Vengeance of a jilted dr.., p.1
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       Vengeance of a Jilted Dressmaker, p.1

           Denise Morgan
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Vengeance of a Jilted Dressmaker


  Vengeance of a Jilted Dressmaker Denise Morgan

  Copyright 2010 by Denise Morgan

  VENGEANCE

   

  OF

   

  A

   

  JILTED

   

  DRESSMAKER

  Vengeance of a Jilted  dressmaker

  DENISE MORGAN

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

  DENISE MORGAN

    

   

   

   

  Part One

   

   

   

  Raye

  longing for Eric

  «Chapter One»

  Raye Anne Dawkins had set the stage for lovemaking. It was nine-thirty in the evening and she had carried out her bedtime ritual like clockwork. Seductively she lay on her back in her queen size bed gazing up at the ceiling in an indulgent trance, her chubby cheeks crimson with heat. A curious blend of pheromones and sweet aromas permeated the air around her. The culprits were an ivory bowl full of fresh fruits: strawberries, bananas and vines of grapes on the bedside table. On the opposite side table was a breathing bottle of an Italian Merlot ready to decant into two crystal wine glasses. Soft moonlight pressing through the gauzy white curtains and a single lit candlestick, ylang ylang scented, created an alluring ambience in her all white bedroom.

  In the weeks leading up to this nighttime ritual, she had impulsively driven miles out of her way to Percy Beck Public School just outside Mississauga. All she needed was confirmation that the boy was still in the city.She had parked by the curb on the opposite side of the curving street and waited. The affluent leafy area was teeming with well-to-do parents and nannies; some getting out of their vehicles, some clumped on the sidewalk to chat and gossip about God knows what. She had rolled down the window a crack for air even though it was already hotting up outside. But the air in the car was suffocating and the air conditioner was broken. And she did not dare step out of her vehicle, terrified of running into the boy and his mother.

  Parked by the curb without doing anything, it worried her that she could be mistaken for a potential child snatcher, or worse still, a paedophile, or a paedophile’s perverted assistant, waiting to lure an unattended child to her vehicle. With no kids of her own to unload, coupled with her personal stash of assorted candy in the seat beside her; the sweets would give the wrong impression if a concerned parent approached her vehicle, wanting to know what the hell she was doing there.

  Are you waiting for something or someone?

  Do you live around here?

  Are you lost ma'am?

  Why are you watching the children?

  It seemed stupid for her to go to such lengths, but insane desire overpowered common sense -she needed to see with her own two eyes.

  Therefore, craftily, for thirty minutes or so, she sat slouched in her seat, keeping her eyes peeled on the school-gate entrance, hearing the excited, incessant voices of children and car horns beating sporadically.

  Around 8:17 a.m., she spotted them: Eric’s ex, Sylvia Mandini, with their son, Enzo. She had seen the little brat first, kicking a soccer ball to a friend. Although all the boys were dressed in the standard school uniform - maroon blazers and charcoal trousers - she would recognize Enzo Mandini anywhere. He had a shock of unruly dark hair and full of restless energy and mischief.

  Spoilt little brat, popped in her head instantly. Just the very sight of him made her stomach churn - the bane of her life, her existence.

  In spite of her acrid disdain of Enzo, she had received the confirmation she craved and released a slow sigh of relief. She was dead certain, if not for anything else; Eric would turn up for his little brat’s birthday. Any doubts in her mind had been dispelled.

   

  The mound of her stomach rose and fell softly under her sheer white negligee. In her mind’s eye, she played and replayed the love scene she enjoyed that memorable night. That memorable night as she lay in bed reading a copy of A Road Less Travelled, by M. Scott Peck, she looked up to see Eric standing on the threshold of her bedroom door, holding up a bottle of red wine, sex toys and exotic oils wanting to play sex games. There had not been any mix messages about his motives that night.

  The sight of him, took her breath away, enormously arousing!

