Chapter Two
“What is the problem?” Kirk asked. But the question wasn’t just in his words; the question was in his tone of voice; in the fierce look in his eyes; in his accusatory body language. The question asked a lot more than ‘what is the problem?’ The question was impatient, intolerant; loaded with anger and accusation. The question was like a black cloud, heavy with moisture, desperate to open and off-load a torrent of rainfall.
“Nothing,” Sasha shrugged her shoulders defensively. “I’m fine.”
Kirk rolled his eyes impatiently.
“Something’s wrong,” he insisted.
Sasha recognised one of these moods. These were the persistent ones. Like a dog with a bone, who would chew, chew, chew until scattered remains lay defeated on the ground.
“I’m fine, honest,” Sasha replied, even accompanying her comment with a forced smile.
He walked over to one of the hotel room chairs and slumped into it dramatically. He ran one hand through his hair; rested his elbows on his knees and gave her an intense stare. “Can we talk about this?” he asked her, aggressively.
She looked over at him from where she was standing at the mirror, applying her make-up. Why did he manage to look so handsome, even when he was being aggressive and stern?
She viewed the scene – him on one hotel chair, an empty chair waiting for her presence, and a circular table between the two, laden with kettle, tea cups, saucers, sachets of coffee and sugar. It looked like such an idyllic Sunday morning picture on the face of it. Hotel room, young couple, cups and saucers, a cosy romantic scene. But she sensed it would be anything but. The stern look on his face, his brow furrowed in anger; his body language speaking of defiant angular poses and angry leg crossing. She knew what she was in for. This was going to be another one of his infamous talk-a-thons; the lengthy and heated discussions where he would talk down to her, remind her of her faults, ask her what she was going to do about them and again reinforce her need to change. She didn’t know at what stage in their relationship these talk-a-thons had started but, ever since they had, they had become more frequent.
“Why are you huffing? Why is there a funny vibe? Why is your tone short?” These were the questions he was asking her today. It wasn’t the questions that bothered her – it was the body language. Angry. Impatient. Like a storm brewing. Her only desire was to calm the storm and get out of this hotel room. She thought about the fact that it was half nine in the morning. She thought about how they had to check out by 11am. She wondered how long the talk-a-thon would last this time. There was her make-up to do, her bag to pack. She desperately wanted breakfast. Her stomach growled in angry protest.
“What’s with the vibe?” he persisted angrily. “Why don’t you just tell me and then we can sort it out?”
She felt like one of those prisoners, locked in a small cubicle whilst being interrogated by the inquisition. Next he’d be depriving her of her basic needs of food and water so that she would give in and release information.
After what felt like half an hour of questioning, she finally succumbed and admitted her problem. She was embarrassed to admit it. It was something that she would have been happy to sweep under the carpet and forget about. However, here they were, discussing it, so she blurted it out.
She spoke about her embarrassment; her feelings of rejection. How they had woken that morning in their plush hotel room after a weekend of his birthday celebrations. How she had curled towards him like an eager and grateful cat, hoping that he’d return her advances and greedily lap up her attention. She thought of how she never initiated sex with him; how she preferred to wait patiently until such times as he was in the mood. She thought of how she never, ever refused his advances. Even if she had a sore head, or the onset of a period, she’d always open her arms (and her legs) for him, believing that to refuse a man sex was akin to damaging his self-esteem.
But this morning, she had been adventurous; reckless even. Her groin was hammering and she longed to have it played with. It would have been the perfect end to a perfect birthday weekend. She had booked this lovely hotel for them. She had booked his favourite band. They had even hung out with one of his gorgeous female friends and she had not exhibited any jealousy whatsoever. She had been a model example of a good girlfriend. But when she curled up to him, he was half-hearted in his response. It seemed as if he was just going through the motions, ticking the boxes to get it over and done with. She orgasmed, satisfied. She turned over onto her stomach to let him finish himself off behind her, like he always did. But this time, he lost interest.
“Sorry, it’s just not happening for me,” he told her abruptly. And the next thing he was padding into the hotel bathroom, shutting the door behind him and then she could hear the heavy pitter-patter of the shower water hitting the tray.
She gulped, and felt a strange heavy beating of her heart. The slap of the water against the cubicle felt like a slap across the face. He’s washing me off. He’s washing that horrible experience off him.
After she revealed her explanation to him, as calmly and as apologetically as she could, he nodded, almost triumphantly.
See? I knew there was something wrong. It was just as if he was saying it. His face tightened with anger and aggression again.
“When are you going to sort yourself out?” he exploded impatiently.
“Sorry?” she stammered, unsure she could believe her ears. She honestly expected him to be sympathetic. To curl his arms around her and tell her not to be so silly. That the sex thing was no big deal.
But no.
“When are you going to sort yourself out?” he repeated. “These vibes, these huffy moments – you said you were going to stop this?”
Sasha sat silently, her mouth agog. She really couldn’t believe her ears.
