Skinned

She stared at the headline of the trashy woman’s magazine, “Celebrity couple split”, and wondered if the named couple had similar arguments over petty property things, like who would get the grandfather clock and wine collection, like ordinary people, like herself? Or did they argue over Gucci watches and Klein underwear? She smiled trying to imagine what slanging match would occur at their court mediation. The names meant nothing but she felt oddly close to them. It was comforting to know the rich and famous had ordinary problems too.

The fluorescent light of the tiny room her solicitor had left her in was flickering, which most government building fluoro lights seemed to do. Was it lack of funds, or a reflection of the do not care attitude? Annabel mused. The cream plastic chair and little table were the bare necessities and anything but comfortable. The magazines scattered on the table were indicative of people reading mindless garbage to either take their mind off their own troubles or bask in the knowledge that someone else, somewhere else, was worse off, or perhaps a combination of both. No different from people who stopped to get a good look at the scene of an accident. Annabel shuddered.

Suddenly all she wanted to do was go home. Home, how meaningless the word had become. There really was no home to go to. Since the breakdown of her marriage four months ago she had become homeless. Not in the obvious sense of the word, more in a manner of speaking. Soon she would have to find a new place to live and from what the court mediator had just told her it could be sooner than expected and expectations would have to be scaled down.

Absentmindedly she flicked through the pages of the glossy magazine, her eyes wandering from the pages to the flickering fluoro light. Even hospital rooms exuded more friendliness than this, she thought.

“Annabel.”

The voice of her solicitor made her look up. “Is it time to go back in?” This morning she had come to the court prepared for a fight, but several hours later her newfound confidence was shattered. Words were a powerful tool and the Registrar had used them well. Perhaps he hated women or he hated his job, but he had left Annabel under no illusion as to what he thought of her situation, which was not much.

She tried to recall exact words but could only bring to mind snippets like, “well you never bothered to work”, “let me tell you most people that come to the family court tell me they can’t work and there is something wrong with them”, “why should your ex husband pay you more money when he had more assets at the beginning”, “he kept you for all those years and you won’t even give him the wine collection”, and “why bother arguing over a grandfather clock—just buy another one”.

Amazing how someone could pass judgment so quickly. What did he know of the grandfather clock? He had no idea it held a special place in her heart. He had no idea it had been a wedding present from her best friend who died last year of cancer. He had no idea Don only wanted it to hurt her. And how dare he, to label years of dedication to a husband as insignificant.

Years of picking up his dirty underwear, cleaning up his vomit after he had too much to drink at business meetings, years of kowtowing to keep the peace … all reduced to worthlessness with a few simple words. Where was the “payment” for the humiliation she had endured for years and years and years? Where was the compensation for her lost career? Where was … she stopped herself, realising the futility of it all.

Her fingers had stopped playing with the pages of the magazine and she rested her head in her hands. Who would have thought her marriage would end like this?

“Annabel, remember when I prepared you for this conference?” Mr Brown, her solicitor, said in his fatherly voice. Years of practice had taught him patience.

Annabel was fighting back the tears.

“I did tell you the Registrar will have an opinion about your case.” He paused and folded his arms just above his little pot belly. “But that opinion may not be the right one. It’s only his opinion.” There was another pause. “If you’re strong enough, fight for what you want.”

What did she want though, her husband back? No. Maybe before, but not any more, not since he had demanded everything and was going to leave her with nothing. Enough money? Enough money to do what?

Lawyer and client said nothing for a while. Annabel could not concentrate. She had not had to make a decision for over twenty years. And here she was asked to make a major decision, which would impact on her immediate and long term future.

“What do you suggest?” she eventually said quietly, looking for some strength to keep going.

“The other solicitor is talking about a two week adjournment to give everyone some time to think about things and come back for another attempt at mediation. It’s not a bad idea. Given your current state you’re not in a position to settle today. If it doesn’t settle in two weeks we will go to a final hearing.”

“What will two weeks achieve?” She could not imagine anything changing in that time.

“It will give you some time to work out how much money you need to set yourself up. It will give you more time before someone else will decide what is just and equitable in your case …” Mr Brown paused and shrugged his shoulders. “And maybe they will come back with a better offer.”

“I guess that makes sense,” she said and resigned herself to the realisation life would be very different. Her job of looking after Don had gone to some floozy and it was time to look after herself.

Instead of rushing home Annabel headed into the city. The city, any city, was a place of anonymity and life. Cities always bared all, the good, the bad and the ugly. Homelessness, drunks, arguments and loving couples could all be found somewhere in a city and that was what made them a place of distraction. One could get lost and not be noticed, which could be good or bad. Today was a day for getting lost.