  That night he looked hot and very horny, wearing a devilish half-smile and oozing his own distinctive manly smell of cologne, deodorant and body odor. He had undressed with urgency and climbed into bed alongside her, kissing her greedily, uttering erotic Italian words into her ear, “Cara, voglio scoparti fino a diventare ciechi,” – even ribald, filthy words in English, while stimulating her fleshy body with his enormous manly hands, taking in the scent of her skin, his manhood alive and gleaming. In no time, the exotic oils and sex toys came into play, giving a new meaning to the word Bulgaria.

  Raye had writhed in the white silk sheet beneath him, thrusting her meaty hips against him, whispering his name Eric, oh Err, in the mad throes of ecstasy - groaning incessantly in a cocktail of panic, pleasure and sweet pain. On the brink of orgasm, his guttural grunts and groans coalesced with her high octave primal shrieks - their climax crescendoed throughout the entire apartment, loud enough to awaken the working-class residents on the seventh floor.

  Then in an instant he was gone.

  Alone, Raye lay there on the rumpled sheet slick with oil and semen - sweating as if she had been in a steam room, wishing he had stayed the night.

   

  Just replaying the erotic scene in her head left her burning with an intense desire for his touch. Absent-mindedly she rested a palm on her bosoms feeling her heart thump violently against her ribcage. So fresh in her mind, she relived the same skin-sizzling heat with every molecule of being - ergo the pheromones interspersing the air around her.

  But if truth be told, at twenty-five, this was the extent of her love life - mental sex playing out on her vivid mental screen. For starters, Raye has not seen Eric in the flesh in five months, two weeks, three days, and counting – even though they are very close neighbors. He lived directly across the hallway at apartment 706.

  Before he had gone AWOL, the two of them were forever falling into each other’s respective beds - like horny teenagers on ecstasy pills. They performed fellatio and cunnilingus in his four-by-four in the underground car park of the condominium, oblivious to other residents coming and going. They skinny-dipped in the indoor/outdoor swimming pool up on the eighth floor. Rendezvous in seedy motels downtown Toronto for afternoon quickies.

  On one occasion, he drove her a few miles out of the city, intending to park at a beauty-spot where young lovers congregated to have sex in nature. But as Eric drove along highway 401 to the secret destination, Raye kept complaining that she was hungry.

  She’s always hungry, Eric had thought. He glanced at her wearing a billowy summer dress when he heard her stomach grumble and growl for the umpteenth time.

  Why didn’t she eat earlier? Then he saw the sign, Mayfair Motel, and opted for it instead. He feigned he was running low on gas and pulled into the ESSO gas station adjacent to the Mayflower Motel. He topped up the tank and, while she waited in the car, he went inside, picked up half a dozen stale, gas station sandwiches and two bottles of cheap red wine. When he stepped outside, he beckoned to her. “Vieni qui Bella, I bought some nice sandwiches.”

  Eric had booked a room in the, Mayfair Motel, where they passed the evening eating and drinking, necking and watching hardcore pornography. On the bedside table under
the shoddy lamp, a worn Catholic Living Bible had stale tobacco and cocaine residue from previous guests.

  There was nothing romantic about their many rendezvous. When Raye had alluded that she despised the seediness of it all, especially the flea bag motels, the next outing Eric drove her to Niagara Falls, Ontario, Canada. The two of them spent the evening dining and dancing at the ritzy Niagara Fallsview Casino Resort, a five star establishment. Afterward, she stood by his side as he gambled at the Black Jack and Punto Banco tables for a few hours. Later he escorted her to the Breeze Bar, and found a cozy table by the grand piano. He barely said a word the whole time sipping scotch, checking his text messages and filling up her wine glass. He kept squeezing her hand in his as if to reassure her.

  Of what?

  She did not know, but welcomed the warm gesture. However, Eric had been setting the mood - giving the implications of attentiveness: he knew she was hopelessly in love with him long time. “Bella, you’re so quiet.” He spoke with an Italian accent, laying on the charm. His sultry glare made her even more lost for words. Later they took the elevator to their luxury suite and had rough sex into the early hours of the morning.

  Oh, how much she had loved Niagara Falls. The quality time and attention Eric bestowed upon her that day was really special, and now, nothing.

