Chapter 2

Prue fell on a wooden bench, tears running down her cheeks.

The bench stood on a knoll looking out over the dark sea, but she didn’t see it – neither the water, nor the clouds that chased the stars. Her trembling hand went through her bag until it found her ringing cellphone.

“Pruts?”

The tinny voice sounded urgent.

“God, Jules, it was awful!”

“I thought you’d meet him about now?”

““It’s already over, Jules. I ran! It was horrible!”

“You mean you didn’t talk?”

“He attacked me!”

“He did what?”

“Well ... he yelled at me. He called me a slut.”

“Oh my, Prutty, you don’t have to take that.”

“I didn’t. I ran.”

There were a few seconds of silence. A boat blew its horn in the distance. The wind had died down a bit; it wasn’t as cold anymore.

“Where are you now, Prue?”

“At the beach, close to the harbor. On a bench.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.” She sobbed.

“You’ll catch a cold. Go into the Anchor. I’ll see you there.”

“He accused you right away?”

They sat in a niche by the window. The Anchor was an ancient fishermen’s pub, and rather busy this Sunday night. They both nursed a glass of tea.

“Yes,” Prue said, sniffing her red-rimmed nose. “He supposed I must’ve been coming straight from “him” and his spunk must be still running down my legs.”

“Oh God, did he say that, really?” Julia said, her hand covering her mouth. “How rude. Maybe you’re right. He can’t care much about you if he treats you like that. Spunk down your legs? Oh my, gross!”

Prue looked at her friend in utter misery.

“What can I do now, Jules?” she asked, her voice thick with tears.

Julia shook her head left and right.

“Can’t tell you, honey,” she said. “Never thought he would treat you like that. Was that really Pete saying that? My God.”

She took a sip from her glass and looked out of the window into the darkening night.

“Maybe you should talk to a lawyer, Pruts,” she said. “You are from rich family, girl. You’re an heir; you should protect yourself. God knows what he might do to you.”

Prue pushed herself away from the table and from her friend.

“Lawyer? What do you mean? Divorce? Are you mad?”

Julia took Prue’s hands and pulled her back to the table.

“I’m as amazed as you are, Pruts,” she said. “But would you ever have thought Pete would act like this? That he would say things like this? To you?”

Prue’s thoughts ran around and around.

Everything went so fast. Only Friday there’d been Pete and Prue, Prue and Pete – fast in love, unbreakable. And now ... Everything was such a mess, feeling so unreal. Look what Pete said to her, calling her names, accusing her of ... of fucking around.

He really must be covering things up – something, anything.

“You think he’ll steal my money?” she asked. “It’s not that much really?”

She wondered why she mentioned the thing that was the farthest from her mind.

Julia shrugged: so typical for the brat to call a ton not much.

“Better be safe than sorry, girl,” she said.

Prue’s eyes rested on Julia’s, utterly helpless.

“Will you hold me, Jules?” she asked. “Will you please hold me?”

Julia came around and held her friend tightly. They didn’t talk for a while. The only sound was Prue’s sobbing and Julia’s soft humming. Then Julia untangled their embrace.

“Sorry girl,” she said, trying to strike a lighter chord. “Nature calls.”

Prue rose as well, following her friend to the restrooms.

The Anchor was a great little pub, but roomy ladies’ toilets weren’t their main strength. So Prue had to wait outside while Julia used it. Standing around she heard her cellphone beep. It made her heart race, but she didn’t dare look. Only when she sat on the toilet did she open her phone. There was a message. No name, no number.

“Such a nice cock he has,” it read. “I guess you lost him, honey.”

Julia looked up when Prue returned.

“What happened?” she asked. “God, you look awful.”

Prue slumped down. She slid the phone over.

“Such a nice cock he has. I guess you lost him, honey,” Julia read out loud. Then she looked at Prue.

“Fucking bastard,” she said.

Prue grabbed the phone and punched a button.

“Daddy?” she said. “I need Mr. Andersen’s number.”

When you’re a big concern, you don’t have legal aid – you have a legal machine.

The firm Daddy had been using since forever was just that, a machine built to process each and every legal occasion in the most efficient way possible – dispassionate, impersonal, and unstoppable. Time had honed the machine. It had oiled it and turned it into a sleek monster.

