Glutton for Punishment

HIM - PRESENT

Even with the barrel of the gun pressed to my left temple, I still crack a smile. 

She looks at me, through her thick blonde lashes and a frown creases on her brow. The barrel twists against my head, pinching my flesh.

“What’s funny?” she snarls.

I shrug.

“When it comes to chocolate, resistance is futile,” I say, my eyes landing on the velvet red box on the table between us. It is heart shaped, infuriatingly basic, an eye sore even to the purest romantic.

Within the folds of the deep red tissue papers sit 16 circular chocolates, smooth and untouched, all different shades, in a 4x4 row. The brand, cheaply stamped on the top, looks familiar somehow.

My nostrils flare and the sickly smell crawls into my brain. I wince and dig my heels into the floor, my ankles and wrists flexing against the restraints pinning me in place on my chair.

The irony is, I hate the taste of chocolate and chocolate hates me - it makes me sick.

“What?”

I look up when she speaks and my eyes meet hers.

She. Her. Mine.

Well, maybe not after this.

“It’s an author’s quote,” I chirp brightly, “read it in a book once.” The corner of my mouth curls upwards again and I see instantly that my attempt to lighten the situation has backfired.

The gun swings backwards and crashes forward into my cheek. My jaw crunches painfully as my neck snaps to the right.

Suddenly, she’s upon me, her weight on me familiar, knee flush to my crotch, a trembling hand gripping my throat. My chair rocks dangerously and I tense my thighs to prevent it from capsizing and throwing us both to the ground.

“You think this is funny,” she hisses, spittle spraying my face. 

Not really, I think, as I can’t actually say it, due to her fingers crushing my Adam’s apple. I swallow and shake my head. I know I’m not talking about the sweets set before us - is she?

She always was so hard to please. Everything I did to try to make her laugh was met with a tut. She scowled more than she smiled and often snatched her hand from mine, folding herself away from me. My jokey ways aggravated her, but I thought my charm was pleasant, my charisma attractive and my presence appreciated.

The others certainly thought so.

I let out an exaggerated choked breath and she releases me. Towering above me, her light hair falls forward over her face in waves and her freckled face falls into a stream of light from our kitchen window; she suddenly looks like an angel and I’m reminded of how much I love her. 

But then her face twists into something unpleasant as she grapples with the velvet box and brings it under my nose.

“That was always your problem,” she says, ice in her tone, thumb and finger pinching a single sweet, lifting it up and dangling it before me, “you never could keep your hands off of the cookie jar.”

“More like the chocolate tray,” I quip- I can’t help it. But she doesn’t bite. Actually she nods.

“Exactly.”

Her weight shifts, so her knee rolls and I squeal inside as I feel a sharp pinch in my groin. My thighs shake and I squeeze my fingernails into my palms.

The gun hangs from her pinkie but she waves the sweet in the air.

“Since you can’t seem to resist,” she goes on, touching the chocolate to my lips, “perhaps you can appreciate this gift I bought for you.” I press my lips together realising her game. Her other hand grabs the back of my head and her armed fingers stab the chocolate past my lips and teeth and towards my throat. I gag.

“The whole gift,” she adds sardonically and my eyes bulge, realising that my mistake was thinking the woman before me was anything but heavenly. She was the devil, it was my judgement day, a time to pay for my sins. And they were many.

HER - PAST

Maybe it was supposed to be. My creative block was jeopardising my chance to make my move into management and there were only so many excuses Jeff could cover to the big man in the boardroom.

Hired because of my wit and experience, I was expected to take Worderful Ltd out of the shadows of our fiercest competitors, line us up for the big clients and bag us the coveted trophies at the prestigious industry awards.

It started well.

Our office, bright and high up over the city, gave me “the creative space” to churn up my special way with words and serve it freshly squeezed to my fellow team of marketers and copywriters before the mid-morning break. They had all lapped it up, putty in my hands.

Task after task, I delivered. 

And after months of hard work, afternoon sprint meetings with unbearable jaunty young interns and late hours with insufferable male ego supervisors, a chance encounter with a social media health influencer at our neighbourhood coffeehouse birthed my opportunity to introduce a new client.

Her name was Carmel Dowager (fitting given her demerara sugar skin colour) - 29, enchanting, long-limbed and eccentric. Soft around the physical edges, but a hard core motivation.

We lunched the next day over caesar salad and skinny margaritas and, within the week, she was signing on the dotted line to hire Worderful to market her new project food line to her hoards of followers. And I was her girl, her chosen writer.

Good work, Jeff had said to me with his eyes that day as we watched our new client sign her name, and I had burst on the inside.

This is it, I had said to myself, this is my big break.

And it was, in a way. Except it broke me.

1 year in, I had sweetened the sound of plant-based empanadas and beetroot protein pasta lunch boxes and sold Gen-Z a dream of frozen shepherdless pies and sweet potato bake dinners.

