The Forever Night Stand

By Bena Roberts

~~~

Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2017 Bena Roberts

All rights reserved.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Dedication

Dear Mom,

It would be a lie if I said that the mother in this book doing an epic butt cheek dance wasn't you. Your cultivated 'Indianisms' are wonderful!
Acknowledgements - The Forever Night Stand

This novella is an exploration of some of the darkest life experiences. Sara faces attempted murder, cancer, divorce.

Attempted Murder – Written with levity and poignancy. I have not tried to murder anyone at home and would not recommend doing so.

Cancer \- I have first-hand experience with chemotherapy and its monstrous side-effects. Even though the issue of cancer is serious, I have tried to add dark humor to the equation.

Divorce \- my husband might argue with me. My children might scream at me -but the ring is still on my finger!

The Forever Night - Stand? Delivers heavy hitting and thought-provoking fiction without diminishing the entertainment factor.

Thank-you to Harsha for beta-reading, my editors and everyone who helped deciding on the name of the book and the cover image.
Table of Contents

One - Sara

Two - George

Three - Sara

Four - George

Five - Sara

Six - Sara

Seven - Sara

Eight - George

Nine - Sara

Ten - George

Eleven - Sara

Twelve - Sara

Thirteen - George

Fourteen - Sara

Fifteen - Sara

Sixteen - George

Seventeen - Sara

Eighteen - George

Nineteen - Sara

Twenty - Sara

About Bena Roberts
One - Sara

Joe's name brought back the smell of his intestines. I popped two painkillers into my mouth. Fish-gutting feelings lingered like glue on my soul and were a sign I needed my medication. I hadn't premeditated the act; I didn't wake up planning to stab Joe. It just happened. Some people have a call to the wild or whatever. I didn't. The stabbing was my private battle with the dark side. For five minutes the dark side won, and I picked up the pieces.

Sounds great, doesn't it? Like a movie. That's what the jury thought, too.

I was the actress and the courtroom my stage.

Getting the story straight, cross-examination, remembering what I wanted to forget.

Brain fog from chemotherapy.

That part, genuine.

My speech, nothing like the reality.

The papers called me "Knife-Crazed Wife." The Daily roared, "Man Stabber." Other tabloids shouted, "Psycho Wife Knifes Husband's Lover." My love of Hitchcock made me partial to the latter. The headlines exaggerated. The man I stabbed was Joe. My husband's work colleague, a family friend, champion and my personal-shopper. I knew now; he was a fraud, and in case you are wondering, no. I didn't kill him.

But Paul was the perfect husband and my group of friends were like blu tack. St. Elmo's Fire on the outside, ideal life, excellent friends. I craved that image for the whole marriage. Paul was rich, our home a dream, but his personality was more like Billy the Kid, too scared of hospitals to dote on me or drive me to my cancer treatments.

Yes. Blasted humiliating, but I didn't talk about it. I was the great wife for a very long time. Some dirty laundry needed to stay dirty and locked away in the closet.

The day of the party, everyone was dressed up. It was my after-chemo party, and for a few minutes, I did feel like blu tack. But then it started dissolving when Paul and Joe embraced.

They giggled.

The slow strokes...the way Joe caressed Paul's side.

I didn't think anything of the sensual nature, but the looks of pity from my friends as they touched turned my stomach more than the after-effects of the chemo.

With every gesture the pitying looks intensified.

The knife rack in the kitchen; alcohol bubbles pumped through my veins.

The vault door opened.

Blood stains seeped into my skin, they permanently marked the rest of my life. I said that in court. Yes, I said that in court because it sounded dramatic, the fact that it wasn't right, irrelevant. No. That is not fair, it was horrible, and the stains would be there. But I didn't regret hurting Joe.

Lies. How would you feel if you lost your best friend?

Yes. I know I stabbed him, don't mention that now!

My new dress was bloodier than a butcher's apron.

My body flew towards Joe; it was the blasted chemo side effects that saved Joe's manhood; the carpal tunnel syndrome swayed my aim. Again, I didn't admit it in court, but my hands aimed for his penis. It was the despair.

I was hurt.

Nightmares would ravage my dreams for the rest of my life. Well, at least that is what I told the lawyers. I needed to apologize; unreliable, my story foggier than my brain.

My sentence loomed.

The judge said, "Diminished responsibility."

Did someone just stand up? I saw a baseball cap and a hat, who was that?

I didn't jump; I didn't smile, but I did continue to act like the good wife. To perform and to look were two different things. I sat for the space of a few breaths and then pulled my beanie hat over my cold ears, my contoured face still elegant, despite my hair loss. My lawyers hugged, Paul smiled, but I chose to ignore him. Paul's glamourous sidearm was gone. I was now the awful wife, the even worse friend. My feelings for Paul emptier than a deserted parking lot. Joe? I couldn't go there, not yet.

The real courtroom wasn't like the movies. I had to sit in court through summaries of the trial and the judge's comments which reminded me of when I found out I had cancer; I was Elizabeth Taylor. Famous for being strong! All lies, and all the wrong reasons. When chemo did start and my hair fell out, I didn't want to be a film star. The movie was on repeat, the unpaid extra; same thing now. The judge's words boomed through the court.

"Mrs. McDonald. We have been lenient with you today because of your pristine past and excellent character witnesses. However, what you did was a ghastly attack on someone close to you. You are the one that will have to live with your actions ..."

No tears came, time stretched out in slow motion; a zombie, turning off and on. I could hear but not listen. Instead, the pain in my hands quadrupled every second and the symptom of every chemo ailment resurfaced. Eyes sore, the follicles in my head stabbing, mushrooms living in my mouth, spots on my body, cystitis and the loss of feeling in my hands and feet. The pain worsened until the judge finally fingered his hammer.

"...We have considered the three months you were detained in Edinburgh. There are three remaining months of your sentence, and you will receive a prison tag or electronic ankle monitor."

Bang. It was over; all eyes were on me.

My life signed and sealed. Shafted from Scotland to England. I would go back to my parent's home and I would have community service and electronic monitoring. The movie star, the demure wife didn't react, but inside my body screamed, Haven't I been humiliated enough? Then my consciousness caved in. My poor parents.
Two - George

When I read "Knife Crazed Wife Stabs Husband's Lover" in the papers, I didn't expect to know the wife. The wife was the woman who stole my heart. The woman I loved and let go.

The newspaper headline changed my life. Now here I was in Edinburgh. Sitting in court; waiting for Sara's sentence. The baseball cap and dark glasses masked me. Even incognito, I wanted to be there for her.

I know. I should have acted like my 1980s hero Adam Ant and danced through the court singing, Prince Charming. But it didn't happen. Those were the old days.

The court wasn't the place for a high school reunion. I didn't wear eyeliner anymore, and I wasn't a punk, that was a long time ago. I was a successful programmer, hacker, and cross-fit trainer. No more the scrawny teenager, now the girls at work whispered, 'mysterious geek.' I liked that! But would Sara? Incognito was better for now, before I made amends.

My curiosity started in Greenford when I read the papers. Since then, I had turned from programmer to Inspector Morse. All it took was a Netflix weekend, detective films and two Agatha Christie novels. A cheap detective, but I am sure my work helped Sara's case.

How?

Well, my interest peaked early on. The Metro was the only paper to highlight the fact that Paul might be homosexual. Wait.

I will start from the beginning.

George, that is my name.

Sara was my ex-lover.

Paul was her husband for nearly twenty years, and she married him because I let her down.

Joe was Sara's best friend and Paul's colleague or consultant.

Sara stabbed Joe, every paper went on about that – but apart from a couple of lines about homosexuality in The Metro, no other reason was evident.

Paul was a bigwig in Edinburgh, generous, with significant investments in banks, buildings, and newspapers. His parents were aristocrats.

How did I know this? Well, for the three months Sara was confined at the Women's Institute, the story became my priority. Something was amiss. Paul's evidence phony.

The judge and jury loved him when he spoke.

"I adore my wife. She has been through so much with the chemotherapy; her actions were not her own. I believe this is what happened to my beloved wife for those few minutes the devil's curse gripped her, but it will not happen twice. Words are tricky, so this is my favorite quote from Faust.

Who holds the devil, let him hold him well,

He hardly will be caught a second time....

What I possess, seems far away to me,

And what is gone becomes reality."

I mean, what a ponce! You can't trust anyone that quotes Faust, especially a husband in court. In all honesty, who the bloody hell is Faust? I also kept my eyes on Sara as he spoke and when he said, 'I adore my wife,' her reaction was synthetic. She was withdrawn, there was no love, and I am sure her eyes rolled to the back before she remembered where she was. She crossed her legs, straightened her back and resembled a souvenir.

Sara was pale. It was the first time I had seen her since 1999. A beanie hat covered her head, but her appearance still shouted demure. She was 'the one.'

I'd been zealous the last few days. Followed her husband Paul, and Joe the man she stabbed. I didn't plan on shadowing them, but I needed to know the truth. Joe was genuine. His words in court were from the heart, without any quotes.

"I forgave Sara for that crazy few minutes. Organizing the party with her had been so much fun, but she might not have been ready for that demanding role as the hostess so soon after her chemo and radiation finished. We, I, underestimated her mental health."

The lawyer pressed Joe, "Does the fact that you are homosexual have anything to do with this altercation?"

"No. I am a proud homosexual. It is not a secret. Sara was my best friend. The rage and chemo drugs mixed with alcohol made her stab me. Paul and I are not having an affair. We are business associates."

The lurking detective escaped from within me. Joe was no longer in physical pain and the scar probably would suit his lean body. Paul never looked upset. Paul could probably never look upset. He looked too wealthy to look anything else. His hair stylishly puttied in place, his suit expensive, arrogance written all over his face. I knew his kind.

Paul spent three hours in the Hilton Hotel, room 401 with a prostitute. That was for sure; I even followed the lady home to make sure she wasn't a transvestite. She wasn't.

Paul was unfaithful, yes, but gay?

No.

Did Sara know he was unfaithful?

Sherlock on Netflix sealed my new detective status.

Both lawyers received anonymous pictures of Paul and the prostitute. Written in black writing along with the pictures:

Take-action! Or I will send these to the court and, also to every newspaper in Scotland. Sara is innocent! Paul, who has mutual investments with many of you, is a cheat!

It worked.

I fixated on Sara in the courtroom. If she ever found out I was there, what would she think or do? She must remember me. She wasn't stupid; we'd made love enough times for me to be on her sex list.

My sister told me all women had a sex list.

Might I have even stolen her virginity? Deep down I knew I had taken it, and I loved her as much now as I did then, I was here to stay. I didn't belong on a list, I belonged next to Sara. I sat like a stalker in the courtroom waiting for her sentence.

"Diminished responsibility."

My body took over, I stood. Rigor mortis for the living. Shit, no detective would have done something so stupid. I dropped, slid lower into the seat and hid. Sara would be confined to her parents' home in Greenford, Middlesex for the next three months. That was the best news I'd heard all day. Sara would be moving back to where we grew up, five minutes from my home. Was this my second chance? Maybe, this was the opportunity. I would tell her the truth.

Would Sara forgive me?

Back in the 1980s I told her I was her wolf, made it clear wolves mate for life. She left me, got married, moved away. I was still here, in London, now Scotland, still waiting, still a wolf, not mating. Well, not mating with anyone special. I sound like a stalking serial predator. That's not true, but it is true I've had my fair share of one night stands. Not sure I like admitting that I'm the one-night stand kind of guy. My childhood is to blame. My mother was perfect; warm, safe and beautiful. My dad had many affairs, dates, and orgies. He never denied it. My dad betrayed mom so many times. I became like him. We end up like our parents; I got the short straw. I didn't want to be like him, I wanted to man up. I wanted Sara.

The courtroom emptied. I walked to the exit. My mirror image had changed a lot since sixteen. I'm an Englishman with Irish genes and ridgeback blood. I'd fit right in with the X-Men. My style now is clean-cut, the long, dark hair short; respectable, like my career. My music tastes are unchanged, though; Sid Vicious giving two fingers to the establishment. I'm lying. I've never been anything like Sid Vicious. I live in fantasies and pour my creativity into designing games, nothing else.

Was it my fault her marriage ended in blood. I'd stabbed Sara in the heart long before that.

