Don't Marry Thomas Clark (21 page)

‘I suppose so. You know…'

‘What?'

‘This whole countryside thing is starting to seriously get on my nerves!'

‘See? So hop out of bed and go and talk to him.'

‘No, I think I'll let him stew until tomorrow morning,' I decide.

‘OK, then, enjoy your last moments as a countess. Call me tomorrow, will you?'

‘Sure,' I smile, finally serene.

‘Good night, then,' he says.

‘Rufus, wait…;

For a moment I have the feeling he's already hung up, but then I hear his breathing.

‘Yes?'

‘Listen…' I mumble. ‘Have you happened to see Mike at all lately?'

‘A couple of times at Pearl's. But I haven't been going out much recently. Why? Do you miss him?' he teases me.

‘No, it's just that…'

‘What?'

‘He called me before I left and…'

‘And?'

‘Didn't he… didn't he ask about me? Like, what I'm doing, if I'm OK…?'

‘Actually no, Sandy,' he admits with difficulty. ‘But like I told you, I'm hardly going out at the moment. Has something happened?'

What's the point in telling him?

‘No, nothing. Nothing at all. Forget it. We'll talk tomorrow, OK?'

‘Sleep tight!' he says, and hangs up.

‘Love you,' I sigh, dropping the phone onto the sheets.

‘What am I doing here?' I ask myself, as I take off my dress. Rufus is right: we suffer, but then we move on. What am I waiting for? ‘Grow up, Sandy!' I tell myself, looking for the zip on my back, pulling off the straps. I'll sort everything out tomorrow. This is the last night I'm going to spend here.

I'm about to walk into the bathroom and let the hot water of the shower wash away this humiliating evening when the door opens. I quickly hold the dress against me in a gesture of self-defence, and Thomas walks in as though it were the most natural thing in the world, a pillow in his arms. He's wearing a pair of black fleece pyjama bottoms and an army-green T-shirt. He looks tired. He approaches the edge of the bed, rubbing his eye with the back of his hand. Rudy appears behind him, his mouth wide open and his tongue dangling.

‘Don't you knock?' I ask in a shrill voice, looking him full in the face.

‘It's the new upgrade: “intimate moments”. Downloads automatically when you accept a marriage proposal.'

‘Sounds more like spam.'

He grins with amusement and props one knee on the bed.

‘So what do you want?' I ask, a hint of concern in my eyes.

‘I wouldn't mind a cup of herbal tea,' he says, stretching.

‘And you've come looking for it here? What's the matter – lost your bell and don't know how to call the butler?'

He doesn't answer, but takes the pillow off the bed and throws it at my feet.

‘What are you doing?'

‘I'm changing the pillow.'

‘That one was fine.'

‘I can't sleep on those latex ones. This one's wool,' he says, grabbing an edge of the sheet to pull it away. I put my hand down to stop him and look him in the eyes.'

‘Thomas,
what
are you doing?'

‘Going to sleep?'

‘I don't know if you've noticed, but this is
my
room.'

He peers about at the chaos that surrounds him, then turns back to me with an amused expression on his face, and his gaze drops from my eyes to my hands, which are pressed against my chest in an attempt to cover up some rather racy lingerie.

‘I guarantee you, I'm fully aware of the fact.'

‘OK, this has gone on too long. Get your stuff and get out of here!' I snap, trying to ignore my burning cheeks. My gesture has no effect, though, other than to make him smile. He puts the pillow back in place, pulls the sheet violently from my hands and collapses face down onto the mattress.

‘Thomas…'

‘Sandy…' he mimics me.

Rudy leans against the edge of the bed and starts whining, so Thomas leans forward, takes him in his arms, puts him tenderly on his stomach, and begins to scratch his little muzzle.

‘For God's sake, are you out of your mind?' I burst out, while wondering exactly when these two found the time to get so close. ‘What's this stupid joke about?'

‘Why do you presume it's a joke?'

‘I don't know – because I'm an optimist?'

