Imperfect affections, p.2
Imperfect Affections, page 2
I can almost see the gears turning in her head as she tries to figure out why I’d say yes now when I’ve been opposed to the idea from the start.
“That’s crazy,” she says after a beat.
“We don’t want to wait,” Leon says. “What’s the point?”
My mom looks at me. “What about a wedding? A reception? It takes time—months—to arrange a proper ceremony.”
My answer is meant to be persuasive, but it sounds weak. “You know how I feel about ceremonies.”
Her eyebrows snap together, disappointment drawing lines around her eyes. When she married Gus, they had a huge wedding. She went for the whole shebang—white frills, lace, a three-tier cake, and a princess wedding dress. She wants nothing less for me.
Shaking her head, she asks, “Is this truly what you want, Violet?”
“Yes,” I say, another one of many lies.
I didn’t dream about a big, white wedding. I never wanted to get married.
My mom blinks a few times as she digests my answer.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Flora, says, approaching us with short, fast steps. “Would your guest like something to drink?”
My mom turns to Leon, assessing him while asking in a polished, friendly manner, “Would you like tea or coffee?”
“Coffee, please,” he says, meeting her gaze head-on like he has nothing to hide. “Violet has some things to pack.” He checks his watch. “I have business to take care of in town. We’ll have to leave in ten minutes. In the meantime, I’ll tell the moving company employees the misunderstanding has been cleared.”
“They’re in the lounge,” my mom says. “Please, go through.” Directing a pointed look at Flora, who’s observing our exchange with ardent attention, she continues, “Our housekeeper will serve your coffee there. I’ll go help Violet pack.”
“Good idea.” He inclines his head before walking to the lounge.
The minute he’s gone, my mom’s chest deflates. Taking my hand, she leads me up the stairs as fast as I can follow.
Once we’re in my room, she closes the door and whispers in an urgent tone, “Violet, what’s going on? He’s not Gus’s partner. The deal is off. If he’s forcing you into this, Gus will take care of it.”
It meaning Leon. What will Gus do? Fire him? More likely, he’ll shoot him. Does my mom ever think the consequences through, or does she consciously choose to ignore them?
“We can call Gus straight away,” she says.
“No.” I think quickly. “If I don’t marry Leon, Gus will only make me marry someone else, someone old or repulsive or someone who doesn’t really care about me. As you said yourself, Leon is kind to me.” It’s only half a lie because sometimes, he used to be. “Better the devil you know.” And devil is an accurate description. Leon is the devil reincarnated when you get on his wrong side.
She stares at me, her lips parting in surprise. “You’re serious about this.”
“I am.” I walk to the closet. “This is the best option for me.” Taking a bag from the bottom, I dump it on the bed. “The ceremony is tomorrow at the Department of Home Affairs in Randburg at three.”
Crossing her arms behind her back, she leans on the wall. She looks not only worried, but also defeated. She’s not even fifty and already beaten, her freedom and personality stifled. This is what the life she chose to save me did to her. This is my fate, what I’m destined to become, but if it means protecting her, I’ll do it any day.
“Will you come?” I ask, busying myself with packing my underwear.
She chews her lip. “Of course.”
“But?”
“But what if Gus says no? What if he doesn’t want you to marry Leon any longer?”
If that happens, I’m screwed. “We’ll have to convince him.”
“If you marry in secret…”
She doesn’t have to finish the sentence. I of all people know what Gus does to people who betray and disobey him.
“We’re not going to do it in secret. Gus values Leon, no matter that he didn’t make him a partner. He said Leon was his best programmer, didn’t he?”
“But if he says no—”
“Elliot can put in a good word for me.”
“Elliot? Why would he do that? He hates Leon.”
“He only hated him because he was jealous. He no longer has a reason to be resentful of Leon.”
She pushes off the wall. “Why would Elliot do you any favors?”
