Authors: Ellen Lane,Taylor Young
I tried to let it go, tried to feel relief in the idea that Alfred was pouting and he would probably contact me sooner or later. Maybe another dramatic entrance at the store or the salon? But no, nothing. Once again he stopped all communications cold.
He was beyond pouting—he was offended. Whatever I did he didn’t think it was worthy of any response. To my surprise, he didn’t even blurb about our status in his newest book chapters. Not a word regarding Barb or any character remotely reminiscent of me. I started to wonder if I really had become “dead” to him. Maybe real life was like genre fiction in that way; once a character served his or her purpose, it really was the end.
One passage on his latest newsletter did pique my interest. And being the curious, and apparently “snooping” type of person that I am, I had to wonder if it was about me.
The most difficult thing about love is finding someone—not only that you can trust, but who is also capable of trusting you. Too many people you meet in life are using you. They’re totally unwilling to trust you and they will rub that in your face constantly. My philosophy is NO. Life is too short. Don’t spend the rest of your life being someone’s personal assistant, constantly reassuring them that everything is just fine and dandy. Even as a celebrity, that is something I have no interest in. Ideally, I would like to find a strong and independent woman capable of loving and being loved, without the mind games.
Make no mistake about it—insanity disguises itself as love. It’s up to the thinking person to recognize the symptoms and put an end to it.
It at once seemed nicely crafted and yet sincere. It did seem like he was legitimately hurt. It once again seemed to me that we were both speaking a different language when we were together; and the discrepancies made us doubt the other’s virtue. I thought he was lying and he thought I was nosey and abrasive. And yet, though we understand the problem well, we can’t seem to get passed it, as that would involve trading perspectives—an alien idea to the both of us, I’m sure.
Since I was “grounded” by Alfred and he wasn’t speaking to me, I decided there was only one thing left to do: try to look for middle ground, somewhere in between the Saintly Alfie and the Vengeful Mr. Banes that Victoria sold me on. Maybe the truth was somewhere in between. Maybe he was neither a good or a bad man, but simply damaged. Maybe his game playing was not intentional but the natural result of a traumatized mind.
I researched Alfred’s former life and did manage to stumble upon an online book called “Saving Mr. Banes”, a bit of a tongue in cheek title, but one that did earnestly seek to define Alfred Banes’ notorious problems with women, as the media often reported. The more I read of his unauthorized biography the more I began to understand the man’s pain—the very least of which was knowledge of his sexual proclivities. On the other hand, he seemed to be a man vilified by the press and by his own fans, as someone who was incapable of love. What kind of an existence would a person lead—indeed, a woman—if the whole world knew you were damaged goods and incapable of ever trusting anyone? It was cruel and unusual punishment to not let the man discover himself, through time, the way everyone else did. He was forever caged by fame and urban legend. The book itself I found harrowing to read, as it was, predictably not a story about good or evil but about miscommunication.
Alfred Banes first met Victoria in Calgary and the two immediately felt an attraction together. Victoria was a bit naïve and Alfred was, as always, the strong and confident father figure and surrogate dad. But their relationship deteriorated quickly. Alfred’s honeymoon phase ended within two years and soon, Victoria began showing signs of mental illness.
He later told friends that he felt she was becoming codependent and would actually look for ways to hurt him, just to keep him under her control. Banes endured much; over three years of insanity, according to statements he made to a newspaper reporter. He also said that as the marriage fell apart, she began extorting from him, stealing and intimidating her way to his money.
Banes didn’t care about the money. He felt extreme guilt and wanted his wife to be cared for. But whatever this hold was that she had on him, it really went beyond codependence. Some journalists closer to Banes suggested that it may have involved drugs of some sort, or some other psychological hold that was simply too insane to be based in reason or mutual respect.
When they finally did divorce, Banes told reporters “exiting the marriage, selfish though it was, saved my life.” He never explained anything besides that. And he never said anything negative about his ex-wife publicly. He remained silent on the subject for two years, until he officially gave condolences for her passing.
The book got at least one fact wrong—Victoria never died, she simply died in Banes’ eyes and God knows why. Victoria said something about her cheating and how the rumors weren’t true. But it’s very possible something else happened that she is too ashamed to fess up to.
As is typical Alfred ignored my pleas to meet again and discuss the ugliness between us. Not even a “screw you letter” back to me. I felt a tinge of what Victoria must have felt way back when, as she struggled with codependent feelings. How can you turn your back on a man who likes you, suffers for you, and then decides you’re not worth it? If nothing else, there is a strong desire to apologize—to gain closure. It doesn’t always have to be about sex or possession.
I did the only reasonable thing I could think of at that point. I stalked Alfred outside of his favorite restaurant and watched in wide-eyed, prurient interest as he brought another woman to the table. Apparently, Alfred was getting along just fine and wasn’t the least bit concerned about our tragic misunderstanding.
That did it! I had to give him a piece of my mind. Tragic or not, traumatized or not, my pity for him had to take a backseat just this one time. What kind of a guy balls me up, throws a no-talking tantrum and then dates someone else without so much as a goodbye? Bullshit, Alfred! Maybe you’re damaged but you’re still an asshole—and that’s pretty much what I was going to tell him that lovely evening.
“How’s the wine?” I heard him ask his date, happy as can be.
“A little dry,” she said, bubbly as I’d expect—completely opposite of me!
Ergh, I hate feeling jealous but it’s infuriating when one of you actually does move on. It just hammers your self-confidence, especially someone like me who can’t help but stay in one place, year after year.
