Casually dressed in sweatshirt and jogging pants, Oliver lies on the bed reading about Ngondro practice. The teachings are giving him plenty to consider.
Although it’s late, he can’t sleep and his mind is restless, despite hours of meditation. As he thinks back over his life, re-examining many of the choices he has made, there is the dawning realisation that those choices have not always been in his best interest. Depression settles around him like a thick blanket as his mind takes him back beyond the time when he found control of his destiny to his troubled and lonely childhood. Why he should have been the son with all the problems he still can’t truly comprehend. Even the expensive therapy sessions didn’t uncover the trigger point. Whereas his horizons appeared filled with unfathomable gathering storms, his three outgoing and older brothers easily sailed through childhood into adulthood, all finding successful careers in their chosen areas of expertise. He too, thankfully, fell into a fulfilling and highly successful career, one that has subsequently eclipsed those of his siblings, but this is where any similarity ends. Always the thinker and more introverted of the boys, Oliver struggled to make himself heard above his boisterous brothers. Even when he was heard, no one seemed to understand. On the rare occasions his mother would listen to the feelings he was trying to express, she would look at him aghast and either change the subject or turn away, which only compounded his fears and feelings of strangeness. Loneliness grabbed the young Oliver Foxley by the throat and turned his thoughts inwards; traits he is only too aware of in his youngest son. He will not let Jamie suffer as he did. As long as he has breath in his body, he will do all he can to show the boy there is a light on the horizon, despite the threatening thunder clouds.
Oliver buries his head in his hands. These severe bouts of depression are a physical pain, hard to bear.
Soft tapping at the door stirs him from his dark thoughts. His watch, lying on the bedside cabinet, tells him it’s just after midnight. Tapping again. More insistent this time. There must be some crisis! Immediately, his thoughts turn to Jamie. Swinging his legs off the bed, Oliver strides across the room and opens the door. Standing on the threshold is Sylvie, looking a little lost and unsure, dressed in a baggy cardigan over pyjamas and a pair of slippers.
‘Sylvie, do you know what time it is?’ he says, his increased heart rate easing a little.
‘I couldn’t sleep,’ she says, as if this is an acceptable answer. ‘I thought I’d go for a walk and then saw your light was on.’
What’s she doing in the Harmony wing at this time of night? He knows her room is in the Wisdom wing. She made a point of telling him.
Sylvie hesitates and Oliver watches dispassionately as she steels herself. ‘Can I come in?’
He studies her carefully before standing back from the door but, as soon as she’s in the room, realises his mistake. During the seven days he’s known her, Sylvie’s intensity has increased.
Whatever possessed me to let her in? My ridiculous, misplaced sense of compassion. I must be mad!
‘Have a seat,’ he says, indicating the only chair in the room.
Obediently, she sits in the wicker chair and looks up at him, her face displaying myriad emotions: fear; lust; anguish; love – he skirts over that one – but mainly loneliness.
‘Why have you come here?’ Oliver asks.
‘To the retreat?’
He meant his room, but nods.
‘I’ve been through a bad spell,’ she says, plucking at the sleeve of her oversized cardigan.
Oliver groans inwardly. Sitting on the end of the bed, he rakes a hand through his hair.
‘When Aunt Margaret said she was coming to the UK to visit Holy Isle I thought it would be good to join her,’ Sylvie explains, looking at him uncertainly. ‘To get away for a while.’
‘And has it been?’
Her eyes grow large with raw emotion. ‘I don’t know,’ she says in a small voice.
God, I’m no good at this! What would Deanna do? She’d be practical.
‘Would you like some tea?’ Oliver asks, rising to his feet. ‘It might help you sleep.’
She nods.
He walks to the small table where a tray with a selection of hot drinks is laid out, all the while aware of Sylvie’s hawk-like scrutiny.
‘You told me you worked in publishing,’ Oliver says, switching on the kettle and sorting out mugs and teabags. ‘What do you do?’
‘Editorial. I like words.’
‘I like words too… which is just as well in my profession, I suppose,’ he says with an ironic laugh.
‘Words are my friends,’ she says.
‘Do you have many, Sylvie?’ He glances at her. Seeing the shock on her face, compassion overwhelms him. ‘A boyfriend?’ he asks gently.
She shakes her head.
What am I doing?
As the kettle comes to the boil Oliver pours hot water into the mugs. It’s only then he realises he’s out of milk. He picks up the empty jug and turns to Sylvie, his skin prickling as she watches his every move.
‘Just going to get some milk,’ he says, waving the jug at her.
Is it safe to leave her alone in the room? Is there anything I don’t want her to see?
He thinks he’s overreacting. Sylvie’s odd but she seems harmless enough. However, as soon as he steps out into the corridor, tension leaves his body.
The quicker this is over with, the better.
Hastily he makes his way down to the dining room. As he fumbles for the light switch, several energy-efficient lightbulbs cast a hesitant glow across the room and a dozen tables and chairs loom like marooned ships emerging through a sea of gloom. Oliver walks towards the small kitchen area and, opening the fridge door, quickly fills the jug from an open carton of milk. He heads back to his room deep in thought.