It chewed, ate and digested every obstacle in its path.

What Prue did was not merely phoning her father, she was pushing a big red button that started giant cogs and wheels to turn. In the end they would eat her marriage and spit it out.

They even might eat her.

Prue didn’t realize this when she dialed old sweet Uncle Andersen’s private number. She was just being little Prue Princess again, treated so very unfair by the cruel machinations of Fate.

She’d been betrayed and she needed the pain to go away.

The next morning she walked into the marble-and-steel cathedral of Burton, Barton and Andersen, wearing her little Chanel number while letting her Jimmy Choos click away on the shining floor. Young legal eagle Gerald J. Dunston (“call me Jerry”) took her to a sleek conference room. He poured her some design water and started the first question on a time-honored road to surgically precise destruction.

“Mrs. Hawkins, how can we be of help?”

Peter got the papers served on Tuesday afternoon.

The person who served them was a distinctive, elderly man in a fine suit – graying hair at his temples. His voice had a cultivated British accent. He kept it low. No need to upset anyone at the office, was there?

Peter knew there was a prenuptial arrangement.

He remembered signing it, agreeing that it was wise to protect Prue’s trust fund and the optional shares she had in Daddy’s business. Peter didn’t care, back then. He’d had his own plans and his pride – he would be his own man, not needing the help of the father of his wife.

He also recalled that the prenuptial didn’t say anything about causes or reasons; nothing about cheating from either side, or other claims.

Daddy agreed to pay for any legal bills involved.

Receiving the papers shook him more than he thought it might. His days and nights had been weird since that awful Friday – like drifting in a misty world, hardly noticing the ground he walked on.

He’d found a better place to stay. Not that much better, but it was closer to work, and it had a kitchen.

On Monday he’d gone to the office.

He was determined to drown his misery in activity. To his surprise it worked. Plunging into plans and sketches, construction problems and computer drawings helped.

Being with colleagues did too.

Evenings were bad, so he tried to make them as short as possible. Nights were even worse, but there were pills for that, weren’t there?

The evening of the day he received the papers, he sat at a small Italian restaurant one block away from his office. He was with two young male colleagues and most of their dinner conversation was an extension of their workday, really.

The table was strewn with paper.

Looking up from his notes Peter saw one of his table companions look over his shoulder, obviously seeing something interesting entering the place. He turned and saw a tall blonde walk his way, swaying on long legs – dressed to kill. She was alone and murmured a greeting in passing. Then she stopped at a table the waiter pointed out to her.

Julia Connors sat down and smiled at him.

He returned the smile. Then he rose and walked over to her table.

“Jules,” he said. “Such a coincidence.”

She smiled and shrugged. It did interesting things to the cleavage in her tight white top. Then she waved over to the chair in front of her. He sat down.

“I’m sorry, Pete,” she said. “I should have warned you from the very start. But the two of you were so very much in love.” She reached over the narrow table to squeeze his hand. “Well, I guess at least you were.”

Time for him to shrug.

“The bitch fucked and then she fucked me over,” he said. “She divorces me.”

“God, Pete, you’re bitter,” she said. “And rightly so. It must have been all so sudden for you.”

Watching the woman made him feel uncomfortable. Was she really concerned? Or was she gloating? Who cared? His eyes kept returning to the firm globes of her breasts, adding more discomfort.

“I, ah, thanks, Jules. I’m fine and, well, I’m rather busy,” he said, rising.

“Of course,” she said. “But call me if you need a patient ear ... or anything, you know.”

Damn, why did he have to ogle those tits again?

Prue sat up in bed.

She didn’t want to know what time it was. She’d clicked her small reading light on and off for the last hour, too scared to lie in darkness, too tired to read.

She had no talent for being alone – never had.

Reaching for her cellphone she swiped through pictures. Pete, Pete and Prue, Prue and Pete smiling, hugging, posing. Short videos at the zoo, on Aruba, in the water, on the beach. The two of them in New York, Prue in her blue little Paris dress, Pete in his rented tux, Jules, Jules and Prue...

“Jules?”

She’d pressed the button. Julia sounded groggy. Shit yes, it was late.

