“So, you can choose the main bedroom or this one here.” I flick the light on and she follows me into one of the guest bedrooms. There’s one further from my bedroom but I show her to this one first. It’s so if she needs anything in the middle of the night, she can call out to me, I try to tell myself.
She looks around appreciatively, taking in the decor. The bedroom is large, especially by New York City standards. When I had my penthouse floor renovated, I wanted half of the apartment to be an open plan, and the other half with cozy areas, so that if I needed to, I could close the door on the world.
“This one,” she says, dropping her suitcase on the floor of the guest bedroom. “I wouldn’t want to put you out.”
“You’re not, Clarissa. You never could.”
“Besides, I don’t have to think about what ungodly things have happened on this bed,” she jokes, her voice light.
“Um, sure. If that makes you feel better,” I respond in kind.
She makes a fake gagging motion, but it does seem to relax her.
“Come on, I’ll show you the rest of the apartment. I don’t think you ever really saw more than the foyer and the lounge room when you came here before.” Before. With Damien. Her ex. My brother.
“Actually… do you mind if I just take a shower and go to sleep? It’s been a few really long days.”
It’s the first time she’s every really acknowledged her fatigue, and it makes me wonder if it’s gotten worse.
“Do you need-”
She holds up her hand. “Just a shower and some sleep, please.”
“Okay. Come with me.”
She follows me into the full size ensuite, although calling it ‘full size’ is like calling Mt. Everest a zit. The bathroom is almost as big as the bedroom, with a two-person jacuzzi, a shower four people could fit in, a six-foot long dressing table with a lighted vanity mirror, and space for dressing.
“The button to turn the jacuzzi on is here,” I say, pointing to a button on the side of the tub. “You can also hook your phone to the Wi-Fi speakers or screen share to that screen.” I lead her over to the dressing table. “You can find products in those drawers, but if you need anything else, just write me a note and I’ll get it Kevin to go pick some up tomorrow.”
When I turn around, though, she’s sitting on the chair in front of the dressing table, eyes closed.
I consider leaving, but then decide to draw a bath for her instead. She doesn’t stir at the sound of the tub filling, so I tiptoe around, gathering bath salts, toiletries she might need, and grab a bottle of water from the drinks fridge in the bedroom to leave by the tub.
“Hey,” I gently wake her once the tub is full.
Her eyes flutter open. “Hmm? I wasn’t sleeping.”
Her stubbornness makes me chuckle. “I think you were. I drew you a bath. Have a soak and get some sleep, okay?”
She nods, looking up at me. “Why are you doing this?”
“You know why.”
Her head shakes. “Not the whole marriage thing. The taking care of me part. Why are you doing it, Matthias? Is this just a game to you?”
I walk to her, bracing one hand on either side of her on the dressing table. Her breath washes against my face, sweet and chocolatey.
“I want you to listen really, really well. Because I am not going to say this again. I don’t play games. Not with people. You understand me?” She just swallows. “Remember that. Because if one of us hurts the other? I’m telling you now, it’s not going to be me.”
And as I walk away, leaving her alone in the bathroom watching me, I wonder if I’m going to make it out of this alive.
CLARISSA
T
he next few days go by relatively without incident. We have a meeting with Paula and with
Matthias’s personal lawyer about our plan, and they tell us everything is ready to move forward. They’re the only two people who know both what we’re about to do, as well as the truth of the situation.
That this is not real.
And it’s something that I have to remind myself every day.
Usually, by the time I wake up, Matthias is gone. It works for me. The thing about living in the upstairs of the club is that it was my space, utterly and completely. I didn’t have to worry about doing something someone didn’t want, touching something I shouldn’t be touching. It’s the only time a space has ever been mine and mine alone.
Even in Australia, I lived in my family’s apartment, or stayed at Damien’s, which, honestly, resembled a mausoleum more than a home.
So even though it was cramped and dusty, without an actual bed, with clothes that I’d washed myself and hung on anything that could be used as a hook, the club felt more like home that anything had in a long time.
But Matthias has done his best to make me feel welcome; he sent me a questionnaire asking me questions about what food I want, toiletries I need, told me I should decorate my room however I see fit.
Without actually saying it, he knows I can’t afford the luxuries I’m used to. I’m just not comfortable asking him for anything yet.
There is one thing about having money that I miss more than all the other things put together. But no matter how much I scrimp and save, there is no way I can afford a new dress, a designer dress. I miss everything about the process, the parade, the choosing, the fitting, the putting it on when everything is done, and feeling like that dress was made just for me.
One day, I promise myself. One day, I’ll be back in a designer’s studio getting fitted.
Matthias texts me at lunchtime on the third day I’ve stayed with him.
Matthias: You didn’t answer my questionnaire.
Me: I didn’t have anything I want to answer.
Matthias: Then don’t blame me when I get something you don’t like.
Matthias: Hello?