Fresh air blasted me as I left the court. It was over, 'bye Edinburgh.' My bus home awaited. Greenford is my home. I know, crazy, in the world of global travel, I rarely leave my hometown. Edinburgh's been an experience, but the coach ride so dire I doubt I would do it again. I enjoyed Spain, Portugal, and even Amsterdam – but they weren't home. Sara wanted to change the world. Take it over, work for Greenpeace or fight for rainforests. I loved that about her. She was emotional and passionate. She traveled to University; I stayed in London. She found jobs in Reading, and I never left London. The homeboy, so I watched Sara go. The irony was that she didn't fly or travel, she stayed in Scotland, in Edinburgh. That wasn't the Sara I let leave. I convinced myself she was better off without me. She could spread her wings. But she didn't fly. Was I to blame for that?
Three - Sara

The black cab screeched to a halt as its wheels bit into the uneven street. Reality pinched me. But the taxi driver didn't waste a second. He jumped out of the cab and removed my luggage. The prison tag scratched my ankle; I fumbled. Move over, Mary Poppins! My reflection grinned back at me as I fought my way out of the taxi. Desigual dress, black one-inch heels and a knit cardigan, this new, laid-back, hippy vegan look didn't seem to match the feelings swirling inside me. A far cry from the suited and booted me from Edinburgh. I liked it.

What was my identity? I peered up at the detached 1930's property. I was no longer the teenage gothic beauty, the university brainbox or the married teacher. I wasn't the perfect wife or the best friend. This time, I would be entering my parent's home with a new label. I was the cancer survivor and Ms. Diminished Responsibility. Well, it was better than Ms. Attempted Murderess.

I held out some money, but before I could thank the taxi driver he was gone. The soles of his feet sprinted away and my fifty-pound note stuffed in his back pocket. Did he know what I had done? Maybe my Mary Poppins outfit needed tweaking. I suppose he knew, he had picked me up from the police station. Or was I paranoid?

I turned from the driver to the house; it's shape looking quite sinister from this angle, dark clouds and a storm would transform it into an asylum. The house I was born in, now my prison. The irony was that the disease that took the best part of my looks, mutilated my breasts and savaged my insides, had saved me from being locked up.

The driver sped away and my nostrils flared. Little things flicked on and off like switches in my body. A knife flickered before me like a scene out of Macbeth; my emotions were out of control. Remembering the therapist's words, I inhaled from the stomach and made my way from the road towards the pavement. I should have taken more painkillers; there was no time now. Inhale, one, two; exhale, three, four.

I stumbled. Every stone on the pavement turned into Joe's innards. The suitcase handle was now the knife as I locked onto it trying to stay straight. Every phallic object became that knife which seeped anger into my skin.

Through the tightness in my jaw and the pounding in my wrists I remembered who I was. Sara, forty-one, homeless, single, and about to move in with my parents. Paul and recently-stabbed friend Joe were miles away. To think that I supported gay marriage! It was a lie. Paul wasn't gay. I knew that. I tasted the blood in my mouth from biting my lip.

My frustration landed on the suitcase as I kicked it down the pathway. My heels next, as I dug them into the cement wanting to break them in half as I spat, kicked and hissed my way up the drive, a thick metal shackle on my ankle, an imaginary fence and miles away from my other life.

The shit list could continue, I was friendless. My Facebook friends abandoned me after the attempted murder nonsense. The local media coverage, cameras and the press didn't help either.

Everyone is stabbing people these days, why pick on me?

The wind changed direction and the familiar smell, chicken korma, made my nose pull my body up the drive. My parents were loyal. I wasn't stupid; they were humiliated. The phone call with my mom when I told her I stabbed Joe, painful. Disbelief was loud in her voice. My parents were old; they didn't even make it to the trial.

Two figures lurked in the doorway, misted by the aroma of spice. My movements were faster than ever as glistening eyes appeared through the fog. The folded arms belonged to my dad, and then a chubby belly hurtled towards me. The stickiness of my mother's body held more comfort than eating profiteroles. The gory images stopped. I still fancied two painkillers, but I was home.

Five minutes after arriving home, it was like I never left. My mother in the kitchen, great food, better smells and wait, something was different. I looked at the cupboards. No knives were visible in the kitchen, a lock evident on the kitchen door. Embarrassment. I wanted to apologize there and then, no words. They were so worried about my mental health; plastic was the new metal.

My dad hardly spoke, which wasn't anything new, he'd seldom ever spoken. He sat in his chair, arms folded, and if I grappled for breath, he would tap on the floor with his foot commanding me to 'eat.'

Mom perched like a bird on the sofa.

"Don't worry!" My mom's voice squeaked.

"No. You must not worry." Dad's croak sent horrific shivers down my spine. The fireplace poker was nowhere in sight.

My plate was half empty, my mom filled it. She pinched my cheeks as she tried to fatten me up. I hadn't felt pampered in years.

Dad's military style, 'eat', followed by mom's sucking in her face gesture at dad and mouthing 'too skinny.' They now ignored me. I had lost the chemo weight gain plus another two stones, so about twenty pounds or 10kg, I couldn't keep up with the correct weight system anymore, I checked them all! I was over the moon that I was the lightest I'd been for the best part of twenty years. I sniggered.

The burst of noise from my nostrils scared my parents. My dad's folded arms jolted slightly, and my mother high jumped. I smiled at them to assure them all was OK. But my folks had other ideas.

"She probably has post-traumatic stress." My mother folded her arms and stared at my dad.

"Yes." Fear evident in his eyes, he mumbled. "Very bad, very bad." His head a chainsaw from left to right.

"She was sick with those drugs; she didn't know what she was doing." My mom justified my actions with a squished up face.

My lips forced a smile at my mom; I welcomed the pity.

"I wish we could have made it to the chemotherapy." As mom said those words, my heart screamed, not as much as I did. The humiliation I'd felt at always going alone, a cloak of ice surrounded me.

My dad mumbled, "She was sick."

Sick and alone. The knife appeared, but this time I was stabbing Paul.

Dad ogled me, the arches of his eyebrows raised over his scalp line. He gave me that look. The look that only a dad can deliver. The look that says, I know you are guilty, but for God's sake never let your mother know. My voice muted, 'please let me melt into the furniture' my head nodded at them frantically.

"We must have a party."

"What?" I gaped at my mother, confused. Where the hell did that come from?

"Very good idea." My dad spoke more words to me tonight than in the past few years.

"A party to celebrate surviving cancer. To thank Lord Krishna."

Both my parents put their hands together and nodded at the picture on the wall. Words failed me, look what happened at my last after chemo party!

But my mother continued.

"You are still young and beautiful; you could always remarry."

My imaginary dentures flew across the room.

She motioned at dad and he pulled an invitation from his pocket. OMG, the party was already planned!

"Yes. You can always marry. Plenty of fish in the sea." I wasn't sure I liked my dad's new confidence. The date was set. Everything was ready, I read.

You are cordially invited to Sara's party!  
Saturday November 6th, 2017  
From 7 p.m.  
Speeches 8:30 p.m.  
Dinner 9 p.m.  
Finish Midnight  
Open Bar from 7 to 10 p.m.

Sara's had a bad few years. Let us open our hearts and give her the party she deserves!  
Cancer did not kill our lovely daughter, and we must thank God for that. Life is a challenge, but with some donations from our friends, family and loved ones, Sara can start her new life in Greenford again.  
No Gifts Please – Cash Accepted.

WHO WRITES CASH ACCEPTED ON AN INVITATION?

The life drained from my body. Did my parents know I didn't have any money and Paul used to reward me with cash for good behavior? No. They couldn't.

Two excited old age pensioners having fun, huddled on the table, party planning. My parents finally realized my inability to speak. Silence detonated through the living room. Mom rummaged around the shelf on the radiator and peered through the curtains; mom was the reason crime halved in the neighborhood.

"That looks like that George."

"What, George?" Happy to break the silence, my dad stooped behind mom.

"Yes. Looks like his GT."

"What George?" Another attempt to break the ice. "The local weirdo?" Conversation trickled from my mouth.

"You know the George, the one you used to hang about with."

Hang about with? No, it couldn't be George. They couldn't mean him, could they?

"George Wright?"

The words roared as my heart pushed its way up to my tonsils. The name was a burnt memory. My whole body wanted to push the table back and tear towards the window, but shock had set in. My hair, white. Not, George! Oh God, why did he still live here?

"Mom? George still lives here?"

"Yes. Same place. We see him all the time." She set the curtain back down and faced me. "He always asks about you."

"What?"

"Yes. What a lovely man."

'What a lovely manhood' cheekily crossed my mind. I didn't dare say that to my parent's though. Curiosity won.

"Is he married?"

"No. He inherited that mansion at the end of Greenford Road though."

"What? The one at the back of the Golf Club?"

I fumbled for my iPhone, distraction vital, as my mind flashed back.

George's hand fueled my every move as he guided me down the narrow staircase leading to the entrance of the Electric Ballroom. My other hand glided on the icy black walls as I stalked his movements, drawn to every part of him. His black trousers, ruffled shirt, and purple waistcoat made my knees quiver. Our body heat intense, even though we weren't in the club yet. George's thick black eyeliner ate into my heart. His purple eyeshadow was breathtaking. His look alluded to difference.

My phone hadn't beeped for days, no email, messages, WhatsApp, nothing. But my parents didn't know that yet. I hid behind the little screen, silence fell again as more memories collided.

Greeted by the smell of patchouli oil I undid my suede jacket to bare my black velvet catsuit. George lavished his arm around my neck as we went in through the double doors and then entered the chocolate factory, full of black, sexy, white powdered individuals where the sweets were purple drinks. The echoing music, the vampires, the endless amounts of black or red lipstick; intoxicating.

I had loved George.

Young

Athletic

Long dark hair

Ocean green eyes.

His name a hidden memory for so long; death from within. He was so close it confused my brain, but not my underwear. That was new!

George was nervous as his sweaty palms showed, but his face was composed. The side of the dancefloor with me up against the wall. Our tongues touched. It was a dream. George exuded experience; he held me in his arms like I was the only one in the world.

What made George so beautiful that evening? The night terrorized with teenage petting. That was the night George asked me to mate with him. He said, "Wolves mate for life."

My mother didn't like silence, she burst my visions.

"We got this letter for you. I opened it, it is your community plan." Reality slapped me in the face, and every sexy feeling vanished.

"Mom, have you seen my tablets?"

"On the table." I didn't like reality, so I took three painkillers.

"It is good! You will have a plan, you stay focused on the next part of your life."

That was it; the word 'life' broke my mother's voice. Tears dripped onto her sari. She watched too many Indian movies, she staggered, then fell on the sofa. She fell with her arms raised towards the heavens. My dad rolled his eyeballs back towards me, the chainsaw head movements lost power. Guilt evident all over my face. My mother's whimpers in the background, I read the letter. The words orange safety vest, HDC (Home Detention Curfew) shut down my brain. Propelled into a horror film, the letter began to strangle me.

The reflection in the window – who was that? It was Hannibal Lecter in an orange vest – no. It was me.

My ears sang like my mother's pressure cooker. The bowl of korma on its way to the TV. The tablets were needed earlier to control my psychotic episodes. My dad sensed my distress. He didn't move his ligaments, but limped towards me with a severe case of pins and needles. His arms finally unfolded. Then one arm touched my shoulder. His warmth was instant relief. Thick crystals formed in his eyelashes. The chair fell behind me as I hugged my dad with all my might. Acidic tears scorched my face. Guilt. My dad knew I wanted to hurt Joe. Guilt. I made my dad cry, I lied to the police, lawyers, and everyone else. My body quivered. The deluge of tears re-modeled dad's cashmere jumper.

I clung to his neck with all my might, kissing him on his cheek with no intention of letting go. The fog evaporated once more, but this time there was no knife or blood. As my tears dried, my calling became clear. My mission was to make my parents proud again. Maybe a big fat Indian party would suffice?
Four - George

Playing detective suited me. I spied again on Sara, not her monkey Paul. Why did Sara stab Joe and not Paul? Confusion vanished when I saw her.

Sara looked better than she had in court. Her face was no longer pasty yellow. The beanie hat was gone, her hair short, black and thick. I missed her black school girl chic, but her paisley dress suited her. My heart told me to leap out the car, sweep her up and kiss her. My feet didn't move, this wasn't me or who I wanted to be - I hated it.