“He’ll be happy to finally get rid of me.” I straighten from shoving bras into the bag, voicing my biggest concern about leaving my mom here on her own. “But you have to be careful. You know—”
“He’s watching me.” She looks away. “How can I forget?”
Walking over, I hug her. “Promise me you won’t take risks.”
“I won’t.” She sniffs, pulling away. “You’re the one I’m worried about.”
“I’ll be fine.” I smile. “Can you give me a minute? I want to say goodbye to my old room.”
“Sure.” She wipes tears from under her eyes with her fingertips. “I’ll wait downstairs.”
She goes to the door and pauses on the threshold. “Violet.”
The quiet way in which she says my name is almost my undoing.
“What?” I ask, miraculously keeping my voice from breaking.
“Are you sure about this? Because if you have the minutest doubt—”
“I’m certain. This is the best option for me, Mom.” The only option.
“If it doesn’t work out, you can always come back.”
There’s no coming back from this, but I let her believe the lie. “Sure.”
“Okay,” she says in a small voice, squaring her back. “Your room will always be here for you.”
“That’s good to know.”
With a last look over her shoulder, she leaves the room. When she closes the door behind her, I let my composure slip. My shoulders slump under the enormity of what’s about to happen. My breaths come too fast and too hard. I want to climb through the window and fly away like in a scene from one of my favorite comic books, but I’m shackled to reality, chained to a future with a man who hates me.
There’s no point in delaying the inevitable. Dragging it out only makes the torture worse.
Kneeling on the floor in front of my closet, I move the loose panel aside and feel for the key that’s stuck to the wall with reusable adhesive. Then I take the metal box from under the floorboard. Lucky sold the second-hand fireproof box to me for next to nothing. I unlock the box and steal a glance at the door before removing the stash of money I’ve saved and the folder with my unsold sketches. I look around for something to hide the money in and settle on the bag with the pull-string that holds my socks. I stuff the rolls of bills inside before packing it with the folder into my bag. The metal box is too big to fit into the bag. I put it back under the floorboard and return the key to its hiding place. It’s the best I can do for now.
After zipping up the bag, I go to the window. The old oak stands sturdily in the morning sun, a beautiful but unobtainable dream. I never did manage to climb those branches.
Letting the curtains fall closed, I pick up the bag.
My old life has ended.
My new hell begins.
Chapter 2
Leon
* * *
My future wife says nothing when she sits next to me in the car. We’re quiet as I drive to Sandton. There’s nothing in between the strangers we were a few months ago and the husband and wife we’ll be tomorrow—no engagement, no words of affection, and no tender promises. We’re diving straight into despising each other, or maybe that’s what obsession is. Perhaps obsession is too dark for love. Only hate is powerful enough to equal its depth.
At the Sandton City mall, I park in the underground parking and lead Violet with a firm hand on her upper arm from the car. Mindful of her leg, I avoid the stairs, opting for the elevator instead. We get off on the level where the high-end clothing boutiques are situated.
I enter the first store where the dress in the window has a five-figure price tag, my fingers still curled around Violet’s arm. Clothes rails with formal dresses frame either side of the store while a counter with bags and accessories runs along the center. The space smells of new textiles and money.
A young redhead with a high ponytail and long legs is chatting to a customer in front of the changing room. She slides her gaze our way when the door swings closed, frowning as she takes in my worn T-shirt and Violet’s casual attire. She ignores us, sending a clear message that we’re not welcome, and returns her attention to the middle-aged woman who’s studying her reflection in a full-length mirror. That’s okay. I’ll wait. And someone should tell the woman that dress she’s trying on is twenty years too young for her.
Guiding Violet to an armchair in the corner, I push her down onto the seat. Standing for too long will be uncomfortable for her. While she sits on the edge of the seat with her hands clasped in her lap, I flip through the dresses. I’m no expert on women’s fashion, but I can tell from a glance these dresses have style. I’ve bought plenty of dresses for many women in my lifetime, but never in Johannesburg. I left the city with Ian when I was fourteen. By the time I lost my virginity at the age of sixteen, we were already spending most of our time in Zimbabwe or Lesotho.
