The Devil You Know (15 page)
There was an abrupt cutâin the next instant, the woman was bent over the couch and Troy was fucking her from behind. The colours of their skin stood out against the black leather. She whimpered with each thrust. I closed my eyes.
Troy touched my hand and I jumped. He looked at me. “Well?” he asked. “What do you think?”
“I don't know. Who is she?”
“It's from a long time ago,” he said consolingly. “Way before your time, babe. I thought maybe we could make a newer one.” He put his arm around me and lifted my chin to kiss me.
I slid away. “I'm not doing this.”
“What do you mean?” He looked confused. “Take off your panties, but leave your skirt on. Do it slowly.”
“I'm being serious, Troy. I can't do this, not here.” I scanned the room for a video camera, but saw none.
“I thought we might go to the bedroom instead, since it's more comfortable⦔ He pulled me close to him again and buried his face in my hair, whispering in a way that usually sent shudders through me. “It's okay, babe, it's okay, nothing bad's going to happen, I promise.”
I shook my head against his shoulder, ignored the husky voice in my ear. “No, I mean it. Nothing bad is going to happen because I'm not doing this. I want to go home.” I stood up.
“Why are you being like this?”
“Why do you think?” I glanced at the woman on the screen, who now held an impressive length of Troy's cock in her mouth. I put my head down and made for the door. I didn't want to see anything else. I knew if I stayed for one more minute, Troy would cajole me and I would give in. I knew that with just a few more words of persuasion and gentle caresses, I'd be lying in the bed that he and the chesty blonde slept in together every night. The smell of her on the sheets. And her, or some other woman, watching me make love on video one day. This was my soft limit, a level of pain I wasn't ready to reach.
Troy was furious but insisted on taking me home. He said nothing on the drive back to my place, his face tight and ruddy. I exited the car without a word from either of us. Something in me felt rebellious and righteous, and although it wasn't sex, it felt good anyway. I was certain I'd be paying for it later.
During play, it didn't feel exceptionally hard when Troy struck me, but I've come to discover that my own assessment of pain is wildly changeable and inaccurate when I'm in “subspace.”
Afterwards, he looked at my face and winced. “You'd better go look in the mirror.” The shape of his fingers was unmistakably printed on my cheek in stripes of red and white.
Upon rising the next morning, I examined my reflection while brushing my teeth. The imprint of Troy's hand was still there. Less red certainly, but still visible, and joining it was a pool of congealing darkness under my left eye. I pulled out my limited arsenal of makeup to try and disguise it, but my equipment and experience were lacking and the resulting camouflage job was cakey, obvious, and largely ineffective. I left my hair down in an attempt to cover some of my face, but I looked a wreck. But I couldn't afford to miss the day's workâin addition to having no sick days left for the year, I also had an important meeting to attend.
All morning I observed people around the office looking at me strangely, but I kept my eyes down and pretended not to notice. One new hire asked me what happened, but I fixed her with a cold stare that sent her scampering to the lunchroom without another word. Back at my desk, I got a call from my boss's admin assistant, asking me to come by Linda's office at my earliest convenience.
Linda didn't waste any time. “What happened to your face, Susanna?”
“I hurt myself,” I replied too brightly, as though I were a child proud of a boo-boo.
“I want you to know I'm concerned.” In her voice I could hear a warning. “Your behaviour has been ratherâ¦unusual lately,” she said. She glanced at some papers on her desk as though they were the source of additional information. “You've been calling in sick, missing deadlines⦠If there's a personal issue, we're here to help.”
“No, no issue,” I said. I could see in her face that I wasn't getting away so easily. “Well, there have been some problems,” I added tentatively, and sure enough, she leaned forward for the scoop. “It's just⦔ I drew a long breath, as though the terrible truth was about to pour out of me.
“Yes?” she asked too eagerly.
“Well,” I said, taking the out, “it's not something I can really talk about at the moment. I just needed a little time, but things are getting better now.”
Linda leaned back again, clearly disappointed.
“I'm glad to hear it.”
“As am I. I can assure you, Linda, I won't be giving anyone further cause for alarm.”
“Good, good⦔ she trailed, her mind already switching gears to the next item on her agenda. “Well, do keep me posted,” she added, standing to signal the end of the conversation.
“Oh, I will,” I said, smiling.
“One more thing?”
“Yes?”
“Why don't you take the rest of the afternoon? I'll email you the notes from the meeting and we'll see you tomorrow.”
And as I walked through the door of Linda's office and past the desks and the meeting rooms and the reception area and out the door, it occurred to me that I had meant what I said. That I was done with the whole sordid business. For the first time in my life, the truth was far more scandalous than any lie I could invent, and yet, I could tell no one. I was exhausted.
What is there that is left to say? There was resistance, tears, shouting, and second thoughts from both parties. Flowers were delivered to my home, to my workplace. A lapse in judgment found Troy back in my bed, just once. I immediately contracted a yeast infection so pernicious I initially feared venereal disease. I listened to songs about broken hearts, unsubscribed from my internet forums without a goodbye, and got a decent haircut at a chic downtown salon. I put in extra hours at the office and spent my lunch hours in the gym, running on a treadmill until sweat ran into my eyes. I stood in my bedroom filling a box with items undonatable to any reputable thrift shop: a rubber dress, fleece-lined wrist and ankle cuffs, nipple clamps, a neon-orange butt plug, a leather-wrapped paddle. I sealed the box with what was left of the black electrical tape and pushed it to the back of the closet. I had become a woman with a past, with a proper secret.
Am I happy? I'm not convinced I'd go so far as to call it that. But I eat and sleep and work and make it through each day feeling as though something's been accomplished. I telephone my mother and father once a week. I contribute to my RRSP. I'm thinking of painting my living room a colour I saw in a magazine. I purchase toilet paper and toothpaste in bulk at Costco, and once, I saw Troy and his wife there. I peered from behind a lineup of people clamouring for cake samples and watched the two of them picking out patio furniture together. I waited for grief or anxiety to take hold of me, but I didn't feel anything close to heartsick. They looked pleased with their eventual selection. I couldn't even remember if they had a balcony, which seemed strange, given how I would have clamored for such information less than a year ago. The person I was then seemed like someone from another lifetime. It felt rather like those instances when I've caught sight of myself in a strangely angled window. I see a woman and that woman is me, but in that unexpected moment, I do not recognize her at all.
An earlier version of “Blonde” appeared in issue 54/55 of
subTerrain
magazine. “Day of the Dead” will appear in a future issue of
Forget
magazine online.
I would like to express my gratitude to the Canada Council for the Arts, The British Columbia Arts Council, and The Banff Centre for their generous support of this project.
This book owes much to the editorial guidance and feedback from mentors and peers at The Banff Centre's Writing Studio program, and to the literary festivals and events that provided the opportunity to shape and share works in progress: the Galiano Island Literary Festival, Hamilton's GritLIT festival, Vancouver's Word on the Street, and the W2 Real Vancouver Writers series.
I am indebted to the wonderful Katie Pretti for allowing me to reproduce her piece, “Untitled (Splitting) 1”, on the book's cover.
Finally, heartfelt thanks to Brian at Anvil Press for his patience and support, and to Rob, who picks up the red pen only when forced, and then with much kindness.
Jenn Farrell is an award-winning writer, editor, and creative writing instructor. Her stories have previously appeared in
Prism
and
subTerrain
magazines, and her collection of short fiction,
Sugar Bush & Other Stories
, was released in 2006.
The Devil You
Know
is her second collection of stories.
