CLEANER II: Chapter Four - Part Ten

MELISSA

I had dinner overlooking the pool as I normally did, very much enjoying the high quality food.

It was funny to think now of a time when I would have felt an almost desperate yearning to fill my plate and go back for more. That time seemed a long time ago now, though it really wasn’t. It felt like there was a wall between me and that weak person I used to be – and not just in terms of my gluttony.

I had never been a strong person. Food had been a safe zone for me to travel to; a land of peace and pleasure in which I was protected from the stresses of real life. My drinking had had the same effect except that had gone a step further because it took away my ability to worry – dulled my mind to the point of idiocy and created a wonderful sense of detachment from the despair of my life.

I had never been assertive; unable to fight my corner or make my case. And people had walked all over me my whole life. I had made a trade in submission.

But I had never submitted to the submission. I had always resented it; despised the people who made me acquiesce to their commands.

That was the big difference between me and Dahlia. One of my principle occupations in Greece was plumbing the channels and pits of Dahlia’s mind; trying to understand why a beautiful woman with everything to lose would risk giving it willingly to somebody like me.

Obviously her brother’s death had been key to that final bid to escape her life, her body and England itself. Perhaps she hadn’t wanted the comeback she was planning. Perhaps the strain of pushing for it was too much. I got the impression there was a lot of that; the urgency to escape; but there was something else that I was realising. It was something there was no explicit evidence for; just an intuition that felt right.

I believed that Dahlia wanted to submit. I got the feeling she got off on it.

All her life she had been the one in control; the one people idolised; and surely that was a great thing. It was everything I’d ever wanted for my own life. But without the opportunity to come second or even last, maybe Dahlia had developed a kinky need to surrender control to somebody else. This swap of ours had turned me on from time to time – even now I got a faint shiver when I thought about what I’d taken from her – but surely it was erotic for her as well. I had sensed that on more than one occasion.

The question was why? Was it as simple as the fact that she had always been in control and she lusted after that which she didn’t have: poverty, ugliness and powerlessness? Or had something happened in her youth that gave her a taste for giving in?

The man whom I had shagged earlier walked past with his wife. He tried not to make eye contact but I saw him eyeing my crossed legs. I ignored him, smiling to myself, thinking how wonderful it was to have the power that looks and a figure gave; that money in the bank and fancy clothes imparted.

My eyes roved instead for my next conquest. I looked forward to finding another man to bed. I looked forward to bedding a hundred more men; as many as I wanted, as often as I wanted.

But my thoughts turned, as they always did, back to Dahlia. I couldn’t help it. She was my guilty obsession. It wasn’t enough that this experiment had given me the confidence and drive to better myself so magnificently; had presented me with a security and flair that only large amounts of money could provide. It wasn’t just about living a better life myself.

I wanted Dahlia’s life to be worse. I wanted it to be as bad as mine had been; or worse! And I wanted nothing more than for her to get as morbidly obese as I had been.

It had been a delight to see her today and to lie to her about Robert.

Was it just a fantasy that I might keep this life? That I could somehow persuade her to accept mine completely?

Was she screwed up enough to actually do that?

Would she become me – Melissa – permanently?

Honestly I didn’t know. And surely I couldn’t believe it, even in my fondest dreams.

But I had a feeling that wasn’t the strategy. If I went to her and suggested a permanent swap, the act of questioning her would make her question herself. Any of that and she might drop out of the moment enough to run for the hills.

No. It had to be more about simply extending it. That I could see her going for. She was already altering her shape massively; possibly committing permanent damage to her body. Her self-restraint was clearly disconnected. I needed to continue pushing that just a little bit further; a little bit further.

For the foreseeable future there always needed to be that escape route for her; increasingly implausible though that might be. But I wasn’t going to stop until we really had become duplicates of one another, if that was even possible. And I wasn’t going to stop until our swap had become something indefinite and extended and ongoing.

I didn’t just want to pretend to be her abroad. I wanted to go back to England; to Nockton Vale; and actually assume her life as though it were really mine.

I wanted her to really become me.