My body heavier than the car. She struggled with the case as she left the taxi; I did nothing. I couldn't appear out of the blue. Desperate to get close to her again, but would she want me? Was she still the Sara, my Sara? That fun-loving provocative teenager? What were my feelings about Sara stabbing someone? I loved her, and I wasn't living in the past. Or was I?

I felt little more than a stalker, change was vital.

My car spotless, my mind a shipwreck. Why was I sitting here in front of her parental home, watching her again? Sara hugged her dad through the net curtains. It was a special moment. I shouldn't be there; I wasn't the lurking weirdo. I gazed at the house from my car. What else could I do? I am tall and well built, hard to hide in a crowd, so I hid in my car.

The first time I was a superhero I was five. I paraded in my Batman outfit around the house. The second time was with Sara at that club in London. I faked it. I simulated the fact; I was a virgin, too. I had watched enough movies to seem like the superhero sexual expert. It worked. She didn't know. I did.

The last time I was a superhero was in Edinburgh, following Paul and Joe was thrilling. Humphrey Bogart couldn't have done it better. I went a step further. I looked him in the eye when he was out with that prostitute. He didn't know me. He didn't see me, I saw him.

Teenage Sara, rolling around in the grass, set fire to every nerve in my body. The size of my erection, intimidating. Since seeing Sara, I masturbate more than when I was fourteen.
Five - Sara

At 7 a.m. the autumn sunshine warmed up the room, two painkillers and I got ready to start the day. The new dawn was a new beginning for me. Meditation was vital. I sat up on the bed chanted 'Om' for twenty seconds, gave-up and decided to explore my old cupboard.

The cupboard opened, would Narnia appear? It didn't, but there was a small thin notebook.

Top Secret – Sara Sharma  
Northolt Grammar School

Boys' names? A dossier on kissable boys! Where was George?

George Wright  
Perfect.  
Sister, Melissa, keeps bullying me. I bloody love him though. He told me 'wolves mate for life.'

Perfect. The word summed it up well. George was tall for a sixteen year old. A lean runner, he didn't play football like most boys. His skin was smooth, emerald eyes and jet black hair. George, so significant in my life from sixteen till marriage, yet we never really dated.

Do wolves mate for life? That was so poetic. George and I mated like wolves in the wild, always stolen moments. We mated for years; my go-between, it had been fun hiding, making love in the open, hiding from his sister!

Whenever George and I were together and Melissa appeared, every hair on my body stood on end. Every time George and I got close, she got evil. It was like Stephen King's Children of the Corn, George and I were the children, and she was the corn. Tall, stalking, envious, and a mess. Once, at a house party, George touched my dress as I walked up the stairs. I wanted to kiss him, but as our eyes met, Melissa screamed. 'Stay away from my brother you freak!' Everyone laughed, and I left, and George's eyes were hollow like he was drowning. His gaze fixated on mine, he didn't want me to leave, but his mouth was scotch taped to Melissa's friend. The secrets began. I met George either before or after parties, we kissed and talked like Romeo and Juliet. Those became our code names. I signed J on every post-it note and he signed R. We were meant for each other, but his sister was the evil elf from hell.

I moved to the mirror. My reflection haunted me. I didn't look fresh anymore. Feelings for George suppressed for so long. The innocence, our first meeting, my first love simmered under my skin. Did I want to remember? The answer was no, but should I go back there?

Philosophical thoughts didn't get a chance as the electronic anklet beeped, displaying 'charge battery.' The book found a safe pace in my back pocket. I headed downstairs to the living room. Another aroma filled the hall as the door opened. Sunday lunch, my father at the stove. The aroma of garlic chicken or something equally pungent blindsided me. Asia 101 was on the TV and my mom sat before it, ogling, her glasses next to her. I considered asking why she wasn't wearing her glasses when the squinting started. Onions! Tears streamed down my mom's eyes, and now mine, blurred vision led me to trip over my feet and land face first on the settee. The pocketbook fell towards my mother's feet. Horrified, as she drew it to her nose and read it page by page.

"I haven't seen this for a long time!"

A disapproving smile as she licked her fingers with every turn.

"At least you could write then, I never got one, not even one letter from you!"

Terrorized. My mom read the book! My mom knew the book! I wiped the onion tears, rueful.

"George. His sister bullied me." She read like Mr. Magoo.

"Melissa! She is very nice now! Very clever, good job nursing. Very posh car!"

George Wright's sister appeared in my head. At sixteen she looked like a teenage mom, without the child. The first to wear a bra, the first to be spotty, but that didn't stop her trying to ruin my life.

My mind screamed. "I don't give a damn about his sister. She will stay away from me now; I have a reputation!" But instinct told me to clench my teeth. No one that bullied me could be that nice. Melissa ruined my life at school and my chances with sexy George. It was so long ago, and I didn't want to dwell, pain lingered in my heart. George, once wonderful, turned out to be as ugly as his sister in the end. Melissa's 'posh car' made me loathe her even more.

My monitor clicked into the charger. Mom dropped the book and pointed at the TV. It was an incredibly colorful dance, her shoulder movements became chaotic as her thumb and little finger met and she waved her arms, ignoring the beat, her bottom actions like a child in a bouncy castle. The onion sting pain vanished; the garlic dad was cooking smelled better and my crazy mother's butt cheek dance made me feel at home.

Melissa annoyed me. Why did she have a nice posh car and why she was so successful? Anger ate into my flesh; I pulled her bun and stabbed her. Watch out bitch!
Six - Sara

My dad was the first to voice his concern.

"There may be real criminals there, so don't speak with anyone and don't make friends."

"Dad. I stabbed Joe. No one will speak to me!"

"You were under stress. You are not a bad girl. But there are nasty people in the world."

A discussion was futile. "Yes dad."

Then it was my mom's turn.

"Do you remember, Sanjeev?"

The 'someone was dead speech bubble' flashed before my eyes. "No," squeaked from my mouth.

"Well, Sanjeev's brother's, sister's cousin is called Raj."

Oh no!

"He is an exquisite boy. He has a degree from Brighton University. He never got married. He read your story in the temple."

French toast littered the table.

"My story was in the temple!!??"

My mom looked bemused. "Of course it was. Everyone prayed for you."

I wiped the spit from my face. This could not be happening; my mind kicked and screamed. My head dropped down, the dark side banged my head against the plate.

"Well. To cut a very long story short, this Raj told his mother who called Sanjeev's dad who called him who then phoned me and Raj wants to meet you."

"I am still married!" My mother ignored me.

"He is 40, a little bit younger than you but ready to settle down. He liked you, and he found you! I did nothing, I promise!"

"Mom. I am still married."

"Yes. You are married, but that is going nowhere. Or do you still love Paul?"

I stared at my mother. She never asked me that question before, even the night before the wedding. Everyone assumed I loved Paul; he was the rich guy.

My hands flung high and dropped.

"No."

I didn't love Paul; I might have once.

My mom had won and she knew it!

"Raj's family has money! You could marry in Goa."

"Marry? Goa?" I wanted to scream like Tarzan looking for Jane, but it wasn't worth it. This battle was lost. My hands slammed on the table, the fork flew at least six inches high then as it dropped it bounced, while I screamed,

"Yes!"

Did I say that?

How hard would the one date be?

"You said yes?"

My mom's expression was a painter's dream as she went from near death to joy, delight, self-doubt and then release. Her head shook faster than my dad's head as she repeated.

"Yes."

She embraced me with roller coaster force.

The inside of Feltham Prison was more decrepit than the smog-stained bricks outside. Sadness shrouded me as I crept along the line, prodded by several guards. My reflection in the weapon detection machine shocked, my eyes blacker than the eclipse. My parent's advice was still fresh in my mind. 'No one should make friends on community service.' It was going to be a long miserable day. 
Seven - Sara

My mom's enthusiastic voice dominated the conversation as I hid behind buttered toast and a cup of Earl Grey.

"Raj is coming over on Thursday. About 4:30 p.m. We will go for a walk, and you can get to know one another!"

"Yes. Take your time and find out about the man." My dad forgot my marriage. The way his hands rubbed his non-existent beard emblazoned delight.

"Thursday is a perfect day!" My mother rocked with excitement.

Hung, drawn and quartered guilt consumed me again. Raj was a memory, the blind date nearly forgotten. George was the cowboy in my brain.

My mom marked the wall calendar with the letter R and next to the R was a full moon. Everything she did was dependent on the weather; outcomes, dates, festivals, and the full moon signified new beginnings. My mom believed this was a sign, out with the old, in with the new. She was relieved that someone in the community took an interest in me and they were far from social outcasts. But as I said before, everyone was stabbing everyone; it wasn't a big deal anymore.

"Indian men need guiding." My mom stroked my dad's shoulder, who then mouthed "no" to me. But we both knew better than to interrupt.

"Men are like a chapati. Difficult to cook in the beginning, but after five years you will be slapping them around! Make them your own!"

My mother's inability to make chapati after fifty years not mentioned.

My own Indian movie in my brain. I planned makeup, funky clothes, big eyes, contouring face and Spanx approaching. I loved dressing up! My feet were way ahead of me, tearing up the stairs, but I reined them in. Before Raj arrived, I had an appointment at the clinic with the doctor, a blood test and a mental health assessment. My excitement wilted like last week's roses.
Eight - George

I loved my car. Click, the doors unlocked. It was such a simple thing that everyone took for granted. But that simplicity was how I created my games and earned my living. I loved the design. Dexterity, doing without stress.

That is how I would start my speech to Sara.

I would say.

Hi Sara. Look. I let you down, but I didn't know if you were serious or not. It was a crap day. I know I promised to show up at the church. I know I promised to stop you from marrying Paul. I was your wolf. But you were getting married. Our last conversation was so confusing, I didn't know if I should turn up or not.

It was a shit day. My mother was sick, I had to drive her to Ealing Hospital, it was severe. Do you know my mother died?

The words, awkward. How else could you explain?

Why was it so difficult to be honest? My mouth dried. I shouldn't drink, as it did nothing good for me. A drink made some people happy, fun. A bottle made me remember too much, sleep more. I liked being calm. I spoke to myself. "Stay calm." I heard my own voice, it was raspy. I poured myself some water and looked at my reflection in the refrigerator. I was so tall and broad, I could see my nose, mouth, and chin. I was forty-one, single, wealthy and alone.

My phone buzzed. It was my sister. I would typically ignore calls at work, but I could never overlook calls from Melissa. She was the only family I had left. We had left.

"Hi, Melissa."

"George, you are not going to believe who I am about to interview in the clinic. Her name was in the daily notes. Sara, Sara Sharma. The love of your life."

I still didn't speak. Melissa didn't notice.

"This is such an amazing opportunity; you have been a recluse for so long. I mean, I know you date, but you have always loved Sara. Don't try and deny it! I know you carry her picture in your wallet... When was the last time you saw her?"

My mind spinning but still sharp.

"Eighteen and a half years ago?"

The words left my mouth, my head in the milky way.

"That is a specific time!"

Melissa laughed, but then she went quiet. She counted on her fingers, going back to her age at the time.

I gulped loud enough for Melissa to know I was still listening, not speaking.

"Pick me up after work! I finish at 4:30 p.m. We need to talk, and I will buy you dinner in the Black Horse."

The baseball bat hit hard.
Nine - Sara

"Are you irritable or enraged because of minor issues?"

"What do you think?"

The instant the words left my mouth I regretted them, but it was too late now. That was the only question I could remember from Dr. Powell. The interview so bad all that was left was the Union Jack, a very red Dr. Powell, the nurse's blue dress and the destroyed white walls.

Me? Why was I so mad? The moment I saw Dr. Powell's salami shaped figures, I bloody hated him. He was redder than a tomato and what doctor has grime under his nails?

I stood and the petrified doctor zoomed off down the hall. Replaced within seconds with another white coat.

"Hello. I am Mrs. Wright."

We stood in front of one another, then it struck me, Melissa. Melissa Wright, George's sister, the bully from hell. Every pore of my body opened as I fumbled around for my imaginary knife. I wanted to scream, but she looked different. What happened to the bun, spots or baby belly?

Years of memories spat like bacon fat into our consciousness. Her eyes turned into sunflowers. An awkward pause, more fat sizzled; then she lunged at me, her arms so tight around my body. Was she going to kill me first? No. I nearly fainted with anxiety as she kissed me! Did she kiss me? What on earth was going on?

