The Education of Sebastian (17 page)

He pulled me down onto the sand so I was half-lying across his chest. One hand was tangled in my hair and the other pressing into the small of my back. My lips crushed his and he forced his tongue into my mouth, locking us together.

I had to break off the kiss before we went too far; it was still mid-afternoon and I was hyper-aware that someone could stumble across us at any time.

Sebastian was reluctant to let me go and I had to push hard against his chest to make him release me.

I was breathless when we rolled apart. He threw an arm over his face and groaned softly.

“Fuck, Caro,” he said softly, and he turned to stare at me, his sea-green eyes accusing.

“We have to get back,” I said, cowardly as ever. “You’ll be late for your shift.”

I started trudging back up the beach and, reluctantly, he followed me.

“Don’t forget to bring me an application form for the country club,” I said, trying to lighten his somber mood.

He smiled slightly. “I guess I could take some day shifts, if you’re going to be there.”

“And maybe you’d better arrange to go out with Ches a few times.”

“What for?”

I sighed in exasperation. “To throw him off the scent and…”

“And what?”

“Well, if our plans work out, you won’t be seeing him again.”

His eyes widened in surprise. He clearly hadn’t thought about what he’d be giving up if we did make it to New York.

I looked at him steadily, watching him regain his equilibrium.

“Ches is a good buddy – but I love you: you’re where I want to be.”

And that was it: his alpha and omega.

I drove us back, torn between joy and fear, and wishing the night would race past so we could be together again.

A few blocks from his house, I pulled the car to the curb. He brushed his lips over my hand and got out quickly. “Tomorrow,” he said, and his words were not a question but an answer – and a promise.

The house, my so-called home, seemed empty and unwelcoming. It didn’t bother me, not really, not anymore, but I couldn’t help noticing the emptiness a little more each day.

I set up my laptop at the kitchen table and sketched out some topics for articles. I was pleasantly surprised by how easily the ideas flowed. Then again, after 11 years of being a military spouse, there wasn’t much I didn’t know about Base life. And David talked so much about the hospital that I pretty much wrote out an entire article in one go.

I was enjoying myself too much because I didn’t realize how late it had gotten. Suddenly David was standing over me inspecting the kitchen for evidence of a meal; when he realized nothing was ready, his already chilly look became glacial.

“The least you could do is to prepare a meal when I come home, Caroline, instead of playing around on your computer. I should throw the damn thing away.”

“I wasn’t
playing
,” I said sourly. “I’m working on some articles for City Beat: they’ve accepted the one I wrote on surfing and they’re publishing it on Thursday with my photographs.”

He frowned. “What for?”

“Because they thought it was
good
. It may be a surprise to you, David, but there are some people out there who think I can actually do something useful.”

“What would be useful would be for my wife to cook a fucking meal when I come home in the evenings.” He paused, staring coolly at me. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately, Caroline. You’re forgetful, distracted, disorganized. In fact I’d say that you’ve been acting very strangely for some time.”

He paused, waiting for his words to sink in. I stared back, afraid he suspected something. For all his faults, my husband was not a stupid man. At least, not in that way.

“I think you should see a doctor. I’ve made you an appointment to see Dr Ravel,” he said at last, his tone carefully neutral.

“What? There’s nothing wrong with me! Who’s Dr Ravel?”

“A competent gynecologist, Caroline. I suspect you’re experiencing an early menopause.”

I couldn’t help gaping at him. He was really unbelievable.

“David, I’m only thirty! Most women don’t reach the menopause until they’re 50.”

“Don’t be obtuse, Caroline. Early menopause is not uncommon and you have all the symptoms.”

“What symptoms, for fuck’s sake?”

“Don’t use language like that, Caroline. It’s unpleasant and unnecessary.”

“What symptoms, David?”

“Mood swings, irritability… loss of libido. Dr Ravel will undertake a colposcopy to ascertain which stage you’re at. They are expecting you at OB-GYN Reception at 10
AM
. I’ve already checked that our insurance covers the exam.”

“David, I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous. I…”

“Maybe I should make you an appointment with a psychiatrist instead!”

