The Divorce Club (8 page)

He's still there, I can feel it. Rivulets of
sweat are running down my spine and my mind's on full alert. Time
passes, but I'm too numbed to move. A soft cough carries through
the silence, followed by low cussing. It's just a word, too short
to recognize the voice, but the bushes shuffle and then all falls
quiet.

Is he gone now? I barely dare breathe lest he
hear it and come back for me. My heart's pumping harder than
before, I wait for what must be ten minutes or more. When nothing
happens, I walk slowly to the front door and peer out into the
darkness, all sleepiness gone. It's well past midnight, but I can't
go to bed as reason returns. Why didn't I call the police? That's
what a person's supposed to do in such a situation, but I didn't
even think of it. Now I feel like watching the door, barricading
myself inside, buying a Rottweiler—do
something
because I
don't feel safe in my own house. The locks no longer seem as sturdy
as they once did. The window glass appears thin and fragile, the
neighbors’ house is too far away. I head for the sofa and prepare
for a long night.

***

The phone's ringing makes me jump. I find it
under a pillow and press the response button, only then realizing
that I'm shaking again.

"You were supposed to pop over for some
gossip this morning." I can hear the reproach in Mel's voice. "What
happened? Didn't you like the goody bags?"

"I'm sorry. I must've forgotten. The goody
bag was great." It's not like myself to forget a date with my best
friend. She's practically the only person I have left in my life
beside Sam. "I'll be there in half an hour."

"You know how I get annoyed when visitors
drop over to my house uninvited and unannounced?"

"Yeah."

She laughs. "Well, I'm eating my own words.
Open the gates because I'm here."

Mel's car pulls up in the driveway as I hurry
to open the windows in the living room because the air's stale with
the smell of sleep and fast food. I barely make it to the kitchen
and back when the doorbell rings, triggering nausea in the pit of
my stomach. Pressing my hands against my ears I shout, "Stop it. I
heard you."

"You look like crap. There's this invention
called makeup and this little device with bristles called a brush.
You should buy one. I've heard they're on sale," Mel says as soon
as I've opened the door. She walks past me and I hurry to close up
again, then turn the lock because the feeling of paranoia hasn't
passed yet.

"Unlike you, I can't be glamorous twenty-four
hours a day, seven days a week. Besides, I was still asleep when
you called."

She turns to stare at me. "You know people
don't usually sleep past midday, unless they're partying all night
or at college. Must be the latter because I don't see you partying
any time soon."

"What bit your bum?" Usually, she isn't this
cranky.

"Unfortunately, nothing." She follows me to
the kitchen and watches me with the eyes of a hawk as I prepare a
pot of coffee and warm up bought chocolate croissants. "What's the
matter, Sarah? Did you meet someone? You've never forgotten about
me before. And don't tell me it's nothing because I know you're
lying."

I place the hot croissants on a plate and
push it toward her. We always share a plate. This way we feel as
though we're eating only half the portion. "I just didn't sleep
very well, that's all."

"Where's the kiddo?" Mel asks.

"With Dr. Phil." I bite into my croissant and
burn my tongue.

"You never told me how the first meetings
went."

What's with her and her interrogation today?
I glare because I don't feel like company. Besides, I fear if she
keeps staring at me without blinking I'll snap under the pressure
and tell her everything. It might seem like a wise idea, but it
isn't since Mel likes to exaggerate and would turn into the secret
services, demanding I change my name, move to Alaska and start
breeding sheep—all in no particular order.

Mel snaps her fingers in front of my face.
"Earth to Sarah, I just asked a question. Are you even
present?"

"Sorry. I stayed up late and now I'm tired."
To make my point, I fake a yawn.

Mel smirks. "Really? You never go to bed
after ten. What did you do?"

"Watched TV," I say. "And I do stay up late
every now and then. I just don't tell you."

"What did you watch?"

"Oh, for crying out loud." I slap her arm.
"Leave me alone, Mum. I promise it wasn't anything dirty."

"It would be if you had cable." She laughs.
"And there I was hoping for a moment you videotaped it."