"I am so happy you are alive! Your mom told us about the cancer and the...er....accident. We were all so worried about you. Your parents were distraught. So, tragic and scary."

She let go and gripped my arms. Her face so close to mine, her breath made my neck hair electric. Was she polite? Or was this British politeness? She didn't say the word stabbing; maybe she was scared.

"Don't you worry. You are home now, we are going to look after you!"

My nemesis was friendly to me! Confusion threw me into a void. My mind stabbed Melissa, now she was in my arms, kissing me like a long-lost family relative? Her words, 'parents were distraught,' sung like a choir in my mind. I cried like a tired child at two a.m.

"I need to apologize too. I bullied you about your hair."

"Just don't mention the lice! Please! I don't think my pelvic floors could take that!"

I laughed, happy I wasn't the only forty year old with issues. The laughter continued, I took Melissa's hand as if I was going to propose to her, sincerity was vital.

"I am sorry." Our fingers now linked like toddlers in the park.

"I know. I am sorry, too."

"Melissa, thank you for being so nice to me and helping my parents."

"Sara, I have felt guilty about you and George for the past twenty years."

"Eighteen and a half."

"What?"

"Eighteen and a half years."

"George said that!"

"What?"

"George said that! He hadn't seen you for eighteen and a half years."

"What else did he tell you?"

"Nothing." Was Melissa telling the truth?

I couldn't speak. That did it. Hulk might have left my brain, but the green monster started turning in my heart. George was a waste of space. How dare he? How dare he remember eighteen and a half years? Blood, thick in my mouth as I started gnawing into my cheeks. The sounds of my teeth grinding fueled anger through my body. George was as useless as Paul. They were both weak men.

The interview with Melissa didn't go well after that. Every joint in my body sensed fear. Trust issues, I didn't trust Melissa or George. If he told someone what happened all those years ago I would kill him.

Yes! I said kill. Everyone was stabbing, murder was rife, I got blamed for everything.

The secretary shoved a letter into my hand as I left. I read

'Anger Management classes' were part of my community service. More joy. Why me? I stabbed someone, but could everyone just let it go? I did something bad for a few minutes, I was not that bad.

It was 4:30 p.m., I had been in the clinic all day. I wanted to get home, not think about anger management, my face already burnt hot with frustration. The devil's horns broke through my forehead. I pirouetted around and considered going back to the clinic when I heard tires squealing.

Melissa ran out the clinic and waved at someone in a car. Over the top of a white van, a GT revved its engine. GT. George's car? Desperate to see him, but not now, not like this when I wasn't sure if he had lied. I ducked and crawled away from the van to the nearest cars; both happened to be Opel Corsas. Melissa's red face shone in the Autumn light and her head quibbled as she shrieked,

"George, I met Sara! She left, did you see her?"

Concrete danced on my lips as I licked the pavement, too afraid to move. Half of me wanted to scream you 'how could you?' The other half desperate for a kiss. The car engine stalled.

"What? S...Sara?" It must have been George speaking, his voice unrecognizable and not being able to physically see him, on par with the shock after an ice-bucket challenge.

"This is your second chance, George, she is back, and you need to date. I didn't help in the past, but watch me, I am going to bloody well help now."

This is your second chance? How much did she know?

The car started again, the door slammed, the wheels spun off. Crazy thoughts fought with each other in my brain as I wiped the concrete from my mouth. I rose and dusted myself off; the smell of burnt rubber filled the air. Behind me, George did a 360 wheel spin, his GT accelerated towards me at 100 miles per hour. I skydived then slammed onto the tarmac between the two Corsas. Burnt rubber choked me as a Bridgestone tire blackened my vision. Nowhere to hide, I shuffled upwards, George's sea green eyes on mine. The first glance electric.

Our eyes wide, lips moist, sparks zoomed; we were unable to speak. Melissa broke the ice and hollered,

"You OK?"

We ignored her. George jumped from the car. His hands fire, mine ice, perfect collision. No words. George hugged me. A solar eclipse. His warmth pierced every nerve; his stubble rested on my head, fear dismantled. A safety net cast over me, and I didn't know how good he would make me feel until then. George had that effect on me. Please don't end. In that breath, George let go. His movements rushed.

He rasped.

"We have to catch up."

My mouth opened, but no words.

My soul screamed, 'DON'T LEAVE ME.' Then a second later it yelled, "Yes! Leave, run and hide if you told anyone about what happened!"

Was this bipolar? Was I sweet Sara or stabber Sara? Painkillers, now!

Then, as if it was the worst end to a love story, the car drove away. I was Scarlett O'Hara, he was Rhett. No iconic words of wisdom; I didn't care about tomorrow. I wanted him back, and I wanted him back now.

"Are you OK?"

Dr. Powell frowned at me. My hatred for him was unnerving.

I dusted the gravel from my clothes. I nodded.

"Are you sure?"

I avoided eye contact, then walked away from him. His hand grabbed mine and he made me look at his snake eyes.

"Are you OK?" His voice was louder than before.

"Yes." My voice whistled, frustrated. He let go and I spun around, fighting back the urge to shout JERK. Dr. Powell's hands on mine erased the sensations George had left me with; I hated the man.

On the way home I grappled for George's scent. The giddy teenager raged from within me. His touch, his skin. George's warm body warped into mine. I remembered the past. We were a galaxy that space forgot, our tongues guessing each movement, our hands firm longing for our bodies to conjoin. Kissing for weeks and making love in the moonlight at the back of the Golf Club. Fully clothed to stay warm, my underwear pushed to the side and George's gentle warmth. No roughness, no hurry, just slow, graceful motions that made liquid gold pulse through my veins.

The minute I stepped into the house I was shoved upstairs. My parents acted like sergeant majors and three intimidated Indian women listened to boot camp instructions. An army of cleaners, the house was to be blitzed before Raj's arrival. Holy shit! I limped to the bedroom, my legs gave in. Years of memories smashed in my head and the shards penetrated my brain.
Ten - George

Like a prisoner in Alcatraz desperate to escape, the rock in my pants was about to explode and Melissa was next to me. My movements jagged. My mind desperate to concentrate on re-focusing my attention from the power tool in my pocket.

The last few minutes were raw in my mind. In the 1990s I would have grabbed her, pushed her up against the car and licked her from the breast bone to her mouth. That was a long time ago. Stop. Stop. I couldn't think like that. I counted in my mind one, two three, four and finally at about twenty the sexual urge subsided. It was quickly replaced with something worse. Damn. I rested my chin on her head.

I rested my chin on her head?

IDIOT! Damn, I could melt the hearts of a lot of girls, why not this one?

Then the words, 'We have to catch up?' A landmine exploded in my mind.

My groin, able to breathe again by the time we got to the end of the street, haywire.

Melissa didn't help. "Can you pretend that I am a Padawan and you are my Jedi leader?"

I tried to ignore Melissa's ramblings.

"Look, George. I might have caused a problem."

My foot hit the accelerator, the speed doubled, and then I hit the brake, narrowly avoiding the car in front.

"WHAT?"

My frustration sounded harsher than I wanted.

"I think I said something that Sara didn't like. It was innocent, but she changed after she heard it."

"What?" This time my frustration echoed clearly through the car.

Melissa squirmed in her seat.

"Well, Sara said she hadn't seen you for eighteen and a half years. Then I said that is what you said. Eighteen and a half. After that, she changed."

"CHANGED?"

"Yes, withdrawn, not as friendly, sad."

Drink, chit-chat and the pub was now out of the question. I parked outside Melissa's home. Landmines exploded all around me. Was I trapped in my own game?

With every explosion, the memories got closer and stronger. Exactly eighteen and a half years ago I stood Sara up at the altar. At the time, I wasn't sure if that was what she wanted. Was she testing me? My body was pumped. I had run fifteen miles. Sara was the one, my mission to stop the wedding. We had joked I was going to barge in shouting, "I protest." We held hands and talked relentlessly about us driving away on my Vespa, leaving the world behind. Was that real? Did Sara expect me? I hadn't seen her again after that and I didn't know. It was like living Bohemian Rhapsody, no one knew what was going on. The morning of the wedding, I was ready. Even if Sara didn't leave the wedding, I was prepared to give her the option – take the chance. Then my mom screamed in the garden. Fate took over. I never made it to the wedding. Sara left. A few hours later mom died.

A plan programmed in my brain on the drive to Sara's. Soul-bearing on the agenda. The scene planned to perfection. The whole car journey I muttered my plan to myself and I knew this was it.

Seeing Sara's parents holding each other up, hiding behind the fence put me off. I couldn't go there and surprise them. What were they doing? I went back to the car. About thirty minutes later a man who resembled a red squirrel ran out the house then got swallowed by his vehicle. Sara's parents looked confused. They hugged as they slowly shuffled back to the front door. Who was that man? Why was he in her house?

Sara looked beautiful. She was red, anger suited her. Her black dress caressed her curves. I wanted to stare at her more. Look at her longer, but then she was gone. My feet wanted to chase her, but the lead in my brain stopped me.

A fool. Furious with myself I slammed the car door as hard as possible. My head, so dense, rested on the steering wheel.

George, what on earth has happened to you? I spoke to my car. Uncool? Whatever! There was no one else. Have you ever wanted someone so bad? Desperation is not a strong enough word? Someone you wanted to savage? Devour?

Who was this hiding, stalking idiot? These are not my traits. I was dark, mysterious, my time in the gym, even Peter Andre didn't work that hard.

Oh lord. Did I really say, Peter Andre? It really was the end.

George, be a man, pick yourself up. Think of the Ridgeback blood. Ridgeback blood. I surged out of the car and turned towards Sara's house. Two steps forward then three steps back. I hit the car, found the handle and opened it. Closed it again, turned on the engine and drove home. Shit.
Eleven - Sara

I spoke to myself in the mirror.

"I am Sara, I have anger issues, but will do my best to stay calm for Raj and make my parents proud." Repeat twenty times.

A video beamed in my head. In the video, Paul and George were in a box. Then I labelled the box 'has-beens.' The box is where they belonged. Two weak men. They both let me down, it was Raj's turn to shine.

I spied through a self-made gap in the curtains. Raj was better than expected. He was about 6 feet tall; chunky, no facial hair. That was good. Black hair on the top with henna dye. I wasn't falling for the henna, but I could put an end to that when we got married.

Got married?

What was my brain thinking? Raj was an easy way out. OM. OM, then Raj, Raj, Raj, meditation my savior.

Raj must have come straight from work his suit was quite creased and his tie crooked. He looked smart, relaxed. I replaced the curtain in slow motion when he knocked, so as not to evoke suspicions of peeking. I considered swapping my little black dress for something more casual, but by the second knock, I didn't have enough time. I skipped down the stairs, opened the door, my teeth flashed.

"Hi, I am Sara," I greeted him politely. I bit my lip as I nearly repeated my speech and told him I had "anger issues." His eyes moved slowly up then quickly down, then his lip curled. A shifty, nervous street seller came to my mind.

"Raj."

He held out his hand, which I shook politely. He frog-marched past me into the house. I followed him into the hall and then pushed ahead towards the living room. His eyes a table tennis match.

"My parents cooked dinner for us." The feast on the table spoke for itself.

"That is great!" He seemed relieved. "I love home cooking."

"Me too. My parents are excellent cooks." Oh, this was going well. I relaxed. I might even open a bottle.

"Are your parents here?" His eyes looked delighted as he raised each lid.

"They are probably hiding in the garden and watching!"

His posture stiffened.

"Um, no. I was joking." He relaxed his shoulders slightly.

"My parents thought it was best to stay at home, then go out, you know, because it's a blind date."

A false chuckle departed from my lips.

"You know... Indian traditions and everything!"

Bemused; he rolled his eyes, I saw Shrek. Oh God, that was so mean. He wasn't really Shrek, but not my type, I didn't want to be his Fiona.

I broke the ice with small talk.

"Did you just come back from work?" The words came naturally, I did my best to stay composed as he filled up his plate with lamb and rice.

He smiled.

"My favorite." I knew my mom stalked his family for that information.

He eyed me to sit down. His face was sympathetic. "Let's sit and eat."

Good! Dates in the past would have been over by now. Raj heaped food into his mouth. At least he ate with his mouth closed.

He smirked, "Tasty."

I heaped some food onto my plate; this was not that bad; he might be OK.

