And not one of them notices me.
Alex is enthusiastically saying something to a blond guy in a neon t-shirt pulled taut over huge, muscular arms. Sitting next to him is a woman in what is clearly an obscenely expensive red dress. Objectively speaking, I couldn’t really care less about her dress or her scarlet lipstick, but I could care less about what her red manicured hand is doing on my husband’s knee. Is she making it clear to other women that he is unavailable?
I have neither words nor thoughts; it’s all far beyond my comprehension. There have been a fair number of fears and worries en route to my new life, but I didn’t expect this. This is not how I imagined my life with him.
I can feel the real me dying away inside and a bitch I’ve never met before taking her place.
Feeling bold, I walk up to my pseudo husband, confidently and even a little sexily placing one bare foot in front of the other like a cat, take the cigarette carefully from his hand and lift it to my own lips. I’m not wearing red lipstick, of course, but my husband has finally noticed me and his head turns in my direction. I take a long drag (Jesus, if only it didn’t always make me cough!), lift my head and theatrically exhale a stream of smoke. Transfixed, his friends watch me in silence. The women look me up and down disdainfully and I’d bet a kidney that they know exactly who I am.
Alex is surprised and doesn’t even try to hide it.
‘I thought you didn’t smoke...’
I throw a long, feline glance in his direction that I hope will nail him to the settee and crucify him.
‘Everything changes, Alex, and you know that better than me. A few months ago, your lungs weren’t working properly and I prayed for every single breath you took...’– not only do I say all this extremely slowly, I also pause to take another long drag – ‘and now look at you! It seems that nothing can harm you, not even this!’ And I blow a thick cloud of smoke directly into his face.
Everyone looks shocked, and I mean everyone. Especially Alex.
‘His new wife,’ deduces the woman in the red dress, before removing her hand from my husband’s thigh. Well, no shit, Sherlock!
It takes a few moments for Alex to come to life but when he does, he stands up abruptly, grabs hold of my hand and drags me into the house. I almost have to run to keep up, like Piglet running after Winnie the Pooh, certain that my new husband didn’t like my behavior and was now going to yell at me like my previous husband would have done.
Oh well, I guess I won’t be avoiding arguments after all, I think to myself. But my new husband is not my old one.
Without saying a word, Alex drags me upstairs and, as soon as our bedroom door closes, pushes me roughly against the wall, already pulling off my dress, his lips on mine. Eagerly, violently, roughly. He smells of cigarette smoke and the perfume of other women, and it is at this moment that I suddenly have the courage to admit to myself just how much I have wanted to bury my face in his neck and feel his strong arms around me since the day I hit him. If only he’d hold me... even if only like he did a few months before, when he lay helpless in his bed, helpless but tender, loving, understanding.
But I get what I get.
Fighting back the tears ready to spill from my eyes, I turn away. Alex instantly loosens his grip, so I shove him away and break free. He stops dead, as if rooted to the spot, and is breathing so hard that his t-shirt is stretched tight across his heaving chest. And even two meters away, I can see the effect of my refusal written in every muscle of his face. Without saying a word, he spins around and walks out, slamming the door behind him.
The party continues till dawn. Alex drinks, but he doesn’t smoke any more cigarettes and it is my small victory. That night, I sleep in the children’s room. Alex is gone for the whole of the next day and I spend the night with my children again. The day after that, there is another party, but I just go to bed in the kid’s room without even making an appearance.
My new marriage is falling apart quicker than I could ever have imagined. So, one evening, I go online to buy one adult and two children’s tickets to Chișinău – one way. The flight prices are shockingly high and the only ones I can afford without too much stress are in a month’s time. I buy them, deciding that it makes sense to carry on living in the house for another few weeks. This is technically my home, after all.
CHAPTER 5. Fortress
*** ‘Whispering Wind’ by Moby ***
Weeks of our Cold War stretch on. Alex and I see and speak to each other only when we have to, when deciding on day-to-day or family issues like choice of school or kindergarten. And neither of us are happy.
On one of the first days, a little old man shows up wearing an expensive suit and holding a suitcase. Introducing himself as Alex’s lawyer and financial assistant, he lays out various bank documents and cards in front of me and explains how to use them.
As he leaves, he says, ‘I don’t know how much money there is – I don’t have access to that kind of information – but I would advise you not to be too modest: his previous wife left with nothing. And the one before her.’ He gives a saccharine smile. ‘And the one before her, too.’
Who was the one before and the one before her? Jesus Christ! I feel like a Kinder Surprise on a conveyor belt...
I didn’t get here of my own free will, goddamnit! How could I let all this happen? Where was my brain? I’m nothing more than a fly on sticky tape; my feet got stuck and my wings aren’t strong enough to fly free.
I rush to the bank, driven there by his personal driver, for Christ’s sake! Oh, yes. I forgot to mention that I recently discovered a helipad, and a helicopter to go with it, on the roof of the house! That’s right, he actually has his very own helicopter. I mean, can you imagine?! Anyway, I head to the bank, curious to find out what value he has put on me. How much am I worth as his wife?
I have four cards: three unlimited credit cards from different banks and a debit card. When I see how much is in the savings account, and I mean see, because the bank employee is not brave enough to say the amount out loud, my brain is paralyzed. Literally paralyzed. There is no better word to describe how I feel at this moment.
I return to the house by the sea in a state of utter despondency. ‘It’s not my money; this isn’t my life; he’s not my husband, not my man. I don’t need any of this. I want to go home...’
I find Alex in the dining room, sunk deep into a settee over by the glass wall. He’s writing emails on his tablet, his face serious and focused. The one time he’s home during the day and I couldn’t feel any lower... Gritting my teeth, I walk over and throw the cards and the folder containing all the paperwork onto the glass table in front of him.
‘Apparently, your wives walk away empty-handed... Your lawyer recommends that I refuse myself nothing while the grace of your favor shines through my window. So, I’m thinking that I should probably do something to stand out from the crowd, and I can’t think of any better way than dividing our finances: I’ll provide for myself and you provide for yourself.’