My Wife's Li'l Secret (27 page)

But she hoodwinked me. Not a peep from her about Becky? How can she ever be trusted?

Would I have married her had I known about her past?

She was protecting me by saying nothing. She left Sydney rather than put me in harm’s way.

She lied to me about loving the name Liefie, was calculating about it. Lied about
being in an accident, about losing the baby, about her brother’s heart attack.

What else had she lied about?
She’s a fucking seasoned liar!

I was a dumb idiot for not seeing through the lies, for not sensing her abject pain.

Hang on, I wasn’t a dumb idiot, I simply trusted my wife. After all, she could trust me implicitly.

It was time for me to be honest, mainly with myself.

I needed to man up and just tell Liefie the truth:

I love you, Liefie, with all my heart. I want to be part of your life, always. But…I’m sorry; I just can’t be your husband. I cannot marry you. I’m sorry. Really sorry.

Nerves made me gulp at the stale air in the room. I got up, opened a window, and stuck out of neck.

Our wedding was in six weeks. I needed to do it pronto.

Pressure, pressure, pressure!

As I drove back home, I practiced how I was going to break it to her.

“Hey, Liefie, about the wedding…”

“Liefie, we have to talk.”

“Remember when I said I love you…?”

When I pictured the hurt on her lovely face, the tears in her azure eyes, her lip trembling like it did whenever she cried, I realized I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t hurt her like that.

At that moment, I felt like turning my Jeep around and driving to the outback and getting lost there.

Or driving off a cliff!

Back home, I continued going to bed long after Liefie had gone to bed.

Liefie was great – she didn’t pressure me into sharing her bed, did not comment on our sleeping arrangements, and left me alone most of the time. I continued watching the Shopping Channel till midnight, then slept in the spare room.

When she rambled on about the wedding, the flowers, the cake, the dresses, I nodded, gulped, reached for a glass of water, wished I was a million miles away, and silently chastised myself for not having the nerve to say anything.

Closer to the wedding – that was when my change of heart was going to come, I told myself.
Assured
myself.

I still had time; why rush things, act prematurely, hurt her?

Living with Liefie was great. Within days, the house took shape again. The aromas emanating from the kitchen were familiar and seducing, children’s laughter echoed through the house, little Gareth had taken over the household and was hell-bent on catching Mother Cat and the kittens, to Ally and Becky’s distress.

Girly was relaxed, being able to smoke her cigars on the balcony in peace (her Voodoo doll was nowhere in sight and had probably become a proper pin-cushion). Liefie walked around with a smile on her face, and my house became a home, a warm and welcoming place once again.

In short, harmony prevailed at the MacMillan household.

I sat back, folded my arms across my chest and surveyed my beautiful family, and as I did, I thought to myself, all I needed was to come around and take up with Liefie, and our family would be whole once again.

Life would be perfect for the kids, for Liefie, for me. That was all I needed to do in order to say,
“And they all lived happily ever after. The end.”

Everything rested on my shoulders.

Some mornings I got up and thought about taking a drink. To take the edge off.

But I didn’t. Somehow I got through the day.

The harmony at home afforded me the peace of mind I needed to focus on my work, catch up and improve our sales figures.

Arena kept calling and I knew why. I avoided her, let her calls go to voicemail, ignored her texts and did not return any of her messages.

One night, I sat on my patio, my feet on the table in front of me as I stared at the burning citronella candle flame. Time had changed nothing, and as the wedding drew closer, my stress levels soared.

When I felt myself being stared at, I looked up. There was Liefie leaning against the door watching me, one hand on her hip, the thumbnail of her other hand in her mouth.

“Hey!” I said. Usually I would move up, pat the seat next to me, invite her into my quiet space, but that day, I didn’t. It would lead to a deep and meaningful conversation, which I wanted to avoid at all costs.

She walked slowly toward me, her brows knitted.

Here it comes.

“Are we…?” She folded her arms across her chest and looked directly at me. “Ritchie, are we …like, okay?”

Immediately, I dropped my feet to the ground and shifted in my seat.

“Wha…like what do you mean?” I asked, looking at the buttons on her shirt.