A few moments later, his plate half-empty, his hands cleaned his lips and then he poured some water. Soundless. Suspense, something was stirring.

"Look, I am glad your parents' aren't here; that means we can get down to business."

"Business?"

I knew it! I gulped some water, "What business?"

My voice raised along with my eyebrows, he didn't expect to have sex with me, did he? My mind raced. What on earth did Raj want?

"You know, business. A plan of action. A business plan."

My eyebrows hit my nose, leaving dense creases across my eyes. The 'oh no' feeling.

"What on earth? This is supposed to be a date, not a business meeting." My mind worked overtime, did he want money? "Are you expecting some dowry or something financial from me?"

He sat back in his chair and folded his arms. "We know what is going on, don't we?"

His voice calm, should I be aware of something?

My mouth hummed. Deepak Chopra would have been proud. I continued to hum. I missed the boat; the boat Raj was on.

Despair took over.

His body language mismatched, he played with his trouser pocket then leaned into me on the table.

"I have a plan for us."

"To get married?" My voice in tenor.

"Yes. Well, but...we know what it would mean."

"Mean?" The tenor became an opera.

"Look. We are both adults. You know. We want an easy life. You are a pretty girl; you don't want to spend the rest of your life alone." He smiled at me, making eye contact. I took the bait and continued to change my hum to a lower mom sound.

"You had a bad time."

"Yes! Yes. I have." My voice sung. I liked this; more sympathy, please.

"I read about it in the temple." His eyes jolted around the room again, sizing up the furniture, the walls, the windows, eyeballing everything except me in my little black dress.

"We can help each other."

"Um?" My voice fought with confusion, "What do you want from me?"

His eyes met mine and froze. His mouth plunged a dirty sink.

"It is obvious, isn't it?"

I counted, rage tingled in my toes. Raj had seconds to save this situation before he was in for it. One, two, three, four.

"Look, Raj. You found me. My parents told me you wanted to meet me. You are in the privileged situation that you know my marriage has failed. I am miles away from my other life – you know my age and whatever my parents have told yours. I, on the other hand, know nothing about you. So, if you have a business plan or an idea, then please, spit it out!"

Raj's gaze reminded me of splattered dead flies on the window screen.

"Feisty!"

He tried to sound amused. But his eyes made his looks shift from Sinbad to Dobbi. (Yes. Harry Potter's Dobbi!) His frown told me I was both stupid and illiterate. It was his turn to look shocked. I stretched my head forward, waiting for his response.

"Ok. Look, I thought it was obvious with your background."

"My background?"

My stomach found Atlantis.

"You know, you were married to a gay man for years. Not forgetting you don't have kids."

"I married a gay man and didn't have kids?" My words were measured, precise and exact.

The words blasted like fireworks in my head. I swallowed and heard the words again,

"Kids."

The rage hit my knees, I was the Hulk, and Raj was about to find out.

"Well. I guessed, because you were used to living with a gay man, you might marry me, and we could have a business arrangement. We attend weddings and everything together, share my pad, but you do your thing sexually and I do mine."

Fantastic! What was I? Some closet wedding solution? Maybe I should be the one demanding a dowry.

"So, an arranged marriage?"

As soon as I said that the stupid headline roared before my eyes. That is what this whole date was. My parents, Raj, this was all some arrangement.

"Exactly! An arranged marriage."

The way Raj said it, fury entered my skirt; my abdomen became a furnace. His words whistled in my head, but the trigger words 'gay and no kids' still sucked the blood from my veins.

Raj's voice was the beating of a drum before war in the background of a film, annoying.

"This is the easy way out."

He rubbed his hands together and then picked up his fork ready to attack the food once more.

My face was too red to be mortified. My chair flew back, and the metal frame hit the radiator, sending a loud, siren-like noise across the room. The sound propelled the rage into my heart where it beat like an African drum through my body. My hand grasped for the saucepan's lid. My other hand fingered around looking for the fork, but carpal tunnel didn't let my fingers close around the shaft. Damn those blasting side effects!

The blood drained from Raj's eyes. His swagger vanished. His gig was about to end. My demonic wail traversed the walls. The Olympics, and now it was my turn, I hurdled over the table.

Raj ran out the house, into the street where he belonged, but as he did he screamed,

"See you."

Before I slammed the door closed guess who appeared over the fence? My poor parents were like hidden gnomes in the front garden. I hoped they hadn't paid too much money to clean the house. Now grateful, Raj shouted 'see you.' Explanations were easier.

My parents shuffled to the door, their faces anxious.

"He left quickly!" My mother blurted.

"Was he running away?" My dad looked concerned.

Get ready, Meryl Streep!

"It was great, but he got a call from work... really urgent call ... he had to leave."

"Great?" My mother's voice made the house shake.

Dad smiled. That was a good sign, if he believed me then I was in the clear.

The pillow became my punching bag.
Twelve - Sara

I was buried alive in a coffin filled with slime. But it wasn't slime, it was my sweat, it was hotter than a barbeque in the midday sun.

My mom stroked my head with a wet cloth.

"You were screaming," she said, concern ringing through every syllable. "You said you were going to kill Raj?"

Was I back in prison? What was going on? My voice shouted, "Lock up your knives!"

Something cold was placed on my chest and wrist. I opened my eyes and wasn't sure if it was real, but my mom, dad and night doctor peered at me.

"She has a fever, keep her as cool as possible."

Shouting all around me, "I am going to rip you up and spit you out."

Was that me shouting? Then the scream, more erratic this time, "Fever, fever. Go ahead punk, make my day."

No. This was a film. I was OK. I fell asleep again, the next time I woke up the people were strangers. Was it a policeman or a priest? I was blind. Was there a towel on my head? I grabbed it and catapulted it.

"Yes. Absolutely, this is real. She can have the week removed from community service; she won't be going anywhere!"

A hammer smashed my head. No, another cold towel? Ouch! What was that? Did someone inject me?

'Come 'n have a go if you think you're hard enough' the new football hooligan me trumpeted loud. Put them up, put them up. I want a fight! Then nothing.
Thirteen - George

Every attempt to avoid driving past Sara's house, failed. I reached for my hat as I turned the corner to enter the street. Her house was the large one on the left. What was that? An ambulance blocked the pavement.

I skidded behind it. The gravel flew around. The drive was blocked; the veins in my forehead were about to explode. Only five large steps to the front door. No time to think. The paramedics spoke with Sara's parents. My heart invaded by aliens. A heart rate faster than the speed of light. If Sara's parents were at the door – where was Sara? I wanted to skid on my knees and beg for information. Instead, I eavesdropped.

"She might be incoherent for a few more days, but it is nothing serious. This is usual after a, traumatic time."

"Thank you. She certainly has had a rough year." Sara's dad forced a smile at the ambulance workers while squeezing his wife's shoulders.

"Will she keep screaming?" Sara's mom looked afraid.

"She has no idea what she is saying, the fever was very high, keep giving her water, and the injection will help. Don't worry; she will be fine."

The paramedics ignored me as they strutted out the house. I understood what an elephant in the room meant; Sara's parents in their dressing gowns.

"George?"

"Sorry. I saw the ambulance. I thought I should stop and see if everything is OK."

"Everything is OK." Sara's dad oozed sincerity.

"We are fine, so nice of you to worry about us," Sara's mother looked as though she was going to pinch my cheeks.

"I miss your dad. Your parents were very lovely, George. The Gymkhana is not the same without them. How kind you are to check up on us."

Silence. I looked around for Sara.

I stalled. Then they realized.

"Sara is sick with fever."

"Is it only fever?"

"Yes. Very high."

"I met her the other day; I wonder if I could see her for a minute?"

"She is saying some bizarre things."

"If you rather I didn't."

"No. No. You used to be close." Her dad moved to the side so I could enter. "You know the room." He winked at me. Did he know?

I hot tailed it up the stairs through the middle door.

Sara wore a pink nightie. I was the Knight in sleeping beauty. Her hair was covered with a towel and she was fast asleep. I don't know what came over me. I hovered, then kissed her cheek. Perfect timing as Sara's dad walked through the door. My head shot back, whacking it on the headboard. The entire house shook.

"Ouch!" Came out louder than expected and Sara stirred. I hesitated before looking at Sara's dad. Sara screamed.

"Feck, Feck, Feck-off." Spit flew from her mouth her tongue redder than a lollipop.

Her hot spit splashed my eyes. I stood straight.

"Calm down Sara. It's dad. George is here."

Delirious, Sara cupped her head up as if her soul was being pulled out by the devil. Her eyes were on fire. God, she still looked beautiful, her mouth vulgar.

"I hate you, George. George Wright is wrong! You are evil. EVIL."

If it wasn't so serious, this was the Twilight Zone. But it got worse. Sara did what I can say was the worst ever English hooligan expression.

"You're going home in an effing, ambulance."

For some reason, watching quite a posh Sara singing England football songs turned me on. My lion was ready to roar. I wanted to climb into bed with her, maniac or not.

"You. LET ME DOWN! You, you, you, PASTA!"

"Pasta?" I sighed at Sara's dad. "I think she means bastard."

"Yes." He whispered, motionless.

"Hi. Sara." I whispered the words.

"She can't hear you."

"Maybe she can. Sara, it is George. George Wright."

Sara's dad stared at me, confused. My face oozed love. She was beautiful. I was with the leprechauns till Sara's dad nudged me.

Bright red, I woke up, "Isn't she beautiful," rolled like dice from my shameless mouth.

Sara's dad's eyes flew across the room, and when they came back, he gave me that sad, touched look and walked me out into the hall. Did I say that with her dad in the room?

We didn't speak again; I didn't even say goodbye, but I did hug him. A bear hug. He let me, it was all quite strange and embarrassing. But sometimes you just need a hug.

The right thing to do at the time – I think that is me trying to convince myself. Shit!

Frenzied, in her dressing gown, Sara's mom ran towards me. Did she have a rolling pin in her hand? No. Thank God. I opened the door again.

"We are having a party for Sara next week," she said. "You must come! It is in the Golf Club behind your mansion."

Party? Unusual? I hated the word 'mansion.' I agreed to go to the party. Meeting Sara at parties would be like the old days.
Fourteen - Sara

After three days of hallucinations, recovery was welcome. Being at home was like being in a five-star hotel with your servants fighting for your attention. I loved it!

What I didn't love was that my mom had my painkillers and was being very conservative with them. My body craved at least eight per day. Möm restricted that to two. TWO? Why? It said two on the packet? Who the hell reads those instructions? I know I didn't. It was like, who read instructions on soap packets? No one. It is your cleansing, and if you feel dirty, you double down on what you would usually do. I was in pain, shaking, weak, prone to migraines and entirely too aggressive. I needed more tablets.

The party planning was intensive. The stronger I got, the more my parents involved me. They invited 150 people, and everyone couldn't wait to see me. Sanjeev would be the DJ, and Raj was coming too. Raj was Whatsapping my mother asking about me and slithering his way into her agenda. He wanted to read a poem to me during the event or something equally as cheesy. No way!

Thursday morning a letter arrived. My mom and dad brought it to the room with Custard Creams and a pot of Earl Gray. Paul's calligraphy handwriting was evident on the return address. The words, Sara MacDonald (still my wife) written in the address line.

Why did my mom have my box of painkillers?

My dearest Sara,

How did we end up in this awful predicament? I want you to know you have been a good wife.  
Please give me a chance and come back home. The business is not going well since you left. The party hosts are not as good as you were and everyone understands you had post-chemo issues.  
Joe misses you, and there is nothing going on between us. All of us in Edinburgh have tried to contact you. You rebuffed all our advances, and we want you to know that we all stand by you.  
Please come back home. You are my wife.  
Please call me.

Paul

At the third read, I stopped looking for the word love. It wasn't there. Love was vacant in our relationship. Everyone felt sorry for me for not having children. But for God's sake, I wasn't a fool. I never stopped taking the pill. The first affair hammered the first nail, after five years I lost count. If he couldn't say it now, then he was never going to say it. A tear fell from my eye. It wasn't from hurt or pain. The marriage hadn't fulfilled me for a long time. Maybe it was me. To everyone else, he was Mr. Wonderful, but Joe knew the truth. All Paul wanted from me was a colonial slave.

As if the anchor dragging me down had suddenly released, I screamed.

