Prue fell on a wooden bench, tears running down her cheeks.
The bench stood on a knoll looking out over the dark sea, but she didn't see it - neither the water, nor the clouds that chased the stars. Her trembling hand went through her bag until it found her ringing cellphone.
"Pruts?"
The tinny voice sounded urgent.
"God, Jules, it was
awful
!"
"I thought you'd meet him about now?"
""It's already over, Jules. I ran! It was
horrible!"
"You mean you didn't talk?"
"He attacked me!"
"He did
what
?"
"Well... he yelled at me. He called me a slut."
"Oh my, Prutty, you don't have to take that."
"I didn't. I ran."
There were a few seconds of silence. A boat blew its horn in the distance. The wind had died down a bit; it wasn't as cold anymore.
"Where are you now, Prue?"
"At the beach, close to the harbor. On a bench."
"Alone?"
"Yes." She sobbed.
"You'll catch a cold. Go into the Anchor. I'll see you there."
***
"He accused you right away?"
They sat in a niche by the window. The Anchor was an ancient fishermen's pub, and rather busy this Sunday night. They both nursed a glass of tea.
"Yes," Prue said, sniffing her red-rimmed nose. "He supposed I must've been coming straight from "him" and his spunk must be still running down my legs."
"Oh God, did he say that, really?" Julia said, her hand covering her mouth. "How rude. Maybe you're right. He can't care much about you if he treats you like that. Spunk down your legs? Oh my, gross!"
Prue looked at her friend in utter misery.
"What can I do now, Jules?" she asked, her voice thick with tears.
Julia shook her head left and right.
"Can't tell you, honey," she said. "Never thought he would treat you like that. Was that really Pete saying that? My God."
She took a sip from her glass and looked out of the window into the darkening night.
"Maybe you should talk to a lawyer, Pruts," she said. "You are from rich family, girl. You're an heir; you should protect yourself. God knows what he might do to you."
Prue pushed herself away from the table and from her friend.
"Lawyer? What do you mean? Divorce? Are you mad?"
Julia took Prue's hands and pulled her back to the table.
"I'm as amazed as you are, Pruts," she said. "But would you
ever
have thought Pete would act like this? That he would say things like this? To you?"
Prue's thoughts ran around and around.
Everything went so fast. Only Friday there'd been Pete and Prue, Prue and Pete - fast in love, unbreakable. And now... Everything was such a mess, feeling so unreal. Look what Pete said to her, calling her names, accusing her of... of fucking around.
He really must be covering things up - something, anything.
"You think he'll steal my money?" she asked. "It's not that much really?"
She wondered why she mentioned the thing that was the farthest from her mind.
Julia shrugged: so typical for the brat to call a ton not much.
"Better be safe than sorry, girl," she said.
Prue's eyes rested on Julia's, utterly helpless.
"Will you hold me, Jules?" she asked. "Will you please hold me?"
Julia came around and held her friend tightly. They didn't talk for a while. The only sound was Prue's sobbing and Julia's soft humming. Then Julia untangled their embrace.
"Sorry girl," she said, trying to strike a lighter chord. "Nature calls."
Prue rose as well, following her friend to the restrooms.
The Anchor was a great little pub, but roomy ladies' toilets weren't their main strength. So Prue had to wait outside while Julia used it. Standing around she heard her cellphone beep. It made her heart race, but she didn't dare look. Only when she sat on the toilet did she open her phone. There was a message. No name, no number.
"Such a nice cock he has," it read. "I guess you lost him, honey."
Julia looked up when Prue returned.
"What happened?" she asked. "God, you look awful."
Prue slumped down. She slid the phone over.
"Such a nice cock he has. I guess you lost him, honey," Julia read out loud. Then she looked at Prue.
"Fucking bastard," she said.
Prue grabbed the phone and punched a button.
"Daddy?" she said. "I need Mr. Andersen's number."
***
When you're a big concern, you don't have legal aid - you have a legal machine.
