The Family Remains(51)
‘Oh my God, he hasn’t hurt you, has he?’
‘No, Dad. Nothing like that.’ She felt the sore spot on her neck burn hotter with the lie. ‘No. But I sometimes felt like maybe he would. And I’m done, Dad. And I’m so, so sorry. I’m so sorry I made you spend all that money on the wedding. And I’m so sorry that I am such a loser. That I make such shit choices all the time, that I am fucking thirty-three and I don’t own anything and that you have to keep propping me up and bailing me out and that I can’t even make a marriage last for longer than two months.’ She sniffed and wiped tears from her cheeks. ‘And I’m sorry that I’m all you’ve got. You deserve better than me, Dad, you really, really do. I’m so sorry.’
‘Oh my God. Rachel. Oh, no. No! Never say that. Please. You are the single best and most remarkable thing in my life. You always have been and you always will be and there is nothing you could do or not do that would ever make me feel differently. Nothing.’
‘But I feel such a fool, Dad. That wedding. All that fuss. All that money. All those people thinking that I knew what I was doing. When I didn’t, Dad. I didn’t. I married a prick, a stupid, arrogant, narcissistic prick and I fell for all his bullshit like a prize idiot when the red flags were there all along. It’s not like we don’t know about men like him. It’s not like there aren’t a thousand TV shows, a thousand novels, a thousand news stories every day about women being groomed and gaslighted by abusive men. Yet still, Dad, still.’
‘If it makes you feel any better, my darling, he completely hoodwinked me too. I thought he was wonderful.’
‘Well, he’s not wonderful. He’s a dick. A spineless, disgusting, pathetic little dick.’
‘Well, you live and learn, darling.’ He leaned towards her and wrapped his hands around hers. ‘At least he hasn’t hurt you.’
She snatched her hands back. ‘Yes,’ she said, too fast.
‘Has he?’
‘No, Dad, I told you. No. But it felt like he might. And the whole thing was just getting more and more toxic, and it was time to go.’
‘Will you be instigating a divorce?’
‘Yes. Yes, I will. I’ve asked Dom to send me the details of her friend. She’s one of the best divorce lawyers in London.’
‘I’ll pay, darling. You know that. Whatever it takes to get you out of this mess. You don’t need to worry about that.’
She took his hands back in hers and caressed them. ‘Thanks, Dad. Thank you.’
And then for a while they talked about Liberty, about the contract, about the range they wanted her to design for them: twelve rings, ten necklaces, ten bracelets, twenty earrings.
As they spoke her father looked at her seriously. ‘Rachel,’ he said. ‘Whatever you do, do not let Michael know about this new venture. Let him still believe that you are struggling. That you need him more than he needs you. Do not let that man get his nose anywhere near sniffing distance of your imminent success. Because that will be your escape route, my darling, from this awful man: your business. Your talent. Your … je ne sais quoi …’
She stared at him for a moment and then she smiled and from inside the smile a laugh exploded, so hard and unexpected that it made her father jump.
‘Je ne sais quoi!’ she reiterated in a silly accent. ‘Ha!’
And she knew then that she would never tell anyone what had happened the previous night on Michael’s sofa. Never. She would take it to her grave. Because she was Rachel Gold and Rachel Gold did not get raped. She did not get raped. She would strike this from her personal history: the marriage, the man, the rape, all of it. She would erase it and start over again.
40
June 2019
My apartment smells of bleach and damp towels. It’s at the back of the building, facing out on to the rear ends of the buildings behind, a criss-cross lattice of ironwork fire escapes, and huge metal dumpster bins huddled grimly in courtyards below. The owner has left a jar of what look like homemade chocolate truffles on the kitchen table next to a single tulip in a vase, which is very sweet of course, but doesn’t really do much to take the edge off the unprepossessing feel of the place. I think of Phin’s apartment with the Frida Kahlo cushions and sigh. Of course he would get the superior Airbnb. Of course he would.
I have deduced that Phin’s apartment is two floors below mine and three apartments to the left. I head down the echoey stone staircase that threads the building together. I count down the doors to the third and see that Phin’s apartment has a door that is painted a gorgeous dark teal and has a golden knocker in the shape of a fox’s head. I can almost smell the scent of the neroli and pomegranate reed diffuser that I saw in the photographs wafting under the door. I put my ear to the door, but I can hear nothing beyond.
Back in my apartment I open my suitcase and hang my clothes in the musty wardrobe, mentally writing the review of this place that I will post when I go. Somewhat tired fixtures and fittings. Needs a little tlc.
And then I am confronted, suddenly, resoundingly, horribly with the result of all of the decisions that I have made since I left London. I am alone in a sad apartment in Chicago staking out the apartment of a man I have not seen since I was sixteen years old, a man who despises me, and I have no idea what I do now. This is as close as I can get to Phin without physically breaking into his apartment and being there, arranged against the Frida Kahlo cushions, when he gets back from wherever he is and that is – well, no, that’s too much. I fear where that might lead. I fear what I might do. I fear what he might do. I fear the power of everything that has kept us apart for all these years and I fear what that power might lead to if it found itself trapped in an Airbnb behind a closed door. And then I feel a pall of despondency descend upon me. Why am I here? What am I doing? What the hell do I want? But, suddenly, I have it and I sit up ramrod straight as it comes to me in a flash.