‘Yes, she would have wanted them with her.’
‘Today was important, and as usual you decide to make it all about you.’
‘I had to leave.’ I say it more to remind myself than to persuade him.
‘I can’t understand you at all right now. You’re unbelievably selfish.’
Family is supposed to make you feel better about yourself, not worse. I hang up on him.
I fold the rubber skin back into the bag, and eat the rest of the chicken quickly, before striding out of the restaurant and onto the street. I swing the bag with each step, trying to wave away the feeling that I am being selfish. It’s selfish of him to call me selfish—I should’ve said that!
Ignoring the sour taste of grease and chicken, I get into the car and drive back to the clubhouse, very, very ready to inflict pain.
Tanya greets me, and says that she has arranged a session for me with Carl, one of the regulars. The session can last for up to two hours if it all goes well. She pauses to pump some hand sanitiser into her palm.
‘And if I don’t like it?’
‘You can leave anytime. It’s quite informal. We pair people up based on their experience levels, so an experienced member is put with a newcomer. Because let me tell you’—she pumps the sanitiser again—‘there’s nothing worse than having two newbies bash each other then leave feeling like kink isn’t for them.’ She blows on her hands to dry them. ‘Also, you should know that if you’re going to play in the middle of an afternoon on a weekday, it’s really only retirees who are available.’
‘Ah,’ I say. ‘And what does Carl look like?’
She ignores my question. ‘There’s a shower round the back, so go scrub up, and when you’re ready give me a yell and I’ll show you to the room.’
I shower off the smell of chicken, and as I’m drying myself Tanya informs me that Carl likes to be shamed. ‘He likes being laughed at, pointed at, ignored …’ she yells over the top of the cubicle. ‘He doesn’t like seeing vaginas, so underwear on at all times, please! Also, no penetration and no whipping. Sometimes he likes the nipple clamps, but let him initiate that, and only use them on him.’
‘Can he not tell me this himself?’ I ask as I pull the shower curtain open.
‘Yes, of course, but if you’re unsure of anything please ask, don’t assume; ongoing consent and negotiation is what we encourage here. Check in with each other, and stay present.’
The door buzzer interrupts my briefing, and Tanya leaves to see who it is. I lean against the sink and look at my reflection, turning my face until I see the angle where I look like my mother. Every atom feels like it bends to the sky searching for her. I imagine her here with me. She would be laughing and wanting to take pictures, hamming up the poses. Or maybe she would hate it. She would have felt sorry for the fish at reception and be bothered by the font on the paperwork. She would criticise Tanya for wearing a lot of black and not smiling more. She probably wouldn’t even like the light fittings; they’re too ornate. I reach into my bag and pull out my phone, and before any filter can kick in, I call Judy back.
She answers while I’m still looking at my mother’s jawline in the mirror.
‘Judy, hello, I miss you,’ I say.
‘You have such good timing. I’ve just sat down with a new blend of tea from the health store. It’s called Wild Woman and it has basically just a ton of cinnamon bark in it, and—hold on, I’ll read you the label.’
I hear a rustling on the other end of the line.
‘To the woman who longs for the forest and rivers, to the wild woman within. Unleash the glory of your true feminine spirit with the rich taste of bergamot, jasmine flower and intriguing spices. Right up our alley, isn’t it?’
I love how little talking I have to do with her.
‘What are you up to, love?’ she asks.
I don’t know whether to be honest or not.
‘I’m at this place,’ I say hesitantly. ‘I guess it’s a kink clubhouse.’
‘Why are you doing that, then? Most sex is weird enough nowadays. Just go and meet a fella at the pub.’
‘The pain is kind of different—it’s more considered.’ After one night at a club and a brief orientation, I sound like an expert.
‘Well, just make sure they’re not live streaming it on the internet,’ she says.
I squeeze my eyes shut and stop myself asking about Simon and Vincent.
‘Did you find the watch and the pinkie ring?’ I ask.
‘Yes, hon, but Simon was wearing the watch and Vincent had the ring on. Sorry. They are both very attached to them.’
Simon, the lump.
‘So you think I should leave this place?’
‘Probably,’ she says.
We say our goodbyes and she reminds me again to check for hidden cameras.
I message Simon: I will tear that watch off you and bury it with her.
He immediately responds: You’re not even here, you twit.
He follows with another message: FYI we decided on cremation.
I try to swiftly compartmentalise the word cremation. I don’t think any more about it; I just pop it in a box internally, then seal it shut. I don’t think about fire, or her body, or anything associated with fire and her body. I don’t think anything, because it’s in the box which is fucking shut inside of me, and he’s an absolute shit to tell me via a message, because we both work in the industry, and everyone knows that the choice between cremation or burial is something that should be discussed at length. And imagine using FYI! Imagine telling your sister something like that, and then expecting her to be okay. Imagine expecting anyone to behave once you have lit that fuse.
I message Vincent: Put that ring in an urn with her or I will never forgive