  An abrupt halt.

  During their time together, Eric had stated he was an International Business Executive, travelling as far as Algeria, Egypt, Afghanistan, Zimbabwe, all these foreign, far-flung places. Raye had expected him to elaborate, but he volunteered nothing. Sometimes he would pack a suitcase on a moments notice, only imparting vague information in drips and drabs, tidbits of what he saw fit.

  Still, even that was cryptic to her. Sometimes the way he behaved in an authoritative manner around her, gave her the impression that their relationship had no correlation with his impressive job title: International Business Executive. And being forty-three, almost twenty years older, she felt uncomfortable prying into his personal business. Needless to say, his failure to confide in her bothered her beyond words.

  Lost in her reverie, a feisty fruit fly jigged about her plump face, allured by the dulcet berry-red lipstick on her lips.

  It pecked her lips.

  Her left cheek.

  Tickled her long black lashes.

  She brushed it away, bringing her out of her trance. She breathed up through her nose, releasing a long exaggerated sigh. After months and months of built up sexual frustration she felt like a desperate fool, staring into nothing - night after night, until ridiculous hours, conjuring up this futile sexual image of a man that was never ever around. Some nights, she would convince herself she suffered bouts of insomnia - albeit phantom - and swallowed two or three sleeping pills before climbing into bed. Before long though, she found they clashed with her antidepressant. In the dead of night, she’d hurry to the en suite bathroom, being sicker than a rabid dog into the toilet bowl, goop drooling from her lower lip, while, anticipating the next wave.

  Raye glanced at the clock: 22:37. It was unlikely Eric would turn up now. Besides, the white candlestick had burnt down to a sooty black ring and sadly the two packets of candy-flavored Trojan lay intact again.

  She plumped up the two goosedown-pillows under her head and curled up on her side. A wave of sadness overwhelmed her.

  Does Eric even think about me?

  Did he even care?

  Go to sleep, you silly woman.

  She pulled the cotton bedspread over her pale shoulders and shut her eyes. Eric has bound to arrive home before long; his son’s birthday in a few days.

  But sleep did not come easy. Her thoughts drifted off onto a recurring theme: an ideal future with Eric. She fantasized about their engagement party, arranging the details of their lavish wedding, strolling down the aisle, arm in arm, with her dad, Henry and then jetting off with her man on honeymoon to Barbados as Mr and Mrs Eric Mandini. She envisioned the two of them strolling hand in hand along a sunshine-kissed sandy beach, kissing intermittently. She envisioned living in a large house with the white picket, fence, two cars in the garage, being heavily pregnant and opening lots of shiny presents at her baby shower - hopefully two more to watch.

  Raye rolled over on her back.

  She imagined having silly spats with Eric over the four children she hoped they would have, two boys and two girls. The accusations of squandering money on stupid furniture and other finer things, like Crystals, ornaments and trinkets. Where to holiday each year - renewing their marriage vows.

  Just living out her fantasy brought a smile to her lips, a life of domestic bliss.

  Then she frowned.

  Wasn’t this the beginning of a love story?

  Why is it so difficult?

  Wasn’t he the one I’m waiting for?

  She glanced at the radio alarm clock. 23:47 and registered it was getting really late. She had a dress shop to operate in the morning.

  The only solution to stop wallowing in a jumble of daydreams - neurotic daydreams - was to block out her thoughts and feelings for Eric. Unfortunately, her sleeping pills, Zolpidem, were in the bathroom cabinet and she could not bear to leave the warmth of her bed to get them. She sat up, switched on the lamp and picked up the bottle of wine, Feudi di San Gregorio, Patrim, from the bedside table. She filled the tall-stemmed wine glass and took an indulgent gulp. She turned the bottle over and observed the label on the back. She had been trying to learn his language to impress him and read anything Italian she came across. She enunciated the words loudly in her best Italian accent, taking sips of wine and re-filling her wineglass during her slow progression.