“You and me – are we okay? Like, you seem…” her arms fell to her side and her shoulders sagged. “I’m wondering if there’s a problem, or...?”

“Whaaat? No, no, no, no!” the coward in me said (either that or my protective instinct kicked in). Quickly, I moved up and vigorously patted the seat next to me.

Her face was etched with worry as she perched on the edge of the seat, her eyes fixed to the candle. In a wavering voice she said, “Ritchie, you seem so…so remote, like something is –”

“No, no, no! I’m just tired, honey.” I put my arm around her and pulled her roughly to me.

She turned and melted into my hug, her body relaxing. “So much has happened, Liefie, and I…I’m still reeling from…you know…”

Sliding her arms around my waist, she nuzzled my chest. “I was worried. I thought you changed your mind about me. I was soooo stressed, worried, scared…”

“You worry too much,” I said, kissing her hair several times. “Don’t ever get stressed. I just need time, hon. All will be okay, you’ll see.”

In hindsight, I was talking to my spineless self.

She looked up at me and her eyes shone with love and happiness. “I love you, Ritchie,” she whispered.

I kissed her nose. Her
nose
. “Love you too!” I said without hesitation, because I really did.

I love you
too –
it was a response, not a declaration. (Ask any woman and she will tell you that she would really like to hear the words
I love you
as opposed to
I love you too
. That’s according to Liefie and Arena, who once educated Bear and I about it at a barbeque.)

I cringed after I uttered those words.

With a slight nod, she slowly pulled away, her disappointment tangible.

Feeling bad for her, I swung into damage control. “How’s the wedding plans?”

“Oh, it’s…good!” Her eyes once again shone as she talked about bridesmaids' dresses and confetti and serviettes, and I did what I always did when she talked about the wedding: I pretended to listen.

And prayed.

Please God, help me get through this. I have three children to think about. Give me amnesia if you have to, but just take away Aristov’s words.

“I’m going to bed, baby,” she said, standing up.

“Okay.”

She held out her hand, her eyes fixed on mine.

I stared at her hand, knowing exactly what she meant. I willed myself to say,
Okay!,
and jump to my feet, follow her to her bedroom, and make her my wife again.

I couldn’t.

“In a while,” I said, looking past her and her hand.

She stared at me for a moment before she turned and walked into the house.

“Night!” I said in a voice as bright as the citronella candle flame.

She didn’t respond.

With a heavy heart, I resumed my staring into the dark.

I have prayed to you like Mum taught me to. Please God, come through for me. For us.

****

Liefie quietly tried her best to lure me into her bed. At night, she paraded around in racy nighties, red, satiny push-up bras, and sexy G-strings that left little to the imagination.

She amped up her dress as well – during the day, she wore sexy tops that showed her midriff, tight jeans that showcased her arse, short skirts that showed off her toned thighs, and boots that made me look twice.

I noticed all of it, and even appreciated it, but I wasn’t turned on by any of it.

In the past, all that she did, all that she wore would have had me dragging her into the bedroom for matinee sex or to feel her up, cajole her into giving me a blow job, or allowing me a quickie.

But none of that happened.

It all had the opposite effect on me – All I saw was Olga. Distasteful, whorish, working-girl clothes that resulted in Aristov’s words booming in my mind.

Liefie, she quickly learned how to please me.

Sure I wanted to get laid. I hadn’t been laid in more than a year, but I was sure I had lost my mojo and that I would never get it back again.

Then I got mad.

Why the fuck was time moving so slowly?

Why wasn’t it doing its job and healing all like everyone said it does? It was dragging its sluggish feet, dawdling along simply to punish me, not healing shit, and I continued sleeping in the spare room, miserable as hell.

****

“Arena and Bear are coming to dinner,” Liefie said one Saturday afternoon.

“Why?” My voice was sharp, mainly out of panic. Bear I could handle – he asked no questions. But Arena, now she could see right through me.

Normally, I’d respond with,
Okay
,
great
,
I’ll chill the wine
, or
What are we serving?

Liefie whirled around to look at me, appearing startled by my reaction.  “You okay, Ri –”

“Yeah, yeah,” I quickly added. “I mean, what’s the occasion?”