“Haven’t you started that therapy work yet? Why is it taking you so long? These moods have got to stop.”
Yes, it was true, she did have moods occasionally, especially when it was PMT time. But didn’t every woman?
It was as if there was one small voice reasoning with her that it was okay; that she was normal, that all girls had tricky moods.
But then there was a larger, louder voice, screaming at her (along with him) saying, ‘You’re not good enough! Why aren’t you perfect? Why don’t you swan around like a spiritual goddess, calm and serene, never having a mood, or a vibe or a raised tone of voice?’
She thought back to that silly list – the one she had signed when they had only had three months together. How long had they been together now? A year? He was impatient with her lack of progress. Perhaps if she had been one of his clients, he would have kicked her out by now for lack of progress. Kirk might be a therapist himself, but she wasn’t his client. He wasn’t her therapist. He was just a man. Who claimed to love her. And now he wanted to change the living daylights out of her.
Something in her snapped then. Perhaps it was the hunger. Perhaps it was the length of interrogation time. Perhaps it was the fact that they needed to check out by 11am and be downstairs to get breakfast on time. But she snapped.
She thought of how much she had done to try to please him. How she had signed up for therapy. How she had trudged along week after week. How she had gone to the doctors about her PMT. How she had stuffed all sorts of pills and concoctions down her throat to try to stave off any hormonal symptoms. She thought of how, even if she felt jealous of one of his gorgeously fabulous actress-type female friends, she stuffed down her jealousy and smiled sweetly. She thought of how she’d gone to a special effort these last two weekends to put together not one, but two, stunning weekends to celebrate his birthday. The first, an amazing hotel room in Belfast – not just a room but a junior suite like a massive apartment, and his favourite gig, followed by a second weekend in Dublin; yet another hotel and another gig. She thought of how she’d spent the guts of £600 on his birthday – not to mention the time and energy organising it – and this was how she was rewarded. A two hour talk-a-thon on how she wasn’t good enough because her mood had dipped.
“Fuck this,” she found herself saying. “I’m away.” She grabbed her suitcase, fired her clothes into it and made to leave. At this point he tried to stop her – to tell her they needed to talk.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” she found herself saying, realising that power and strength were coming from somewhere. “It’s simple – you’re looking for a girl who is one hundred per cent perfect and will never have a mood or a tone of voice in her life and guess what? You’ll be a long time looking because she doesn’t exist.”
And with that, she stormed out of the hotel room trailing her wheelie suitcase behind her.
“Sasha – wait!” he came after her, now pleading. “Let’s talk about this!”
They went down in the lift silently – saved only by the fact that other residents were there with them.
“Wait over there and I’ll settle this up,” she ordered, realising that, even in her moment of strength, she still needed to finish paying for his birthday weekend, part two.
“Everything okay for you?” the attractive receptionist trilled brightly as Sasha went to the counter.
Sasha nodded her head politely, sincerely hoping that the tears which were lodged in her throat wouldn’t break out and fall down her face.
“Oh, that’s good,” nice receptionist lady went on. “It’s not a bad day today, weather-wise, sure it isn’t?” she continued, bright and cheery, as she took Sasha’s credit card and swiped it through the machine towards ever increasing debt, in an effort to prove herself the ideal girlfriend to Kirk.
Kirk, meanwhile, was waiting over on one of the plush armchairs, his face like thunder.
Sasha nodded again to the nice receptionist lady; her warmth and kindness making it even harder for Sasha to fight back her tears.
Such a romantic scene, Sasha chided herself. I bet they skip this part in all their soppy advertising features.
Escaping from the sympathetic eyes of the lovely receptionist, Sasha returned to Kirk who was enveloped in the huge comfortable chair. He should have been relaxed; happy. After all, his girlfriend had just forked out £600 on him for two wonderful weekends. But his face was black and heavy, as though the world was on his shoulders. And all because the lady had a tone of voice.
Like a switch flicking in Sasha’s head, she refused to accept this behaviour. So what if she had a tone of voice? So what if she felt a bit embarrassed at being rejected by him sexually? Did that warrant this filthy mood from him?
Setting her hand on her suitcase, turning on her heel and quickly walking away from him, she left without saying goodbye. No explanations, no comments; just walking away. She tore off through the lobby, away from Kirk, away from their ‘ideal’ romantic birthday break and away from yet another talk-a-thon treading down her self-esteem.
She flung the hotel doors open, gasped in the fresh air and walked at break-neck speed to flag down a taxi and get the fuck away.
“Sasha!” she heard Kirk calling after her. “Sasha! Come back!”
Her breathing quickened, she upped her speed and she ran like fuck down the road waving for a taxi. One screeched its tyres as it pulled up next to her. She opened the door, flung her case in the seat and jumped in.
“Please…” she pleaded quickly. “Drive as fast as you can, away from him…”
She had just started to utter the sentence when she looked around and saw Kirk running down the street towards her taxi. She didn’t even have to finish the sentence before the taxi man put his boot to the pedal and sped off.