  “Rosso rubino, limpido ed impenetrabile al tempo stesso. Evidenti i profumi di conferrura di piccoli frutti neri, spezie dolci, eucalipto, vaniglia è caff è. I tannini sono dolci, fini e morbidi, l’equilibrio totale va verso l’aromia. Il finale e una lunga persistenza di sensazioni di frutta, spezie e torrefazione.” (Feudi di San Gregorio, Patrim)

  Translated: Ruby Red, clear and impenetrable at the same time. Obvious perfumes of blackberry jam small black fruits, sweet spices, eucalyptus, vanilla and coffee. The tannins are sweet, fine and soft; the balance total goes to the harmony. The finish is a long persistence of sensations of fruits, spices and roasting. (Feudi di San Gregorio, Patrim)

  Raye was thrilled with how well her Italian was improving; but in the meantime, felt it was all in vain. She rested the bottle down, and pulled her knees to her chest. She ran a hand over her bare leg and fleshy arm, feeling the softness of her skin. She outstretched her hand in front of her and examined her French manicured fingernails. She giggled at her stubby toes painted blood red.

  Alcohol made her less critical of her body and, at this very moment, she felt warm inside, sexy, desirable for any man. She smiled at the thought and reached for the wine bottle.

  It was completely empty.

  She set it back down and glanced at the clock, then focussed hard in disbelief. Oh my Goodness!

  She switched off the lamp, eased down under the covers and drifted into a semi comatose state.

  «Chapter Two»

  The following morning, the radio-alarm clock jolted Raye from sleep at six thirty a.m. She forced her eyes open and straight away felt wretched. A guttural noise escaped her throat. Sluggishly she pushed herself into a sitting position, pushed messed-up hair from her face and reached for her white dressing gown at the foot of the bed.

  As a business owner, she could have easily slept in until noon and leave it in the hands of her staff;  but she was eager to get to her dress shop located in the heart of downtown Toronto.

  Pushing her feet into her white slippers, she moved slowly into her white-tiled en suite bathroom, trying not to aggravate her sore head too much. She had the usual hangover symptoms: dehydrated, parched mouth and a raging headache to boot.

  She stared at her face in the oval mirror, a self-conscious critical habit. The thought of waking up next to Eric on a daily basis looking
the way she did haunted her. And by God, she looked terrible - like Dracula’s mistress. One side of her plump face heavily creased, her eyes were bloodshot puffy and tinged with purple. A tendril of pseudo-blonde hair, clung to the berry-red lipstick smeared all over her mouth, a distortion of former glam self last night.

  “Sleeping Beauty… not!” she muttered, and sat down on the toilet, peeing copiously.

  “Drinking solo has got to stop.”

  Afterward, she set the bathtub, added a liberal Klug of bath oil, and made her way down the hallway to the kitchen, but on a whim, bee-lined to the front door. She shifted her five-foot-four, 175-pound frame to the balls of her feet and spied through the door’s peephole. Like an obsessed stalker - a stalker preoccupied with its prey - she waited to see any signs of Eric.

  Several seconds went past and not even a ribbon of sunlight spilt under his front door. Even so, she waited and waited and waited. Her calves that once ached like hell, felt strong as boars from this habit. When it seemed as forever had gone by, she banged the door with a fist. “Where the hell is he? Where?”

  This was not the first time Eric had gone out of town on business, but this was definitely the longest period. And she was damn certain he had not moved out of the building. She of all people would have seen removal men carrying carton boxes, heavy furniture and huge framed artwork in out of his apartment and down the service elevator. Four months ago, before she realized he had gone AWOL, she had him sent umpteen text messages to his cell phone without a response.

  Wrote a zillion emails.

  Rang his landline off the hook.

  She hammered on his door with a clenched fist, crying out his name, Eric, Eric, repeatedly, while ringing his doorbell, one long peal after another.

  If Eric had been in his condo, he ignored this crazy madwoman constantly pounding on his front door.

  In the end, all had gone unanswered.

  If only she had been engaged to him... his fiancé… or his next of kin or even had concrete evidence that he was in danger, she would have gone straight to the Metropolitan Police Headquarters and demand a manhunt: national and international.

