in a vase on the dining table for me. I stand and finger the petals and leaves. They feel sleek and velvety. Like moist skin.

Remembering moist skin, I look for the card Aaron gave me. I spot it lying on the console table by the door. I pick it up and stare at it, teasing myself.

Aaron Alexander Garcia.

Mmmm, pretty hot name, for a pretty hot guy.

I wonder what he'd make of mine...Katrina Eloise Denton-Strovovich. I drop the paternal surname to keep the Russian oil billionaire connection under wraps, just in case it arouses the wrong type of interest. Kidnappers and whoever else. No one knows who my dad is exactly. Not even my friends. I'm very vague about him.

As I stare at his card, and rub the embossed print with my thumb, I wonder if his father's will needed contesting? He should be in the know by now.

What shall I do with myself? I have nothing much planned. At all. Normally this is not an issue, as I can cope very well with being on my own when it
just happens
that way. But I've stupidly and deliberately done this to myself. That fact seems to make a substantial difference to my mood. I could be getting ready to go out on a dinner date, or at least looking forward to one tomorrow.

Maybe, if it ever stops raining cats and dogs, I'll drop by the cafe and see if Marco's around.

I need to rebuild that bridge, and soon.

He's a nice guy, at least I hope he is, and I want to get back in his good books.

My mom sends me a text, in her usual best-friend style.

Got a special date with Harry. v.special   :) :)

My mom is very chatty, but difficult to converse with. Verbally hyperactive. She doesn't seem to listen to me properly. It makes for a very one-way conversation at times. For that reason I prefer our text chats to calls because she has to read, think and reply. It all flows better between us.

Either way, I usually get way too much information for a daughter. Her love and sex life is not something I wanna hear anything about. Especially as hers seems to be going with a bang, and mine was ruined a year ago.

Great. Have fun, B good  :)
 
I reply.

She's been interested in him for months and dating him for a fortnight. Another oil millionaire. That's number three, I think. She's always meeting the rich and famous through her job. She loves it and wouldn't give it up if she won the oil millionaire lotto six times over. Not that she needs the money. Dad made sure she was very well provided for financially. Money-wise, my dad is an extremely generous man. With his kind of wealth, he can afford to be.

Perhaps I should become a croupier in Las Vegas too?
I think to myself, whimsically. It would be nice to meet someone wealthy whose intentions I don't have to worry about. Someone I could relax and be myself with. It's a shame all the rich guys I know leave me cold or are already attached. Not that I really want a man. At least, not at the moment. I couldn't cope with a real boyfriend. Intimacy and I are a long way from being friends..

I have my friends and my hobbies to keep me busy. My writing. Songs, stories, poems. What I really need is some mega artiste or girl group to discover me and take me on as their lyricist and give a higher, creative meaning to my existence. But until then, I'll dream on, keep writing, and send my work to publishers. It's therapeutic, cathartic...and it keeps me sane and grounded.

My cell bleeps again and we have a fun back and forth.

Mom
:
So how’s Italy honeybunch

Me
:
SO RAINY''''''''''

Mom
:
Go get a man to play with then

Me
:
Will do. On the way to pick one up from the man shop.

Mom
:
LOL

I hear her high-pitched, squeaky laugh in my head and smile.

At least I have some kind of a regular relationship with my mom. Unlike my dad. He hardly ever contacts me. The last time I saw him was three years ago when I took the initiative and visited him. It was a very strained visit. He was so distant and cool. But I did get to meet my Russian grandfather, who was equally distant and cool. I get birthday cards and the odd call to say hello. But his English isn't all that great. More like none existent. It's difficult conversation.
I know I should try harder, try to learn some Russian. I've got the time and the means to pay for someone to teach me privately. It's one of those things I've never got around to doing. I put it on my soon-to-do list, mentally. In six months I could give my dad a real surprise. Maybe he'd warm to me more, knowing I've made an effort to embrace my Russian heritage.

I know it's my fault leaving my flight till the last minute, but I'm mightily fucked off. The plane landed an hour late and now I'm in a real rush.

I run out of the door and overtake a girl running for the one cab available.

Sorry, honey. Ain't got time for being a gentleman. That is SO mine.

I'm getting soaked, but I'm there. I stake my claim and get in. Unfortunately so does she.

Actually I don't mind when I take a proper look.

She's a real stunner. Even soaked, she looks gorgeous. Very slim, but plenty to admire above the waistline. Just the way I like my women.

I attempt some conversation, and she's testing me out. Katrina. Kinda playful and cute.

Or more like so damn hot and sexy I could eat her. All of her. She's growing on me. Real fast.

She might be a little bit interested. Or even a lot. But I'm real interested in her.

I'm getting the impression she wants to lick my tattoos; her eyes are glued to them. That's a definite come-on in my mind.

I want to see her again. So I give her my card. My personal one. I keep my professional and private life well separated. I never let my girlfriends know I own a recording and production studio and that I've got seven, almost eight figures in the bank. I don't trust anyone enough to let them inside my world. It's my world and I like it the way it is, with only me in it.