What causes one person to marry and have responsibilities that allow little room for anything else other than to get through each day at a time, and another to face four walls every evening with, maybe, a cat for company? It all comes down to choice.
Before entering the room, Oliver hesitates. It’s important he take control. Sylvie will stay for one cup of tea and then he will escort her back to her wing. But as soon as he enters he’s aware of a shift in atmosphere. The main light is no longer on and a side lamp casts a softer glow over the bed in which Sylvie now lies. Quickly scanning the room, he notices her clothes lying in a heap by the chair.
‘What are you doing?’ he asks sharply.
‘Oliver, I need you,’ she says, looking at him with vulnerable, saucer-like eyes.
‘This is ridiculous, Sylvie. Get dressed.’ He closes the door, walks across the room and places the jug on the table.
Sylvie sits up, the fleece blanket falling to her waist and exposing her small breasts. ‘Oliver, I’ve loved you for so long. Please make love to me. No one need ever know.’
Incredulously, he stares at her.
If the press got hold of this…
‘Love me? You don’t even know me,’ he says evenly. ‘Cover yourself up.’
She kicks off the throw, exposing the full length of her body to him. She’s thin but he can’t help but notice her surprisingly shapely legs.
‘Oliver, please,’ she purrs. Little miss lonely knows how to play the minx. Seductively, she runs her hands over her breasts and trails her fingers across her belly, down to her inner thighs. Teasingly, she parts her legs.
‘Sylvie, don’t prostitute yourself in this way. You are worth more than this.’
She leans back on her elbows and arches her body towards him. ‘Am I?’
‘Of course you are!’
Moving towards the bed, Oliver picks up the throw and roughly covers her body. With a sudden movement, her fingers lock around his wrist and, before he has a chance to react, his hand is pulled down to her breast.
‘Sylvie, stop!’ he says, recoiling. ‘I am not in the habit of bedding fans.’
Or deranged women!
‘But I won’t tell,’ Sylvie purrs again.
‘Get dressed.’ Avoiding eye contact, Oliver picks up her clothes and dumps them on the bed.
‘But, Oliver Foxley, I love you. Why won’t you sleep with me?’
‘You do not love me. You love an image in your head.’
‘No! I LOVE YOU!’ she shouts.
Shit! What if someone in the next room hears?
‘Shhh... Sylvie.’
Sylvie sits up. Once again, the throw falls to her waist. ‘What if I don’t shush? What are you going to do then?’
Dear God!
‘Don’t play this game,’ he says.
Suddenly she’s on her feet, standing naked before him. ‘Oliver, I need you!’
He steps away but Sylvie launches herself at him. Clinging on tightly, she wraps her legs around his waist. She’s surprisingly strong and Oliver staggers back.
‘Get off,’ he says, trying to prise her fingers apart.
‘No!’ she screams. ‘Love me!’
Bloody fool! Why the hell did I let her in?
‘Sylvie, I’m just going to lay you on the bed.’ Oliver speaks soothingly, as he would to an agitated, small child.
Perhaps, if she thinks I’m going to sleep with her she will lessen her grip.
Putting his arm around her waist, he stumbles across the room. As his knees come to rest against the end of the bed, Oliver leans forward but her weight takes them both.
‘Oliver Foxley, I love you!’ Sylvie says, immediately grinding her hips into his.
He tries to get off, but she increases her vice-like grip.
‘Make love to me. I beg you,’ she pleads.
‘No, Sylvie, I won’t. And do you know why?’
‘Your wife,’ she says sadly.
‘No, not because of my wife. Because of you.’
She stills. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Let me sit up and I’ll explain,’ Oliver says, but her arms tighten around his neck. ‘At least let me take my weight off you. I must be heavy.’
‘I like you heavy on me,’ she says, but her grip eases a little.
Looking down at her as he would a lover, the irony is not lost on Oliver. She looks a mess: dishevelled and desperate.
‘Why are you doing this?’ he asks kindly. ‘You should have more respect for yourself.’ He takes his weight on his elbows but her legs clamp around him. ‘Sylvie, I have to breathe. Just let me get comfortable.’
‘Promise not to go?’
‘Promise.’
This is ridiculous!
Her grip is lighter now and Oliver shifts his weight. ‘Wouldn’t you be happier if I lay by your side?’
‘No. Why won’t you sleep with me?’ she begs. ‘Don’t you find me attractive?’
Oliver considers his words carefully. He must not give her false hope. ‘I think you are a lovely woman,’ he says without emotion, ‘but the Oliver Foxley you know exists only inside your head. I am not that man. There will be someone for you, Sylvie, believe me. I don’t want you to look back at your time at the retreat and have any regrets. This is a turning point in your life. Embrace it and move towards a brighter future. You probably can’t imagine it, but it will happen.’
Listening intently, Sylvie absorbs his words and silently weeps.
