Page 18 of Save Me
“I’m not interested in obvious women; I prefer a modest girl, the type who often find my wealth and position in business a little daunting,” he explains rather cryptically. “You have a son, don’t you?” Oliver asks, gesturing to the waitress for another round. “Is he a little heartbreaker?”
“Riley? He’s eleven and hasn’t quite learned the art of charm yet.” I smile, recalling how he caught a fart in his hand and shoved it over Beth’s face only yesterday. “I’m sure it will come, though.”
“Of course,” he agree, smiling like the Cheshire Cat. “Tell me, how did you end up coming over to the States?”
“I have dual nationality, my mother was from America,” I explain before beginning my now, fourth drink. “Opportunities were more abundant over here, so we made the move a few years ago. My mother, unfortunately, has dementia and needs constant supervision. There is no way I could afford the same level of medical care for her if I was still working out of England. Besides, we make sure we return to see her every few months or so.”
“That must have been tough…to leave her, I mean. Though it is clear you have her best interests at heart,” he says softly, and it suddenly hits me how much I miss her. The old her, the one who knew who we all were and could regale you with stories about when I was little. “Your father was British then?” Oliver asks, snapping me out of my sad thoughts.
“My stepfather is British,” I correct him, “I don’t know much about my biological father. Apparently, he died before my first birthday. Though from what little my mother told me, it wasn’t much of a loss.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, and it’s the first time I look at him with something other than suspicion. Perhaps Oliver Lawrence isn’t as snake-like as his father, though I’ll still keep him at a distance, from both me and my business.
As for his apology for my father’s death, I simply wave it off and tell him not to worry about it, because I know I don’t. I remember trying to talk to my mother about my biological father, but she had caged up and seemed extremely uncomfortable over the subject, so I did what any doting son would do; I dropped it. For some reason, his existence, or rather, lack of it, was never that important to me. He was nothing more than a stranger who had, at one time, been intimate with my mother, but was then absent. Why should I worry about who he was? Tom, my stepfather, was my real dad as far as I was concerned, and as far as fathers go, you couldn’t have asked for any better than him.
For a long while, much longer than I had anticipated, the Lawrences and I sit and chat about other things, mainly business and how my growing company is going. As it turns out, Oliver is a lot easier to talk to than his father, and the fact that he doesn’t make my skin crawl, only allows my defenses to drop a little. Before I know it, a good two hours have flown by, and I know I’ll be in for an earful when I finally get home to Jen and the kids.
“Excuse me, Mr Lawrence, but it’s urgent Mayfield business.” A man from reception appears at Samuel’s side, holding out a telephone with a little trepidation. His complexion has turned decidedly ghost-like, almost as though he would rather be slitting his own wrists than having to engage with Samuel Lawrence. I guess he’s right to be a little anxious because the look Samuel gives him could put someone with a weaker constitution, six feet under. The poor bastard physically withers under his stare and looks like he’s going to go home and give himself a few punishing lashings before bedtime.
“Tell me, Mal,” Oliver begins, interrupting my bewildered gaze over his father’s over-reaction. “That’s an interesting mark on your wrist. How did you get it if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Oh, I’ve always had it. It’s a birthmark,” I reply as I smile at the unusual feather shape mark on the inside of my wrist. I also smile over Oliver’s obvious attempt to distract me from the ridiculous, thriller film moment, that just occurred over a phone call.
“Ah, it’s quite distinctive,” he comments blandly. “Are you a gambling man, Mal?” Oliver asks before smiling at his father who now seems to have calmed down as he chats away on the phone, and without the horror he just made it out to be only moments ago.
“Hmmm, I have to admit it’s one of my many vices, as well as a good whiskey!” I laugh, because once upon a time, I got into trouble for a friendly game of poker that had me owing nearly a grand to my University mates, Dave and Paul. As soon as Jen had found out, she put a halt to those games, but I haven’t managed to live it down in the near on twenty-five years since it happened.
“Excellent!” he cries enthusiastically, now grinning from ear to ear. “Then you must join us for a little game we’ve got planned at the weekend.”
