The morning light streams through the window, yet its warmth does nothing to warm me, so I pull the sheet closer to my chilled body. As I slowly open my eyes, I glance to the other side of the bed, finding it empty and cold. Sitting up, I rest my back against the headboard, somehow feeling a little more uplifted than usual when remembering the day's significance.
Shortly after I rise from the bed, I venture out of the room, the faint noises coming from downstairs drawing me in. Michael stands beside the recently assembled Christmas tree, engaged in conversation with one of the housekeepers, while displaying a proud grin on his face. Once he senses my presence, he turns to face me, examining me from head to toe.
"You look rough," he remarks, causing me to pull my nightgown closer to my body, hiding myself from his scrutinizing gaze.
"Merry Christmas to you, too," I mumble as he approaches me.
"Merry Christmas, honey." His arms envelopes my shoulder and his lips press to my temple. I struggle to suppress the urge to push him away, having to endure this humiliation. "Shall we open the gifts now?"
"Open what?" I ask cluelessly. With a laugh, he steps aside, revealing a plethora of presents beneath the towering Christmas tree.
"Oh, right. Yes, sure," I reply, moving toward the pile of gifts. Expressing gratitude after gratitude, unwrapping one gift after another, time slips away, and I end up with an entirely new collection of clothes, jewelry, bags, and anything else someone could ever want.
Despite the specific festive atmosphere that comes along with this holiday, I can't shake the feeling that everyone's living in a snow globe of joyous interactions while I'm an outsider, yearning to partake but feeling incapable of doing so.
"You don't seem thrilled," Michael observes all of a sudden, likely noticing my silence.
"I am. Thank you." I manage to smile, though it barely reaches my eyes. The gifts are lovely, yet they fall short of igniting true happiness within me.
Though unconvinced by my words, he brushes it off, turning around and picking up a small wrapped-up box I haven't noticed until then. "There's also this," he says, handing it over. "Save the best for last, right?" His gaze is fixed on me, awaiting my reaction. I unravel the bow and lift the lid of the small box that fits in the palm of my hand.
"It's a car. For you. Brand new," he announces, and I feel the cold, metallic logo branded on the keys as I run my fingertips over them. "You haven't used your car in a while, so I thought you didn't like it anymore."
"Oh." I haven't realized how long it's been since I last was behind the wheel, but it makes sense considering how motivated I've been to do anything in the past weeks. "It's not that I don't like it, it's just..." My words trail off, the true reason being one I can't divulge. He's everywhere, making it difficult to engage in activities we once enjoyed together, knowing he's never going to be by my side again. "Thank you for this." I smile and actually feel grateful for this gift, as spoiled and entitled as this sounds. Although a perfectly good vehicle is in the garage, this car represents a space solely mine, untouched by anyone else's presence or absence.
"Glad you like it," he says and stands up, walking towards the stairs. It's weird that all these were for me and nothing for him, but what do you give a man who can have anything he wants? "Oh, wait. There's also this." Halting abruptly, he points to an object discreetly placed underneath the tree. "It's from your friend. He sent it to you, apparently."
I'm surprised to see he even remembers I exist, given the silence between us. It is the confirmation I needed that L is still alive and breathing. Hopefully.
"By the way, we have guests tonight. It's important, so be ready by 6," Michael announces before exiting the room. Even on Christmas, there is no break.
Alone at last, I take the box and place it in my lap. I slowly unwrap the decorative paper from around the present, and throw it away next to me, ending up with a book in my hands. No writing adorns the cover or the spine. Opening it, I find out it's actually covered in a cream-colored dust jacket that I carefully remove to reveal a black bird seated on a birch. I turn to the first page, and it is not the title of the book that I see, but a neon green sticky note.
First edition copy. Just for you. Merry Christmas, Nadine. I miss you.
Louis
I smile at the note and his messy handwriting, telling myself to give him a call later to also wish him a Merry Christmas. I would have sent him a gift as well if he could stay in the same place for more than three days.
I tuck the note away and finally see the title I've been looking for.
Lady Chatterley's Lover
by
D. H. Lawrence
Privately Printed
1928
I inhale deeply as I take in the title of the book, the coincidence of Louis gifting me this reminds me of something I have lived in my own life. I haven't read it, yet I am aware of its controversial nature upon its initial publication. Flipping through the pages, my eyes settle on a paragraph.
"Love is the flower of life, and blossoms unexpectedly and without law, and must be plucked where it is found and enjoyed for the brief hour of its duration."
I swallow as my eyes go through the words on the page, already feeling my fingers tremble. Each word resonates with my own emotions. I miss him terribly. Him — can't even pronounce his name without plunging into a daylong reminiscence of the good times we have shared and what could have been if only I had been more careful or had done things differently. It's pathetic — drowning in self-pity and making myself cry when everything went down because of me. Not because of Harry, not because of Michael, and not because of anyone else I might try to hand the blame to. I did it to myself, and for this sole reason, the pout of my lip and the tears streaming down my face are pathetic.