“Nothing. Just wanna talk about the wedding." She shrugged.

The wedding. That. Yes.

Shit! Shit! Shit!

“Okay,” I said.

If only I had known in advance, I would have manufactured an excuse to cancel.

Too late. There was no time to hide.

During dinner I did my best to act normal, but I guess I failed, because Arena kept looking at me. The moment Liefie left the room, she whispered, “You okay, Ritchie?”

I shook my head. “If I had a dime for every time someone asked me that…”

“Huh?”

“Yeah, sure. Absolutely!” I looked at her. “You? How are
you
, Arena? You okay? How’s things? How’s the ki—”

“You’re drinking really fast, Ritchie.”

I looked at my glass, then at her, an annoyed look on my face. “You keeping tabs on me, sis? Huh?”

“No, but something seems wrong, Ritchie.”

“What, you wanna fix this too? Huh?”

She sighed.

“Ms. Fixit!” I scoffed, sitting back in my chair and eyeing her. "Like Bob the Builder, except you don’t fix houses, you fix—”

“You’re being a jerk!” A hurt look crossed her face.

I quickly looked away, feeling like the heel I was.

“Big, everything okay?” Bear asked after giving Arena an I’ll-handle-this look.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” I pointed to his glass. “Want a refill? Huh? Lemme get you a refill.”

He looked at his glass, then shook his head. “I’m good.”

Liefie returned and we fell silent. The wedding talk began.

“We need to put down a deposit for the caterers soon,” Arena said, sneaking glances at me. “We’ve only got a week left.”

“Let’s do it then!” Liefie said, smacking the table with her palms. She looked at me. “Huh, Ritchie?”

I lifted and dropped my shoulders. “Anybody want another drink?”

All eyes were on me, yet nobody answered.

I stood up and walked to my bar. After pouring myself a triple Jim Beam, I walked out into the patio, lit up one of Girly’s cigars lying on the table, and inhaled deeply. Then I coughed till I turned red in the face. How the hell does she smoke this? I wondered.

“Ritchie?”

I turned around to look at Arena.

“What the hell is going on, Ritchie? If you’ve changed your mind, you need to tell her!”

“What do you mean?”

“Your behavior, it’s so…so…Ritchie, it’s clear you don’t want to marry her. I don’t know what else to do. I feel her pain. I feel your pain, and I…I…” Arena’s voice cracked and her eyes filled with tears.

“You need to tell her now, however painful it is, Ritchie. Now! It’s not fair what you are doing to Liefie.”

She was right. It wasn’t fair to Liefie.

I looked at my sister, then at the floor. “I can’t do it, Arena,” I said in a solemn voice. "I can’t marry Liefie.”

“Oh God!” Arena cried and bent double. “Oh God!” It was the first time I was verbally confirming Arena’s fears.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” I said, my voice full of resignation. “I just don’t know how to tell Liefie.”

“Tell me what?”

Both Arena and I whirled around to look into Liefie’s face. Behind her stood Bear, with his palm to his forehead.

Liefie strode over and peered into Arena’s face. “Why are you crying?” she demanded, wiping Arena’s tears with her hands. “What’s going on?”

Arena turned her head slowly away.

Liefie walked over to me. “What’s going on, Ritchie?” she demanded in a high-pitched  voice.

Now! Tell her now! Put an end to the charade. Tell her now! It’s your chance. No matter how painful it is, it has to be done. Tell her now!

I looked at Liefie’s liquid eyes, her trembling bottom lip, the anguish on her face. She must know, I thought. How could she not know when I wouldn’t share her bed?

“Nothing, Liefie,” I heard myself mutter before I too turned away.

She grabbed my shirt and jerked me around to look at her. “It’s about the wedding, right? You don’t want to marry me.”

Slowly, I ran my hand over my mouth.

“Right?”

Arena quietly tried to sneak away.

“Arena, stay!” Liefie barked, her eyes still fixed on my face.

Arena looked at me, looked at the entrance and froze.

“You don’t want to marry me, Ritchie, that’s okay.”

“Liefie, I…I…” I reached out to touch her.

Oh, fuck!