Alisha: A dark Romance Ch. 02

I thought that she'd be relieved. I wasn't expecting the torrent of abuse I got.

"What the hell did you do, Ben? Shit, I've got to work with these people and I can't afford to get a reputation as a Prima Donna."

"Ali, last night these people set you up. They were happy to pawn you off to a couple of lowlifes, who if I hadn't stopped you, would have spent the night fucking you. So, hell yes, I spoke to them."

"I knew what I was doing."

"Are you saying you wanted to go with them?"

"Christ, no, but they were important people in the fashion business, and they could get me work."

"No, they weren't, Tony said they were just a couple of James' friends. He was buying favors with your body."

The room fell silent as we both glared at each other. I was so pissed off with Ali at that moment. What worried me, even more, was the sickening thought that this might not be the first time this had happened.

I went over to her as she pulled on a t-shirt. "I did what I thought was best for you," I said. "Is this the first time this has happened?"

"Like that, yes, but I'm always getting hit on, you know that."

"I know," I sighed. "Come and have something to eat, then you can call Tony if you want to see if they can rearrange today's schedule."

She came over and put her arms around me, "No, you're probably right; a day's break is going to be best all around. Let's eat and then get out of here."

We spent the rest of the day up in the hills. The Ali of old reappeared and we walked along trails that wound through the rainforest arm in arm.

Shooting began at dawn the following day and continued until dusk. I left Ali to it, and she was back at six-thirty. The next day followed the same schedule except she called to say we were invited to a party that evening.

She spent the evening doing what she does best, flitting from one group to the next, but unlike in the past, she didn't keep returning to my side. I was just left standing like a wallflower until midnight when she wanted to leave. In the hotel room, she undressed and climbed into bed, turning on her side facing away from me. When I slid in behind her, she moved away.

"It's too hot Ben; I just want to sleep."

The next day and another party in the evening. Tony called to say Ali and all the crew had been invited to a party that evening, and they were going there as soon as the last shoot finished.

"Fine," I said reluctantly. "Where is it, I'll meet you there."

"Umm Ben, it's only for the crew. I'm not sure if I can invite you. I was only calling to let you know that Ali won't back until very late and..."

"That better be your idea of a bad joke," I interrupted. "After what happened the last time she went out with this crew do you seriously think I'll let her go on her own?"

"Yes, well, okay. I'll ask the hosts if that okay with them."

"Tony, you've got two options, either I'm there to keep an eye on things, or you arrange for Ali to be driven back here after the shoot finishes. If you don't, it won't be just your finger this time. Do I need to call your office?"

"Fine." He gave me the address; now I almost wish he hadn't. I got there just after eight, and it looked like Ali, and the rest of them had been there for a couple of hours. When Ali greeted me, she'd obviously been drinking. I checked around, and I didn't see Ralph or Gerry about. That was the only good thing about the evening. It followed the same pattern as the previous evening, Ali ignoring me as she played to the gallery.

I stood on the patio with a glass in my hand, a nobody in a crowd of beautiful people that swarmed around Alisha. She'd spoken no more than five words to me all evening. Tonight it was an actor from some American series who'd been fawning all over her.

Finally, when he put his arm around her, resting his hand on her ass, I'd had enough. I'd walked over and pushed myself between the pair of them. I grabbed his hand, bent it back and he stepped away from us in surprise.

The American actor, and I still had no clue as to who he was or what show he was in, placed his hand on my chest. "Who the hell do you think you are? Ali and I are talking."

"I'm her fucking husband, dickhead," I growled, "so piss off."

"Do you know who I am," he spluttered.

"Not a fucking clue, so you can't be anyone important. Whoever you are, that doesn't give you the right to grope my wife's ass. As you don't seem to understand English, let me repeat myself, piss...off...dickhead. Ali, we're leaving!"

I took her arm and pulled her around and looked into her glazed eyes. "Enough," I said, "It's time we left. I'm not standing here any longer like a fucking wallflower."

She shook her head, "But we don't need to go, Ben!"

She pulled me over to the other side of the patio, "What are you doing; Tony wants me to play a role in Ryan's latest show."

