Fine Lines, Chapter Seven

Fine Lines is a fictional series charting the implosion of 45-year old Tara Hewson’s world, and the curious bird that flaps up from the ashes…

Chapter One // Chapter Two // Chapter Three // Chapter Four // Chapter Five // Chapter Six

‘Were you still intimate with each other?’ Barbara asked, trying to hook my incoherent M ramblings onto a solid piece of intel.

‘He actually has a very narrow penis.’ I said. ‘Is that something that usually breaks up relationships?’

‘How do you mean?’ She said, scribbling a note on her A4 pad.

‘You know like, the pencil dick thing?’ I said.

‘Hmm.’ She said. ‘I think that’s a very personal preference and usually something that might be ironed out in the early stages of a relationship, when sexual compatibility is being explored.’

‘So it’s my fault?’ I said.

‘Why do you think that?’

‘Because I didn’t say anything.’

‘And what would you have said?’ She removed her glasses and rested them on her head.

’That skinny penes don’t do it for me?’

‘And what would that have achieved?’ She said.

‘The dissolution of a very new relationship?’

‘And is that what you would have wanted?’ She fixed her glasses on her face again and looked at her notes.

‘No.’ I said.

‘So, did you manage to make it work in other ways?’

‘What other ways?’

‘Non-penetrative sex perhaps?’

‘If I was really desperate I brought my King K Mega Girthy to the loo once he’d gone to sleep.’

‘I see.’ She said.

‘But that was hardly ever necessary.’

‘And how do you feel now?’

‘Embarrassed?’

‘What do you feel embarrassed about?’

‘That I’m telling you all this stuff.’

‘Do you think that was something you could have shared with M?’

‘Definitely not.’

‘You don’t think that talking about your needs, sensitively, would have allowed him to try to meet them?’

‘He would have blamed me.’

‘For what?’

‘For having a big vagina, probably.’

That was my second session with Barbara. It was Flavia who suggested booking in to see her after I kind of fell apart.

I’d woken up in Alex’s that morning with him stretched out naked beside me, waiting for me to open my eyes. I’d slept like a board, on my back, fully clothed and felt old and gritty. My whole body was parched, wizened like a fern left on a sunny windowsill for far too long.

‘You’re beautiful.’ Alex had said and I knew that he was lying when I came face to face with the bathroom mirror. There are a lot of good reasons not to do MDMA, or any drugs, beyond the age of thirty but vanity is way up there. I was a peri-menopausal flash gone nuclear; every blood vessel on my face was threatening to explode. My hair hung limp and flat channelling a miserable ‘before’ mug shot on Grotty to Hotty.

I jumped into the shower without thinking, before checking my phone or even wondering what time it was. Beats were still playing in my head, sweeping over my body, warm water soothing my soul.

And then there was Alex, hard beside me in the tiny cubicle, ready to instruct. The water eventually ran cold and we were back in his bed before I finally checked my phone at about 1 pm.

64 missed calls and a thousand texts from M, Susan, Flavia, Mum and the girls, all wondering where the hell I was.

Susan had called M, saying that I hadn’t turned up for a crucial pitch, which was very unlike me and she wondered if perhaps I’d died during the night. When M couldn’t get in touch with me, he called Flavia who kept everyone calm until about 11.30 am when she started to imagine different parts of me suspended in a barrel full of acid.

When I finally made contact with M, Flavia had already told him, in an acid-barrel panic, that I had been on a date with the waiter from Bertie’s.

‘Fucking hell, Tara, where are you?’ M answered immediately.

‘Sorry, my battery died, I’m in town.’ I said. ‘Everything’s fine.’

‘Everything is not fucking fine. We thought you were dead, Tara.’ He was hopping.

‘Sorry.’ I said, too choked suddenly to say anything else.

‘What is wrong with you? Is that all you have to say? You’re not a teenager, Tara. I haven’t just snared you drinking. This is big. We thought something serious had happened to you. I had to tell the girls you were missing.’

‘I’m sorry. I’m on my way home.’

People talk about having The Fear after a night out and I’d never really related. From the time I started drinking and partying, I’d always subscribed to moderation, so careful to balance my personal limit and sensitive vomit threshold with whatever substance was going.

Everything hit me that afternoon as I made my way slowly back to the place I’d never really thought of as home.

I was overwhelmed with guilt; guilt of a life wasted, of not living honestly, of not loving my daughters enough of not being present enough. Of being an expendable ghoul, barely connected to the fabric of reality, of hardly showing up at all, for anyone.

It was the worst come-down ever and it lasted about five days.

‘Why do you not think of the house, where you live with your family, as your home, Tara?’ Barbara asked.

***

Susan was still struggling to get her head around my Bang Noodles no-show. It was inconceivable to her that I would be so reckless as to jeopardise my job during such a commercially turbulent time.

‘I don’t think you realise how disposable you are?’ She said, circling my desk the following Monday morning, a steaming litre of Americano in her red-clawed grip.

‘Oh, I do.’ I said. ‘Thank you for the reminder though.’

I told her that M and I were splitting up and that I’d had a tiny, mini meltdown, which wasn’t too far from the actual truth. I knew it would perk her up and I was right.

‘Yay! A new wing woman!’ She said. ‘We are going to have so much fun together!’

It may have even secured my position as one of the last deckhands on board the sinking ship. But the fact remained, there was nothing steady or dependable about RAGE, especially then when my future solvency depended on it.

