STEPS

CHAPTER NINE The Prince

When the blue-eyed Prince arrived, whisking me off my not-so grounded feet, I perversely hoped. I counted on him being the one to topple William. I gave myself over, immersing my being in his proprietary presence. Even bloody eating fish once, consumed by the need to accommodate his absoluteness.

A part of me still fearing, still harbouring mistrust. Too little time for the old wounds to have properly healed, wounds I was not even aware of having anyway. The past rendering me incapable of now accepting goodness on face - value, at times even discounting my very worthiness. Niggling thoughts of escape countering any notion of containing myself within a single, absolute emotion. 

Despite the enormity of this thing between us, it was impossible to bestow on William the gift of honesty. The more I gave over, the greater my fear and desperation, expanding and at times overwhelming all other positive states of being. Yet unaware those years of this reluctance being a consequence of past events; my inability to fully embrace the present, embrace possibility, stemming from those crippling, breath-stealing moments in my youth.

William saying, "Trust me," heard, but not taken in. Having no basis for bestowing trust, a trust abused over and over in the preceding years. No off-switch to hide the memories, and no on-switch to light up the prospect of re-evaluating this detested word.

The one decisive day I invited William into the Prince's domain? Showing off the apartment paid for by the Prince, rubbing it into William's face because sure, I wanted him to act. React. Exhibit some proprietary protest. Maybe a proclamation I too was likewise acting, reacting. Maybe his assertion this was fictitious, an attempt to void the reality between us? Anything but the disinterest I saw in his casual glances around the room, his practical impassiveness.

Yeah. My Prince had arrived, his chariot a Range Rover. His arrival during yet another evening on the town with friends, another attempt to lose myself in reckless diversion-seeking; something I supposed sustained me. A bottle of Cristal deposited on our table, the waiter saying someone "over there" had sent it, pointing to my left; my eyes looking across the sea of tables, intrigued by this audacious gesture.

I scrutinised faces, especially those turned in my direction yet could not equate anyone with the deed. We drank the fine champagne and I was soon floating on drunken suppositions, the music supporting my curious musings.

When the Prince appeared, I looked up into blue eyes and the unexpected fear of drowning in their colour, sensing immediately the existence of turmoil below their calm surface. He leaned down, whispered in my ear and handed me a business card.

"Call me."

My boozed-up eyes tried to focus on the name, the string of long numbers indicating a mobile phone - a rarity those days. He swaggered away, wide shoulders encased in an expensive suit, the brick-like phone in one hand. Waiters cleared a passage for him. The word commanding entered my fuzzy thinking. An intriguing new word, collaborating with the bold action, sending danger signals. The audacity of his breeching my private space! The assertion I was open to his invitation despite my husband sitting alongside, a possessive arm across the back of my chair. I was intrigued sure. This fascination always the prelude for each new disaster I tumbled into.

I stared at the card for a week. Removed it from my wallet, practiced saying the name, reading the long string of numbers until I could recite them from memory. A week of standing on yet another precipice, the small white card an invitation to jump off, dive in, detour again. Temptation taunting me:  Why me? What had he seen?"

I called him - yet another tentative, "Hello?"

 "I've been waiting for you." His reply conjuring the image of a smug smile at the other end of the line... also - a welcome?