I should have nurtured that fleeting love, but my inability to handle it led to its demise. Our flower withered and I'm the guilty one.
I often envision different scenarios where Harry and I met under different circumstances and our story had a happier outcome. Some in which I wasn't bound to a man who limited my happiness, and I didn't have to pretend a part of my life didn't exist when I was with him.
Maybe we kept seeing one another at the grocery store, and one day I took the matter into my own hands and asked him out before he'd had the chance to. Or maybe we met at a bookstore when we were reaching for the same book, and as our hands touched, we smiled awkwardly and then started talking, our chat ending with an invitation to a nearby café and exchanged phone numbers. Or I might have entered the bakery he works at asking for one of those delicious pastries they sell. After seeing the pretty man behind the counter, I decided to keep coming there until one day, he asked me if I was free after he got off work.
There's no way to tell if in these daydreams that replay in my mind our ending would have taken a different turn, one in which we weren't apart, but what I know for sure is that it would have been better by miles than what actually happened.
"Are you crying?" Michael's voice brings me back to the present. He is leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed over his chest, an almost amused smirk playing on his lips, contrasting the furrow of his eyebrows.
"What? No, I'm not crying," I deny and turn my back to him, hastily wiping my face with the sleeve of my black robe. I only pick up the book from the floor, knowing that all the other gifts will be carefully put where they belong by someone else.
"Are you really crying over a book?" he prods and follows me until I can feel his chest against my back. He takes it from my hands, reads the title, and turns it around, taking in the state of it. "Old as fuck, too. Could've bought you a perfectly new one."
"I like it this way," I answer and grab it from him, heading towards the stairs. Explaining why would be futile, so I avoid the conversation altogether. Louis' thoughtful gift holds significance, even if I appreciate everything Michael bought for me — although I won't admit that to him, mindful of his inflated ego.
"Don't you want breakfast?" he asks me from downstairs, peering up at me.
"I'm not hungry. Thanks."
I am hungry, but I know that I look a mess right now, and don't think hearing another comment from him will do me any good. I don't know if he does it with intention or if it comes naturally to him, but I would like to think that I'm the only one who notices these things about me, even if I know that's not true. I don't want to believe that it's so bad that other people see it as well.
I take a long shower and then start to get ready for the dinner that Michael mentioned. I should've expected it as it's something that happens every year without mistake. They get more and more bearable each year. I have given up on trying to engage in conversations with people who either ask me questions that make me feel uncomfortable or talk to each other and ignore me completely. I have resigned to silence, sipping on drinks, and detaching myself until my living room has cleared, so I can go back to my bedroom and stare at the walls more comfortably.
My mind drifts back to years ago when it wasn't Michael who I was spending Christmas with, but my mom. I usually drop by the hospital around this time. Still, I decided to skip it this year, knowing that in the circumstances of my already emotive state, such a visit would only tip me over the edge.
I've been talking to her, though. Somehow. As weird as this sounds. My pen has run out of ink because of my incessant writing in my journal. It started just by me trying to put my feelings out in the universe without having someone actually listen to my rambling. Sometimes I would just talk about trivial, little things I've done throughout the day, what I've had for breakfast, or whatever Michael has done to annoy me. These scribblings serve as an indirect conversation with my mother, a way to express emotions without an audience.
I just hang around my room for a while until I decide that it's time to get dressed. Michael has already offered to have someone help me get ready, but I haven't been feeling the best in my skin lately, and on top of that, I'm just going downstairs to sit on the couch and drink whatever is being passed around on trays.
I ramage through my closet in search of something that not only I consider good enough to wear tonight, but also Michael, who can never keep his opinions to himself. I try on different pieces until I find something nice but at the same time, not too over the top, in order to still be able to blend in and be left alone.
I smooth my hands over the black fabric of the dress and put on some lipstick just as the door of the bedroom opens, and Michael enters the room dressed in a navy suit.
"Ready?" he asks, giving a nod of approval. "No one's dead, but you look good," he teases, referring to my choice of color.
"You never know," I reply sweetly and turn my back to him, rolling my eyes once he's out of my field of vision.
"You never know, indeed," he mutters and comes around me, holding out his hand for me to take. "C'mon there are already people here." I take one last look in the mirror and inhale until there's no space left for oxygen in my lungs.
I stay by Michael's side as we walk down the stairs, my arm looped through his, instead of holding his hand. Upon entering the living room, all eyes turn to us, greetings are being passed around the room, handshakes are exchanged, and smiles are thrown my way everywhere I look. With so many people around, the room becomes claustrophobic, everybody mingling as if they were bees in a wasp's nest. Their buzz irritates me, and each intrusive question coming my way is another sting I must endure.