The firm Daddy had been using since forever was just that, a machine built to process each and every legal occasion in the most efficient way possible - dispassionate, impersonal, and unstoppable. Time had honed the machine. It had oiled it and turned it into a sleek monster.
It chewed, ate and digested every obstacle in its path.
What Prue did was not merely phoning her father, she was pushing a big red button that started giant cogs and wheels to turn. In the end they would eat her marriage and spit it out.
They even might eat her.
Prue didn't realize this when she dialed old sweet Uncle Andersen's private number. She was just being little Prue Princess again, treated so very unfair by the cruel machinations of Fate.
She'd been betrayed and she needed the pain to go away.
The next morning she walked into the marble-and-steel cathedral of Burton, Barton and Andersen, wearing her little Chanel number while letting her Jimmy Choos click away on the shining floor. Young legal eagle Gerald J. Dunston ("call me Jerry") took her to a sleek conference room. He poured her some design water and started the first question on a time-honored road to surgically precise destruction.
"Mrs. Hawkins, how can we be of help?"
***
Peter got the papers served on Tuesday afternoon.
The person who served them was a distinctive, elderly man in a fine suit - graying hair at his temples. His voice had a cultivated British accent. He kept it low. No need to upset anyone at the office, was there?
Peter knew there was a prenuptial arrangement.
He remembered signing it, agreeing that it was wise to protect Prue's trust fund and the optional shares she had in Daddy's business. Peter didn't care, back then. He'd had his own plans and his pride - he would be his own man, not needing the help of the father of his wife.
He also recalled that the prenuptial didn't say anything about causes or reasons; nothing about cheating from either side, or other claims.
Daddy agreed to pay for any legal bills involved.
Receiving the papers shook him more than he thought it might. His days and nights had been weird since that awful Friday - like drifting in a misty world, hardly noticing the ground he walked on.
He'd found a better place to stay. Not that much better, but it was closer to work, and it had a kitchen.
On Monday he'd gone to the office.
He was determined to drown his misery in activity. To his surprise it worked. Plunging into plans and sketches, construction problems and computer drawings helped.
Being with colleagues did too.
Evenings were bad, so he tried to make them as short as possible. Nights were even worse, but there were pills for that, weren't there?
The evening of the day he received the papers, he sat at a small Italian restaurant one block away from his office. He was with two young male colleagues and most of their dinner conversation was an extension of their workday, really.
The table was strewn with paper.
Looking up from his notes Peter saw one of his table companions look over his shoulder, obviously seeing something interesting entering the place. He turned and saw a tall blonde walk his way, swaying on long legs - dressed to kill. She was alone and murmured a greeting in passing. Then she stopped at a table the waiter pointed out to her.
Julia Connors sat down and smiled at him.
He returned the smile. Then he rose and walked over to her table.
"Jules," he said. "Such a coincidence."
She smiled and shrugged. It did interesting things to the cleavage in her tight white top. Then she waved over to the chair in front of her. He sat down.
"I'm sorry, Pete," she said. "I should have warned you from the very start. But the two of you were so very much in love." She reached over the narrow table to squeeze his hand. "Well, I guess at least
you
were."
Time for him to shrug.
"The bitch fucked and then she fucked me over," he said. "She divorces me."
"God, Pete, you're bitter," she said. "And rightly so. It must have been all so sudden for you."
Watching the woman made him feel uncomfortable. Was she really concerned? Or was she gloating? Who cared? His eyes kept returning to the firm globes of her breasts, adding more discomfort.
"I, ah, thanks, Jules. I'm fine and, well, I'm rather busy," he said, rising.
"Of course," she said. "But call me if you need a patient ear... or anything, you know."
Damn, why did he have to ogle those tits again?
***
Prue sat up in bed.
She didn't want to know what time it was. She'd clicked her small reading light on and off for the last hour, too scared to lie in darkness, too tired to read.
She had no talent for being alone - never had.