I decided to throw a tantrum worthy of Alfred Banes’ attention, and just about the same level of immaturity as he showed me. I walked right up to the table, fuming inside but wearing a downright creepy smile.
“Hi!” I announced, as fake-happy as a waitress on the first day of her job.
Alfred choked on his wine and quickly put it down, calming himself.
“Hi!” the oblivious woman said. “Are you our waitress?”
“Uhh actually, no, I’m not. My name’s Barbara. I’m a friend of Alfred’s. Isn’t that right, Alfred? Honey?”
His eyes widened in rage but he refrained from speaking, looking down at his table in “deep thought.”
“I know all about Alfred. We go way back. Way, way, way back.”
“Oh! That’s nice…” she said, finally picking up on the bad vibes.
“Yeah. We both went to Woodstock. Right, Alfred? Nothing but sex, drugs and music. Was pretty cool,” I said mockingly to the poor, confused girl.
“Ummm that sounds cool. Uh, I gotta go to the bathroom.”
She made a pained face and quickly excused herself, allowing me to sit down and grin—a goofy, crazy kind of grin probably like he was used to seeing by now. So many crazy women that want him, poor fellow!
“All right, Barb,” he said spitefully. “Full attention. Now what the hell do you want?”
“Oh, I have your full attention? Really? And how much attention is blondie over there getting?”
“That’s none of your business, is it?”
“You know what?” I said, pounding the table and letting all my emotions out for once. “That’s your problem. You think the world owes you respect. That we’re all just supposed to act like this is the first grade and you’re the teacher. Shut up and just do what I say, right? Well that’s NOT me. That’s NOT realistic at all. Who do you think you are, lying and going behind my back?”
“We’re not together!” he said, raising his voice and leaning forward. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”
“I know we’re not together, but you STILL have to cut this shit out, Alfred! I’m tired of being your accessory. Your plot device. You owed me something better than that. I trusted you.”
I folded my arms and felt a pang of sorrow pass through me, silencing me for a long moment. His own rage calmed as he saw me struggling for words. “I didn’t trust you to be exclusive to me. I trusted you to be honest. I didn’t want another story from a series you wrote. I wanted the truth. Why can’t you tell anyone the truth? Is that against your profession?”
“Because people like you don’t want the truth.”
“People like me? What does that mean? Women? My race? Oh wait, I know…the poor folk. The regular everyday person not burdened with the obligation of wealth. Is that it?”
“No, that’s not what I meant,” he said tiredly. He stood up, ready to leave.
I quickly jumped up after him, angry enough to point a finger in his face. “No of course not. Because every word you say has to be a riddle. Right? Every conversation has to end with the reader wanting more. Well fuck that. This is real life, Banes. And I’m tired of reading the novel that is your sad, pathetic life. Go ahead and fuck whoever you want. Because I’m not attracted to weak, lying men. Got it?”
“HEY!” he said indignantly.
“What?” I said, provoked by his tone of voice and walking forward, ready to punch and kick at a moment’s notice.
…Or grab each other in a tight and passionate kiss. Our mutual hatred evaporated and turned into something greedy and destructive. Insulting, demeaning but oh so intense. We lunged into each other’s faces and kissed again, sucking up the negative energy, almost ignorant of our surroundings.
It was a dance of sorts, a clueless attempt to communicate with the only common denominator that felt real. My blood boiled and my skin seemed to flush when I felt his touch. He felt the same way as he stared into my eyes, at least silently admitting that he did have an unexplainable attraction to me—one that neither of us understood.
Words seemed irrelevant. I was crazy and he was stubborn, that much we knew. But the desire to break all the rules and do something shameful was always there.
“You’re crazy,” he whispered to met, putting his arms around my back, unable to break himself away from touching me.
“You like it that way. I want you now.”
“No. You’re just going to have to wait.”
“No. Now. Right now. Follow me.”
“Why should I?”
“Do it,” he said.
It’s hard for me to explain but there is something about Alfred that I can’t control. Even though I am angry at him and think about what I am going to do and say before meeting him, the moment that I am with him his personality creates this sexual energy and desire inside of me that overrides everything that I have thought about.
The thought of having sex in public and in front of some nosey patron turned us both on, and yeah, the idea that it might have been his date for the night was satisfying.
After all, restaurant sex didn’t have the luxury of bedroom sex—especially since Banes was presumably a member and had to save face.
So he left his date in the restaurant, we went home and did finish what we started.
Every time got together we seemed to break some new taboo or exceed some boundary of good taste. I’m not sure why, or what motivates our strange connection, but at this point it’s not something I want to talk myself out of.
Maybe all we are together is sex. Maybe Alfie, or maybe both of us, are incapable of love. Maybe these kinds of comfortable, wordless moments are all that really exist in the universe.
Just when I think I have Alfred pegged as a womanizing commitment-phobe, he does something unexpected. As we lay in bed that night, pondering deep thoughts, giggling over silly memories of the future, and forgave each other with body language, he finally expressed something that could only be called the uncomfortable, unfiltered truth.
“I know I indicated that she was dead,” he said straightly. But the truth is that I was too embarrassed to acknowledge her reality.”
I nodded, reserving judgment for a man who’s as complicated as the novels he weaves. “She’s an acknowledgement of old failures. Of past guilt.”
“Well…”
“When one of you is naïve and the other worldly-wise there is always a power dynamic that exists.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“And she was attracted to your wealth and power, obviously.”
“What?” he asked, genuinely confused. “Just what kind of lies has SHE been telling you?”
“That’s not true?”