HELENA - Chapter Three

Black Dresses and Business Cards

I had almost forgotten how vast the house was. It perched defiantly on the edge of a cliff, its floor-to-ceiling windows drinking in the endless sea below. From the outside, it looked almost smug, as if it knew it was better than everything around it. Those windows invited the whole neighbourhood to gaze in, to see my father and Verity parading across their polished floors with hollow smiles.
The driveway was ridiculous--more like a landing strip than a driveway. It had room for their two SUVs, a sleek sedan, and my father's absurdly adored sports car. And still, there was space to spare. Their garden was no better. It stretched out like a miniature golf course, all precision and pretence. Every blade of grass stood to attention, every hedge trimmed to geometric perfection. The whole thing was preposterous, especially when I thought of my mother's garden.
She'd loved that garden, taking so much pride in its wild beauty. Afternoons spent crouched among the flowerbeds, her hands in the dirt, nurturing every bloom like it was a part of her. When she got sick, the garden seemed to wither with her. The grass grew long and unkempt, the birds stopped coming, and the hedges stretched out into jagged, shadowy forms. It had been alive once, vibrant and full of care, but it faded just as she did. Unlike here. This garden was dead too, only it didn't know it. My father and Verity didn't step foot in it. They paid a gardener to maintain its lifeless perfection--a museum piece that existed solely to be admired from the windows.
The whole house was like that. A mausoleum masquerading as a home.
The divorce had been the best thing that ever happened to my father. He'd shed his old life like a skin that no longer fit, reinventing himself as the kind of man who belonged in a house like this. I'd been here only a handful of times over the years, just enough to remind me why I stayed away. They'd gone to the trouble of setting up a whole bedroom for me--carpeted, wallpapered, and meticulously decorated. It was three times the size of my room at my mother's place, but it felt wrong.
While my mother was dying in a damp two-bedroom bungalow with mould creeping up the bathroom tiles, my father was thriving. The bedroom wasn't for me--it was a bribe, an olive branch gilded in guilt and convenience. They probably thought I'd eventually forget the past, that I'd end up spending more time here, maybe even moving in. I didn't. I refused to give them that satisfaction. The room became little more than a hiding spot for my pot stash.
Maybe it was still there, tucked under the floorboards.
Downstairs, the reception was in full swing. The air was thick with low murmurs, clinking glasses, and the occasional forced laugh. I moved through the crowd with my head down, avoiding eye contact with anyone who might recognise me. The last thing I wanted was to get cornered into an hour-long conversation about how much I'd grown or how my university course was going.
Thankfully, I didn't have to worry about my father. He hadn't looked at me once. He was too busy working the room, gliding from guest to guest with an ease that made my stomach turn. This was supposed to be his ex-wife's funeral, but he treated it like a networking event. I watched as he leaned in close to someone, flashing his practiced smile, and--was that a business card he was handing out?
If we weren't all dressed in black, you could've sworn this was a dinner party. He looked good, too--better than good. He had the energy of someone who'd finally been unshackled from something heavy. Relief suited him.
I kept weaving my way toward the stairs, desperate to escape the charade, but I wasn't lucky enough to avoid everyone. Worse than one of my mother's old co-workers or some distant relative, it was my father's bimbo.
She zeroed in on me with the precision of a heat-seeking missile, her glossy smile already in place. Before I could sidestep her, she wrapped me in a hug. Her arms were tight, her fake tits pressing uncomfortably close. The overwhelming scent of her perfume--something floral and cloying--made my eyes water.
She looked polished, every inch of her perfectly curated. Her black boatneck dress clung in all the right places, the fabric whispering of designer labels. For a fleeting moment, I wondered if it cost more than my monthly rent.
"How are you, dear?" she asked, her voice syrupy with feigned concern.
"Fine," I muttered, trying to extricate myself from her grasp. "I was just heading to the bathroom."
She gave a slow, measured nod, her manicured hand brushing my arm lightly. "If you ever want to talk to someone..."
I didn't let her finish. I was already walking away, throwing a dismissive, "Yeah, yeah," over my shoulder.