It was late afternoon and the streets were filling with peak hour traffic. Years ago when she first left home she had come to the city and spent many a late afternoon discovering little gems like wine bars and exotic little restaurants. Today Annabel just walked and walked and then when her feet were hurting she walked some more. People passed her but no one took any notice. She herself took little notice of what was going on around her, allowing her thoughts to meander and plan.

“Would you like to come in and join us in some wine tasting madam?”

Annabel looked up. Her aimless wandering had brought her to a wine bar. There were people milling about, swirling glasses and laughing. She hesitated but the young man was pressing a glass into her hand before she could answer. “You may want to start with our Shiraz, it’s very popular.”

She stared into the glass and admired the deep red of the wine. She was taken back to when she first met Don, at a wine tasting.

“I don’t get all this smelling and swirling do you?” Don had said, taking a big sip and asking for a top up, more like gulping it down instead of savouring the taste.

Annabel had laughed and sniffed her own wine. “Ahhh, can’t you smell the fine aromas of cherry and cinnamon?” She had cocked her head slightly to the left and taken another sniff. “And a hint of blackberry. A truly refined wine.”

Don had been impressed and they had spent the rest of the evening together. That had been the start of their relationship and she had given up any notion of studying viticulture or working when Don proposed.

“I can get you something else? Maybe a white?”

The words of the waiter brought her back and she slowly inhaled the wine, reluctantly at first and then with more confidence. “No, this is fine. It has a hint of plum and strawberry …” she closed her eyes and took a small sip “… ahh yes of course, and there’s also the faintest trace of cinnamon.”

The waiter took her glass. “Not bad. You’re not a wine judge are you?” he peered at and around her, as if checking for something.

Annabel could not help but give a little laugh. “No,” she said and looked at her shoes. “I’m not.” The seed of self-confidence that only a few hours ago had received such a beating rose slightly with the compliment.

“What about this one?” The young man handed her another glass.

Before lifting it to her nose she swirled the contents around for a bit, her eyes lost in the red. Years had passed since she had first discovered her taste for good wine and her talent for picking a good drop. Funny how marriage changes a person, she thought, because once she had married Don she had had very little input into anything, including the purchase of wine. He of course was using this to his advantage in current family law proceedings.

A slow inhale momentarily unbalanced her. Instinctively she put a hand out to steady herself. Of all the wines to give her, but then the young man was not to know this was a wine with a special meaning.

“Are you all right, madam?”

The voice sounded a long way off. Quickly, to avoid a scene in front of strangers, she took a sip. “It’s a French Pinot Noir, probably from one of the regions in Burgundy …” She paused, memories of the wedding flooding her thoughts and tears threatening to come to the surface. She took another sip to confirm what she knew. “I would say it is from the Cote de Nuis region.”

The taste was so distinctive, so light and so familiar. Don had ordered a large supply for their wedding, as a present to her because it was her favourite wine. She had taught him about the labelling of French wines, how it was done by the region and not the grape variety, thus one needed to know what region Pinot Noir grapes were grown in to buy that type of wine. It was unlikely she would be able to still identify other French wines with such exactness, but the Pinot Noir had a special place in her heart.

“Raymond, Raymond,” the waiter called towards a crowd of people mingling just inside the doors. “Come and meet this lady here. She is a genius.”

It had been years since someone had called her a lady and no one had ever called her a genius.

Something warm on her face, the sound of birds chirping and an unfamiliar feeling in her head woke Annabel the next day. She rolled onto her side and grabbed one of the many frilly pillows on her four-poster bed to cover her ears and eyes. For a while she lay there trying to make sense of the world. Far away she thought she could hear someone use a jackhammer, until she realised the noise was in her head. When finally she sat on the edge of the bed her head protested loudly and she stumbled into the bathroom. A few splashes of cold water on her face put some clarity into her thoughts but also intensified the rhythmic thumping in her head.

Somehow she managed the short walk from the bedroom to the kitchen where she made coffee. Everything required twice as much effort as normal. After the first sip she glanced at the spilled contents of her handbag and a business card on the marble kitchen bench: “Ageing Frog Winery”.

At first she had no idea where the card came from until she turned it over and read the handwritten note: “Mon Cherie … Please call—Your talent should not be wasted.”

She groaned at some of the memories of the previous night. Monsieur Montague had been at the wine bar and admired her ability to tell distinctive flavours of wines.

The pain in her head made it difficult to focus on specifics of the night before, but it served as a reminder that she obviously tasted a few wines, maybe a few too many. And then another thought struck her, a more important thought which made her immediately feel better. She had not woken up thinking of Don. Definitely progress.