The only antidote to their migraine-causing conversations is the champagne glasses, seemingly following me around like ants trailing after one another, tempting me to request just one more drink. Ants I like. Ants I can handle.
I wonder if Lilian, the woman who approached me at my birthday party, is somewhere around here, lost in the waves of people. I recall our conversation and simultaneously try to block out any other memories related to that event. She treated me as if I were an actual person and not a mere doll adorned to look pretty by her husband's side. I like shoes, and I like makeup and clothes and all those things, but being reduced to this, much the same as a child who can't form her own opinion, is humiliating.
After some more time spent just nodding to inane dialogues and staring into space, I crave a breath of fresh air and slip outside as soon as I find a moment when nobody is trying to chat with me. The garden looks nice at this time of the day, the shades of the trees around look rather calm than scary, with the lights of the house painting a gentle yellow hue over them. My small greenhouse, once thriving, doesn't look nearly as lively as it used to. I have been neglecting it and everything I have planted and put work into. I have bypassed many things that I love, and even myself, although I have spent most of my time alone. I know that I cannot go on like this forever and that something has to change, but I don't know how to escape this routine of doing absolutely nothing. Even the things I've put my heart into for years don't appeal to me anymore.
Wandering around the house aimlessly, I'm not planning on returning inside. The wind blows in my face and so I wrap my arms around myself as goosebumps appear all over my arms. My hair covers my eyes and my shoes are uncomfortable. I am about to turn back towards the door I came from when I near an open window of a room resonating with voices.
"Tomorrow night. Four from our side, four from his." An unfamiliar voice reaches my ears, unknowingly involving me in a private conversation. Pausing, I take a step back until my back hits the wall, attempting to go unnoticed.
"Good. That's all I needed to know." I recognize Michael's voice and try to put together the information that was shared with me. For a moment it seems like they all have left, but suddenly the unidentified man speaks again, breaking the silence that has settled in the room.
"He also asked about her."
"What?" Michael's tone flares with anger, a familiar sound.
"She doesn't know, does she?" the man says, and even from my spot outside, next to the window, where I can't see them and they can't see me, I know this is a tension-filled exchange.
"Why the fuck would she know?" Michael almost yells and I hold my breath as I wait for an answer, for more details.
"Maybe because she is your wife." I can't help but gasp as soon as the words are out of the man's mouth, and inadvertently back away, stepping over some kind of branch that was in the way.
"What was that?" Michael's question raises my heart rate. I don't need to see it to know that all of their eyes are directed to the window, inches away from seeing me. I press myself against the wall, breath held, hoping not to be discovered.
"Just the wind. It's been like that all day."
I don't move from my place for a few seconds, but when I leave, I do it cautiously, striving to maintain my composure, as if I hadn't found myself caught in a discussion between men who hide more secrets than I can count on my two hands.
With every step, my mind spins in circles, trying to dissect the fragments of that conversation. His people and my people meeting tomorrow night? Does this have to do with the side business he has going on? Why would he be doing all of this when he has a successful, legal career?
I return to the party, trying to keep up appearances. The room swirls with laughter, clinking glasses, and joyous chatter, but now, every smile seems scripted, every handshake a replica of sincerity.
The evening crawls on, guests continue their discussions, and I navigate through the gathering, searching for a quiet corner. I manage to slip away into my library, away from curious eyes, the voices faintly reaching me as I close the door behind me.
I'm consumed by a whirlwind of questions. My thoughts collide, trying to make sense of the tangled web I've mistakenly stumbled upon. Michael's intentions, the unknown person, and this clandestine meeting that wasn't meant for my ears — all spiral within my mind, a tumultuous storm threatening to unravel the carefully crafted facade of my reality.
With a sigh, I sink into an armchair, clutching the book Louis gifted me. The title, Lady Chatterley's Lover, resonates with irony, a symbol of my life entangled in the difficulties of relationships and hidden desires.
I can't help but replay the overheard conversation in my mind, dissecting every word, every implication. The mention of her echoes in my thoughts, raising unsettling questions about my marriage, its truths, and the secrets veiled behind closed doors.
The weight of uncertainty settles heavily upon me, and I realize that the world I thought I knew is but a mask, hiding truths I've yet to unravel. I stare at the book in my hands, seeking solace in its fictional narrative, finding parallels between it and the complexities of my own life.
Author's Note:
Hello! I know it's been a while, but I just can't bring myself to give up on this story. I can't tell you for certain that there will be constant updates, but I can say that the next chapter is coming very soon. If anyone is still reading this story make yourself seen and let me know if you enjoyed this chapter. Thank you for reading!