"Christ, Ali, how stupid are you? The only role he's thinking about is the one where he takes you to bed and fucks you."

She looked at me in shock and then slapped my face. "These people can do so much more for me than you can, so, I'm going back to Tony and my friends, and I'm going to apologize for your behavior. You might as well go, I'm not going back to the hotel with you tonight," she said dismissively.

She turned on her heels, stalked away back to the actor and put her arm around his. I watched her go and understood she was walking out of my life just as I'd always suspected she would.

I'm a photographer; I'm never without a camera. I had a tiny digital Canon compact in my pocket. I took a couple of shots of Ali as she cozied up against the actor again, the smirk on his face evident as he glanced back in my direction. I thought about stalking over again and wiping that smirk off his face, but it didn't seem worth spending a night in jail. I tossed my drink, glass and all into the swimming pool, and walked away. I flagged down a taxi on the street to make my escape.

At the hotel I considered my options, I'd had enough of her mode swings over the last few months, and now it was obvious that I was no longer a factor in her life. Yes I was probably overly dramatic, but I'd had enough and I had a business of my own I was neglecting. I sat on a chair on the balcony and waited for the sun to rise. The rays of the sun as it crested the horizon, reflected off the water and she'd not returned. I threw my clothes into my bag and grabbed my backpack. A second taxi ride and I walked into the airport, managing to get a seat on the next flight to London. I guessed we needed a day or so to calm down. She'd be home in a few days, and we'd talk then.

~~~~~~~~~

After a day, and in a more sober mind, I tried to call Ali. Her phone went straight to voicemail, and text messages went unanswered. Two days later she got in contact. She left a message on the answer phone at the flat Just a brief message; no 'where are you,' no 'I love you.' Just, 'Got another assignment. Be home in two weeks. We need to talk then.'

I tried to call her back, and her phone was off again. I left a bitter voicemail message before throwing my phone down in disgust.

I looked up and saw Mia watching me. I had a moment of blinding clarity. It was what I'd always suspected, Ali was trading up. I made a snap decision. There was nothing here that didn't remind me of Ali, and I wanted nothing more to do with any of it.

"Do you want to buy the business, Mia? I'll rent the studio to you and sell you the stock."

"I love to, but I can't afford it, Ben."

"How about we call it a loan. You pay me a fixed amount each month; you get to use this place, all this crap and the business name."

It took us a day to sort the details out. Mia was able to scrape together a £5000 down payment, and I'd get 25 % of the profits for the next 12 years. She'd get the use of the studio, equipment and could trade under the studio's name if she wanted to. I got a local solicitor to draft a contract. The flat was in my name but as far as I was concerned, Ali could have it.

The next day I left my phone and wedding ring on the table on top of the photo of Ali and the actor at the party. I'd written the address of my solicitor on the back and locked the door behind me. I took Mia's £5000 and a further £10,000 from our joint account to live on, leaving three times as much for Ali. I'd packed light, just a few clothes, the bulk being my camera equipment, my laptop and some portable hard drives with all my old photos on them. Mia agreed to store all my old negatives for me at the studio.

I'd spoken to my parents and told them what had happened, warning them I was going to travel for some time and probably wouldn't be in touch very often. The conversation was painful; they both loved Alisha and couldn't believe I just wanted to walk away.

"Christ, Mum, she stayed out all night so she could be with that bloody actor. The marriage has been going downhill for the past six months. She wants what I can't give her, and now she's found someone who can."

"Where are you going?"

"I don't know, I've sold the business to Mia, and I think I'll go traveling for a few months. I'll keep in touch, but I'm not taking a phone, so I'll call you."

The conversation degenerated into a shouting match. It was the first time I'd ever had a full blown row with my parents. Neither of them could accept that it could be Alisha's fault. They were sure it had to be something I had done, while I was just as adamant it wasn't. I knew what I'd seen. Finally, I stormed out of the house and out of their lives as well.

That's what I did for the next three months, I bought an old cheap second-hand BMW touring motorcycle and traveled around Europe, finally ending up in the south of France, intending to look up an old school friend.

