In Her Words Read online

  In Her Words

  By

  J.S Ellis

  In Her Words

  All copyright © 2019 Joanne Saccasan

  All right reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any way without permission except in the case of quotations or book reviews. This book is a work of fiction. Name, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to an actual person, living or dead, or actual events or locals is entirely coincidental.

  For information contact:

  Black Cat Ink Press

  http://www.blackcatinkpress.com

  J.S Ellis

  http://www.joannewritesbooks.com

  Cover Design by: German Creative

  Formatting by: Oprahgraphic

  Edited and proofread by: Sharon Woodcock http://poefic.com & Doreen Muscat

  ISBN: 978-99957-1-445-1

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  In Her Words

  In Her Words

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

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  In Her Words

  2nd January

  Evening,

  Dear Diary,

  I’m in trouble.

  To everyone else, I have it all: the handsome husband, prestigious apartment, successful career, and the designer clothes. What they don’t know is, I’m the saddest person I know. I’ve lost touch with who I used to be. I’m the same person I was at 11:59, and as I was at 12:01. No new me, no difference, no New Year’s resolutions. It’s bullshit, we are what we are. If we want to change, we make it happen. I don’t know what’s what anymore. No-one realizes I’m a chain smoker, with a drinking habit. You wouldn’t suspect it from my polished exterior.

  An hour ago, I was lying on the bathroom floor with a bottle of whiskey. Hiding evidence of my drinking has become second nature to me. When we’re sad, we drink to forget. When we’re happy, we drink to celebrate. When nothing happens, we drink to make something happen. I drink to escape from the pain of life and to forget what happened.

  I’m writing this at the kitchen table, with a glass of water, a box of aspirins, and an overflowing ashtray beside me. I haven’t kept a diary since I was a teenager. Back then, I didn’t write often. And now? I need to keep an account of my bad behavior before it catches up with me.

  3rd January

  Afternoon.

  Diary,

  It was busy walking to work this morning. I must have blended in with the horde of grey and black-suited corporates in my charcoal grey designer suit.

  For some, London is a jaded city. It’s not for everyone. Yet, as I looked up at all the Victorian buildings, I wondered what goes on behind closed doors. I love London: its lack of community and rudeness. I even like its weather. I caught a bloke giving me the eye as I walked past a cafe. It was either the click-clacking of my heels on the pavement that did it or my tight pencil skirt. Probably the latter, or both!

  I work at Miller & Miller, a new accountancy firm in central London, which opened two years ago. I’ve been an accountant all of my life and used to work at one of the big four accountancy firms until I quit the stress of it all. At Miller & Miller, I take care of twenty big clients, with whatever worries they have-which can be a lot.

  When I arrived at work, I freshened up my makeup and applied eye drops to hide the redness. I then gargled mouthwash and sprayed a little perfume. My usual routine to mask the smell of alcohol and cigarettes. As I walked out of the bathroom and into the corridor, Wendy, the secretary, stalked after me.

  ‘Mr. Williams called. He wants you to call him back, it’s urgent,’ she gasped.

  Everything’s always urgent.

  I plodded past Charles’ office, the accounting manager. He’s a short beefy man, going bald with thick glasses. He glanced at me and then carried on with his client.

  ‘He said, they’re going to investigate him. He received some nasty tax assessment,’ Wendy continued.

  I stopped and turned to face her, ‘What!?’

  ‘You should call him, he wants you to defend him,’ she said.

  ‘I will but,’ taking the paper from her, ‘he’s not the most organized of clients. Connect me to him.’ I said, opening my office door.

  I shut my eyes. The phone rang. Another day at the office.

  5th January

  Evening,

  Diary,

  I can hear the sound of sax and guitar again from one of the apartments down the street. I’ve been hearing it for the past three months. It’s enchanting. I’ve been listening to it for the past hour. My hands are trembling as I write this. It’s time for my fix, so I’m sitting by the window with a bottle of wine, smoking. The music keeps me company. Where does someone get the inspiration to write music like this? I love the sax. I wonder who’s playing it? I’m picturing an African-American man standing by a window of a bar somewhere.