It was probably why I’d become obsessed with Get Rich Quick schemes, scrawling notes on my phone when ideas struck:

- Record WHITE NOISE video for YouTube (45 million views = $225k in ad revenue).

- Co-write an erotic fiction best-seller with Flavia.. (EL James = $58 million).

- Create a fashion collection for dogs, specialising in bespoke puffer jackets (the pet accessories mkt = $30 billion in the US, and growing).

I knew nothing about recording sound but the YouTube upload seemed the simplest way to get started. The other two were going to require quite a bit of work and time. I bounced between excitement and vacant disillusionment, depending on my mood and level of desperation.

***

Morning sex with Alex – the first person I’d slept with, that wasn’t M, for over twenty years – had somehow faded into the recesses of my chaotic life. The fall-out from our night together felt like a worthy punishment for even imagining a different way of being. Mentally, I’d relegated it as a one night only thing.

‘But was it good?’ Flavia pressed, when we still hadn’t discussed the details.

‘It felt very natural.’ I said, trying to find the words.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I didn’t feel like his nana, I felt like we were on the same level, you know?’

‘You’re not eighty, Tara! Men are with much younger women all the time.’

‘I know. It just surprised me, it all worked, biologically, it felt nice.’

‘Biologically? Were you afraid you’d closed up?’ She laughed.

‘It just all fitted, it was easy.’ I said.

‘And personality?’

‘What about it?’

‘Was that a natural fit?’

‘I’m not sure. We’re very different.’

Alex had been trying to sext me since and I couldn’t figure out what was in it for him. He was young, hot and seemed like a decent person. I ran through multiple scenarios – from pity shagging to mommy issues – and settled on insatiable sex addict. I had no grounding for this theory whatsoever other than he persisted with me with very little encouragement.

I was thinking about you today. He texted.

That’s nice. I texted back, not wanting to be rude.

I imagined you coming into Bertie’s in just a rain-coat, nothing else.

No shoes?

Maybe, black velvet Manolo Blahniks, high heel, pointed toe.

What kind of rain-coat? A yellow fisherman’s one?

No, Burberry, brown, with a belt.

Are we going shopping?

And you order a drink, a mojito, at the bar.

I try to avoid mojitos as they trigger my Candida, full of sugar.

Okay, you order a gluten-free Peroni.

Perfect.

And then you whisper something in my ear.

What do I say?

I don’t know, you go.

I’ve lost my voice.

What?

That’s why I’m whispering. I whisper to you that I’ve lost my voice.

I can help you find your voice.

Really?

Yes, if you come with me to the back, I will show you.

But how?

I have special powers, I just need to work on your body.

Can I choose a new voice?

No! I’m not fucking Dumbledore.

***

I was spending more and more time out of the house. M ‘s energy was so toxic at that point, the less we collided, the better. The girls were being funny with me too. They pocketed their phones and left the room every time I entered, even if I popped into one of their bedrooms to say hello.

I had a feeling that M had said something to them the morning I was MIA but as I wasn’t ready to explain it and wasn’t sure what they knew, I said nothing.

I found a spot on the strand instead and sat for hours listening to music and podcasts, watching the late summer evenings roll in and locals I recognised from the deli pant past in their vast wardrobes of lycra.

Where are you? M texted one night as I was heading home.

On my way, why?

Worst than you can imagine. I am still processing.

When I got in, M and Suzy were sitting metres apart in the TV room.

‘What’s going on?’ I asked.

‘Suzy?’ M said.

‘It’s not a big deal, Mum. Dad’s totally over-reacted.’ She said.

‘What is it?’ I said.

‘Suzy has an OnlyFans account.’ M said, throwing his arms up as if there was literally nothing else in the world that could trump that.

I could see that she was upset and that M had already gone nuts so I tried to be on her side.

‘So how does it work?’ I asked, M threw his eyes back into his head like I was deranged to even give it the airtime.

‘I have an account and I share pictures - no nudes, never nudes – and little videos of me wearing cute clothes.’ Suzy said.

I knew what ‘cute clothes’ was code for.

‘..and then people subscribe or pay once just to look at my content.’ She said.

‘Are you allowed to even have an account if you’re not 18?’ I asked.

‘Well, not really but lots of people do, it’s easy to get around.’

‘Why are we even talking about this?’ M stood up. ‘The account is going, you’re grounded, this is off the charts.’

‘I’m making six grand a month, Dad! It’s my college and travel and summer fund for years. I could save you both so much money, especially now if you’re divorcing because of Mum’s affair.’ She looked at me, all faux Bambi peepers.

M stopped for a beat.

‘That’s not fair, Suzy. It’s not your mother’s fault.’

‘No it bloody isn’t!’ I said. ‘You have no idea what happened.’

‘So, tell us thenI Because neither of us know what the fuck is going on. We all live in this house, we see that you’re not talking, you’re not sleeping in the same room. We’re not stupid.’

‘It’s complicated.’ M said.

‘We’ll sit down as a family and talk about it, as soon as Dad and I have figured out what’s next.’ I said.

‘What family?’ She cried. ‘There is no family.’

Door slamming was Suzy’s signature, it had been since she was a little girl. It was hard to tell if her hammy reaction to our probable separation was a response to her OnlyFans account being rumbled or if she had set up her OnlyFans account in response to our dissolving family. Or if perhaps, neither were connected.

I added OnlyFans – MILF = €6k per month? – to my Get Rich Quick list.

Rhona McAuliffe, July 2020.