My heart strains once more for the woman I have lost.
We could’ve had so much.
We lost it. We lost each other.
***
Katie
Christmas day is another fancy affair; nothing in the life of Brad can ever be simple. He’s like a peacock, showing off his wealth at every opportunity. Seemingly, it’s our turn to host the Christmas Day dinner.
At exactly 6 p.m., ten of his closest friends are going to be arriving at our door for an exquisite meal. The chef is working in the kitchen, and the wait staff have started to arrive to be briefed on the day ahead.
Brad’s been storming around the house, ordering whatever staff member he can todo something. What he wants themto do, I don’t know, but each one scuttles off in the opposite direction as soon as he barks.
I struggle into another dark fitted dress at least a size too small. My stomach cramps as I hold my breath to make some room for my body, but I just end up with bright-red cheeks and unable to breathe. Sadly, not transforming into the glamor puss I hoped I would.
Earlier, Brad also gave me my instructions for this evening. I’m the hostess. I’m expected to be the life and soul of the party, massage egos, and pour drinks. When I asked what the wait staff would be doing, he told me their duties were food only. I was expected to show everyone I was worthy of a place at the table. This was my chance to prove myself as his partner.
“A good wife, Katie,” he lectures me, “is submissive to her husband at all times. To move in our circles, you will need to conform to what is required of the women in our lifestyle. I need a partner, Katie. I need you to be that woman, whether it comes naturally to you or not. Our lives are intertwined now, and I’ll not be embarrassed by your incompetence.”
The remnants of my confidence are shredded. I’ve been here before, and being back again is my own stupid fault. I believed in textbook love, but love doesn’t stand with torture. And being with Brad is torture. Not only on my heart but my soul.
He hates all the parts of me he said he loved: my messiness, my clumsiness, my uniqueness—ultimately me. What attracted him to me in the first place, he now despises. I feel less than human. And even less worthy of love.
Brad has taught me again that whatshouldbe the right story isn’t always. Trying to put love in a box doesn’t work. Sometimes we need to break the edges and be different, love who loves us, regardless of status or age. That’s true love. And I lost it.
The apartment has been decorated to within an inch of its life in festive cheer—there are garlands and twinkling lightseverywhere. The designer has gone to town, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it will be featured in a high-end magazine next year as a how-to-decorate piece for the holiday issue.
My contribution of a sweet, personalized decoration with our names is hidden at the back of the tree, so no one can see it. In the background, just the way Brad wants me. I’m to be his support act, even though he promised to help me step into the light.
“It’s cute,” the designer told me. “But not the classy example we want to set. If we put it here at the back, then you’ll know it’s there, but no one else will be subjected to its cheapness.” I stared at her for a moment while I considered whether she was joking or not. It turned out she wasn’t. So, my cuddling elves are hidden from view, as they do not fit the vision.
“Brad,” I call as I double-check the final preparations for our guests’ arrival. “Do you want me to start with the champagne or Bucks Fizz?”
He sighs.
“I told you already. For fuck’s sake, Katie, if you can’t even remember that, what hope do we have? Start with the Bucks Fizz, and remember to put a cinnamon stick in each one.”
He turns to leave, then he must remember something. He spins on his heel and walks forward so his nose is an inch from mine. After his lips twist into a nasty sneer, he grabs my wrists, wringing them in his hands.
“Consider this a warning. I don’t want you drinking too much. I need you alert for what I’ve planned for you after.” I swallow. “Let’s just say I’m taking my Christmas present from you, and I don’t care if you enjoy it. Be prepared to scream.”
My eyes widen, and he laughs. I’m unsure if he’s being serious or not, and my nerves rise at the thought of what he has in mind. He has become rougher each time we have sex—gone is the loving and gentle man from the start of our relationship.
Now he fucks me hard and fast until he gets his climax, then rolls over and falls asleep once he’s done. I’m left feeling used and yearning for the connection we had in the beginning. I find it hard to believe this is the same man who chased me for our relationship. But now, I feel so committed to him, I can’t leave.
Every time the thought of going home crosses my mind, I push it away. What if he follows through with his threats? What if he refuses to let me go and keeps me here physically? Or if I do leave…will he ruin my career?
What career? I think cynically. You’ve taken a break because he wants you too. Perhaps leaving isn’t the worst thing I can do. I can always rebuild. I did it before and could again. But at fifty, being on my own seems scarier. It’s like I’ve failed again.
At least this way I can pretend I’ve made it.
***
Brad and I sit at either end of the immaculate table. Every plate and glass has been polished to perfection. He commands the conversation, keeping it strictly on him and his opinions. I sit mute and coast through the evening, standing occasionally to pour another glass of wine for each person.
He watches my every move like a snake waiting for its chance to strike. The meal finished, we move to the living area to relax. I continue to wait on our guests. My conversation is limited. I have nothing in common with these people; they have no interest in me.