I'd known Peter since we were both six and joined the Cub Scouts. He had lived just up the road from me. He'd married his girlfriend Jane after leaving school, and they had moved down to the West Country. After the unfortunate death of his wife in a car accident, he and his three-year-old daughter, Abigail, had moved to a farmhouse in Aquitaine. Not long after he'd arrived, he'd met a local girl, and they'd fallen in love. He'd asked her to move in with him, and she'd agreed.

I arrived late on a September evening, and Pete and his girlfriend Sophie got me settled in their guest room. We sat on the patio, the only light a candle and the full moon overhead. Pete poured me a glass of wine from the grapes he grew.

"What the hell is going on, Ben? Your mother's been calling everyone she could think of, to see if anyone had seen you. My mother called to find out if I'd seen or heard from you. She says that you've left Ali. If there was one couple we all thought would last forever, it was you and her."

"Fuck, you didn't tell her I was coming here did you?"

"Not yet."

"Well please don't, and that goes for Ali and her parents as well. She's traded up, Pete; she wants to become a household name, a supermodel, and it seems I'm not part of her plans anymore."

"Christ, are you getting divorced?"

"I can't be assed; if she wants one then it's up to her. Just remember, don't let anyone from our family know where I am, especially Ali."

"Not even your parents?"

"Christ, no, especially them; they love Ali and would tell her in a heartbeat where I was."

Pete reluctantly agreed.

It took me a few weeks to settle in; my schoolboy French reasserted itself. I bought a car, an old Citroen deux chevaux. The bike was on its last legs and wasn't worth the effort to repair it anymore; mind you, the car wasn't much better. I traveled around the back roads with my cameras at the ready. I sold a few to magazines signing them '© The Wandering Spirit,' an apt comment on my situation, I thought.

One of the editors asked if I could write a few paragraphs to go with the photos. Thus was born the column under the same 'Wanderer' byline that was soon appearing every couple of weeks in several of the Sunday magazines. You know, the ones that come free with the Sunday papers. Fortunately, they paid well enough.

I moved out of Pete and Sophie's spare room, six months after I first imposed on them. I moved onto an old boat moored on the canal du midi; a long term let that belonging to an Australian couple. You could see the trees lining the banks of the canal from Pete's farmhouse, as it passed beyond the vineyards that swept down from the hill the farm buildings sat on.

The other thing I'd kept had been my box of journals. I had left them with Mia, and once I was settled on the boat I asked her to ship them to me. I'm not sure why, but I started to re-read them. They were full of bittersweet memories; reading them became my guilty secret.

They weighed on my mind, and I found I was writing out expanded versions, adding conversations and thoughts. Slowly, a story formed in my mind as I began to form the pieces into a whole. It was a fictionalized account of our story that did its best to slay the demons Ali, leaving me, had created.

Other than Pete, I'd walked away from all contact with my former life. I wrote to my parents, getting visitors to post them from all over the world, not wanting to talk to them. I gave them my solicitors address if they needed to contact me in an emergency but stressed only in a dire emergency and nothing about Ali.

I couldn't completely hide from her, though. There were a few photos of Ali in various magazines those first few months, then for a brief while she seemed to disappear, only to be everywhere a year later. She appeared to be on just about every billboard I saw, the new face of a major fashion and perfume company. At least she'd got what she wanted: to be a supermodel. She called herself Ali Mac, and I had no idea if we were still married.

It took me nine months to finish the first draft of the story; it was an exorcism of my soul. It was long, too long, honestly and over-wordy, and I knew it. Give me a photograph, and I can be ruthless with my edits and comments, but with the book, well, I knew what I wanted it to look like, I just couldn't see how to do it. When I started it I'd no real intention of publishing it, but even if it was destined to languish in a drawer on the boat, I wanted it to be as polished as one of my photos. I got in touch with the literature critic at one of the papers publishing my column. She put me in touch with Betty, an old school friend of hers, an editor at a publishing house in London.

I called Betty and explained what it was that I was hoping she could do. I offered to pay her for her time, and she agreed to have a look and see if my manuscript was worth her time and effort. I sent her the file with an apology about its size and my lack of skills.