  Raye sat at the kitchen table eating a jam ball donut, her hazel eyes boring holes in the white linen. As she sipped her steaming coffee, somewhere in the back of her mind it pained her to imagine Eric, the man she loved more than life itself having intercourse with other women -women performing a lot better than her in bed – those easy, skinny foreign bitches in strange cities, falling for his charms.

  The random thought repulsed her, made her lose her appetite. She dropped the half-eaten donut on the plate, got up and left the table. In the bathroom, she stripped down and lowered herself in the hot herbal bath water.

  Subsequently, she paid special attention doing up her hair, applied meticulous make-up and swallowed two Xanax tablets to compose herself for the day before.

  While making the bed, she spotted red wine spillage on the satiny white sheet and tutted. It looked unsightly like period stains.

  Quickly, she changed the bed sheets, chucked the empty wine bottle in the recycle bin and dumped the uneaten fruit in the garbage. She grabbed her handbag, slammed the front door and took the elevator to the underground car park.

  «Chapter Three»

  The two-storey dress shop was an hour and half drive away in heavy traffic. Raye arrived anxious, excited, and expectant. During the journey, her gut instincts - woman’s intuition you could say- told her Eric would come by to see her. Usually, after short business trips he had a mischievous habit of turning up unannounced to surprise her - specifically on a Friday. Nonetheless, this whole thing was such a farce now, even risible, to put it succinctly. After five long months, she still expected the same scenario.

  For the past twenty minutes, she paced up and down her office, peeking through the blind, twisting her chubby fingers - back and forth, her shell-white stiletto heels clicked the polished floorboards in a mournful cadence like a madwoman locked-up in a sanatorium.

  Either the two Xanax tablets had not kicked in or she was immune to the pharmaceuticals. Nostalgia ripped at her pining heart like unwanted paper in a shredding machine. A part of her wanted to curl up on the white three-seater sofa and bawl like colic baby. But business sense, her reputation, was on the line. How would it look if a client should walk in?

  Purposefully, she ignored her morose reflection in the mirrored wall behind her PA’s empty chair and desk.

  She consulted her Hermes watch.

  Nearly nine-thirty a.m.

  “Where the hell is that girl?” she muttered under her breath. Her PA was tardy again.

  A direct drop below the first floor landing rail was her own Pinewood desk. It looked out onto Queen Street West. Visibility through the white slats of the bay window was that dreaded streetcar shelter. The Plexiglas, spray-canned in burnt-orange and black graffiti.

  From the get-go, Raye hated the eyesore. She had often wished some feral gang wielding crowbars would rip the fucking thing down, banishing it from her sight. However, the only gang in the area was the harmless New-Age-Goth-do-nothing-bunch, tripping out on ecstasy, crack cocaine, heroin, Quaaludes, magic mushrooms, only the almighty God knew what. They stumbled about in their steel-tipped Doc Martens, jet-black garbs, obscene multiple body piercing, gaunt, chalk-white faces as pale as a Geisha, freaking tourists and hard working people out.

  Within weeks of occupying the property, Raye had written to City Hall, which housed the local planning authorities to file her complaint.

  Raye Anne Dawkins

  1599 Queen Street West,

  Toronto, Ontario,

  Canada

  M5L 9N3

  Telephone: 416-260-8012

  Fax: 416-897-5517

   www.dawkinsdressdesign.com.oc

   

  Dear Mr Günter Reeves

   

  I would like to make a formal complaint regarding the Queen Street West Streetcar Shelter right outside my dress shop, Dawkins Dress Design.

  Since opening my business three weeks ago, I have noticed that some people waiting for the streetcar loiter in my alcove blocking the doorway. On a few occasions while obstructing the entrance, they intimidated potential clients, causing them to walk away. Also, when the streetcar arrives, they drop their disgusting half-smoked cigarette butts on my doorstep. I refuse to tolerate this any further.

  As a young woman building a new business, I would appreciate it if the streetcar shelter could be re-located further up or down the street where it was less of a nuisance for me and other businesses. Please rectify this situation as soon as possible.

 
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