  I’m alone in the apartment at the moment. Every time Richard goes away, the anxiety kicks in. He’s in New York for business until the weekend. You can sense his importance when Richard walks into the room, with his tailored suits and bow ties. He’s a remarkable man, and the vice president of an insurance firm, where he oversees their international division. He’s worked there for thirty years. I worry about him. He’s not taking it easy, as the doctors ordered. I hope he’s taking his medication. I always have to remind him, except when he’s at work, where his secretary tells him as well.

  Richard had a major heart attack two years ago, resulting in bypass surgery. He takes beta-blockers to decrease his blood pressure and relax the heart muscle. Speaking of which, I’d better call him.

  6th January

  Evening,

  Diary,

  Just been talking to Richard on the phone - nothing new to report.

  I’m sick of this apartment. It’s like a crypt. The walls are closing in on me. I don’t know why I feel this way, I used to love this apartment, with its bright lights and classic contemporary décor.

  There’s a vase of white lilies sitting on a red oak table in the middle of the living room. I like lilies better than roses. Roses are overrated. The floor is made of grey marble. The wallpaper is grey samphire, a delicate native seaweed. I picked it, but now I can’t help thinking how boring it looks. There aren’t many pictures of Richard and me. When I go to a dinner party at someone's house, the number of photos they have around overwhelm me. There are two photos of us, both in silver frames. One is from our wedding day. My twenty-five-year-old self-stares back at my older self. My hair was black when I got married, now it’s chestnut brown. I like to think of myself as a beautiful woman. I put a lot of effort into my looks, and even more recently, to hide the strain drinking is putting on me. I look lost in my wedding photo, with my grey/blue eyes staring wide-eyed at the camera. My clam-shaped lips are slightly parted. I had a more defined jawline back then, but I’ve still got the same distinctive high cheekbones and heart-shaped face. And the dress! I look like a lemon meringue. My mother insisted I pick that one. Which reminds me, I must call her. I can’t believe eleven years have passed since walking down the aisle.

  The other photo, taken after we got married, is of Richard standing behind me, wearing his trademark bow tie and one of his many-tailored suits. I’m on the chair with my legs crossed, looking rather demure. We were happy back then, so in love.

  7th January


  Afternoon,

  Diary,

  I scrubbed our maple kitchen until it’s spotless, and made sure everything’s nice and tidy for when Richard gets back, not that he will notice, but it makes me feel better.

  No music today. Just a sense of dread in the silence. Somehow, the music helps to fill the void. Makes me feel that everything will be alright.

  Is it though? Is everything going to be alright?

  This evening I went out to find where the music was coming from. As I walked through the streets, I had to cover my mouth with my scarf. After walking around for a while, past various bars and restaurants, a woman’s voice stopped me in my tracks. I looked up and saw the sign, Mau Mau. Maybe this was the one, I thought. Inside, there was a band in front of a red curtain and a crowd of people watching. A black woman sat on the stage with braids. Her voice was husky and sensual. A guitarist, a bass player, a black drummer, and a blond, androgynous young man with a saxophone stood behind her. The singer stood up and continued to sing in her deep voice. I stared at the sax player. His face seems familiar, but I can’t remember where I’ve seen him.

  And the sax... is the one I’ve been listening to all this time! I’m so glad I’ve found this little place, it’s going to be great to hang out there. I must tell Sylvie!