“Sorry, Jules,” she said. “Just had to hear a voice.”

Julia said she didn’t mind. She asked how she was.

“Awful,” Prue answered.

Julia said she felt sorry for her. And she admired her for cutting the knot so decisively. Prue groaned at that.

“It’s so hard, Jules,” she whispered.

Julia told her to be strong; the bastard cheated on her, remember?

Prue sighed. Of course she remembered.

“But it hurts,” she answered. “I’m so alone.”

There was silence.

“Can’t you,” Prue started. “Would you ... I mean, I’m all alone.”

There still was silence.

“Be strong, Prue,” Julia finally said. “You can do it.”

“Jules... ,” Prue whispered.

“I have to get up early, honey, sorry,” Julia said.

“Of course,” Prue mumbled. “Sorry for waking you up.”

The phone’s little beeps mocked her.

Another Friday evening yawned at Peter Hawkins.

He couldn’t believe it had only been a week since his world collapsed. Looking at the coming weekend he saw a never-ending stretch of solitude. He’d considered to just go to work on Saturday, but he knew the place would be deserted.

Being there might be more devastating than staying at home.

Gus had called him, asking him to spend the weekend fishing with him and a few mates. Peter hated fishing. He also knew the real action would be mainly drinking. So he thanked him, but declined, making up a lame excuse.

Gus had been calling him all week, no doubt considering it the duty of a true friend. But Gus wasn’t very good at comforting – not in person and not at all by phone. Each call was mainly a stretched silence punctuated with groans and platitudes.

On Wednesday night they’d met in a pub. Pete’s head hurt all the way into Thursday.

Tomorrow he would go and hit the fitness club, he decided. He’d been a member for years, but had slowly decreased the frequency of his visits. Prue might be there, but damn, he had to take the risk. Working out would take a nice bite out of his Saturday. Maybe he should go Sunday too?

But what about this Friday night?

“Come on, Peter, join us, it’s Bell time!”

Like in a jolly Norman Rockwell painting Jake and Eric’s heads peeped around the post of his office door. They pulled faces, and Jake even rubbed his shock of spikey hair with the knuckles of his fingers – Stan Laurel style.

The Bell & Clapper was a wannabe British pub one block away. Their pride was local ales in pint-sized glasses. In better days he’d tasted one or two of them on Friday nights, throwing darts and winding down before going home.

This time Peter pretended the beer tasted great and the jokes were good, but after his second pint he went pissing and left through the backdoor, feeling a great tiredness in every muscle of his body.

The ale hit him hard when he stepped into the cold outside air. Feeling tipsy he followed the sidewalk. It must have been instinct that took him to the beach. Gushes of wind tugged at his hair and coat, blowing away the dizzy spell.

Then his phone rang. “Prue” it said.

She hadn’t called him all week, but to be honest: would he have taken her calls? Would he take it now?

Damn, the slut had been ass over teakettle to get her divorce, hadn’t she? And why? Because she cheated on him. So typical for the bitch – always accusing others.

Jules had been so right.

He pushed away the call. But he couldn’t click it away in his head. Fucking slut, why couldn’t she leave him alone? Didn’t she get all she wanted? Freedom and all cock she could eat? Damn, why had he ever married her?

He knew why.

He knew it while lying awake. He knew it while not tasting his food, not finding the fun in a joke, or walking here into the sea breeze.

He still loved the damn whore.

Prue cried as her phone went dead.

Of course he wouldn’t take her call – too busy fucking his slut, no doubt. She shook her head to get the images out of it. She must be blond with big tits, a real bimbo. Sucking his cock with her fat collagen lips and taking all of his meat in, no problem. She’d let him do everything Prue didn’t. She’d swallow sperm and take him up her big ass.

Damn, Peter, why?

Her phone rang. She grabbed it, hoping silly hopes as she looked at the screen.

“Pruts?”

“Jules,” she sighed.

“Did you cry, honey?”

She sobbed.

“I’m so sorry I left you hanging last night,” Julia said, her voice up beat. “You need to get out, girlfriend – letting your hair down and everything. Come, let’s hit town.”

“I don’t know, Jules. I’m tired.”

“Of course you are!” Julia cried out. “That’s why you need to get out. What do you think the bastard is doing right now?”