I was outraged. “How dare you!”

“Then you tell me why you refuse intercourse with your husband!” he snarled.

He turned away from me, his ferocious temper barely in check.

Gingerly, I closed my laptop. My hands shook slightly as I prepared a cold pasta salad, but my brain was working feverishly, desperately trying to come up with a suitable reply, some convincing words. As usual, his molten anger silenced me.

I was furious with myself for not standing up to him. How dare he?! Then again, he’d had 11 years’ practice making me feeling inconsequential; there was certainly no reason for him to stop now.

Although he didn’t suspect the truth, I couldn’t help thinking it would be a case of when, not if. My life, once so gray and certain, was now on shifting sands. Whatever the catalyst, no one had forced me to go in the direction I’d chosen. I wasn’t sure what choices I had now, other than to wait until Sebastian was of age. If I went to a lawyer about a divorce tomorrow, how long would it be before my ‘affair’ became known? That was the crux of the problem. I was committing a crime; David’s only crime was to be born an asshole and just grow bigger.

We ate in silence and he didn’t speak to me again that evening. Nor did he try to touch me, which was a blessing.

Breakfast passed with the same cheerless routine. Perhaps we both breathed a sigh of relief when it was time for him to go to work. He flung down my appointment card as he left.

At 9.45
AM 
I presented myself at the OB-GYN reception. The waiting room was already full of pregnant women, toddlers and babies, each trying to make themselves heard above the din. I felt conspicuous and ill at ease. One of the women smiled kindly and raised her eyebrows in acknowledgment of the noise. She probably assumed I was newly pregnant.

What the hell was I doing here? I’d had a Pap smear just six months ago and that had come back clear. I had no menopausal symptoms and I knew David was just using this as a means of exercising his power: and I was letting him. Again.

I was ashamed of myself for being so weak. Part of me wanted to get it over with to appease him for a few more weeks; but another, newer, bolder part was telling me to stand up to him.

Somewhere a door opened and the moving air caused posters tacked to a corkboard to flutter colorfully. The notice for a women’s rights group caught my eye: ‘However we dress, wherever we go – yes means yes, and no means no’.

There was something about the simple wording that resonated: perhaps it was my turn, at last, to say no.

I took a deep breath and stood up. The appointment receptionist looked irritated to see me standing in front of her window for a second time.

“Yes, may I help you?” she said curtly, clearly having no wish to help me whatsoever.

“Yes, you may. I had an appointment for 10
AM
with Dr Ravel, but I’ve decided to cancel it.”

“Cancel it?”

“That’s right. I apologize for wasting Dr Ravel’s time.”
But not yours, you sour-faced cow.

“Well, that’s most irregular. Dr Ravel is a very busy woman.”

“Hence the apology.”

“Hmm, well. I can give you another appointment in five weeks and…”

“No, there’s no need. No appointment necessary. Thank you.”

And I left, leaving her puzzled and annoyed.

Damn, that felt good! Even though I knew I’d have to face David’s ire later. What the hell: I was a habitual irritation to him anyway. For the first time, it occurred to me that he might even be a happier man without me in his life. I wasn’t sure he’d see it that way, without his cook, cleaner, party organizer and occasional sexual toy, but it might even be true.

I drove out of the hospital parking lot feeling elated and jittery. I’d taken my first baby steps towards independence.

On a roll and feeling unusually daring, I headed out to the country club. I knew Sebastian had taken a double shift. He hadn’t been happy at not seeing me in the morning, but when I said I was having a doctor’s check-up, he’d acquiesced at once and said he’d work to take his mind off ‘things’. He promised to text me on his break but now I was hoping to see him before that: a surprise.

The country club was located at the end of a long, private drive, fringed by an avenue of mature palm trees. The single story was old Spanish-style: white with tall arches, and a wide, cool veranda running around three sides, and frothing with bougainvillea in rich magenta. Broad steps led up to an impressive frontage, and green lawns flowed down towards an 18 hole golf course. Behind the building, I could see the ocean stretching towards the horizon, breakers rumbling in the background. Whoever had picked the location had done half the job of selling memberships.