  10th January

  Evening,

  Diary,

  The strangest thing happened at the grocery store today. I always pay by cash. I hardly ever pay by credit, since Richard checks my bank statements. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing where my money goes, after all, I’m the accountant, not him. I took a basket and filled it with shower gel, deodorant, biscuits, bread, and cheese. I stopped by the wine section and, being careful with my choice, selected a nice bottle of Chablis. I heard fits of giggles, and then noticed three tall, young men a few yards away from me. Two of them had black hair and hats. They were both clutching a pack of beer each. The other one had a black suit on and a red scarf. He was stunning. His blond hair hung past his shoulders like gold silk. Something inside me stirred. I feel guilty for thinking it, but he was rather hot! I started to worry they were laughing at me. I think I’ve done well hiding my vices, but maybe people around here have started to notice my buying habits. I’m so paranoid. I must stop this! I recognized one of them - Evelyne Robinson’s boyfriend. Evelyne is an art student. Her father is a wealthy man and owns a marketing company and many estates around the city. He seems to be buying up bits of London like he’s taking part in a real-life Monopoly game. Her apartment is on one of his estates. I think she shares it with her boyfriend and his mates.

  Anyway, as they were looking at me, I raised my eyebrows as if to challenge them. They looked away and started mumbling to one another. I’m pretty sure they were talking about me. One seemed to be trying hard to stop himself from laughing. I snatched another three bottles of wine from the shelf, paid and left. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. What was so funny? Was it me? Oh, I don’t know. I just feel weirded out by the whole thing.

  11th January

  Evening,

  Diary,

  ‘Sophie? Have you forgotten about me?’ Sylvie asked

  ‘No, of course not. I was going to call...’ I said, as I clutched the phone with one hand, and scrubbed my dinner plate with the other

  ‘What are you doing tonight?’

  ‘Nothing much... Richard’s away.’

  ‘Perfect! It’s been a while since we had a girly night out. Want to meet up for a drink?’

  ‘Sure, but I can’t stay late, Richard is coming home tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll pick you up at 9 o’clock.’

  Sylvie and I have been friends for fifteen years. She owns a modest boutique selling vintage clothes. I do her accounts, and in return, she pays me with old clothes. Sylvie is a beautiful woman with long, shiny black hair, blue eyes, and olive skin. She looks like an Arabian princess. She’s recently been through a painful divorce. Her husband cheated on her, but she’s now ready to mingle again.

  I better go and get ready before she gets here. What on earth shall I wear?

  12th January

  Morning,

  Diary,

  Woke up this morning with Richard yelling at me, “What are you doing still in bed? This room stinks of alcohol.” he said

  I buried my face under the pillow.

  ‘Leave me alone!’ I cried.

  ‘Come on, get up!’ he said, tearing the pillow away from me.

  ‘Don’t shout, I have a headache!’

  ‘Great welcome home Sophie. Cheers,’ Richard growled, as he stormed out of the bedroom.

  What did I do last night? I force my brain to remember, but I can’t recall a thing. I dragged myself out of bed, and everything around me began to spin. My ears rang like church bells, and my left cheek throbbed like mad. My mouth tasted metallic and of blood.

  I couldn’t even remember getting into my pajamas. Did I change? Or did someone help me? My head felt like it was caving in. Everything hurt! As I got out of bed, I had to balance myself against the wall. Even my thighs ached. The worst hangover of my life!

  I could smell something sweet and pungent, but I couldn’t see where it was coming from. The buzzing in my ear got louder.

  I managed to hobble down the corridor slowly to stop myself from being sick. Richard’s suitcase was in the hall. He stood by the counter, studying the ashtray full of cigarette butts, and an empty bottle of wine on the floor. I’ve been so careful until now, how could I have been so stupid. He towered over me, waiting for an explanation. His brown eyes bore into mine. I collapsed into the armchair and pressed my hand to my head to try to ease the throbbing.

  ‘What is this? Is this what you been doing while I was gone? Smoking and drinking?’ he chided as he brushed his hand through his salt and pepper hair.

  ‘Don’t shout!’ I said, pressing my fingers deeper into my temples.

  ‘This is my apartment, I shout how I see fit!’