The damn flashes returned before her inner eye. Blond, tits, legs.

“Meet me at the Zoozoom,” Julia said. “Or better: wait and I’ll pick you up.”

Prue sighed.

“I really don’t know...”

“But I do! Dress up, girl. Ten minutes.”

Walking on the beach Peter remembered waiting for his company’s lawyer, earlier that day.

He had visited him to look at the papers Prue served him with – better safe than sorry. He recalled sitting in the stylish waiting room, wondering if this would be what he’d be doing for the foreseeable future: waiting.

It passed the time for sure, but was there an end to it? A goal?

The door had opened after a few minutes, of course, and he’d listened to the smooth talking lawyer. But it had been just another bout of waiting until the man was done. Then he was back at the office, waiting for the end of the day. And after the end of the day there would be another track of time waiting for him to wait through. And then there were the dark hours, lying on his back waiting until his alarm went off.

What was the point?

Walking into the wind, Peter wondered if he could take this for another week, another weekend. It was like drifting in an ocean’s doldrums, or crawling through a featureless desert – rudderless, pointless. Every word ending in ‘less.’

He took his phone from his pocket.

Putting a stop to his wailing mind, he pressed a button. Turning away from the wind, he listened to the endless ringing – waiting.

Hearing Prue’s voice shook him. We all tend to believe memories are mostly about images, but it is the voices that cut the deepest.

“Hello,” she said. “You’ve reached Prue Gascoyne Hawkins. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

Getting back to him. As soon as she could.

Peter stared at the lit up rectangle. Getting back to him. He decided not to leave a message.

He decided to yell into the wind.

The Zoozoom was a club, and it was true to its name: a zoo.

Hot lights glared and swept over the darkened dance floor. It was packed with bodies – bodies that churned, arms that waved like a forest of swaying trees. Stroboscopic flares pulsed with the heart-throbbing, belly-stomping sound. Everything shifted, everyone moved.

Prue hadn’t been to a place like this in years.

She’d danced at bars and clubs, but never at a zoo like this since she got married. Oh, she’d been here before – before marriage, before Pete. It was a boot camp for dry fucking, one endless stretch of sweaty foreplay. She saw bodies glued together, girls sandwiched between boys, tongues down throats, tits popping out, skirts riding up pale thighs, panties missing, hands groping.

She closed her eyes and moved, arms in the air.

The music beat the last thoughts from her brain – replacing them with mindless booming. She yelled until her throat was hoarse and had to be oiled with mean, burning shots. One drink seemed to replace the other and at last all that held her up was the surrounding sea of bodies.

Like the strobe lights, Prue’s mind seemed to pass through glaring whites and deepest darkness – from clear patches to streaks of utter oblivion. One moment she was in the Zoozoom, the other in a bar she knew but couldn’t put a name on. She woke up to a place filled with naked girls, only to end up in a darkened room full of shadows and groping hands. Her tongue was down a throat, she found out, and her cunt was riding a hand.

There was no logic anymore to her observations.

Her head seemed a roiling box filled with cotton, her body hummed with electricity. She wasn’t Prue anymore, just a tighter and tighter winding wire on its way to snap – a slowly filling powder keg getting primed for explosion.

She never remembered exploding.

All she knew was waking up in a cloud of foul-reeking vomit, sweat and, and ... She felt the skin of her face itch and stretch where gray flakes tightened it. She smelled booze and urine.

Retching she crawled up, only to be hit by a mighty hammer.

The wind had cleared his brain, just like Prue’s voice had cleared his mind. He couldn’t help loving her, but he could very well despise her. He could call her a slut and a whore and not wince anymore. Nothing of it all was his fault.

She was the cheater, and maybe she always was.

Peter went home, or whatever one might call the dreary black-and-white furnished studio he lived in. He would take a long shower and go watch sports on TV, drinking beer. He didn’t know which sport yet, but did it matter? Staring into any colored square with moving puppets was all right with him. He’d never really been a sports fan anyway, although he’d played most of them in high school and college.

The night dragged on as expected.

He didn’t stay with any of the games more than five minutes. Halfway he took another shower. The chips and the beer built a nauseating lump in his stomach. He tried old movies, but his zapping speed only increased.

