CHAPTER11
Violet
The new ring on my finger hooks on everything. It pulls my hair when I drag a brush through it, tears the lace of my bra, and leaves a long scratch mark on my arm when I wash myself in the shower.
Every time I look at the small, black-tainted diamond, the nuances of the words that had bounced like dirty accusations and angry promises off the walls of Damian’s showroom repeat in my head. I accused Leon of treating me like a cheap whore, and he told me in no uncertain terms he’d never let me go. No wonder Tony had run from the room as if his pants were on fire. The only one who didn’t seem embarrassed was Damian.
Like a pesky reminder, the ring is always in the line of my vision. I notice it when I stir sugar into my coffee and when I fasten my hands on the steering wheel. I see it when I stroke Tiger’s back and when I draw a woman with diamond teardrops falling from her eyes. I especially see it when I draw the woman in a skimpy dress and fishnet stockings at the human market, her eyes brimming with humiliation as the horny alien with the bulge in his pants purchases her with a cheap ring he slaps onto the palm of her handler.
Slowly but surely, a story starts to emerge from the haphazard drawings. The picture book story takes shape as the days roll on to Saturday. I’m not going to show them as part of my portfolio for my interview. I won’t dare. For the purpose of the interview, I prepare my final year university portfolio. It’s not exactly suitable for the job I’m applying for, but the sketches give a good indication of my skill.
On Saturday morning, I’m so nervous that I wake up extra early. I’m nervous because I want this job. Badly. I need it for survival, and I don’t only mean the physical kind. Using Leon’s money makes me sick. I only charge the credit card he gave me if I absolutely must buy food or toiletries. I can’t spend his money on luxuries. I can’t go out for a coffee or invite my mom for lunch at a restaurant. My pride won’t let me. To me, this job means a measure of independence, and the truth is there’s very little chance one of the best tattoo artists in the country is going to employ a rookie like me.
Blowing out a sigh, I give up on sleeping and turn my face on my pillow. Leon is breathing evenly next to me. Since the day he bought me an engagement ring, we’ve had sex every day. The routine is always the same. It starts with a touch or a look, sometimes innocent and sometimes not. One of us inevitably caves, initiating sex. We fuck like animals, rough and needy, and when he’s emptied himself inside me, he leaves two fifties on the nightstand, right next to the box of diamonds where it’s gathering dust.
Trying not to wake him, I get up quietly, but the moment I’m on my feet, he opens his eyes.
“It’s early,” he says.
I turn toward the bathroom. “I can’t sleep.”
Before I can take a step, he leans over the bed and grabs my arm. I look at where his fingers are locked around my wrist.
Rubbing a thumb over my pulse, he asks, “Stressed?”
“Yes,” I admit.
“How about hot cross buns for breakfast? The bakery in Greenside opens early. They make the buns fresh. They’ll still be warm.”
How does he even know I love hot cross buns? It’s tempting, but the job interview is a big enough kindness. I don’t want him to do me more favors that he can later use against me. “Don’t put yourself out on my behalf.”
“I’ll get a latte while I’m there. They make the best ones in town.”
“If you say so.”
He lets me go.
I clear my throat. “Do you want to use the shower first?”
“No.” He studies me with his dark eyes. “Go ahead. I’ll shower when I get back.”
Frightened by the power he holds over me, I escape to the bathroom. I’ve been a lot more inhibited since we got married, which is ironic considering that I got off on rubbing his seed inside me before he imprisoned me with a ring on my finger. It’s not the ring that’s responsible for the change. It’s the money.
The tip he leaves for the use of my body is becoming an increasingly big issue despite my resolution of not letting it get to me. Paying me disempowers me. It makes me clam up instead of giving free rein to my fantasies. If sex is a transaction between us, he doesn’t deserve my fantasies. I’ll humiliate myself for him to pay for my sins, but I won’t make myself more vulnerable than necessary.
I shower quickly and dry my hair. As I don’t have to dress up for the tattoo parlor, I pull on a white T-shirt, my favorite jeans, and sneakers. I’m ready when Leon returns with breakfast. Like he promised, the buns are still piping hot, the butter melting when I spread a thick layer over a halved bun. Sugar and caffeine are my comfort food. I feel more fortified when I’ve polished off a bun and half a liter of creamy latte.
Leon showers while I brush my teeth again and grab my portfolio. Fifteen minutes later, he’s driving me to the famous parlor in Fourways.
I’ve never visited the place, but it’s well known in town. Situated in a strip mall, the shop sports a blue and red striped awning that provides shade for the tables and chairs on the pavement in front of the shop. Tattooed clientele sip drinks from the shop’s smoothie bar at the tables.
Leon opens the door for me. I step into a spacious reception area with a curved desk at the back. Photos of people posing proudly with Joseph Goodman’s artwork on their bodies hang on the walls. Joseph’s name is signed on each of the photos. A young woman with blond pigtails enters from the back.
“Morning,” she says with a bright smile. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Mrs. Hart has an appointment with Mr. Goodman,” Leon says.
“He’s expecting you.” She takes a clipboard and a pen from the counter and hands them to me. “Come right through.”
We follow her into an office that’s tastefully decorated with contemporary art. A woman in her late forties with short hair and flawless skin sits behind a giant desk.
“Violet, right?” she says, standing and holding out her hand. “Any friend of Walter is a friend of mine. I’m Vero.”
I glance at Leon who, judging by his frown, is just as in the dark as I am.