The woman who popped my blueberries had small boobs and glittery stockings. Her name was Becky. I paid her twenty bucks for a blowjob behind the bar. She let me go all the way and patted my cheek after I’d shot my load, telling me the rest was on the house. I went back to Becky for the better part of a year, paying her fifty and then a hundred per hour as Ian’s burglaries grew more daring and our loot increased.
I upgraded Becky and my meeting venue from the garbage littered backyard of the bar to a motel room. She taught me how to please a woman and how to make her scream. She was the first woman for whom I bought a dress. The second was Jenny. She worked the streets outside the casino in Zambia. She was the one who liked to be spanked.
After that, I stopped keeping count of the dresses, shoes, jewelry, and designer label handbags. I’ve bought enough clothes and gifts for women to know every boutique from Zim to Mozambique, enough to no longer remember the color of their stockings or the size of their breasts. With the amount I’ve spent on fashion, I can fill the entire floor of this mall.
Since returning to the city of my birth, I haven’t touched a woman except for Violet. I’ve never slept with or shopped for a woman here. Johannesburg is my clean slate, and I like the idea. Fuck. Perhaps I’m getting old, because the thought of being with one person for the rest of my life has never been more attractive.
When the customer finally pays and leaves with her purchase, the redhead approaches us. Her nametag reads Sandy. Looking at me down her nose, she asks, “Can I help you?”
“Yes, Sandy.” I take a stack of cash from my wallet and slap it in her palm. “Lock the door. I want to do my shopping in private.”
She takes one look at the money before she turns from haughty to humble. Hurrying to the door, she flips the open sign to closed and turns the key.
“Are you looking for anything specific?” she asks, inconspicuously slipping the money into her pocket.
“A dress,” I say. “Formal.”
“Day or evening formal?” Sandy asks, looking at Violet for a clue.
Since Violet doesn’t utter a chirp, I say, “Daywear.”
“I have a great collection of smart-casual,” Sandy says. “Do you have a color in mind?”
I look at Violet. What is the color of betrayal? “Yellow.”
“Yellow?” Sandy wrinkles her nose. “I don’t think it will go well with her complexion.”
“Oh, it’ll go perfectly,” I say with a flat smile, holding Violet’s gaze. “Trust me.”
Violet flushes, no doubt catching my drift.
“Size?” Sandy asks, clacking her way over the floor to the clothes rail. “I’d say eight or ten at a glance.”
Violet gives in first, breaking our eye contact.
Sandy returns with a canary-yellow jumpsuit and a butter-yellow halter-neck dress. “What about these?”
I shake my head.
“It’ll help if I know what the occasion is,” Sandy says.
Taking my phone from my pocket, I wake up the screen. “Our wedding.”
Sandy coughs. “Your wedding?”
“That’s what I said.”
The shop assistant scrunches up her face. “If it’s for your wedding, maybe you should consider a more bridal color like a soft peach or rose.” She adds with a little sting in her words that’s obviously meant to call me out as an asshole, “Or white.”
Walking to the sofa placed in front of the changing area, I make myself comfortable like I’ve done countless times with countless women, yet this time is different. This time, I’m not uninvested or easygoing. This time, even as I call up my emails, I’m present in every second.
“It’ll be yellow,” I say. “If you want to make a sale, I suggest you hurry up and show us what you’ve got. I don’t have all day.”
Sandy’s cheeks turn red. She glares at me even as her professional smile stays intact. Turning to Violet, she says in a compassionate tone, “Don’t worry. I’m sure we’ll find you something lovely.”
I catch Sandy’s gaze in the reflection of the mirror. “With the emphasis on speedy rather than lovely.”
Sandy’s nostrils flare, but she walks with a stiff back to the rail. The hangers click together as she flips through them and selects a handful of dresses.
“This way,” she says to Violet with a pitying smile, indicating the changing room.