In the end he went to bed.

He couldn’t read, and he couldn’t sleep. But somewhere in the wee hours he must have dozed off, because the beeping of his phone woke him with a start.

He had a message.

Pressing a button made it materialize. The screen spread an eerie light, casting Peter’s shadow against the wall and the ceiling. The message only said “watch,” and there was an attachment.

Peter hesitated.

Then he punched, and a picture sprang onto the screen. He saw a long, naked, muscle-bound back and half of a face peeping from behind it. He knew it well. Its eyes were closed; its mouth was a perfect O. It was the face of Prue and it held an expression he’d never seen before.

It was an expression of utter abandon.

Swiping the image he saw another, taken from the left. The naked back he’d seen proved to belong to a white man, still pretty young. His face couldn’t be seen. His body was connected to Prue’s where their privates were. Prue arched her back and the man gleamed with sweat. Pete swiped and Prue had a fat cock in her mouth, a black man’s cock. He swiped faster. Prue rode another man. Swipe. She was sandwiched between two men, one white and one black. Swipe. Swipe.

Swipe.

The phone pinged. Another message

“Now you know what he looks like,” it said. “Or rather: what they look like.”

Peter Hawkins rose from his bed. He walked into his den and on to a cupboard. The bottle with the 10 on it was still almost half full. He poured two fingers. Swallowing it all at once made him cough, but he poured another two fingers.

Prue crawled out of a ruined bed.

It wasn’t hers, nor was the room as far as she could discern. She walked around on jellified legs, feeling her way into dark grayness. She was the only one in the room – in the house, it seemed. She tried using her voice; it felt like tearing her throat open. Then she found a bathroom and it was spotless.

The shower was hot; it gave her the illusion of getting clean.

The soap had a nice fragrance and there was body lotion. Her pussy felt raw and hot like glowing coal; her anus burned.

She sank to her knees, letting the water drum on her back.

When she came out of the glass cubicle, she found a towel and a fluffy white bathrobe. Walking back into the bedroom she avoided looking at the filthy bed. There was a door and it led into an apartment.

At last she recognized the place; it was Julia’s.

“Jules?” she said, repeating it louder.

There was no answer.

The living room looked empty, so did the kitchen. She wasn’t hungry; even thinking of coffee made her nauseous. Taking a bottle from the fridge she drank deeply. The icy coldness of the water hurt her chest. She coughed.

She ought to go home.

Where were her clothes – the flimsy dress, bra, stockings, and heels? The little bolero-type wrapping she’d worn against the cold? Her clutch? Her keys and her money?

“Jules?” she yelled, only reaping a little echo.

She went back to the bedroom rummaging through the reeking ruin on and around the bed, finding nothing. She opened a closet door. Picking up panties, a blouse and a skirt she dressed in clothes two sizes too big for her. Then she slipped into sneakers and found a jacket.

“Money,” she whispered. “I need money for a cab; it’s too far and too cold to walk. Where the fuck is my wallet? And where’s Jules?”

“Wow, I look good on you.”

Julia stood in the doorway, wearing a rain-splattered coat. She brought a gush of fresh air with her as she carried a big paper groceries bag. Prue ran to her, grabbing her by the shoulders. A cucumber fell from the bag.

“What happened?” she cried out. “What did you do to me?”

Julia took a step back, shaking her head sideways, chuckling.

“Moi?” she asked. “Nothing, alas. You, on the other hand...”

She passed Prue by and walked over to the open kitchen, putting down the bag. Walking back, she picked up the cucumber, wiggling it in her hand.

“God, girl, I guess you needed it,” she said, giggling.

Prue stood speechless.

“Needed what?” she then stammered. “I don’t remember a thing. I feel sore all over. I stunk when I woke up and had filth all over me, but I remember nothing. What happened?”

Julia squeezed her eyes half shut and used a childish voice, while waving her hands frantically besides her head, the green vegetable still there.

“Ooooooh! Oh yessss! Ha-harder, deeper. Oh my, yessss ... Oh God! God! Haaaarder...”

“Stop it! It isn’t true!” Prue cried out, covering her ears and stamping her foot. “Stop it!”

Julia’s face returned to normal. She shrugged.