  An intense sick feeling started to rise up. I placed my hand on my belly. Richard glared at me. I couldn’t make it to the bathroom, it all poured out of me onto the living room floor, a grotesque puddle smelling like acid.

  ‘Dear God! You’re a walking disaster, there should be a fucking tornado named after you.’

  ‘Please, don’t.’

  My stomach churned again, in pain.

  ‘I can’t be here and witness this, you better clean that up.’

  The front door slammed and rattled through the room.

  I’ve spent the last couple of hours racking my brain about last night. We went to a lounge bar called The Yellow Bar, a quirky hole Sylvie suggested. The decor was eclectic and charming. I remember a small fish tank, various chaise lounges, old vinyl LP’s, and arty pictures on the walls.

  ‘I need new experiences, new horizons, and new orgasms,’ Sylvie said.

  I sipped on my martini cocktail. My hands clutched to the glass as if someone was going snatch it away from me. It tasted that good.

  ‘You’re thirty-five, not twenty-five,’ I said, as the cocktail sent a buzz through my body.

  Sylvie flipped hair, ‘It’s not the age but how you feel. How is Richard?’

  ‘Busy as usual. He’s in New York.’ I said.

  It was then I noticed an old movie being projected onto a wall.

  Sylvie narrowed her eyes at me, ‘I hardly see you these days. We should go out more. Don’t you think?’

  A couple squeezed to our table to get through. It grew crowded and hot in there. ‘I know, it’s just my job, it’s keeping me busy.’

  ‘Is there a place I can find a decent man?’ she asked.

  We looked over at a group of blokes in their twenties drinking, shouting, and dancing - behaving like total wankers, and laughed.

  ‘You’re asking the wrong person. Though I doubt there are many good men left at our age,’ I said.

  Sylvie frowned and then raised her eyebrows at me, cheekily, �
�Or, maybe, I should get myself a toy boy.’

  I remember we sat there and chatted and giggled for quite a while, and had at least a few more cocktails, I felt damn good.

  But that’s all I remember. What happened next!

  I’m so annoyed with myself. Every time Richard goes away, I lose control.

  I think I may have done something stupid this time. But what? Or am I just being daft? I wonder if Richard will call me. I doubt it - he’s probably cursing me right now, and booked me into rehab or even worse.

  I hate my life.

  Even Later,

  I’ve racked my brain, but all I can remember is leaving The Little Yellow Door with Sylvie.

  After that, there’s a total blackout.

  I’ve got bruises on my legs, a scratch on my forehead, and a red cheek, which looks like I’ve been slapped. It hurts to touch. Everything aches. I feel like I’ve been hit by a train.

  What am I going to do?

  Just checked out the black dress I wore last night. It’s soiled and ripped from the shoulders. What happened? Did I cause this or did someone else? Was I in a fight? From the looks of the bruises, the soreness, and my red cheek, I could have been in a fight with a bear! Who changed my clothes? Sylvie? I have to call Sylvie.

  I just found my phone in my bag. The battery’s dead. Grrr! I’ll call her once it’s charged. Hopefully, she will fill in all the gaps. I want to scream. Maybe not, my head still hurts!

  Even later,

  Oh my god, I switched on the TV and can’t believe what was on the news.

  ‘A heated argument raged into a pub brawl last night, at a bar in Russell Gardens, Notting Hill.’ The newscaster announced.

  Was I involved in the fight? I’m going insane in here.

  Richard is still not back. I’m going to take a couple of aspirins for my crashing headache and retrace my steps.

  Evening,

  Just came back from my stroll. What a strange experience. It was a beautiful evening, but I still felt rough so I couldn’t appreciate it. I even had to wear my sunglasses to stop my eyes from hurting. I walked through the streets with a dazed zombie-like motion. My ears were still ringing, which was so annoying. A Jaguar drove past, and the smell of its exhaust made me want to puke again. I wobbled on the pavement with no idea where I was going. I kept going straight past all the houses.