She sat at the kitchen table lost in thought. When the grandfather clock in the living room struck nine o’clock she got up and grabbed pen and paper. According to her solicitor she had two weeks before the next court date to try and take charge of her life. She had to at least try.

With pen and paper in hand she started her inventory. Since the house was furnished to Don’s taste this did not take long.

Once she had finished with the rooms she headed into the wine cellar. When they had first bought the house the cellar had been a hole in the ground. Now it was a state of the art wine cellar, with its own cooling system. Annabel flicked on the light and gasped, she had no idea there were so many bottles. Picking one up at random and reading the label she was no longer surprised Don wanted the wine.

If someone had asked her when she had stopped taking an interest in the wine collection she would say it was when Don had started to lock the cellar. At first she had taken offence but then accepted it like she had accepted all of the other decisions he had made. It was Mr Brown who had suggested she find a way into the cellar, it was after all joint property. And it had not been difficult to find the key once she had thought about it.

Hours later she emerged from the cellar tired and hungry. The headache was still there, but with it an odd sense of anticipation and power. She surveyed the lists and ticked off items she would take. The wine list went for several pages. Would it be worth fighting for it? She would have to find out. She had less than fourteen days.

For the next ten days she spent hours researching and tasting wines. She tasted some of the collection, visited wineries, bars and more wineries. She made notes, she made calls, she borrowed books on wines and she searched the internet, until she knew everything there was to know about the wines in the collection. And with her research a plan started to emerge. It seemed outrageous, and yet as time went by, started to appear achievable.

It was four days before court when she called the Ageing Frog Winery, after she had called her solicitor. The plan was put into motion. She did not want to go back to court. Monsieur Montague was thrilled to hear from her and extended an invitation to the vineyard. “I cannot promise you anything madam, but you must come and taste my wine and we can talk … who knows?” he said, and she accepted. It was a start. Next the more difficult part of the job, a shopping trip to purchase wines. When she came home she had a boot full of cleanskins, those wines you can buy cheap without a label, and enough wine storage boxes to start packing.

The next day the sun was out and Annabel headed to the Ageing Frog. Monsieur Montague welcomed her warmly and took her to the cellar door. They chatted easily and Annabel was amazed how they interacted as though they had known each other for years. He was a true gentleman with impeccable manners.

Back home that night Annabel replayed some of the events of the day and smiled. Like Montague had said, nothing was promised, but he had offered to give her a go as part-time cellar door staff member. It was a start to independence.

The next day stage two of the plan was implemented. A grandfather clock needed to be replaced with an imitation. Don would never know the difference. Then she checked the draft orders that had arrived in the mail. She scanned them. He wanted her out of the house and his wine and the clock and he would pay her some money. Carefully she studied the words, “wine collection”, and “grandfather clock”. No specifics.

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply to slow down her racing heart. Would it really be that simple? It seemed too easy. She read the orders again and again, looking for the flaw in the plan, her hands shaking slightly. Order 14 said “The husband is to receive the wine collection”, and order 15 “The husband is to receive the grandfather clock.” He would get what he asked for, the wine collection and grandfather clock.

She had replayed it over and over until she was certain she was complying with the orders, and now they were in front of her she was looking for the catch. Maybe there wasn’t one, maybe Don really believed he had total control over her. Butterflies whirling around her stomach, and light headed, she picked up the telephone to call Mr Brown. She wanted to see him tomorrow to sign the terms.

The next day a small truck pulled up outside Annabel’s house and she watched carefully as her belongings were loaded. Then she asked the removalist to help with the large number of other boxes she was taking in her car. She would not let anyone else take the wine or the clock.

One last tour of the house to make sure she had everything and one last look at the wine cellar. It looked in order, you could not tell the collection had been replaced with cleanskins, and with a lightheadedness and sense of exhilaration she had not felt in years, she locked the door and put the key back where she had found it. There had been a temptation to throw it away, but Don might have realised something was going on.

At the solicitor’s office she read the terms again. They were the same. Don was really that arrogant.

“Are you sure you are happy with these?” Mr Brown peered at her over his little spectacles.

She nodded, afraid to speak in case her voice let her down. It was almost done, the plan almost complete. Was this how burglars felt? She knew it was an absurd thought and signed the papers.

As she got into her car she sat behind the steering wheel, took a few deep breaths and smiled. She savoured the moment and the sense of satisfaction and anticipation. Briefly she thought of Don’s reaction if and when he discovered he had been done over. If only she could be a fly on the wall then. One last time she looked around to make sure Mr Brown had not followed because he had noticed the mistake. Then, with some trepidation and an enormous amount of satisfaction, she drove off, heading towards the Ageing Frog Winery.