"Mom. I need the phone! Please!"

My mom and dad ran into the room with the home phone and my mobile. My mom's voice shook as she stuttered, "Should I call Paul?"

"No." I hid my nerves from my mother. "I should have done this a long time ago. It's time to call Joe." The phone felt cold and awkward when I held it, but giving up was not an option.

"Joe?" My mom's face said it all. It was a conversation that terrified everyone.

"It is time to say I'm sorry."

"Joe?"

I paused. Then took control.

"Yes. Yes. It's me. Look. I need to say sorry... Forget me. This call is for you... What I did was terrible. Unforgivable. I am very ashamed of my actions... Guilty? You are not guilty. You know I did it... I know you were the only one who knew Paul was cheating... You did not let me down...Joe, you were my closest friend, and you knew about Paul's serial affairs. I felt betrayed, I thought you were also having an affair with him. Never blame yourself. You were there for me for a long time; I am sorry it has ended like this."

My voice strong and more determined with every word.

"The outcome in the tabloids, I hope they haven't affected you too much... Can you stop being so bloody lovely?... I STABBED YOU!... Yes, I am still getting angry, but it's better as I haven't overdosed on my meds for the past few days...mom rationed them...no, not by choice!... Joe, thank-you so much for taking this call. I needed to clear the air, and I wanted to say it wasn't you. It was the looks of pity from everyone that day. They drove me to this, I didn't know it then, but after reading a letter from Paul, I see it now."

I listened intently to his sincerity.

"You too. Good luck in the future and everything else. I am so glad you have no lasting pain or side effects... Goodbye, Joe."

The past is now the past. I should have done it long ago. Paul's letter was so awful, so telling, so false.

That would be the last time I ever spoke to Joe.

A spider danced through my veins. With the blanket held tight around my body, I rocked alone on the bed. Sporadic jolts stabbed all over my body and then left me paralyzed.

Raw. It wasn't like leaving for University or someone dying, it was worse. Much worse. Joe knew me better than I knew myself, so cutting the cord was poignant. Loneliness spread like thrush all over my body.

Sara Sharma, the best friend girl, with no friends. No one to message in the middle of the night, to listen to gossip with or to shop with. Joe was my life in Edinburgh, but I would never see him again. A new home and life was a priority for me now.

Mom came back into the room and curled up at the foot of the bed. She didn't speak. We sat. My mom looked as though she loved me and it was the saddest thing ever. My eyes grew wet as the tear ducts clicked into action. A few tears trickled down my cheek, and as I looked up, my mom rested at my feet, her eyes closed. She fell asleep, cradled like a baby. Exhaustion from the last few days, weeks and months had taken their toll.

I must have fallen asleep as when I looked up mom was still curled on the bed, but dad was standing over me.

"Are you OK?" I questioned.

"Are you OK?" he answered.

I didn't speak; I felt muddied by failure. My parents were old, and I was still their problem. To think I was humiliated by a few stares of pity after chemo. This was much worse, I had let down my parents, myself and after all my life's work - I had nothing to show for it. After the divorce, I would get some money, but was that enough. If I hadn't been so stupid, I would still be in my beautiful home, drinking tea in my designer kitchen and reading Vogue. But that was a lifetime ago.

The way dad covered mom with a blanket made me feel even more alone. I shifted myself on the bed; he sat down too. He took my hand. I loved my dad, every time he looked at me, he could read my mind, body, feelings and no secrets could hide between us. He could see me. I was laid bare on the same bed I had as a teenager, in my pajamas, no makeup and with tear stains on my cheeks. I didn't want him to talk about Joe. That important call was behind me.

He squeezed my hand as he spoke.

"You had a visitor when you were sick."

I didn't' have any friends, so I guessed. "Raj?"

My dad raised his eyebrows at me. "No."

"Melissa?"

Dad squeezed my hand as if to tell me to stop talking or stop guessing. So, I did.

"George. George Wright."

Holy mother of mercy, Lord Krishna, Amen and other biblical thoughts ripped through my mind. Who stole the air?

"You were delirious."

"Dad! What! How on earth. Who let him in?"

"I did."

"WHY!" My squeal so loud my mom stirred and my dad shushed me up. My insides seem to burst.

1. George Wright was in my house

2. George Wright was in my bedroom

3. George Wright was sane. Me? Delirious.

I let go of dad's hand and put mine over my face and shook my head. When I looked back at dad looking at me, I noticed his hands were on his face, too. Was that guilt?

"Dad, what on earth happened?"

My dad bit his lower lip.

I bit mine. We were so similar, so how on earth did George Wright end up seeing me effing delirious. I peered at him over my hands to encourage the story.

My life flashed before me as I waited.

"He saw the ambulance as he drove past our home. He stopped. He ran to the door. He looked very concerned and said that he met you earlier."

"OK." My voice tried to stay even.

"Then."

"Oh my God, dad. There is a then?" My voice hit soprano. My mom moved.

"Calm down, Sara."

"Dad! Please. What happened?"

"Well he asked to see you, and I said OK."

The duvet reached my chin and I peered over it. This was bad, very, very bad.

"What happened?"

"You were not feeling well."

"Dad. I know that. What happened? Was I naked?"

My mom, now wide awake said, "No. You were wearing my pink nightie. I changed you daily as you were sweating."

"The bright pink one?"

"No. The Indian pale pink one. The thin one you like."

"OK."

"You called him 'pasta'."

"PASTA?"

"Yes. You were delirious! You called him pasta and then sang a few songs."

"SANG a few songs?" My body was on an electric chair; goosebumps appeared everywhere. Visions of me as Maria in The Sound of Music flew before my eyes.

"I think he said, 'football songs.'"

"Very bad language." I stared at my mom.

"Mom. You didn't have to tell me that."

"But I heard you from the kitchen, very loud and vulgar."

LOUD and VULGAR? I closed my eyes. Could things get any worse?

"Did I say the F-word?"

My mom quipped, "Many times!"

Why did I get the feeling that she was enjoying this?

"He was very nice, considering," my dad said, mellowing the situation.

"George was nice? Even though I swore he was delusional and rude?"

"Yes." My dad was confident. He morphed into Hannibal Smith from the A-Team. My mom's eyes lit up as if she knew something I didn't and then she pinched my dad on the arm.

"Tell her!"

Her words tormented me, and the goosebumps came back.

"He called you beautiful."

My mouth opened, no words came out so I closed it. Were my ears frazzled? I knew my parents loved Indian movies, and their thoughts were often deluded.

"He did!" Mom was nearly sitting on dad's behind at this point.

"He called you beautiful! He was very nice!" Dad fished for my knee, tucked under the duvet.

My heart sliced.

"SO. Nice. When George left, I ran out onto the street to his GT and invited him to the party." My mom was so happy with herself she gave dad a more significant squeeze. Punch and Judy took over again.

"YOU RAN OUT ONTO THE STREET? MOM?

Hell's gates opened. The bed seemed ready to combust.

"Mom. Dad. You invited George to the big party?"

"Yes." My mom took charge. "He is a lovely boy who likes you, and you had business in the past. Don't deny it! I read your diary."

My eyes rolled back and forth; mom knew everything about my school days and dad was psychic too. This was their arranged marriage to Raj back up plan.

"He said yes immediately." My mom's teeth gleamed like diamonds. The covers dropped. My parents had won; I offered the white flag.

"Mom, Dad. Please. Can you remember if I said anything else? It is important?"

Mom and dad looked at each other

"No," dad spoke and then stood up. "You rest again. I will make you a spicy soup."

He left the room. I swear I heard the words 'I love it when a plan comes together' as he left.

"Mom, please. Did anything else happen?"

"Dad said he caught him trying to kiss you."

"WHAT?" Wallpaper fell off the walls. "Are you serious?"

My mom touched her lower back as she stood up and said, "Your life is written in the book. God will decide what happens." Then she left too. Three seconds later she came back in the room.

"George? Raj? All I want is for you to be happy. Most women need a man to be happy and to have children." Then she left again.

I waited a minute to see if she would come back. When she didn't, I threw the bed sheets back and acted like someone struck by lightning. I composed myself, shivering from the cold and snuck back in bed. My head felt ready to explode again with this new information.

George Wright tried to kiss me?

George Wright called me beautiful?

What did this mean? Was it guilt for telling Melissa?

I chanted the words 'George, kiss, betrayal' until I fell asleep.
Fifteen - Sara

Friday, after five days in bed, normality called. I left my sanctum, got showered, and went to the living room. The living room was a detective bureau, but there was no crime. The papers, post-it notes, and pictures all over the wall were for the party. My mom sat on the floor with a table plan and she recreated the restaurant on the floor. Dad snored. There was an impressive facetime conference with my mom's buddies on the iPad and no one even noticed me.

Blessed, I walked backwards to the hall. Then to the guest room. To my despair, Raj got out of his car and approached the house. He was carrying flowers and a box of Milk Tray. Shit! It was too late to hide; he waved. I tried to hold my hand down. Why was I so polite?

I made slow robotic actions and moved towards the living room. I didn't want to look keen. I counted to 30 as I waited outside the living room door and then shouted.

"Raj is at the door."

My dad woke up and mom somersaulted from the floor and brushed out her creases as she screamed, "Raj is here!" "Bye," mom said to the stunned faces on the screen. She pushed past me and swung the door back, not giving Raj the chance to knock.

"Come in! Come in!"

Raj shoved the flowers in my mother's hand and then gave her a hug, air kissing her ears. Then it was my turn, he turned to me and handed me the Milk Tray chocolates, please don't say it... Too late he got on his knee and said.

"All because... the lady loves... Milk Tray."

If I were on an airplane the sick bag would have been working overtime, but I wasn't, both my parents were watching me, so I faked it and giggled.

"You are so very romantic!" My mother wailed like a love stricken banshee. "Get up! Get up Raj. Just too romantic!" My mom's energy was contagious; my dad started.

"Yes! Get, up young man!" Laughter filled the house.

My dad lead Raj to the dining room table while my mom shouted, "It is not a mess! It is party planning."

"Wow!" Raj looked impressed, he had no idea how capable my mom was.

My mom ran to the kitchen to get refreshments. She didn't ask what we wanted so I knew we would get everything. Raj small talked with my dad, my mom bought in juice, water, sparkling water, Pepsi and put on the kettle. A feast appeared, this was serious.

"Sara."

"Yes, dad."

"Raj asked to come around today as he thinks he might have left you with the wrong impression over dinner."

My eyes hit the ceiling, my jaw the table, but I stayed calm and smiled politely.

Raj took over.

"Sara. I think I rushed it a bit the first time we met. I was too eager and forward. I am here to ask for another chance. We don't need to marry immediately; we can get to know one another."

The Iron Curtain grew before me.

My dad nodded. That was a sign, I coughed.

"Raj, I am still married. We haven't even discussed the divorce yet. But thank you. I am sure we can date a bit."

Rubbish left my mouth, the three stooges smiled. My politeness was taken as hope.

My mom poured, then turned her chair towards Raj.

"Why haven't you married, Raj?"

"Good question." I was the grenade in the conversation.

"Yes. A great question!"

Raj was a salesman. The bullshit sounded rehearsed.

"I was in love once with a beautiful Indian girl, but she died suddenly in her sleep. I've never got over it and have kept to myself. I waited for the right woman, and when I read Sara's story and saw her beautiful picture, it was time to open my heart."

My mom blew her nose, dad sighed and I sat immobilized. This was turning into a film cliffhanger. When all else fails, lie.

"I am still unwell, I need to lie down. I hope that is OK. Raj, you can chat with my parents."

"Yes, yes." Dad winked at me and mom disapproved. Raj rabbit jumped before me and grabbed me with his ciabatta arms and then kissed me on both cheeks with a loud "mwah" each time.

Did it feel endearing? Umm. No. Could I marry someone for convenience? Been there, done that.

The week crawled by. I took pride in my Graffiti cleaning. The anger management class was like an AA Meeting. A circle filled with young fresh faces. I was one of the oldest there. It consisted of kids shouting at parents or class truants. My being there might have been enough for them to change their ways.

"Hi, I am Sara and I am here because a few years ago I got sick with cancer. There were lots of problems with my identity and to cut a long story short – I stabbed my husband's lover."

Gasps like fireworks exploded in the room.