Jeff was delighted; he assured me he would feed The Boss with sweet nothings about the company’s best employee and set me up for a level up after my approaching yearly appraisal. I was given my own team of temps, to run and fetch at my beck and call.

Soon, my greasy takeaways at the office turned into late nights at sparkly galas and PR events, mixing with the beautiful, booked and busy.

And that was where I met Him.

Tall, dark and handsome - a complete cliche.

It was a quick click, and I wondered how he had seen me in a room full of equally single and available women. Our lives fell into sync as we fell in love, even down to our matching gym sets, designer phone cases and coffee shop latte orders.

Three months in we got a dog, six months in, I moved to his place and eight months in, I accidentally took his phone instead of mine to the office. I saw the message flash up on his screen whilst I presented my pitch to a new dog food brand client. 

I miss you, you said you were leaving her?!, it said. And the banner above it said ‘Carmel D’ with one red heart at the end.

I flunked the pitch. 

I don't remember when I realised for sure that He really was a cliche - Tall (and cool), dark (and suave), handsome (and handsy) - but I do remember failing my appraisal after a few months of day-drinking, disillusionment and depression.

After my humiliating fall from grace, the handwritten, hand- delivered invitations dried up and Jeff reassigned my minions to my misogynist colleague who took over the Dowager account.

I never saw Carmel again, though I did notice her luscious dark curly hair strands hanging for dear life to the drain holes in our shower.

Embarrassing Jeff was an offence punishable by detention (overtime) working on the projects from accounts no one else had the time or patience to deal with - this demotion was a pardon and grace I was lucky to receive. Apparently so was the temporary relocation to a side office, stuffy and dusty from the London summer heat.

The project was for a new and small family-owned venture in the business of chocolate making. Jeff had explained with a yawn that they were to launch their first bespoke collection in time for next year’s Valentines Day - 8 handcrafted white, dark and milk chocolate flavours, all of which required the work of a wordsmith to woo the general public into giving them a try.

I tried. 

I bounced ideas around in my head at my favourite bar. I paced the claustrophobic office, a lovers playlist on blast. I slouched in the coffeehouse with an untouched panini. I even isolated myself in the dark of our apartment, toilet seat lid down, head in hands, but nothing was sticking.

Until He inspired me.  

He thought I was blind, that I couldn't or wouldn't see his indecent indiscretions. But he was wrong.

For example, the dark of night provided perfect cover when his keys jangled in the front door, work clothes creased, his body entering our space, but leaving his heart with someone else.

The back booths in the popular coffeehouse, attracting a trendy crowd, also attracted my trendy other half to pick up his daily latte order from the attractive young barista. The takeaway cups, guiltily tainted with lipstick stains sat at the bottom of our waste disposal, partially wrapped in branded napkins, but He forgets that trash is my responsibility. Maybe it should have been his.

So I paid more attention. I faked sickness, set up false meetings with Him in earshot, stole away early from my stuffy work prison- just to watch Him. And then, after some patient stalking, there they were. And when I say they, I don't mean Him and her. I mean Him and hers.

Voluptuous and dark skinned, with a throaty laugh and blushed cheeks.

Exotic and shy, large light-brown almond shaped eyes and sculpted fingers.

Bronzed and coy, a public flirt with a playful touch.

Tawny and young, with big round ringlets and an innocent glow.

Sharing a pot of English grey at daybreak.

Basking on a hotel balcony at twilight.

Tucked into a private booth in a club at sundown.

Swathed in silk bathrobes by midnight.

I had stood, transfixed, across the street from the Georgian townhouse in Southwark, as I watched the midnight girl, willowy and smooth, her mane of bedhead curls pinned up, collect two tea sachets from her kitchen, pour water into two mugs, and disappear from view, lights going out after her. The sachets were mint green, just like her cat-green eyes that flashed in the darkness.

And that was when it came to me.

HIM - PRESENT

I’m choking now. Spurts of brown liquid spray from my mouth and my tongue works around my teeth to rid it of the thick film left behind.

She has balanced the box between us, pressed to our chests, and I can see the horrors up close. I burp and She glares at me, tutting. See what I mean.

“Why is it that you don't like chocolate?,” She asks nonchalantly.

“You know why,” I say, “it isn't good for my stomach- it makes me sick.” Hence the puke, I think.

“And yet’, She continues, fingers scrambling to pick up another sweet, “you keep going back for more.” She brings the chocolate up to her eye level and inspects it like it is made of diamonds. Then she flips the lid of the box around so she is looking down at it.

“Caramel Cheat,” she seems to read, her eyes dancing. They have taken on a crazy glint now.

“A sharp salted caramel bite - pleasing to the eye and tongue, this enticing mix of decadence will steal your heart from the start.”

Only her eyes move and she stares at me.

“Sound familiar?”

Despite the frighteningly scary drop in her tone, I think this is a genuine question, so I rack my brains for the answer. Perhaps she will put the gun down if I get it right. 