I didn't hear anything for a few weeks, then one morning Pete called me. "Ben, there's a woman by the name of Betty up at the farm looking for you. You're still using our address for your post."

"Yeah, well, the third boat after the bridge doesn't hack it!"

He laughed, "Do you want me to point her in your direction, or do you fancy a bite to eat up here?"

"When have you ever known me to refuse a chance to enjoy Sophie's wonderful cooking? I'll be there in 20 minutes."

The first thing Betty said to me was after we had greeted each other was, "Please tell me you've got an agent."

I shook my head; why would I? I wasn't thinking about publishing it. We all watched in surprise as she pulled out a thick tattered bundle of printed paper from her large handbag.

"This is good," she said, tapping her finger on the pages. "It's got the potential to be very, very, good and it would be a crying shame if you kept it hidden away." She gave me a considered look. "This is your story isn't it; you don't just make up something like this?"

I thought about denying it, but I didn't think she would believe me. "Well, I changed the locations and the names, but it's our story."

"So you're the Robert in the story? Did you consider killing yourself as he did?"

Memories of that last night flashed past me. "There was a moment after I got back to the room that I stood on the balcony and the moonlight was reflecting off the ocean like a silvery road. I had an urge to walk out along that road and never come back."

I sighed at the memory and then mentally shook myself. I nodded, "It only lasted a moment. I choose another way to walk out of her life," and I looked down at the picturesque valley spread out below the farmhouse.

Betty considered my words, "Are you still in touch with your wife?"

"No, she made it plain that night I was no longer part of her life. She did what I always feared she would: trade up to achieve her goals."

"Your wife, she's Ali Mac isn't she?"

I reluctantly nodded. "Although I guess she's my ex-wife."

"You know she's..."

"No," I interrupted, "No, I don't know, and I don't want to. She made her decision that she wanted me out of her life, so I'm out. It's bad enough that I have to see her pictures, I sure as fuck don't want to know the gossip about her."

I took a couple of deep breaths and pointed at the manuscript. "This was my way of exorcising her from my life. Put it all in one place and then move on. Turning it into a fictionalized account was just the only way I could complete it."

"Well, whatever the reason, the book has the potential to be very good and needs publishing," Betty pointed out.

"So what do you want from me?"

Betty handed me the manuscript, "There are some big issues. For one, it's at least a hundred pages too long. I've marked where I think you can make the cuts. I want you to make the changes and cuts I've indicated, and then we can start the real editing."

A cursory glance at the manuscript showed a hell of a lot of red ink.

"What else?"

"Get yourself an agent, and then my boss wants to discuss a publishing deal."

Pete had poured us each a glass of wine when we first sat down. I took the opportunity to sip at mine while I coincided what to do. This had suddenly become real; I'd written the book more to excise Ali from my life than anything else. It was when I'd finished writing that I'd contemplated trying to self-publish it.

I asked Pete, "Do you know any literary agents, 'cause I don't."

"I'm a farmer; why would I know any literary agents?"

"I do," said Sophie hesitantly. "My cousin Henry, he's an agent for several actors. I think he has a couple of authors on his books as well."

"Why don't you give him a call, love," Pete suggested. Sophie nodded and pulled her phone out of her back pocket. She walked over to the far side of the patio to call him.

Betty sat back and then said, "If that works out then give him this card; if not, I know a few that I can put you in touch with." She fumbled in her handbag and passed me a pair of business cards. "That's mine, the other's my boss' card; promise me you will give us the first refusal on the book, and I still want to carry on editing it."

Sophie called over, "Betty, what's the name of the publisher you work for?"

"Hanson and Sons, in London."

Sophie relayed the information and then said, "Can he come and speak to the pair of you? He's in Toulouse and could be here in a couple of hours."

"Sure," I said. "You okay with that?" I asked Betty? She nodded.

"We've got lots of spare rooms; you're welcome to use one." Pete offered Betty. "It'll save you hunting around for a hotel."

Betty accepted gratefully.

I drove back to the boat to collect my laptop and then we spent the afternoon pouring over the manuscript. Some of Betty's proposed cuts were brutal, but obvious, once she pointed them out to me. Her margin notes were sometimes hard to understand, and I was glad that she was there to interpret them.