"Why isn't she in prison?" was muttered throughout the room, and no one sat next to me at lunch.

Every evening I was welcomed home by my mother shouting 5-4-3 days to the party. The wheels were in motion for the event of the year. This was my homecoming!

Who would be my date? Raj. NO. George?

How would you feel about a man who stood you up, lied, saw you delirious, called you beautiful, and then tried to kiss you?

Disturbed?

Perverted?

Even my dad was bemused. But my mom ran out to the road. This was unbelievable.

My parents were desperate to unload their knife-flinging daughter.

George consumed my thoughts until I realized nothing would cover my ankle monitor.

The case of the overly conspicuous ankle monitor filled my mind for the rest of week. So I got my mother involved and we tossed around ideas. My mother even contemplated phoning the courts and asking it to be removed for the party. I was speechless.

We went to Claire's and mentioned our predicament to the sales woman. She instinctively locked up the cash desk and then guided us to the back of the shop. We looked at scarves that could be tied around the ankle, the bangles and then tights that could be worn over the ankle. After about 50 minutes, we found it. There, shoved in the corner where they were left to rot was a pair of silver leg warmers. Not woolly, but shiny, Jane Fonda spandex. A long shot, but they were endearing. Destiny was finally on my side!
Sixteen - George

I tucked my shirt in, pulled it out, then tucked it in again. The tie was on, then off. The party was about to start. What impression would I give? Smart, charming, cool?

My Ben Sherman suit fit perfectly, but three pieces? I wasn't Mr. Darcy. I considered putting eyeliner on. Yes, she liked me with eyeliner when we were sixteen, but that was twenty five years ago. I bought some from Amazon, wondering how on earth could a black pencil cost so much?

After a few more minutes I decided on no tie, jacket, shirt tucked in, three top buttons undone and a gold chain. Yes. That was the look. I circled the room then went up and down the stairs and then looked in the mirror again. That was it. The carpark started to fill, but it was a short walk. On the porch, I removed the gold chain and left in by the phone.

The walk to the Golf Club was short, but the weather was nice for November and I wandered around aimlessly for a bit in the car park. There was no moon in the sky, but so many street lights were on all around the Golf Club everything was visible. I liked cars and I loved them. A few hundred meters from the hall, a black Aston Martin DB7 pulled up next to me.

A thick Scottish accent roared, "Is this Sara's party? Greenford Golf Club?"

It couldn't be! It was.

"Paul?" I stared him in the face. He did a double take, didn't answer, and parked the car.

He recognized me from Scotland, from stalking him or from the courtroom. He took the disabled spot, jumped out the car and then walked towards me.

"Do I know you?" Paul was tall, but I was taller. Paul's shoulder were large, mine were larger. I could take him in a fight.

"I know you Paul."

"What?"

"Look, I am a detective, hired by Sara. She had me follow you on all your rendezvous. The women, the hotels, the cheating. I know everything, and so does Sara. If you go in tonight, I will tell her parents, too."

"Who the hell do you think..."

I didn't let him finish, I grabbed his cufflinks and in my best Irish fighting voice whispered. "If you know what is good for you, feck off right now."

Paul raised his eyebrows and looked towards the party, his Aston Martin and then back at me.

"This is a Hugo Boss suit and the cufflinks are encrusted with gold and diamonds."

What a cock!

"I don't fight in expensive gear, so I will leave. Those photos you have need to stay hidden, out of the public eye. If they are, I will grant a quickie divorce."

With that, he unfolded my hands from his sleeve and then turned around and walked back to his car.

Flashy bastard! I knew the type, but I didn't know how bad it was until now. Something sparkled by the entrance of the golf-club. I looked closer. It was Sara in a shockingly silver pair of leg warmers reflecting light from the lobby? Even dressed in the ugliest ankle warmers, she exuded perfection.

How on earth had I ever let her marry Paul?

Fail!

Paul roared his engine and drove so close my hands hit the dirt.

"Bastard!" I spat out leaves and climbed out of the bush. I noticed a small tear in my trousers near the pocket. With no mirror to check how I looked, I pulled out my shirt and made my way to the entrance.

Nervous energy pulled me into the venue. I was wealthy, had a good job, inherited a large house, owned my other house, but I was not Aston Martin material. Or Hugo Boss and all the rest. Yes, I liked brands but I still shopped in Burton. Would that be suitable for Sara?

This wasn't me. I was more confident than this. I hated this dithering idiot. I didn't want to be Hugh Grant, maybe Vin Diesel. No, Daniel Craig. Yes! But Paul drove the Aston Martin, not me.

The hall was warm, but Sara had vanished. Her parents were bright red and Sara's mother hurtled towards me.

"That was Paul."

"Yes."

"Do you know him?"

"No."

"But you spoke to him, you grabbed his arm."

"I told him to leave."

Sara's dad was now next to us listening.

"We sent him an invitation, but we didn't think he would come!" Sara's mom continued. "We wanted to show him that Sara would be fine so he could move on."

"What did you speak about?" Her dad's voice was so calming the shrill voice of her mom.

"Where is Sara?"

"She got very confused when she saw you together and went to the bathroom."

"We are all very shocked that Paul came and went." Sara's dad touched my arm.

"Please tell us what happened."

"Yes. We are all very confused and tonight is for celebration!" Fear rang through her voice as she sounded every syllable carefully.

More guests arrived. Sara's mom rushed to greet them, showing them the seating plan, but I could feel her eyes on me all the time. Her dad walked me to a corner.

"Look. Mr. Sharma. There is nothing to tell."

"It didn't look like that, George, he tried to run you over. I may be old, but I am not blind or stupid."

I couldn't lie.

"OK. I don't know Paul, but I loved Sara. When I read about the stabbing in the papers I went up to Scotland for the trial. I had every intention of talking to Sara, but I didn't get the chance. I followed Paul and played detective a bit to see if he was gay. I needed to know the truth. I needed to know why Sara, stabbed Joe."

Sara's dad's hand moved down from my arm to my hand. He nodded at me as if he was absorbing the words. He squeezed it. I continued.

"I played Sherlock Holmes, and discovered Paul met women and cheated on Sara. He is a phony."

Sara's dad fought back tears. Did he know already? He looked sad, concerned – but not shocked. He didn't speak. The awkward hug we had at his house, it was his turn to hug me.

My parents are dead. I hadn't been hugged by a man for so long. My body enjoyed the embrace.

"This is a party," he said wiping his eyes. "Go and find Sara. Tell her the truth."

As if by magic, the number of people in the hall tripled. Where was she?
Seventeen - Sara

At 7 p.m., the doors opened and no one was waiting outside as the hall was already full of uncles, aunts and cousins. The hall looked spectacular, local catering in the corner filled the room with turmeric and curry. The table planner was near the welcoming desk at the entrance. I placed myself there with my parents, three water bottles and a handful of samosas.

My mother was the perfect hostess. Everyone greeted me and handed me thick envelopes, which I gave to my mother. She attached a red and gold body bag to her sari and it was already full.

I treated myself to a prosecco, my gullet grateful. Things couldn't be better. Then Raj arrived. He was with his whole family, all eighteen friendly members. They handed a very thick envelope to mom and both parents hugged like the marriage was already signed, sealed and delivered. I needed my painkillers. Mom's rationing was brutal. Can you believe she asked me to know 'exactly where the pain was' every time I wanted one? Which meant that I didn't get any! All that left me with was the shakes and headaches.

Raj's arrival was over, the entrance was quiet. A silver car parked in the disabled spot. Was that Paul's Aston Martin? No. It couldn't be. The blood drained from my parents' face.

"I told you not to send the invitation."

"It was a gesture, I didn't think he would come. We wanted to show him our girl was strong and would make it."

"Mom? Dad? What on earth?"

"Dad sent an invite to Paul."

"That is Paul?" A knee-jerk reaction on the table and water spilt across my silk Kate Spade dress. The fabric crinkled on impact. Mom should have been a Bond girl, as, if my magic, she lifted the table cloth to display color coordinated rucksacks. In one fling she threw the black one at me and went back to the drama outside.

I grabbed the bag and clutched it like a lost teddy bear. Was that George?

"George?" My pitch so high the prosecco glass shook.

"Yes. That is George." My dad walked to the door. My mom grabbed him, "Don't be stupid, husband. George can look after himself."

Was that an altercation? Do they know each other? How on earth do they know each other? My head spun. Was I sick again?

How-was-George-involved? My brain spelled it out like it was a Scrabble match.

My legs gave way at the table; more water spilled. I was about to vomit. My parents were glued to the drama outside.

"Huh!" My mom screamed.

"That was too close."

"Paul tried to scare him."

George appeared from the bush and looked towards the door.

"What happened?"

"Paul tried to run George over!"

"What?!" My jaw broke.

"We don't know that, but he did try to scare him." My brain frazzled. I get locked up for a stabbing and Paul gets away for nearly running over George? GEORGE? My temples pulsated; the whole hall seemed to tilt.

I slid to the bathroom like a cat burglar in high heels.

The bathroom was empty, I found the toilet seat. The volcano in my brain spurted lava.

Why did George know Paul?

How, how, how? Scenarios tumbled dried through my brain, but I couldn't connect the dots.

It was impossible, I never mentioned George to Paul. George knew Paul. Was George trying to ruin my life?

First not showing up at the church.

Then telling Melissa about it.

The eighteen and a half years.

Fighting with Paul outside the party?

The rucksack turned over and I found the tissues for my dress. The damage was already done, my silk dress creased. All was lost, but no. My trusty painkillers. I kissed the box, 'I missed you!'

"Sara!"

Mom's voice.

"Yes!" I stuffed everything back in the rucksack and hid the tablets under my tongue. I opened the door.

My mom was destroyed; still beautiful and glamorous, but her eyes told a different story. No words came out. The rucksack fell to the floor, I body slammed mom. Then I hightailed it out, straight into Raj's chubby hand and a glass of water.

Raj's drink, just what I needed. Downed it in one gulp. Fire trickled down to my belly. THAT WASN'T WATER.

My eyes exploded at Raj.

"Feisty likes vodka!"

OH NO. That wasn't good. I shouldn't mix those tablets with alcohol. I was still sober enough to know that. The bathroom, maybe I should go back now and vomit them back out?

The DJ put on a popular Indian song and my mom plucked me like a chicken and ushered me onto the dance floor. Juggling my hand with both her money bag and the ruck sack, she was amazing! Her shoulders moved to every beat. After about three seconds my sweat follicles worked over time. This was bad. This was very bad.

The music boomed through the room as the vodka and tablets matriculated into my bloodstream. My head lighter, my eyes fuzzy, this was getting worse. My mom spun me around, cameras flashed, laughter, fun all around. The prosecco and vodka pumped into my veins. I knew this feeling.

Raj came over and started jumping, his friends and cousins followed. A circle. My mother danced with one arm high, the other clasping the bags. My head clucked from side to side as I chicken danced next to her. It was the most fun I'd had in ages, and it lasted about two minutes.

Faster than a hungry coyote I followed my feet to the bathroom. My silk dress was saved by sticking my head as far down the bowl as it would go. The toilet's stench included the Domestos stick which just added to the drug cocktail already in me. I didn't move; I released.

Gut wrenching, fish gutting thoughts circumnavigated my brain. Then it was over. There was nothing left. The alcohol was out and acid burned my throat. But were the pills still in me? I hoped so. Then I didn't. Shit.

The vision in the mirror was far from perfect. A powder line was visible now around my mouth. Bozo the clown in my reflection. I covered it up by using my fingers to thin out foundation. It helped a bit. My eyes and cheeks still looked good.

I cared, but didn't. Thank God, I hadn't vomited on that dance floor. I realized I'd been in the bathroom too long. People might think I was doing a poo at my own party. Horrified, I stormed outside and into Raj's arms, again.

George appeared behind him and made his way towards me.

The betrayal.

Joe.

The Knife. A kaleidoscope turned into a rollercoaster. Where could I hide? Nowhere.

A battalion of lies in my life already; I didn't need more.

Raj became the perfect victim. I turned and stuck my tongue down his throat; his bloodshot eyes wide open as he turned crimson. This was probably his first kiss with a woman. If not, it was the first kiss with a woman who had vomited seconds before. He was aghast, but I dragged him to the dance floor.