“Have it your way, honey,” she said. “But I truly feared the neighbors would call the cops.”

Prue sank down on the couch. Leaning forward, she covered her eyes. Her shoulders shook. Julia watched her for seconds. Then she rushed over and held her in a hug.

“Now, now,” she cooed. “No need to be sad. You made quite an impression on the gentlemen, honey. They walked mighty funny when they finally left.”

She chuckled. Prue jumped.

“They?” she cried out. “Men? More than one? My God, what did I do? Did you drug me?”

Julia pulled back, looking upset.

“Drug you? What do you think I am?”

She rose and stepped away.

“This is really vintage Pruts, honey,” she said, arms crossed under her breasts. “Always finding someone else to blame.”

Prue looked up, her face blotched, her eyes red.

“S-sorry,” she said. “But I really don’t remember.”

Julia sank on her knees in front of the girl, holding her.

“Stop worrying, honey,” she said. “You drank a lot and you had to get rid of a lot of shit: all the stress and frustration damn Pete saddled you up with. The bastard made you doubt yourself; you had to compensate. It’s perfectly normal, Prutty. Believe me.”

“I feel so... dirty.”

Julia hugged her tighter.

To Peter half of the next Saturday was a swamp.

One moment he sank into it, surfacing the next – there was quicksand to suck him down, stinking gas bells to belch him out again.

He hadn’t slept all night.

Of course he’d tried not to look at the pictures every half hour, but of course he had. He’d studied the bodies, the utter, alien lust on his wife’s face, the sheer aggression of the men.

Three different guys he counted, two white, one dark. Only two photo’s showed cock, big cocks – one where Prue sucked it, another that was shot right after pulling out – or was it before pushing in?

Most of his attention went to Prue’s face – her bliss, her contorted expressions, and the globs of sperm on it. Her body must be aching like mad after the relentless bending and arching and stretching.

He shrugged.

Maybe she was used to it?

The one emotion Peter most prominently felt through his nausea must be jealousy. There was pain, of course, the sheer hurt of being betrayed. But all through that was a quiet bitterness. Would he ever again be able to even think of Prue without seeing these pictures – let alone if he met her?

Paralyzing was what the pictures were.

They mocked his very essence, tearing at a tiny, deeply buried kernel of doubt and pulling it to the surface. He knew it had always been there: the doubt that he would one day stop being enough for Prue.

He guessed it was a doubt that lives in every married man, especially the ones married to young and attractive women. It was all pretty banal, wasn’t it? He often felt ashamed about it, but the doubt kept penetrating his zone of comfort when he saw Prue flirt or dance or talk intimately with a man.

Curiously enough he’d always had trouble blaming her for it. He rather blamed his own immature insecurity. But now, seeing the pictures, he knew his deeper, secret feelings had always been right.

Hadn’t they?

Prue was a cheating slut, and when he challenged her, she divorced him in the blink of an eye. Which was silly, of course, but who understands women? Why did she keep it a secret all this time if she wanted out all along? Why take the action? Shouldn’t he have been the one to divorce her?

After all he hadn’t been the cheater.

The bitterness of his thoughts, his emotions, his fatigue and the ever- present nausea engulfed him like the tide – rolling in and out, in and out.

Around two in the afternoon he took another shower, shaved the stubble off his face and went out to have a belated breakfast – ah well, just a glass of orange juice and a carefully sipped latte.

He sat at the street window of a small place, a kind of a tearoom two blocks away. It looked out on a tiny park, frequented by young mothers, their children, and little dogs. He’d bought a paper, but he couldn’t read – just skim the pictures and the headlines.

His cellphone rang.

It buzzed around like an angry insect on the chipped marble tabletop. Staring at it he remembered hearing about ‘guilty landscapes;’ paintings or photographs of places where horrible things had happened. It was how he felt about his phone. It made him hesitate to pick it up.

Finally he did. Julia Connors, he read on the screen. He sighed.

“Hello?”

“How are you, Pete?”

“I feel great.” He grimaced. “My loving wife sent me pictures.”

“Pictures? Pictures of what?”

He snorted.

“Of her being fucked by three men.”

There was silence. Just when he wanted to go on, she interrupted.