I begin recalling my first two sessions with
my clients, leaving out Jamie. I don't know why I'm not telling Mel
about him. Maybe I don't want to hear her opinion on opening the
club's doors to a man. An hour later, she decides to leave, which
is great since I have important things to do. With only five hours
to go, I need to get hold of my daughter, then style my hair and
find the perfect outfit for my date with Jamie.

As soon as Mel's gone, I leave a message on
Sam's voicemail and slip out of my clothes to take a shower when my
phone beeps. My heart skips a beat, my palms begin to sweat and my
throat feels choked, the tell tale signs of a beginning anxiety
disorder hitting me with full force. If I ever find out who did
this to me, I'll hit him with my therapist's bill.

I'm approaching the phone as though it's a
malfunctioning electric socket. The screen lights up with the
envelope sign, indicating a text message. I don't want to, but I
feel compelled to read it.

You forgot to let me know your address. Hope
you're not bailing out. Jamie

Even tough I know I should keep him waiting
with a response to avoid seeming eager and desperate, I reply back
instantly because I can't risk him changing his mind. It's not
really a date since Sam's coming along, but it's the nearest I've
been to one in years, so breaking unspoken dating rules is
perfectly acceptable.

The door downstairs slams and footsteps thump
up the stairs. My daughter's home.

"We're going out with a friend. Make sure
you're ready by six," I shout. I don't know whether she's heard me
because she doesn't respond. She must be in a bad mood. By inviting
the youth, I hope Jamie's prepared to experience chaos, mood swings
and complete silence, all during a brief drive and the consequent
dinner.

After my shower, shaving my legs—obviously,
Jamie won't be seeing them, but I need to feel like a hot chick and
less like a neglected housewife—and blow-drying my hair I take out
my straightening iron. I haven't used one of those in three years,
so naturally I burn my ears a few times. The kinks don't seem to go
away and there's so much hair everywhere I feel as though it's
suddenly quadrupled. In advertisements, the model's hair's glossy
and straight with one flick of the wrist, but I can't seem able to
figure out the trick, so I squeeze in more serum until my scalp's
all oily as though I haven't seen a bath in months. Eventually, I
give up and settle on a bun tied at the nape of my neck, simple yet
chic, or so I tell myself. It's just some hair, but the truth is
not being able to sort out something that should come naturally to
a female makes me feel inadequate, almost as though I've failed as
a woman.

The choice of outfit isn't an easy one
either. Nothing seems to fit, so I put on a black V-neck top and
the same pair of jeans I wore yesterday because everything else
makes my butt look like I'm wearing diapers, then focus on my
makeup. It's a miracle that I'm ready to go by half past five.

There's still no sound coming from Sam's
room, so I amble over. As usual, the door's closed. I knock and
think I hear something that sounds remotely like, "Come in." But it
could as well be, "Go away." If she gets angry, I'll just say I
forgot to switch on my hearing aid. She'd buy it because she
already thinks I'm old and bitter.

Sam's propped up on her bed, the earphones of
her iPod glued to her ear.

"Are you ready?" I ask, needlessly. She
doesn't respond, but I see her eyes moving under her closed lids.
She knows I'm here, yet she won't acknowledge me. At times, she's
the sweetest child in the world, and then there are those days when
I'm wondering if my mere existence enrages her.

I don't want to frighten her in case she
doesn't know I'm invading her private space, so I touch her arm
gently and give it a squeeze until she can't pretend I'm just an
annoying fly. Sam rips the earphones out of her ear and glares at
me.

"Six o'clock, remember?" I say, smiling, but
I feel intimidated. First the straightening iron and now the raging
teen. What's with me and my inability to act like any other
fear-inducing, grownup female who can silence a diner table with
the blaze in her eyes?

"I'm not coming," Sam says.

"Well, you have no choice because I'm not
leaving you here all by yourself." I pull her up. Granted, it's a
feeble attempt but she actually moves.

Sam pouts. "Ever since you opened that
singles place, I've been on my own all the time."

"It's only been twice, Sam. That's hardly all
the time."

"It's just the beginning. Once it takes off,
I'll have to call your assistant for an appointment. You should
close that dumb club." She yanks her arm free and stomps to the
bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

"You're being unfair," I shout so she hears
me over the sound of running water. "I need to make a living. Do
you want to sleep on the street like some hobo?"