I shoved past George. One word left my mouth, and that was "TRAITOR". I looked him in the eyes; he heard me.

I gyrated against Raj. George headed to the door, but my dad grabbed him. They both spoke and then they looked at me. I threw my head high and grabbed onto Raj. Raj looked petrified of my tongue. Wait, did they hug? Why would they hug? I swung around, my dad looked worried, and George was gone.

Was this the X-Files? Why was dad with George? When did the relationship with Paul and George start? Where was Paul now? Why did he come to Greenford and why did he try and run over George?

This was a cheap Netflix movie and the joke was on me. But not tonight. It was my party, I was the center of attention and I could act like a Bollywood actress come stripper if I wanted to.

No, seriously. Letting go on the dance floor was the best thing about my Indian heritage. You could act like a cat having a heart attack and everyone would clap and say, "Great."
Eighteen - George

Finding Sara wasn't working. The hall was busy; what she was wearing apart from the silver ankle stockings? Everyone's hair was black or dark brown which made it more difficult. What would Sherlock do? My detective skills might save me.

I spotted Sara's dad again and decided to go back to him and ask what Sara was wearing, but then I saw him. It was the squirrel haircut man who ran from Sara's house. My gut told me to follow him, and a few seconds later, Sara flew out the bathroom and into his glass. She gulped back the drink as though she was stuck on a desert island. I made sure I was visible behind Raj.

Sara didn't look happy to see me.

The arrows from her eyes flew towards my body. What happened next, absurd.

Sara, sucked the teeth from Raj's mouth.

Sara searched for his tonsils until Raj went red, I feared I would have to resuscitate him. Raj fought for air and Sara caved in, then grabbed his hand and led him towards me.

The words, "Traitor" cut into the atmosphere as she left.

The macho in me was desperate to pull Raj and Sara apart. I didn't. I looked like Judas. Sara didn't know I was in court in Scotland. She didn't know anything. I could be a whistleblower for Paul for all she knew. This might even top not turning up at the church on her wedding day.

I swallowed the bitter pill, it wasn't the time or place to sort out this mess, so I left.

"What happened?" Sara's dad voice came from behind me.

"Um. Sara was with Raj."

"So? She doesn't like him."

"It didn't look like that to me!"

"Why?"

"She saw me and kissed him. Um. Passionately." The image of Sara's mouth on his face was worse than being disemboweled.

"RAJ?" The expression on his face was stolen from Salvador Dali.

"We will sort this out. You go now and we will see you soon."

We brushed chests as I left. He likes me.

His smile, just what I needed. But it also made me realize how alone I was. My only family was Melissa. That Sara might not want me was like a dagger in my own abdomen.

Stupid, but I had the strange romantic notion that Sara might come out to find me.

I waited. I listened.

"Hello! Ladies and Gentlemen. I am DJ Satpal, but most of you know me as Sanjeev! We are going to have a lot of fun tonight! But I am stopping the music for a short time now as it is time for the speeches! Please, take your seats again. Please try to refrain from moving as the catering staff will also now prepare the hot, tasty, delicious Indian food! I will be back to party with you soon!"

I snuck back into the Golf Club and peered into the hall.

Sara's mom stood up.

"Hello...is it working?" She tapped the microphone and a banshee wail gave everyone in the hall goosebumps.

"We love our daughter Sara. You all know she has had a very, very, hard year." Sara's mom paused and reached for a tissue. "Cancer." Her voice broke and little crying hiccups left her mouth. The whole hall chorused, "Ahhhh." It was like being in a church, but the priest was Sara's mom. She cried and heaved a bit.

Sara's dad stood up and took the microphone away from his wife who was now drowning in her own tears.

"Women!" His voice boomed through the room as he threw one hand up in the air. Laughter filled the room.

"Firstly, men in the room pick up your whiskey glasses. The first toast tonight is for the men who have daughters. Only we know how much we love them." He raised his glass and all the men cheered. Many stood up, 'daughters' chorused through the room.

"Thank you ladies, gentlemen, friends, family, children and everyone else for being here. It means a lot to the Sharma family. We have had a tough few years. Our wonderful daughter was the brightest, funniest girl in her school. She married a very successful man, but with success comes stress. When we found out our daughter was sick, it was horrible. But look now, she is well and beautiful!"

Whistles and cheers erupted.

"Before I let Sara speak, I just want to say we all make mistakes; you had a hiccup in your life."

"A hiccup!" Sara's mom wailed as she got up and hugged her husband.

"Thank you! Your support is everything. We Indians stick together."

Everyone in the hall stood up and clapped or stamped their feet.

Sara's dad handed her the microphone. A thousand ships sank. With all the stress, torment and pain, she still shined confident.

"Hello everyone, thank you for coming." Sara sipped at a glass of water. Silence. Even the catering staff didn't move.

"I don't have a speech planned so I suppose I have to speak from the heart.

I am warning you, my heart was shattered a while ago. You all know about my illness, my stupidity, and why I am back with my parents today. So, the only thing that I can tell you now is about my goals, my dreams and how to repair my shattered heart.

From the absurd, I want to plant the seeds for a new life in Greenford. Start again, enjoy my parents and have a good life. I want to be happy again. Happy is such as small word, but so powerful. Why is it sometimes so hard to be happy? Why are we thrown these challenges and why do we make stupid decisions?"

Sara sipped again and half the women in the hall cried.

"It is hard to wish for things when you are older. Everyone has dreams when they are young, and when you are my age, you forget to plan for what you need. I want that to be different for me from now on. I know this is selfish, but I have been through enough."

All the women in the hall were now crying and tears were streaming down men's faces too. I touched mine, it was wet.

"I want to say thank you to my parents. They are my life and everything. Thank you for coming and supporting me. I am so proud to be here and in this community of love."

This was my chance. I was the future. I was Sara's future. I kicked back the door and ran through the hall side-stepping past the tables until I got to the DJ.
Nineteen - Sara

The dance floor was hidden by high heels, sandals and black shoes. I hadn't danced Bollywood ever, but was picking it up and pumping with the best of them. Everyone was sweaty and it didn't matter. The issue was remembering that

\- One - I vomited

\- Two - I kissed Raj

\- Three - it was obvious Raj hadn't brushed his teeth in a while. Was he a secret smoker?

\- Four - George, traitor, and Paul were history

I would never ever, see them again.

The lights stopped flashing and the music stopped. The DJ spoke and we all went to our tables. I was next to my parents and my mom's sisters. Dad's family took three tables on the right and mom's four tables on the left. So many people, why didn't I plan a speech?

My mom cried through her speech and dad took over. It was my turn. I was tempted to quote Shakespeare, "Is this a dagger I see before me?" But I realized that was a terrible joke, considering.

The past was past and Paul, Edinburgh, Joe and George were finished, confidence at last. Honesty. I stood tall.

My speech over, I stood. I was about to toast the whole family when the DJ's microphone went berserk. What was that?

George?

OH MY GOD! GEORGE was next to the DJ and had grabbed the microphone.

"Hello. Hello?" George's voice blasted through the hall.

"Sorry to interrupt, but this is very important!" George adjusted himself, stood up tall and shook his dark hair away from his eyes. He was so broad, poor DJ Satpal looked like a school boy. The hall fell silent and everyone eyeballed George.

"I am George." His voice quivered. He looked tall, dark and handsome, but I didn't want to go there. I hated him, remember. He swallowed and wiped his brow, then continued.

"I am George and I have loved Sara since she was in middle school. She thinks I am a traitor as I spoke to her husband Paul who tried to kill me outside. I am not a traitor, only a man in love."

George positioned his body towards mine. Loved?

"Sara, since the trial, I have been obsessed with helping you and I went to Scotland, to Edinburgh. I was in the court on the first and last days of the trial. I was in the background as I have always been in the background of your life."

He went to Scotland? He was at the court? No? No!

Suddenly aware of the 300 eyeballs fixated on him, George looked down at DJ SatPal. Then you could see his chest rise as he moved the microphone closer to his mouth.

"That is going to change."

With one hand over his mouth he coughed and then threw back his shoulders. Damn, he looked good.

"Sara Sharma, I regret letting you marry Paul, and in front of all your friends, family – I want to tell you. I want to tell you that you are the one for me."

The hall erupted in clapping and cheers, apart from Raj's family who became wax works.

My eyes wandered around the hall. My mother was crying into her sari and my dad looked at George like a long-lost son.

"I should have fought harder for you."

"Stop." Lipstick colored the microphone; I screamed loudly. The audience held their ears.

"Sorry," I whispered. If I was going to say what I wanted to say then I need to do it now. "George. You let me down."

Gasps echoed through the hall.

"I am not going to be sidelined again. I am not a one night stand!" I said it! George knew he sidelined me before. I would not be his extra curriculum activity ever again. A feeling of weightlessness as words I had wanted to say for nearly twenty years, departed my lips.

Would George falter? Melissa wasn't there. He was weak and his sister probably still made his decisions.

Silence.

I knew it, George was a weak man.

"Sara. I am so sorry I didn't do this eighteen and a half years ago. But I am here now. There is one thing I want from you. There has only ever been one thing that I have wanted for you and that is you, forever. The forever night stand. I want you to be mine."

The females gasped. Someone shouted, "Oh la la!" Another, "I'll take him!"

Did I hear that? My body shook.

Dad stood up next to me. He started to clap, his face red with pride.

What was going on?

Soon everyone in the hall was clapping and George gave the mike back to the DJ and backed away.

"Sara, Sara?" Raj in my face. Shouting. How did he get there?

"Sara, for God's sake follow him. I know what love looks like and that was it!"

"Raj?" My eyes were so unfocused. I heard him, but I was so confused. It was crazy, but right then Raj was the closest person I had to a best friend.

"Sara. Get up and go after him now! Why live a lie – when you can live the truth!" Raj shook my shoulders.

"Go!" My dad squeezed my knee. "Bring him back, we have a party to enjoy!"

The British female football team would have been proud as I jumped up, kicked off my heels and, carrying them in my hand, glided through the field of tables to the entrance.

The fresh air went through my body like a ghost. I stopped and looked around. Nothing. George was missing. I opened my mouth and shouted.

"GEOORRRGGGEEEE."
Twenty - Sara

"Hi"

George appeared from behind the metal door.

"I was hoping you would come out."

He stood before me, his warm powerful body heat on my cold skin. It felt right.

"Osmosis."

Why did I always blurt out the first thing that came into my head, even when it wasn't appropriate?

"What?" I looked up and George shook his head as he spoke, his eyes penetrating every miniscule of my body.

"GCSE Biology. If we were leaves and water, Osmosis is what your body heat feels like on me."

My tongue took control, my mind not knowing what I was saying.

George was one head taller than me. I felt his hand on my chin lifting it up towards him. "Osmosis." He muttered.

Our bodies absorbed and we hugged for several minutes.

"Did you really come to court?" I broke the silence first, I needed to know.

"Yes." His words humble. "I wore dark glasses and a baseball cap." He pulled slightly away from me and then gazed into my eyes. "I stood up when the sentence was read out."

That was it.

I remembered.

He was there.

This was real.

My tear ducts burst. George's arms pushed me against the wall near the door, his hand firmly on mine. The vault door clicked closed

He whispered, "Forever, Sara."

My thoughts and answer simple. "Finally."
About Bena Roberts

Bena Roberts was a journalist and analyst. Now she prefers the title novelist and romance adventurist. She graduated in England 1994 and then with a Masters in 1997.

Born in 1973, Bena lived in West London until she was 24. Then she lived and worked in Budapest, Bruges, Prague, Amsterdam, Vienna, Hamburg and Munich. She currently resides in Germany, between Heidelberg and Frankfurt. Although she still refers to London as 'home.'

Bena successfully created a technology blog which gained funding, had lunch with Steve Ballmer and was 'top 50 most influential woman in mobile.' Her blog also won several awards including Metro Best Blog. However, her technology career ended after she was diagnosed with a rare type of cancer in 2009. Since 2012, Bena has taught English in Germany and managed a small relocation business.

Bena has two children, loves small dogs and always writes books with a cup of Earl Grey.

Six Tinder Weeks, now Blind Dates, Big Love and Six Tinder Weeks is her debut novel. The Forever Night Stand is her first novella. Another family fiction novel is due out later this year. If you enjoyed the book, please consider leaving a review! 