Oliver watches as the tears run unchecked down her cheeks. He recognises her pain and feels a surge of sympathy towards this strange woman. She’s like a broken child and he wants to comfort her, but knows this will only make matters worse.
‘Hush, Sylvie, don’t cry. Life is not as dark as you think.’
Listen to me! Maybe something has rubbed off from that expensive therapist after all.
At last Sylvie unclenches her ankles. Oliver rolls off.
‘Don’t go,’ she says in a small, cracked voice.
He lies at her side.
Thank God the paparazzi aren’t here!
Turning towards him, Sylvie holds him tightly. As she rests her head on his chest, involuntarily Oliver’s hand touches her hip bone. Her skin feels cold.
‘If you won’t put your clothes on at least let me cover you,’ he says, grabbing the throw and pulling it over them both.
It is very intimate lying with Sylvie and Oliver is acutely aware of her nakedness. Little moaning noises emanate from her throat and he wonders at her mental state. It must be hard never having anyone to discuss things with, or not having someone with whom to share your life. In adulthood, he has never had to face that; Deanna has always been there. And then the children arrived and life, since, has been filled with noise, laughter and loving mayhem. But before then, throughout his late childhood and teenage years, it was very different, and it doesn’t take much to remember what it was like.
Eventually, Sylvie stops moaning as she slips into sleep. With this troubled soul clinging to him and recognising only too well the haunted look in her eyes, unwittingly, Oliver is dragged back to his childhood. How dark life seemed then and how utterly helpless he felt. As the ‘grey mist’ descends with crushing intensity, laying waste to anything in its path, Oliver closes his eyes and succumbs to mental exhaustion.
*
Oh, it feels good! Warmth spreads through his body, filling the darkest recesses of his soul. Oliver groans. The ‘grey mist’ shrouds him, holding him in its throes, suffocating, but there’s a golden light beckoning, enticing him to come forward to breathe its pure air. Higher and higher it asks him to travel and he quickens his pace, reaching ever more towards that beautiful golden light, longing to feel its warmth as it spills over, eradicating all pain and suffering. He groans again as he feels the hotness of her mouth on him, the tantalising flick of her tongue licking and swirling, up and down, prodding and probing – investigating.
Sylvie watches beneath hooded eyes. As Oliver emerges from deep sleep, in one swift movement she straddles him, her small breasts jiggling as she rides him hard.
What the…?
Oliver’s eyes fly open; his hands on her hips in an instant. He tries to push her off, but her manic energy drives him on, higher and higher, towards not what is a glorious and forgiving, golden light. Feeling disgusted and dirty – and so angry at this betrayal – in that moment he hates her. Her moans have the edge of madness and Oliver bites down hard on his lip, refusing to give voice to his own. Unable to hold back, he reaches orgasm, and the full shame of his situation rains down upon him as the ‘grey mist’ claims him with a hollow laugh.
Looking at him with wild eyes, Sylvie unravels, spiralling down around him, possessing him and shouting out his name.
Shit! Someone must have heard that.
She falls forward onto his chest, breathing hard, and he can feel her heart beating rapidly as she repeats his name like a mantra. Forcefully, Oliver pushes her off. Rising from the bed, he pulls up his jogging pants. How the hell did she manage that without waking him? Looking down at Sylvie, all wanton and spent on his bed, he has never seen anything so hideous… nor has he ever felt so violated.
And in this special place, of all places…
Sylvie smiles; all warm and glowing inside. ‘You know it’s fate that brought us here under the same roof,’ she says. ‘You and me, we’re destined to be together.’
Oliver stands with his back firmly against the far wall, desperate for a shower. He just wants her gone. ‘Get out!’ he says, his voice low and menacing.
He sees the hurt on her face. Ordinarily, his natural warmth and generosity would respond, but pity and understanding have crystallised into deep anger.
Confused, Sylvie frowns. ‘But, I thought…’
Oliver cuts her short. ‘Leave me alone,’ he says, running a hand through his hair.
Sylvie gets off the bed. Misguidedly confident, she bends to pick up her clothes and crudely exposes herself to him. Slowly she pulls on her pyjamas.
Not waiting until she’s fully dressed, Oliver picks up Sylvie’s cardigan and slippers, grabs her by the arm and roughly marches her towards the door. Unceremoniously, he dumps her out into the corridor.
‘Do not trouble me again,’ he growls, shutting the door firmly in her face.
Sylvie stares open-mouthed at the closed door. Her arm smarts and she rubs it. Why is he being so rough, her love? Perhaps he likes it that way? He was very aroused. But, it’s hardly surprising. After all, he’s been her constant companion during many an evening in the lonely environs of her Twickenham flat and she’s had years to fantasise and perfect that particular scenario. A smile curls Sylvie’s lips. So this is the game he likes to play! One minute loving her, the next playing the distant, hard man. Yes, she can accommodate that, if that’s what it takes. She likes the challenge he has set. She likes the chase.
Putting on her slippers, Sylvie picks up her cardigan and makes her way back to the Wisdom wing, humming to herself and playing the last half-hour over in her head, like a re-run of one of his movies.