"We wouldn't have to if you didn't leave
Dad," Sam shouts back.

So the divorce is what bothers her again. One
day she seems to be really mature about it, accepting it as a
necessity rather than a choice; and the other, she seems to blame
it all on me. Greg was the one who couldn't keep it in his pants
because of his lusting after twenty-year-old C cups, but my
thirteen-year-old daughter doesn't need to know about my intimate
life.

"Get dressed. I want you to be ready in ten
minutes."

"That's not enough time. I can't go out
looking like you do," Sam mutters.

Groaning, I stomp out, but leave the door
open just in case I need to come back and check on her, which I
probably will. Outside, I lean back against the wall and take a
deep breath to calm my nerves. I always thought I was a good
mother, but apparently I failed with Sam just like I failed in so
many other life areas. Imperfections shape us into unique
individuals, but in my case I don't feel unique, just defeated. I
don't know what I could've done to be a better mother, but Sam
could most certainly provide a whole list if someone asked.

It's ten to six when she emerges downstairs,
flowing hair framing her chubby face with huge eyes and soft, clear
skin. She wears a hoody top and a short skirt with flats. It's too
cold to go out dressed like this, but I'm scared of starting
another argument when she seems to hate me most of the time
already. A smile's planted on her lips, as though all the anger and
reproach were happened. I blink nervously because I don't know what
to expect.

"Where're we going?" Sam asks.

"To the cinema and then we're having pizza.
Ready?"

She shrugs and peers around. "As long as
there isn't garlic on it because I hate it. And I'm picking the
movie."

"Fine, sweetie," I say.

"Let's go then."

"We're waiting for a friend to pick us up."
As soon as I've said the words a car pulls up outside. Sam opens
her mouth to speak, but I silence her as I hurry to open the door,
my nerves from before multiplying by an indefinite number.

"Who's that?" Sam whispers.

"Just a client." I turn to face her, my eyes
imploring. "He needs my help, Sam, and he pays really well. We
can't afford to lose our income. Please promise me you'll be
nice."

She grins and pats my shoulder. "What're you
talking about? I'm always nice, Mum."

Jamie jumps out and heads toward us, carrying
two small flower bouquets and a pink gift bag. He wears a clean
jacket over a buttoned-up shirt. His pair of jeans looks as though
it's just been ironed. I never iron my jeans. His hair's shiny and
a tad longer than I remember. A hint of cologne wafts past as he
hands me a bouquet.

I smile. "Thanks. This is my daughter, Sam.
Sam, this is Jamie." My hands are sweating and my heart flutters in
my chest. I've never felt more unattractive, old and insecure in my
skin.

"Nice to meet you, Sam." Jamie hands her the
flowers and the gift bag. "I don't know what you like since I'm
only meeting you, but the shop assistant said makeup's always a
good choice."

Sam takes out a glitter palette with a tiny
mirror and eye shadows in various colors. For a moment, she seems
genuinely thankful as she dips her fingertip into a shimmery black
and spreads it across her lid. "Wow. That's so cool. Thank
you."

Now my daughter's going to look like a
hooker. Thanks, Jamie. I should be mad because Sam's not supposed
to take gifts from strangers, and particularly not gifts that
aren't appropriate for her age, but I can't because Jamie was just
clueless and trying to be nice.

"Get your bag then," I say. Sam takes off up
the stairs as I inch closer to Jamie whispering, "Did you just try
to bribe her?"

He grins at me. "It worked."

"No more gifts, please." I shake my head and
wait for Sam to return, hundreds of thoughts running through my
mind. Jamie's making small talk, but I'm not listening because I
feel like the spinster aunt attempting to date the school throb.
It's plain sad.

Chapter 8

Jamie maintains a conversation with Sam
throughout most of the drive while I keep wondering what his secret
is. Either he's a natural, or he has a trick up his sleeve that
makes her relate to him so easily. Whatever it is, I should be
happy about it, but instead, it makes me a bit jealous and
irritated. I mean, he's getting along with my daughter as though
they've been best friends forever while I struggle to make her like
me even though she's known me for thirteen years and I try to be
her chum on a daily basis. It's so unfair.