“Oh, are these from that fancy boutique round the corner, the one with -”

I don't finish, because a deep feral growl springs from her mouth, my scalp screams as she tightens her grip in my hair and plunges the chocolate into my mouth. A sludge of sticky salt and sugar, the grit of the spices graze my tongue as I work to free my airways because I am suddenly staring up the barrel of the gun.

“Carmel,” she spits, gun shaking in her grip.

“It’s caramel,” I assure her, chewing furiously, my jaw aching and my stomach suddenly grinding into action. I just need to be calm, play along and find out what this is about.

Up comes another chocolate, and I can see this one is dark, red sprinkles on the top. And in my mouth it goes.

My cheeks burn as a shot of something alcoholic bursts against my lips.

“Mmmmm,” I fake, “babe, this is yummy, but, can we just talk, you seem upset about something.”

Just like the burn in my throat, She erupts into fire. She's shaking as well, and actually, I think her teeth are chattering. And then she starts reading again from the box.

“Kirsch Kisses - try but fail to sober up from these full bodied cherries soaked in kirsch liqueur, wrapped in a cloak of sultry dark chocolate.”

“Sounds just like Afia, right,” she adds and my head jerks.

Wait - did she say Afia?

My mind has been saying that name over and over all morning. There’s a woman, Afia. I met her at a bar. She was bubbly, curvy in all the right places, striking and a hardcore drinker. We did shots all night the first time I met her. After that we moved onto…Wait, what?

“Afia,” I say dumbfounded. She nods slowly.

Wait. Oh no, no…

“Babe…,” I start but she's coming close, ready for round 3.

Whilst I choke on chilli, She sneers, “Heart of Habanero - a hot kick to the throat, this milk chocolate and chilly concoction leaves you high and dry, but teary-eyed.”

And now I get it. 

Now I understand what this is.

She knows. 

Not just about the chocolate box of flings, but about the individual chocolates themselves - my special other girlfriends.

“Would you like to guess this one, sweetie,” she says, her voice poisonous. I am breathing heavily and I take some breaths between pursed lips.

“Yuliet”,” I say.

The flirty Cuban cutie who played along for months and then disappeared within days, leaving me ‘on read’.

And then, it’s just a conveyor belt of evil.

I start to fight her, but she finds her centre of gravity on my lap and resolves to pinch my nose instead of holding my head, slingshotting the candies into my gasping mouth one after the other, talking calmly above my retching and useless pleading.

“Pistachio Persuasion- our choc almond and pistachio nougat will leave you tempted to touch, persuaded to crunch.”

Oh God, Asal. Confident, sometimes snappy, barely spoke English, muttered to herself in Farsi, and loved to hold my hand over dinner. 

“Rum Rendezvous - ready to risk it all for luxury? Open your emotions and senses to rich and warm Caribbean rum, folded into buttercream and sealed with a wet chocolate kiss.”

My confidant Sonya. An affluent resort owner from the Bahamas, a great listener who twirled with her waist-length braids as we lounged in her presidential suite.

“Requiem for a Cookies and Cream dream - soft, sweet and soothing, a perfect escape from reality- white chocolate surrounded by a made-to-melt shell of shortbread and milk chocolate.”

Little, well young, Alexandria, or Lex for short. One of my dad’s golf buddies' daughters. Giggly and pliable, she did anything I wanted. Even booking us business class flights for a break to Milan. 

“Minted by Midnight- a tempting tryst, our butter mint caramel coated in 70% rich dark chocolate won’t make you bitter, but it might keep you up after dark.”

Must be Raquel. Casual and available, guaranteed to be awake in the early hours, we’d talk over tea, her pretty green eyes bright, inviting me to stay til dawn.

After this, I can't seem to hear anything, but my mouth works to chew, on autopilot, and my mind fills with the faces of the women who have filled my life for the past few months.Their bodies, laughs, habits, quirks and yet, I can't see Her amongst them.Carmel, Yuliet, Asal, Sonya, Lex, Raquel, Priyanka, Margarita, Ming- the others whose names I don't remember now. They might have all been flings, but they all gave me something. A place to escape to. A thrill to chase. An ear to listen. A credit card to spend.

But She? She spent all of her time climbing the creative ladder, and there was no space for me on that rung at the top. So I insulted her time and time again, dared to violate our space with other women, because honestly, I was completely starving for attention. 

Then I realise that the box is empty on my chest and that I am bent over in agony, wanting to rip my stomach from my body. Our kitchen around us swims before my eyes. She is standing now, on the other side of the table, gun down, blonde head cocked.

“All that chocolate,” she sighs, “and you were still never satisfied.”

Then she is pacing towards the door, her back to me. It’s over. We’re over.

“You make me sick,” is her throw away comment and I wait for the door to slam behind her before my mouth buckles and I vomit into the velvet box, my sordid overindulgence now a mess left for me alone to clean up.