Exploits (9 page)

She finds me not four minutes later. I get into her red pick-up with a huge stuffed tote bag on my lap. She takes one look at me and says, "You need a drink."

I am so embarrassed I start rambling, "I'm so sorry. I had no one else I could call."

She gives me one stare of her chocolate mousse eyes, "It's okay. Don't explain. You can stay as long as you want."

Her dependability just makes emotional perception flood into me. And I stare persistently out of the window choking back tears. (I'm big into ‘I can do this! I can handle it! I'm brave! I can be strong!’)

Somewhat uncomfortably, I follow her into her home, where she
shows me the spare room. I leave my bag on the bed and unearth my smokes. She smokes too, thank heavens.

She pours me a huge glass of wine and puts music on. She likes alternative, and we get along really well for a host of reasons. I love the band playing, Surrounded By Idiots. I light a smoke just as she lights her own. She raises her glass.

"To dumping losers!"

I smile. "Cheers."

Her eyes are examining me with undisguised concern.

I swallow my embarrassment and pride and tell her what transpired earlier, although I never ever tell her about
the rest of that story. It's my shame, and I try very hard to hide the truth from everyone.

She nods, "You're better off without him."

* * * * *

I am a looney. I should have taken the day off work, but I don't. Monday morning we arrive at work together. I'm still shaken and can't eat. Hence, I'm not myself and very pale.

I've made a few friends at this place, and most of them sense that I'm not okay. I can tell, because they keep on asking me if I'm okay.

"I'll be fine."

I must say that work is a total blessing. It keeps me distracted and busy. By midday I'm feeling almost normal.

The phone on my desk rings. I deal with investment clients from 8 a.m. daily. So, this isn't a cause for me to panic. If he
cared, he would have phoned by now anyway.

"Stefanie speaking, how may I help you?"

"Woman ..."

I hang up, instantly adrenalised and
angry
. I will
not
speak to anyone who starts a sentence calling me, ‘woman’. My hands start shaking, and I push myself forcefully away from the desk. I stalk to the switchboard and tell the adorable lady, (who becomes another friend), "If that guy calls again, please just take a message. It's a personal call and I only have time today for business calls.”

"What's his name?" she asks me, as if I'd just
reprimanded her.

"Gary Fuchs."

"Okay," she nods. She takes her duties seriously and keeps me safe from him. None of his calls are put through to me for the rest of the day.

* * * * *

That evening, I need time alone. Selene lives on a high hill with a stunning view. At night it looks like a wonderland, and you can stare down at traffic, lights and traffic lights from afar. The colours of all the lights in the dark, remind me of alluring sprinkles dusting a cupcake. Just too enticing to resist.

It's time for me to face my feelings. I take a walk out there and get comfortable on a rock. I have a new box of smokes with me and light one, then stare miserably at the twinkling wonderland.

The puzzle pieces start falling into place. Since my house arrest, Gary had begun badgering me to stop being ‘such a prude and so old fashioned’.

He wanted a threesome. I am a one man woman. I don't share my man. 

CLICK. He was priming baby girl to be his third party victim in his
ménage à trois
. (So call me old fashioned
.
I justified everything because I was in a ‘monogamous’ relationship. Oy vey, what a hopeless, clueless, blow up doll I am.)

CLICK: "I need time alone with the lads. We're sick of women interfering."

Oh yeah, I bet.
Having your partner there when you're trying to pick up new blood would never work.

CLICK: "I'm not going to make it. I have to work late. Maybe you should catch the bus."

So you can pick up your girlfriend and shag her before coming home!

I'm a daft twit. AC/DC has been warning me for weeks. We're nowhere near Christmas, yet, ‘Mistress for Christmas’ was played every morning as the wake-up song.

Okay, this isn't good. The anger is surfacing and it's
crushing
me. I think back to how many times over the last few months that he has only reached home after 10 p.m. at night. How strangely he's more tired than he's ever been. And this
stupid idiot
made dinner and waited for him before eating it. Waited for hours!

Oh, and suddenly he has a pager. Funny how convenient it is that Charl works with him at the I.T. company and can page him at any hour, and it looks like a call out. All times, even over weekends, 8 p.m., 10 p.m., 2 a.m.

I feel so stupid and ANGRY.

What's worse is I'm not angry with him. I'm angry with
myself
.

Bitter hot tears start dropping onto my cigarette, it fizzles out with a hiss. The past four years just went phissss, along with that ember.

I met Gary just before I turned twenty. I've been with
him for four years, and he's had me jumping like a fire-walker since six months in. I am twenty-three and I feel old and used. I feel ugly and worthless. I hate myself.

I have done things that have made me lose my self-respect. I loathe who I am. I am ashamed to walk amongst women. I shame us all.

Gary didn't buy me soft toys or cute gifts; he didn't want anything girly cluttering up his home with ‘crap’. He was my toy. If I wanted something to hold onto, he was the one to be my teddy. (Except teddies don't have conditions and rules and ‘needs’.)

He didn't buy me jewellery, (except twice, my twenty-first and our engagement). Instead, he gave me what he considered to be fitting jewellery. A pearl necklace, at least four times a week. He had this fantasy that he enjoyed acting out. It's called, by him, the Bombay roll. Lucky me. I get the kind of jewellery that you have to wash out of your hair and off your flaming face. Now, if they had been pearls of wisdom, I might not have minded so much. (I guess he did have to do some diving to give me pearls … but let's face facts, I'm the one that can hold my breath like a natural pearl diver, not him. When he goes diving, he doesn't even wear a wet-suit.)