Behind me, Violet gets to her feet obediently. I follow her progress in the mirror, watching her uneven gait as she walks with square shoulders to the curtained-off area.
“Here,” I say when Violet passes me.
Sandy turns, her arms bogged down with a mountain of yellow fabric. “Excuse me?”
“She can change here,” I say. “In front of me. That’s what I paid for.”
Sandy goes rigid. The color on Violet’s cheeks deepens from dark pink to furnace red, but neither woman says a word.
“Here, love,” Sandy says, hanging one of the dresses on a portable rail next to the sofa. “Why don’t you start with this one?” Shooting me a cutting look, she goes to the counter and presses a button that closes the blinds in front of the windows.
That’s very considerate of her, but Sandy doesn’t know Violet is a closet-exhibitionist. She likes it when I watch. Or maybe that’s the thing. Maybe she only likes it when I watch. I’ve never had a jealous bone in my body, but as I imagine other men ogling her naked curves, I decide here and now it’s better for both of us if her exhibitionist tendencies are limited to me. I’ve always been happy to indulge a woman’s fantasies. I pride myself on doing so. But if sharing is Violet’s fantasy, it’ll be my first exception, the one fantasy I’ll never deliver. She’s all mine, every deceiving, betraying inch of her.
I check my watch. “As I said, darling, I don’t have all day.”
A glimmer of hurt simmers in the depths of Violet’s expressive eyes before she hides it behind a veil of anger.
Why that bothers me, I have no idea. The road we’re about to walk is paved with deceit. I’m laying down the cornerstones, setting the foundation for our future by teaching her to conceal her feelings and hide them from me. It’s not what I would’ve chosen before yesterday, but it is what it is today.
Turning her back on me, Violet removes her sneakers. She struggles, almost losing her balance without a seat, but I don’t go forward to help her, which is a dick move considering her disability. That’s not what we’re about. We’re not about consideration.
Next, she shimmies out of her jeans, pushing them over her round, tight ass to reveal the string of her thong that disappears in her crease. I study her shamelessly, following her actions as she pushes the jeans down her thighs and frees her feet. She avoids meeting my gaze in the mirror while I pretend I’m not sporting a boner when her T-shirt comes off and she stands in black lace underwear in front of me.
Sandy rushes to her aid, helping her into the dress and assisting with the zipper.
My phone pings with a notification. It’s a message from HR, instructing me to inform them of the reason for my absence at my earliest convenience.
Before the dress is fully zipped up, I say, “No.”
I don’t even look up from my phone. The dress is pretty enough, but it doesn’t suit Violet. The cut must be from the sixties. Vintage isn’t her style.
Shopping, I reply.
Let the fuckers have a field day with that.
From my peripheral vision, I spot a fuming Sandy peeling the dress off Violet.
She helps her fit another and poses Violet in front of me.
“How about this one?” Sandy asks. “The knee-length is back in fashion big time.”
“No,” I say, not gracing Violet with more than a glance.
She looks like she walked straight from a commercial for vacuum cleaners, one of those tacky ones in which the housewife poses in a fancy dress and heels on a floor so clean her image reflects in the tiles.
Huffing, Sandy takes the next dress off the rail. “This one has more of a wedding flair. Personally, I think it’s the best choice of the lot.”
Violet steps into the dress while Sandy zips her up.
When I lift my gaze, I forget to breathe. The dress is a tight fit, the simple cut hugging Violet’s generous curves and flat stomach. The hem ends mid-thigh, exposing her long, tanned legs. The old-gold fabric has a mat shine that brings out the bronze color of her skin. The dress looks perfect on her. She’s a goddess.
Sandy gasps. “It’s gorgeous on you.”
Agreed.
Smoothing her hands over her stomach, Violet finally speaks. “It looks like I’m going to a nightclub.” She couldn’t look more ill at ease in the dress if she tried to be.
I stand, pocketing my phone. “We’ll take it.”