“Oh Jeez, I kind of promised Jen-”
“I won’t take no for an answer,” he argues with a smirk that makes me feel like I’m talking with Dave and Paul again. “Tell your wife it’s business!” he suggests with a wink. “It will be an opportunity to meet some great contacts, I promise.”
“Well…just this one time then,” I relent after drinking I don’t know how many shots of whiskey, plus the two bottles of beer that had started me off this evening. “You’re a bad influence, Oliver.”
“Nonsense! I’ll text you the address.” He grins widely again, then looks to his father, who positively beams. Unlike his son, his smile doesn’t look quite so friendly. He looks nothing but devious.
Christ, I’m going to have to call a taxi, not to mention Jen is going to chew my bollocks off over getting this drunk on a school night.
Beth, now
Sickness and a banging headache has me waking up with the feeling of a mild hangover, even though I hadn’t drunk enough to warrant one. However, my encounter with Oliver Lawrence was enough to have me hitting the porcelain train last night, right after Dad had skulked away, leaving room for all the dark thoughts to enter inside of my head. Right now, I could quite happily turn over and go back to the land of ignorant bliss where I can get lost in my dreams.
However, I can hear Mum chirruping away downstairs, informing the whole house that it’s time to get up with a sing-song voice loud enough to wake the living dead. Her care-free laughter soon follows, with a low throaty chuckle that tells me it belongs to my father. They’re laughing used to make me smile once upon a time, however, now it only makes me angry and bitter. I can’t help being jealous by how untroubled they sound, lapping one another up in their loving and heart-felt relationship. It only hurts more to know that any hope of having that for myself has been ripped away by the very same man who is enjoying himself downstairs. I had no real choice when I was asked to sacrifice everything to let them keep their laughter.
With furious, pent-up energy running through my veins, I leap out of bed before I end up drawing blood. I head straight for my running gear which is currently sitting in a messy ball at the bottom of my wardrobe. I can’t say I ever enjoyed it much before all of this, but after that fateful day in June, it ended up being the only way to burn away the fear and anger that will no doubt stay with me until I draw my last breath. That’s if I’m still allowed to participate in such activities or have the freedom to be me in general.
I sneak out of the house, only so I don’t have to face the smiles, the questions, and the guilty look my father has on his face every time he sees me. This morning’s hangover needs instant relief and I’ll only get that when I reach outside to take in that first soothing gulp of early morning air.
Once outside, I fall straight into it, not even bothering to stretch or build up to a punishing rate. This is more like a child running for dear life while they pretend to get away from whatever make-believe monster is chasing after them. My monster is Oliver Lawrence and the fate I’ve already signed up to, but there’s no way I can outrun it. Nevertheless, I try my very best to run so fast that the memories of such a future are blurring behind me. Instead, all I can see is blue sky and eventually, the ocean.
The waves are a lot choppier this morning, with white horses galloping wildly across the surface and the echo of crashing water sending delicious shivers down my spine. I will never grow tired of that sound, nor the smell of fresh, salty water, which instantly calms my anger to a more manageable level. One that doesn’t make me want to scream until my voice is no longer inside of my throat. I let the running burn my chest, the tarmac pound my feet, and the lactic acid spread out inside of me until I can no longer feel anything anymore.
When I eventually come to a stop, and only because I’ve reached the end of a long pier, I collapse against the wooden fencing and have a silent battle with myself to not let the tears fall. To not let this last year be wasted in the dread of what is waiting for me on the other side of it. Instead, I look up and stare across the water that is still at war with itself and lose myself in the continuous waves rolling in and out toward the shore. It’s breathtakingly beautiful, and its infinite movement calls out to me, inviting me to climb up towards the top of the wooden fencing and perch for a while.
My legs dangle high above the water’s surface where the sway of water prevents me from seeing the bottom. Every now and then a small fish will make its way up before disappearing off into the murky depths. The bubbling of water under the pier reaches my ears and I suddenly wish I could stay here, like this, forever. The air is already warm, and the water looks so inviting. It’s shallow, and no doubt rocky, but mesmerizing all the same. I fall into a daydream about it, slipping in and under for so long, I wouldn’t care about anything else anymore.
Dangerous thoughts, Beth!