He stares down at me. “You don’t sound pleased.”
“I am,” I say quickly, but my tone lacks enthusiasm. “I’m just surprised.” It’s not that I’m not grateful. I’m overwhelmed with gratitude. I just need a little space to gather myself. “I thought it was impossible to get an interview there without being invited.”
“I told you I had contacts.”
“Lucky for me.” I smile. “I appreciate it.” When he doesn’t budge, I say, “Really.”
Narrowing his eyes, he scrutinizes me. “Good.”
To change the subject, I ask, “How are you feeling?”
“Like shit.” He combs his fingers through his wet hair. “But I have to get to work.”
“Of course.”
Oh. I’m blocking the door. Sheepishly, I step aside.
He walks around me and goes to the dressing room, not sparing me another glance.
Feeling like an intruder, I keep busy in the bathroom by brushing my teeth and moisturizing my body. When he reenters wearing a pair of faded jeans and a dark T-shirt, heading straight for his toothbrush, I slip out and hurriedly dress on my side of the dressing room. I choose a comfortable T-shirt and yoga pants, my go-to outfit for when I’m at home, and exit just as he pulls on his leather jacket.
“I’m running late,” he says, taking his phone from the nightstand and waking up the screen. “I’ll grab breakfast on my way to the office. Eat something healthy.”
Already engrossed in his phone, my nod is lost on him.
“Later,” he says, not looking up from his phone as he walks from the room.
The spicy fragrance of his cologne lingers in the space with the condensation from the bathroom and the smell of sex on the sheets. I’m trapped inside with the memories while he’s long since forgotten about me. It’s a classic case of slam, bam, and not even a thank you, ma’am.
Not wanting to dwell on that, I pull off the covers to make the bed. It’s only then that I notice the hundred-rand note neatly tucked underneath the box of diamonds on the nightstand. My chest constricts, something ugly overriding any physical satisfaction I derived from taking that risky plunge.
The money shouldn’t make me feel cheap. I know my value. Yet a voice in the back of my head whispers that I sold myself. I can’t deny that I sold my body in exchange for Leon’s silence. No matter what decent term Leon prefers to call it, sex worker or wife, I have become a whore. Slapping a less derogative title on it doesn’t change what I am. There’s no point in hiding behind denial. All that’s left to do is take the money and add it to my slowly growing stash. I earned it with my body. It buys my humiliation and degradation. It may as well—hopefully, one day—buy my freedom.
It hits me then.
I’m turning into my mother. I’m slowly but surely letting my new life take root, growing into a lonely and undervalued person. I’m growing into the very life I wanted to save my mom from.
How ironic.
I suppose this is exactly what Leon wanted when he planned his revenge, to turn me into arm candy, a nobody who doesn’t matter. I underestimated him. His heart is even colder than what I thought. How foolish of me. This is so much worse than how I thought it would be. Not only are we bound by our hatred, but we’re also bound by our silence. I can’t talk about last night, about his drinking, and he won’t talk about this morning, about me trying to kiss him. We’ll grow old in this silence, ignoring the issues that matter and pretending they don’t hurt.
At least I won’t be dependent on him for money. It would’ve been so much more humiliating if I had to rely on him for material necessities too, living in someone else’s house on someone else’s money. The only way to survive is to build a life for myself outside of these walls, a life where Leon can’t touch me. Work will have to become my escape.
The doorbell pulls me from my depressing thoughts. I cross the floor and answer the intercom that’s fixed to the wall.
“Hi, Violet. It’s Zelda. Are you busy?”
“No,” I say, grateful that I’m already dressed, because I can do with some female company. “Come in. I’m on my way down.”
I push the button to open the pedestrian gate and go down the stairs as fast as I can, which is slow by average standards. After last night’s uncomfortable position, I’m very aware of my aches and the strain every step puts on my hip.
When I open the door, Zelda stands on the doorstep with a basket of rusks in one hand and a bunch of orange daisies in the other. She’s wearing cutoffs and a yellow T-shirt with a bright red sun in the center. Her ankle boots are paired with orange and yellow striped knee-highs.
She shoves the gifts at me. “I baked the rusks.” Her smile is crooked. “I haven’t been to the shops yet, so I picked the flowers on the pavement.”
“Thank you.” I step aside for her to enter. “This is so kind of you. Would you like some coffee? I was just going to make a fresh pot.”
She walks inside and looks around while bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Nice decorations. Very ethnic.”
I lead the way to the kitchen while she follows.