‘Sorry, I've never been more serious,' he says without lifting his eyes from the dog, who is blissfully enjoying being pampered.

‘OK, you win. I'll go and sleep in another room.'

I get up from the bed angrily and walk towards the door.

He folds his arms behind his head and waits for me to reach the threshold before asking with a sarcastic tone, ‘So, you don't want to marry me anymore? And right after I opened my heart to you… How insensitive!'

Something stops me.

I turn around and, leaning against the door jamb with my dress still pressed against my chest, my hair unkempt, give him a look that would crack a granite block.

‘Why are you bringing up the marriage now?' I burst out.

He doesn't reply immediately but keeps me in suspense, a beatific expression on his face, then he scratches his chin, stretches, makes a thoughtful grimace, and slams his latest idea – which I suppose he couldn't wait to tell me – in my face.

‘If I remember correctly,' he begins, pretending to be uncertain, ‘the will says that we have to share everything. Free time, home, bedroom… Now, I don't want to sound picky, but if you choose to sleep in a separate bed, I can only assume that you don't want to respect my grandfather's will and, therefore, would rather dissolve our contract.'

‘I thought there were a couple of clauses we'd decided to overlook.'

‘That's when I thought you wanted to settle for my first offer,' he explains.

‘This is getting out of hand,' I say, more to myself than to him.

‘Is it?'

‘For the good of both of us, I think it's time we discussed it and found a compromise.'

‘I disagree,' he floors me.

‘What?' I can't believe he's serious. ‘I thought you said you'd come up with a solution?'

‘Yes, I had, and it would have been perfect for both of us. Especially for you, to be honest. You would have wormed a considerable sum out of me, but it would have been worth it, after all. I would have taken possession of my property and we could have forgotten all about this unpleasant “cohabitation”.'

‘So?' I ask, beginning to show some impatience.

‘So nothing. I've changed my mind,' he states seraphically while Rudy takes advantage of the distraction to slip down between the blankets and find a corner all by himself among the pillows, where he settles down for the night.

‘What do you mean you've changed your mind? You can't change your mind!' I shout, discovering how difficult it is to gesticulate whilst trying to preserve your modesty with a thin layer of silk. Not being able to wave my arms about, I opt for hysterical little hops.

‘And who's going to stop me? You?' he asks.

‘That's right, me.'

‘How?' he challenges me, comfortably lying on the pillows, while I go back and forth like a caged lion, looking daggers at him.

‘What? Do you really want to know how? I'll report you!'

‘I'd really like to see that,' he admits, unabashedly amused. ‘On what charges? If I might ask…'

‘What… What do you mean? This is… You are… You are…' I stammer, pointing my finger at his cheerful face. ‘And don't just lay there as if all this didn't involve you!' I warn him. ‘You're unfairly taking advantage of the situation, you're destroying my reputation with inappropriate behaviour, forcing me to tolerate a hostile, humiliating environment that exposes me to slander. Do you know what that's called? It's called mobbing! And I'm pretty sure that it's punishable by five, maybe ten years in prison.'

‘Wow, that's big talk!' he says, pretending to be impressed. ‘I can just picture the scene: “Your Honour, Thomas Clark, who, if I may remind you, is my boyfriend, has forced me to endure intolerable harassment.” Next he changes his voice to imitate the potential answer of the judge: ‘“But this is terrible, Miss Price! Please tell me, how has this criminal offended you? Did he hit you? Torture you? Lock you up in the basement without food or water?”' His voice returns to normal. ‘“Oh no, your honour. In truth, he asked me to sleep with him!”'

He bursts out laughing while I try to stop myself from grabbing the Chinese vase on the cabinet next to the door and chucking it at his head.

‘Imagine…' he continues, wiping away a tear, ‘imagine his face!'

I'm at the limit of my endurance.

‘Thomas, I'll give you one last chance to reconsider. We are really at the edge and, of the two of us, you're the one who is risking most. Do you
actually
want to spend the next ten years with me? And for what? To end up in a divorce case that, given the community of property, would only end up equally dividing your grandfather's assets between us anyway?'

