Page 8 of Downfall

“Bella.” Mae, one of the maids calls, rushing after her and then she stops a look of relief when she sees it’s me and not my husband. “I’m sorry. I was watching her but she got out…”

“It’s okay Mae.” I say scooping her up into my arms. She’s a shit-zuh pug cross with a snorty little nose and big bug eyes. She resembles more of an ewok than a dog. I rescued her from a pound where she’d been overlooked by everyone because she’s allergic to absolutely everything and clearly people wanted a less costly pet.

Most of the women around me have dogs. Designer dogs that fit in their handbags and need to be groomed daily. But, while Bella would certainly fit in my Louis Vuitton, she’d probably bite me if I tried to put her in it and I wouldn’t blame her either.

Besides, she gives me a great excuse to be out of the house at any given moment. To be in the park too. Because no one bats an eye at a person walking their dog. But a woman, sat alone, for hours on end? That would certainly garner unwanted attention.

I pass her back to the maid. Though my husband doesn’t know it most of her duties now revolve around my dog, ensuring she is never left alone because she has separation anxiety and sadly being who I am means I have to be seen out at every big event, I have to be photographed, and having her with me is not always an option.

“I’ll be back later.” I say.

I need to be out of the house. I need to be doing something because this place is giving me cabin fever again.

* * *

I hit the gym hard.Focusing all the tension that seems to have wound itself tight inside me and, as my feet pound onto the treadmill, I visualise it ebbing away. Only it doesn’t. No matter how many miles I run, no matter how many weights I lift, even when my legs protest too much, nothing eases what seems to growing inside me.

The gym is attached to the clubhouse. Anyone who is anyone has membership here though it’s more common to see them in the spa than it is seeing them sweat it out like I do on an almost daily basis. I’m not even a health freak. I just come here because there’s little else in my life to do. I’m not allowed to work. And I can hardly sit around eating cake all day because Paris would very quickly take advantage of that. He can’t have a fat wife. Image is everything to him.

After we married he put me on a diet. Though he’d never understood the reasons behind my weight gain he was quick to ensure my body was honed into something of goddess proportions. He even makes me stand on the scales for him. Bi-weekly. If he could, he’d control all my eating too, but luckily even he understands how the gossip rags would view that if it got out.

And it would.

Somehow they seem more than adept at delving out the grimiest parts of our lives, though mercifully none of them have yet to realise my darkest secrets. The one that keeps me up at night. The one that forces me out. The one that even now simmers inside, never quite releasing its grip enough to let me get free.

Two hours later and I’m done with my workout. The gym was quieter than usual. I guess most people didn’t want to be seen here, today of all days. Most of them were probably at the funeral. At the wake. Eating the fine spread the Montague’s put on and offering their sympathies like they give a shit.

I grab a shower, rinsing off the sweat that pools across my skin and then carefully I replace my makeup. I’m more an advocate of the French way of beauty, with less is more, but thanks to Paris’s hands I often have to wear heavier foundation. It’s safer to opt for more coverage, even when I don’t need it, than raise suspicions.

When I’ve finished drying my hair I grab my bag and wonder if I have time for a ‘walk’ before dinner. Will she be there? I think the days she is are worse than when she’s absent because seeing her, knowing I can’t talk to her, interact with her in any way is like a dagger that delves deeper and deeper into my heart.

Someone barges into me as I open the door and I step back.

“Sorry.” I say and then my eyes widen as I realise who it is.

Sofia.

Her eyebrows raise and then quickly the mask comes down. “It’s my fault.” She says. “I was distracted.”

“You have good reason to be.” I reply.

She frowns for a second and then steps aside. We’ve barely spoken. Barely ever exchanged more than a word here and there. We both know who the other is though I wonder how much she knows about me. About my past. About her brother too.

As she walks past I weigh up the consequences of what I’m about to do and for once throw caution to the wind.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” I say.

She stops. Turns. Meets my gaze. Clearly she’s trying to figure out if I’m being genuine or just trying to twist the blade like any other Capulet would.

“Thank you.” She says after a moment.

“He was a good father.” I say.

She tilts her head. “Was he?” She replies. “With whom are you comparing him to?”

“With my own.” I say.

She frowns more and the air around us thickens to the point you could actually put your hand out and grasp it.

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