For the record: handcuffs with keys do
not
count as jewellery, even if they look like bangles.

CLICK: I have nothing personal up in that home. There's no sign that a woman lives there. After all this time,
I'm a ghost. A convenient ghost. The shoemaker's elf, that not only cooks and cleans but also the genie in the bottle, making all wishes come true.

(So what does that make Gary? The Magi, or Aladdin?)

CLICK: He has been missing all weekend for the past three months. Popping in at random, to find a reason to keep me home and busy, ensuring my endless servitude to his unreasonable demand
s–
because
he was out wooing his new lady.

CLICK: I haven't been able to save a cent. Not for years. He allocates my salary every month. He takes me grocery shopping to police what I buy, and to make sure that I am never alone.
So that I can never leave.

CLICK: He's sick. And I'm not
ever
going to let a man degrade and treat me like that ever again.

Click  click   click   click   click   click   click   click   click   clic
k–
like someone driving me insane with a pen and they have a nervous condition or twitch.

I stare at the smudging night. I have no idea where all of these tears are coming from, but they're breaking me in half. I bow my head and bury my nose between my knees; wracked and broken, I weep.

The worst. The absolute worst, is what he's done recently. He wouldn't leave it.

He kept on insisting that we have anal intercourse.
Why? What
for
?
I even researched it, to understand where the pleasure could lie in such an act. I discovered that the prostate gland is there in men, and if ‘agitated’ induces an orgasm. But women have no such thing
.
I
refused
to do it. And I told him why!

Sigh. He had recently being playing that song a lot ... and singing with it ... something about a back door male.

Cue song: SBI, ‘Violently Opposed’.

Did I need a bigger sign board?

(Actually, I'm so ridiculously trusting, that what I needed was the front page of the newspaper announcing it to me, whilst a plane writes it in smoke in the sky, and every radio station broadcasts, ‘WAKE UP ZOMBIE!’)

But when you're handcuffed on your knees, he can pretty much do whatever he wants. And he did. (Am I a dumb blonde or am I just dumb?) You've heard the saying, right? Never be too open minded, your brains may fall out.

No offence, if you enjoy buggery. I personally find being buggered unappealing.

Cue: Feedback: Friends ... ‘I try to see into your eyes, There is no one inside, and through the pain I hear your cries, But all I'm feeling is numb, numb ... Hold on ... Hold on to this ... Fake me, show me all those lies ...’

Okay. Now I
hate
him. I have been a Stepford Wife who blows him away whenever he needs a shuttle launch, for years. He has held the remote control that makes sure his woman does
everything
he desires. (The mute button even worke
d–
for Pete's sake, he probably wrote that script.) Talk about his fantasy come true.

I have never loved anyone the way I love Gary. And no one has hurt me the way he just has. This is the problem with love. You can't just switch the flipping thing off. And it feels as though someone is cutting my flesh into strips with a rusty razor blade. I'm bleeding. But only I can feel it. Only I can see it. I feel spiked by the butcher’s hook, and any moment Gary will morph into Hannibal Lector.

Selene has become worried and I jump, startled, as her hand rubs my back. She has no idea why I'm crying. She lights a smoke and hands it to me.

"It's gonna be okay. Cry. Let it all out."

Cue: Feedback: Hollow ... ‘On this road running, and starting to slow, The size of life daunting, it makes me grow old, I give in, there's no real end ...’

Chapter 13

Party Therapy

Tuesday Morning, Michelle comes to me with a hand full of message slips. She gives me a seriously worried expression. "These messages are all for you." She lowers her voice, "From that guy."

I take them with a heavy heart, and wonder why she's brought them to me. It was obviously weighing on her, because she's cornered me early.

She pushes up her spectacles and almost pleads, "I have to put him through. I'm not allowed to screen calls like
this. I could lose my job, because every caller is a potential client."

I nod. I do get it. "I understand." I give her a warm smile, "Thanks."

She jerks her head in an awkward nod and storms back to her post, already fretting that she's left it for too long.

I sink into my chair and dread the telephone ringing. It's only seven-thirt
y
–
(
I like to be early and catch up before the day starts
)–
and my stomach plummets as my phone starts ringing. That can either be Gary, Gary or Gary.

Selene sits opposite me and stops her filing, and gives me an expression full of girl power support.

"Stefanie speaking, how may I help you?"

"I am
so
sorry. Please forgive me! I feel just
awful
.”

I smile and nod at Selene. Indicating that all is cool.

"Hi Kristy."

Wailing comes pouring into my ear. “
Pleeeease
don’t hate me.”

I examine my desk and feel sorry for her, "It's not your fault, Kristy. How can I hate you? We all just do as we're told. He made you do it. I don't blame you."

Man, she's seriously crying over this. She sounds more torn up than I feel.

Sniiiiiffffff
. "Promise?"

I nod, even though she can't see me. "Kristy, we're cool. Honest."

"Will I ever see you again?"

How the hell should I know? Not if it means seeing Aladdin.
"I don't know, right now."

She bursts into tears and manages to get out, "I have to go."

I have a huge lump in my throat, "Okay. Thanks for calling."