‘Come on Sandy, let's be serious now: do you really think you'll be able to make it to our wedding day?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘That I know you. You are erratic, insecure and terribly cowardly. You can't handle challenges. You prefer working your way around obstacles, and if you find you can't, you just give up. As soon as things get difficult, you run away. It's always been like that. You can't help it, it's your nature.'

‘I've never run away!' I cry indignantly, shocked that he's capable of such cruelty.

‘Are you sure? Because that's not what I remember. What
I
remember is that as soon as anybody teased you, you'd be off like a shot. You'd spend whole days on your own for fear of having to confront any of us, and if your parents forced you to come with me, you'd spend most of the evening in a corner with a book on your lap and your headphones on.'

‘The idea that it was
you
that I didn't like has never occurred to you, has it? Because I've never had that problem with anyone else,' I point out, a touch of self-esteem returning.

He seems to reflect, then shrugs and says, ‘Have it your way, but the fact remains that, rather than facing us, you used to shut yourself up in your own world and just wait to leave, sometimes spending weeks alone. You're weak. It's not a criticism, it's reality.'

His words are like a slap to the face. I feel my anger mounting, preventing me from thinking clearly. I stiffen and have to press my lips together to stop myself from screaming, but he doesn't seem to notice. Or perhaps he's simply not interested.

He makes himself comfortable, puffs up his pillow a little bit, and goes back to watching me, his arms defiantly crossed. I'd like to answer, but I wouldn't know where to start. Besides, am I really
so
sure that he's wrong?

‘Thomas,' I manage to mumble finally. ‘We were just kids. We're adults now. You don't
really
think you're still dealing with the same Sandy Price, do you? The one with short hair, ripped jeans and braces?'

‘It's up to you to show me. Right now, you're standing in the doorway. Will you come back in or will you go?' he asks bluntly.

Now what?

Going away would be the most sensible choice, I know – but I also know that, against all logic, and with the sole purpose of showing him that he's wrong for once, I've decided to stay.

I look behind me one last time, and see my sanity, Mike, Rufus and my parents waving to me.

And then I turn back to look at the room, foreseeing my future: a slow decline, peppered with antacid tablets.

‘Good…'

As you make your bed…

I grab the handle, close the door and turn off the light. Thomas doesn't comment. That's something, at least! No, he just lays there watching me while I pick up my pyjamas from the pillow and disappear behind the bathroom door. I can feel his eyes glued to my back. To my skin. I stay in the shower longer than necessary to try and shake off the feeling, hoping in vain that water will also wash away that annoying sensation of discomfort that doesn't seem to want to leave me. But it stays. In fact, it takes root and reassures me of its intent: it won't give up until the divorce.

Resigned and lucid now, I faff about until I've been in there so long it's starting to look like a kidnapping. I'm not tired and I hope that I'll find him asleep on my return.

When I walk back into the room I can't hear anything except his breathing. He's lying on one side with his face to the window and his back to me. Rudy is no longer on the bed, which makes me think Thomas must have put him on the floor while I was away. How he managed to convince him, I don't know.

Trying not to make any noise, I pull down the sheet, perch myself on the edge of the mattress and assume the same position as him, turning in the opposite direction. I already know that I won't be able to get to sleep, but since there's not much else I can do I try to calm myself by thinking about the fact that I'll be able to get two or three hours of sleep in after he's got up.

‘Are you going to be wearing that kind of lingerie for the whole duration of your stay?' he suddenly asks, turning to me. His voice is gruff and barely audible, but I jump as though he'd shouted.

‘What do you care?' I snap as soon as I catch my breath, before replying with forced indifference ‘That's
the last time you'll be seeing my panties.'

Long gone are the days when all it took was a simple comment about my clothes to keep me awake through the night, my eyes wide open and consumed by the feeling of having committed some unforgivable mistake in my appearance.

I mean, if we were still kids, it might make sense. I'd be here now, curled up, reflecting, wondering, analysing every word in search of hidden meanings.