My old Ford looked so out of place I dumped it in the rear parking lot, deftly avoiding the valet service as I walked towards the entrance.

It was clear that the dress code was more than advisory: men wore polo shirts with collars and women’s skirts were of a decent length. I couldn’t spot an un-tucked shirt anywhere. A handsome young man in uniform smiled at me as I walked up the steps. Sebastian had hinted at the way staff were selected: those I could see were young and attractive, wearing Navy blue shorts and plain, white T-shirts with the club’s logo discreetly positioned.

I was glad I’d dressed up for my abortive hospital appointment, otherwise I’d have felt even more intimidated by the grand surroundings.

“May I help you, ma’am?” said the well-dressed young woman at the reception desk.

“Yes, I’d like a membership form, please.”

“Certainly, ma’am. Would that be an individual membership, associate member, executive or junior executive member, non-resident membership or social membership?”

“I… I…”

“The individual membership starts at $1,000 per month, with an initial fee of $4,000 or for a social membership, if you don’t wish to play golf…”

“I believe Mrs. Wilson is entitled to the Active Duty Military Membership.”

The voice made me jump.

“Of course, Mrs. Vordstadt,” said the receptionist, rummaging through her files, then passing over a thick sheaf of paper.

I turned to find Donna standing behind me, smiling at my surprise.

“I didn’t figure you for a country club type, Caroline. Or perhaps this is more David’s thing?”

I tried to wipe the shock off my face but I don’t think I was entirely successful.

“Donna, how… how nice to see you. Yes, I, um, just came to pick up a membership form: I had no idea there were so many different types.”
Or that it would be so expensive.

“One of the few benefits of military service – and it puts the fee down to a more manageable $500 a month,” she whispered conspiratorially.

She took my elbow and led me out to a seating area at the rear. Several women were sipping cocktails, even at this early hour. The view of the ocean was stunning and the club had a large pool area, peppered with sun loungers and fringed umbrellas. I was far from enjoying it though: foolishly, it hadn’t occurred to me that I’d bump into anyone I knew here. And now Donna was ordering coffee for the two of us.

“I’m so glad you’re here, Caroline. We haven’t had a chance to chat and I did so want to thank you for inviting us to your home on Saturday. I really should have called before now.”

“Oh, no, that’s fine…”

There was an awkward pause: perhaps we were both remembering how the evening had ended – or our different versions of that.

“Is David a golfer?” she said at last.

“A bit, in Florida,” I said, flustered. He’d played a couple of times that I could recall.

“And you?”

“No, I prefer the beach,” I said truthfully. “Swimming, sailing: anything like that.”

“Have you tried surfing?”

I’m sure I blushed beet red: I was thankful that my tan covered it up a little.

“No, I’ve never tried.”

“You should get the boys to teach you,” she suggested.

I nearly choked on my coffee.

“I’m sure Mitch Peters wouldn’t mind helping out.”

I smiled weakly. Clearly the ‘boys’ she was thinking of were quite different to the ones – the one – I had in mind.

“I thought you might have been tempted,” she continued.

I was ready to crawl through the floor: her words laced with unintentional double entendres.

And then I saw Sebastian.

He looked so handsome in his crisp, snug uniform; no one would have guessed he was still only 17. Certainly not me – he looked more like early twenties. It was easy to see how the club could get away with allowing him to serve alcohol. It seemed I suffered from the same hypocrisy.

Donna turned to see what, or rather who, I was staring at.

“Oh, there’s the Hunters’ boy. I remember Shirley Peters mentioning that her son was going to get him a job here.”

She waved to attract his attention, as I sank lower into my chair.

He hesitated for a moment, then strode over.

“Good morning, ladies,” he said smoothly.

His audacity brought a small smile to my lips.

“Hello, Sebastian,” said Donna.

“Hi,” I said, shyly.

“How long have you been working here?” asked Donna.

“Just a few days. Ches Peters got me a job.”

“And how are you liking it?”

“It’s getting better,” he said, glancing at me.