This is a direct continuation of the previous story. Here is a quick refresher:
We're in a small, unnamed country town in New South Wales, eastern Australia. In the first part, five amateur actors abandoned the play that they'd been rehearsing, and instead had some fun with improvisation. Things got steadily more risqué as they went along, including some group sex. Part 1 ended with a tribal massage of Heather, who had revealed extensive scarring on her body as a result of domestic abuse. The five others committed to helping her, and also agreed to keep going with the improvisation as a way of working up a new script to be performed for the town.
Our players are:
David, a young man in his early 30s. David narrated the first instalment, but we'll give him a rest now.
Rosie, a lively redhead also in her early 30s, who hooked up with David in the first instalment.
Keith, a slightly supercilious lawyer in his late 30s, who hooked up with Heather in the first instalment.
Susie, brunette and freckled, a young farmer in her mid-20s, who has recently returned from agricultural college, and joined a threesome with David and Rosie in the first instalment.
Heather, a blonde banker in her mid-30s. Her estranged husband is working out of town, having had trouble finding work locally due to rumours circulating about his abusive behaviour. She hooked up with Keith during the first instalment. Heather will be our narrator for Part 2.
Finally, the rain had stopped, and the mood in our town was steadily rising as the river started to fall. We had broken the drought, big-time, and managed to dodge any significant flooding. The paddocks were well watered and there was going to be ample fodder for stock. It was also great timing for those looking to get a crop in the ground before winter. Everybody was walking around smiling, and the long-term seasonal outlook from the meteorologists was favourable as well. Things were pretty happy at work in the bank too: what had been lining up as a grim winter of mortgage foreclosures had totally flipped around, and now my main problem was counselling people to be a bit restrained in their risk-taking over the next year so that they could consolidate their wins without overexposing themselves. The weather outlook might be good, but nothing was written in stone.
All this was nothing compared to the change in my personal life. I had been married for ten miserable years to Ron, who had not been home for months due to his struggles getting work locally. I was still married to him, but I was determined that that was going to change, and I was developing a plan with the help of my good friends.
My... unexpectedly intimate friends. Last week, I had thought that I was going to a simple rehearsal of a fairly pedestrian play that David had written for us. I enjoyed the company of these people, all of whom (apart from Keith) were a little younger than me, and none of whom would dream of hurting me.
But, by the end of the night, my world had turned around. Not only had we abandoned the play and had a very fun time improvising, but much to our collective astonishment, the rehearsal had evolved into a group sex session, with the help of a bit of lovely wine and dress-ups. I had not only allowed Keith to have his wicked way with me as we had watched the other three perform a rather arousing improvisation that riffed on a silly colonial reinterpretation of our convict history meeting 'Pirates of Penzance', but I had really enjoyed the experience. And then, wonder of wonders, I had shown my sad, abused body to the others, and instead of turning away, they had responded with a loving group massage and sincere promises of support.
I was still in shock at all of this, but I was also high on the experience. I could not have imagined participating in anything like this several months ago, but with Ron away for months, I'd been slowly able to relax about myself and remember something of the carefree soul that I'd been, growing up on the Sydney beaches.
Ron had not been an abuser at first, of course. He was the handsome, strapping young man I'd met soon after arriving in town as a dewy-eyed graduate from the big smoke, learning the ways of life in the bush. I'd never expected to stay here, but within six months, Ron had me under his magnetic spell. He was muscular, self-assured, and going places. We were married two years later, and although my mother cried at the thought that I wouldn't be coming back to Sydney to live, she adored Ron, his rugged good looks and his promising career as a builder.
Of course, even then, it was a lie. By the time we were married, I knew that Ron had a bit of a drinking problem, but I thought that I would soon change that. Instead it got worse, and when he started turning up late to his work sites and his career started to go sideways, he took it out on me. I'm not going to go through the blow-by-blow here, but soon enough, I was deflecting questions from my parents on my increasingly rare visits home, and my old bikinis stayed in the drawer, replaced by cover-up wraps and excuses why I didn't want to see my old friends at the beach.
When word started to get out in the town, spread by the outraged nurses who had attended me at the clinic after some of the worst nights, Ron was getting no work at all. I'll say this for him: he still tried to provide for me in his pathetic way, and during his sober moments, he begged me for forgiveness and even made a couple of half-hearted attempts at reform. But one day, I packed him a bag, handed him his car keys (he had only managed to hang on to his driver's licence through being drinking mates with the local coppers), and told him not to show his face again until he was sober.
I'd heard nothing at all from him since then, and it took me a while to realise that the situation, although infinitely better than before, was still unsatisfactory. I might have lost my youth and beauty and I could never erase my scars, but I was not going to abandon the rest of my life to the false promise of a drunken, violent man that he might one day be worthy again of being my husband. And it was that that had crystallised for me at the last rehearsal, from the moment I put on that gorgeous green dress.
Technically, I'd cheated on him last week. But I didn't regret it. He had betrayed me, every time he hit me, every time he burnt me, and every time he got out of bed still drunk from the night before. He had trashed our marriage and my body, had broken his vows a thousand times. So no, no regrets. Not. A. Fucking. One.
I couldn't even regret not having children yet, because they would have also been his children. But of course, I was well aware of my ticking biological clock. At thirty-five, it may already have been too late: in which case, c'est la vie. I had a younger sister and brother, and if I had to be the kind but slightly sad Auntie to their growing number of children, I was prepared to play that role. And my mother had stopped asking me about it, particularly after my sister had her first, gorgeous little girl. Thinking about that, I realised that probably my Mum had picked up more about my sad marriage than I had realised but was sparing me an inquisition. I needed to fix that up a little bit, by telling her as much as she would be able to bear and reassuring her that I was still her daughter and my soul was intact.
Anyway, after last week's mind-blowing events, I had followed up with Keith's offer of lawyer support. This time I kept my clothes on, but still allowed him to sit close to me as he went through the formal separation and divorce options at my disposal. Of course it would not be easy, but at least we have 'no-fault' divorce in Australia. We also discussed the options for making a police complaint and the likelihood of charges being laid against him. That would be more traumatic of course, but, as Keith reminded me, there would be plenty of witnesses from the clinic who had seen me. Keith also explained that if domestic violence was proven in Australia, it wouldn't automatically affect my financial settlement if we divorced: instead, the courts could consider how the violence affected my contribution to our joint assets, and decide accordingly. It was complex, and a bit sobering.
The main problem that I faced was Ron's footy mates in the police force: there wasn't a guy at the local station who hadn't grown up with him and who didn't think that, under it all, he was a good bloke who could get back on track if we just gave him a chance. And the Sergeant, Kevin O'Brien, was the worst of all. So, I was still unsure about making a police complaint. And ultimately, I knew that this was too small a town for both of us if Ron came back acting sober and his cheer squad was still there. I'd be damned if I was going to go back to Sydney with my tail between my legs. This was my home now. I just had to work out how to keep Ron away.
--
