The Friends We Keep(47)
Patrick was horrified, immediately apologetic, disgusted that he had done such a thing. He swore it would never happen again as he wept, with great heaving sobs, and Evvie, who was shaken to her core, then had to reassure him that he wasn’t the most terrible man in the world and that these things happen, and she would forgive him. But if it ever happened again, she said, she would be gone.
It happened again. Of course it happened again. He pushed her, body-slammed her into a wall before screaming in her face. He sobbed that time as well.
Just before she left for her next shoot, Evvie booked the vacation with her mother and grandmother to join her. She needed to feel as safe as she could, needed the break, and the only bad thing about the trip was knowing it would be over, that she would be coming home to Patrick. Two days before the vacation ended, she e-mailed him to tell him it was over.
And here he was, outside her building. She would have to confront him sooner rather than later, but didn’t want to be left alone with him. She leaned forward to the driver, reaching for her wallet and pulling out a crisp hundred-dollar bill.
“I need you to do something for me. I need you to escort me up to my apartment, and not leave until that man has gone.”
The driver turned around, seeing the money, and nodded. “Of course, ma’am. Anything you need.”
He parked and opened the door as Patrick looked up, coming over immediately.
“We need to talk,” he said as Evvie steeled herself, determined not to show her fear.
“I’ve said everything I need to say. I don’t know why you’re here. It’s over, Patrick.”
“Evvie.” Tears sprang into his eyes. “I love you. I’ve never loved anyone like I love you. I know I have some issues but I’ve started seeing a therapist, and she says she can cure me. You have to give me another chance.”
Evvie looked in his eyes then, marveling at how irresistible she had once found him. Now, she was mostly scared.
“No,” she said. “I’m glad you’re getting the help you need, but I don’t feel safe around you anymore. It’s over.”
Patrick roared in fury and came toward her as she cringed, and the driver stepped forward, using her suitcase to create a barrier between them, ready to wield it as a weapon if needed.
“Sir, if you don’t leave her alone, I am calling the police.”
“What for? I haven’t fucking done anything,” sneered Patrick. “Yet,” he added menacingly, looking at Evvie, who was shaking. But he slunk off down the street, turning around to call Evvie a cunt as he left.
The driver came upstairs, asking if he could call anyone to be with Evvie.
“I’m fine,” she said, even though she wasn’t. “I have very good locks and a security system. Thank you.”
She put on The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill and let the music relax her, dancing as she unpacked, with a large glass of wine in her hand. She had a video security system, and when Patrick didn’t return, after a few hours she started to unwind. He was a classic abuser, so like all the men she ended up dating. Handsome and charming, until he wasn’t.
She showered and put on the men’s boxer shorts she usually slept in and a stretchy camisole top, and had just made herself a cup of tea (she didn’t drink the builder’s tea of old anymore—now it was mint tea, with a slice of lemon rather than copious amounts of milk and sugar), looking forward to lying on the sofa and watching some television before crawling into bed, when the phone rang.
She jumped, presuming it was Patrick, nervous about picking up the phone lest a string of abuse come barreling down the line. If that happened, she would hang up and leave the phone off.
“Evvie?” The voice was familiar, but it wasn’t Patrick. She breathed a sigh of relief as she tried to place it.
“This is she,” she answered cautiously.
“It’s Ben,” he said. “Ben Curran. Maggie’s husband.”
Her heart pounded as she forced her voice to sound normal. “I know who you are, Ben.”
“How are you?”
“I’m fine.” She looked at her hand holding the phone, noting it was shaking, unsure now if it was because she was expecting Patrick to be on the line, or if it was because it was Ben.
“I’m in New York just for tonight and wondered if we could get together. I know you’re probably busy, but Maggie sends her love and said I should call you, and . . .”
He stopped talking and there was a long silence. “Evvie,” he said eventually, pain evident in his voice. “There are things I need to say to you.”
More silence as Evvie thought about her early night, knowing she should stay home, should do as she planned, going to bed, but before she could stop herself, she found herself asking, “Where are you staying?”
“The Mark Hotel.”
She looked at her watch. “I’ll meet you in the bar at eight,” she said, before hanging up the phone.
She decided to dress down to see him. At his wedding, she had been ridiculously overdressed, standing out like a sore thumb, and tonight she wanted to blend in, to be comfortable and cozy: she wanted to feel safe today, at least in her clothes.
She took off her pajamas and pulled on her oldest long-sleeved T-shirt, worn soft and thin, with her most faded jeans and scuffed leather boots. Her hair was pulled back in a bun, and she deliberately kept her face free of makeup. Whatever tonight was about, she decided, for her it was about honesty, and she couldn’t be honest if she covered herself up with artifice of any kind, be it jewelry, makeup, or designer labels.