Alison

I met Alison six years ago. At that time, I was just a teenager, and Alison was in her late twenties. My brother brought her home to surprise us with the news of his engagement. We were shocked, and my mother was fuming. The atmosphere was rather stressful, but Alison didn’t seem to care one bit. She talked, smiled and laughed at the most appropriate times and within a few minutes she won over our family.

Alison is the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen. I wanted to be her, and I wanted her to like me. The first time we met, she was wearing a ruffle skirt, and a white blouse with her hair pulled back into a perfect bun, not one strand of hair out of its place. It was the way she carried herself that I was most envious of. She wore the most beautiful dresses, which I was later told she made herself. She was a fashion designer.

Even on the day of my brother’s funeral, she looked perfect. A simple elegant black dress, with black heels and hair fully straightened, Alison hardly looked like the grieving widow, but her eulogy to her husband moved everyone.

After that I didn’t see Alison for nearly four years. She married a businessman only two weeks after my brother’s death. My mother refused to acknowledge her existence. They bumped into each other at church once, but seeing her so happy irritated my mother to no extent. She inherited my brother’s property and my mother was upset about that. I didn’t hate Alison, nor was I angry. If she was happy with her new husband, nothing like it! I knew how unhappy she was with my brother. They never showed it, but I could always pick up on the tension. Alison was a free spirit, she liked doing things her own way. My brother, on the other hand, was controlling. It seemed to me that he was trying to put her in a cage.

The next time I met Alison was in Venice. I was an art student there, having the time of my life, away from my parents, in my own little world. As I was roaming the market one morning, there was Alison, posing in front of a camera. She was wearing a red and pink blazer with a mini skirt, and red stockings. I called out to her at once. She looked at me, and waved at me to come over. After two minutes she bid the photographer adieu and hugged me.

Alison took me out for lunch in her convertible. It was the most expensive restaurant in Venice, and I noticed people looking at Alison as she walked in. She wanted to give them a show, so she took off her blazer, showing off her collarbones and arms in her pink halter-neck top. Her hips swayed as she walked into the restaurant. As we settled down, she updated me with everything going on in her life. Her second husband died and left her with a large fortune. After his funeral, she took several trips. On one particular trip to India, where she spent two months in a yoga and meditation retreat in the Himalayas, she decided to give up on her present career. She was good at it, but she felt like she was meant for more. She started an Instagram account and became a fashion influencer. With more than two million followers, she was now a trending Instagram model.

“It’s a shame Steve died,” Alison talked about her second husband, “I had finally started liking him.”

Over the next few months, I saw Alison every day. She insisted I call her Ali. I had become her best friend. The simple reason was that she liked to talk and I liked to listen. In those few months, I had gotten complete insight into Alison. Till now I had this perfect image of her, but as it turned out, she was far from perfect, and that attracted me even more.

“Why do you go to church every Sunday?” I asked her once. Her affiliation with the church baffled me. She didn’t seem the religious type.

“My mother used to take me to the Maas every Sunday. It’s kind of a habit. It’s also fun to rile up those bible-worshiping sinners. You should come with me this weekend.”

So I went. Alison glided into the church like she owned the place. I was busy looking at the other members, who looked at us with contempt in their eyes. I even heard someone whisper “slut” as they saw Alison. I think Alison liked this attention. It was perhaps intentional that she was wearing such a short dress in church. Soon after the sermon, Alison walked to the altar and started giving her own sermon. Everyone listened raptly, even me.

I felt more alive with Alison than I had at any point in my life. I think I was in love with her. Yes, it was painful and annoying to see her flirting with different men, especially when she would leave me to go home with them.

Alison disappeared for a few days. I called all her friends and boyfriends, but no one knew where she was. She didn’t take my calls nor did she reply to my messages. Two days later, she came live on Instagram where she announced her engagement to Andrew Jenkins. They were in Greece, sipping champagne.

I was both hurt and mad. I checked some comments. Some were congratulating the couple, but most of them were insulting her for being engaged to Andrew who was twelve years younger than her, and also for the fact that this was her third marriage. She got labelled an ‘anti-feminist’ and a ‘gold digger’. She called me several times, but I didn’t pick up.

Two weeks later, Alison came to my apartment. She was mad, and shaking in anger. I knew how angry she could get when she was ignored or avoided, but looking at her beautiful face, my own anger melted away. My eyes fell upon her neck which was bruised with marks.

“What happened?”

“Ah, nothing! Andrew and I had a fight.”

Like nothing happened, we sat side by side and she told me the whole story. Andrew and Alison had a fight regarding some of her Instagram pictures. He asked her to take them down. She refused and they had a fight, which got physical. He ended up choking her and she fainted for a few moments.

Seeing her like that, he felt so guilty that he promised never to fight with her again. When Alison gained consciousness, she pretended to break off their engagement and finally, when he begged her not to, she took him into her hands.

“I don’t understand. Why would you want to be with him? He hit you!”

“You are so naive, sweetheart.” She laughed. “You know what women really want? Control. Sometimes to gain control, you have to pretend to be helpless. I know Andrew loves me, and he will always be in my control. I do love him dearly.”

I can’t say I understood her logic, but as long as she was happy, I was happy. She asked me to be her maid of honour, but I refused. I couldn’t see her getting married to another man. I think she understood. She gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear and kissed me on the lips.

I went back to London as soon as I graduated. Neither of us spoke to each other, but I kept following her on social media. She posted pictures of her wedding, her honeymoon and even a solo photoshoot. The same people who were calling her a whore, commented on each and every picture of her. Some of them went back to loving her. She expanded her business and started designing clothes again.

The last time I saw Alison was a few days ago in a little coffee shop. I was on a date with my girlfriend. Alison saw us and straightaway came and hugged me. I was over her, but I couldn’t stop blushing. She introduced herself to my girlfriend. Obviously she knew about Alison and left with an excuse. Perhaps she could see exactly what I was feeling.

“How have you been?” She asked.

“I’m good. I work as a buyer for a local art gallery here.”

She told me everything about her life. Her third husband ended up dying too. She had a brief affair with a politician, but that did not work out. He was suffocating her apparently.

“I’m sorry about Andrew. I knew you loved him.” I said.

“Yes, I did.” She said.

We didn’t speak much after that. After finishing our coffee, we went back to Alison’s hotel room where we made love. I cried afterwards. Every emotion I had all these years, jealously, love and anger pent up within me were purged, and I was finally free. I think it was Alison’s way of giving me closure.

“I’m much better with men you know.” She smiled as I got up to leave.

“I bet. You got four men to marry you. I’m sure you can get another one.”

“Well, I have to. There’s just one thing I dread, and that is being alone. Can’t bear the thought of it.” She said.

I gently kissed Alison and left. That was the last time I ever saw her. Perhaps someday I’ll meet her again. Or perhaps not. But I shall forever remember her. Her perfection, her quirks, her strength, her independence, and even her vulnerability. I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again, there’s no woman like Alison.