Disclaimer: Face Value is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons is coincidental.
THE LADY OF THE NIGHT
Place three drops of urine on the sample well. One, two, three. Wait three to five minutes, yadda yadda. One bar signifies a negative test, two bars a positive result. Okay, breath girl, breath. Lord, I know I don’t deserve to call your name, but please let this test be negative.
I gripped the platinum Cartier timepiece tightly and stared at its second hand as it slowly ticked around the watch’s face. I turned it over and read the inscription engraved on the back. “To V from Paul. Love Always.”
I smiled instinctively when I thought of my boyfriend of three years. What was the line from that movie again? Oh yeah. He had me at hello. From the time I placed my eyes on Paul at a Boatyard happy hour session, I knew I had to have him. His muscular six-foot frame decked out in Sean Jean gear, he stood out from the business-attired yuppies who usually mingled at the Bay Street venue on Friday evenings. Boss man did not look intimidated at all by the upwardly mobile, who tended to look down their noses at anyone outside their cliques. I sidestepped a group of young lawyers appraising me with their eyes and asked Paul if I could buy him a drink.
When our first meeting ended over breakfast at the Lucky Horseshoe the following morning, I knew I was in love. I had never met a man who was as driven and ambitious as Paul. We were so alike, it was scary. The years following that night were a romantic, thrilling roller coaster ride. I admit I was a bit apprehensive when he finally admitted what he did for a living, but it wasn’t like I hadn’t guessed anyway. A player like myself always recognised a master of the game. It was a pity now that I wasn’t as open about my source of income.
Wait, three minutes gone. Breathe. I looked at the white stick lying on the bathroom sink. Oh crap.
I stumbled from the Ob-Gyn’s office and headed to my silver gray Skoda Octavia. The doctor had just confirmed what I already knew. Six weeks pregnant. Knocked up. A bun in the oven. Up sh*t creek without a paddle.
I rested my head on the steering wheel as hot tears streamed down my cheeks.
What the hell am I going to do? I can’t tell Paul, that much is clear. I have to get rid of it. No…I can’t. I can’t destroy this little life just because I was stupid enough to get raped. If that bastard gives me AIDS! And those blasted antibiotics I took had to go and break down the pill…God!
I wiped my face and was about to start the ignition when there was a knock on my window. I hit the power button to lower it and looked enquiringly at the elderly lady holding out a piece of paper. I hesitated.
“Don’t worry. Jesus loves you,” she said as she placed what looked like a religious tract in my hand.
“I don’t deserve it, if he does,” I replied and thanked her. As she turned to leave, I examined the green pamphlet with a photo of Jesus with the lost sheep in his arms. The tears started to flow again.
“I don’t understand. What you mean not tonight? You’ve been putting me off for weeks now!”
“Look Roger, I’m sorry, but as I told you, I’m not well. I have a colleague I can refer you to if you want,” I pleaded. I felt my stomach tumble ominously and a bitter taste enter my mouth. I didn’t know why the hell they called it morning sickness. I was sick 24/7.
I managed to convince Roger that my friend Sahara would fulfill his every naughty desire and hung up. I scrolled down the palm pilot to Peters, Dean. I sighed. He was going to take a lot of convincing.
Feeling a surge of acid rise up from my stomach, I dropped the electronic gadget and rushed to the bathroom, where I barely made it to the toilet bowl. Exhausted, I slumped to the bathroom floor.
Forget it, I’m not calling a soul else. I’m going to empty my bank account and disappear, maybe to St. Lucia. Yeah, I love St. Lucia. I remember when Daddy took my brother Ryan and I there in the 90’s….
At the thought of my family my heart sank. My life was a nightmare. Paul would never forgive me, and as for my father, he already hated my guts. The sorry state in which I found myself was further proof of the wh**e he thought I was. He would definitely not be greeting his grandchild with open arms.