IRISH LOVESTORY - Suzanne

 

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Suzanne

Jack would have done anything for his new business. Around that time, he became acquainted with an influential, older woman named Suzanne. I had never met her in person, yet her name began to surface in our conversations with increasing frequency. She was the wife of an Indian billionaire, and to Jack, she was clearly a prize worth pursuing. He justified their contact as business necessity, claiming he needed to win her favor. How far he was willing to go, I could not guess. What I did know was that his hunger for wealth could push him to nearly anything.

To Suzanne, Jack was obviously a handsome young plaything—someone to flaunt before friends over drinks at a pub. He confessed that he had accompanied her a few times, swearing that the encounters had been degrading, that he had resisted the urge to run. Yet I could not understand the source of this relentless drive, this willingness to trample over anything—or anyone—in pursuit of success.

“Suzanne has connections, and, more importantly, money. If you saw her, you wouldn’t be jealous, trust me,” he reassured me, again and again.

But his obsession with opportunity clouded his judgment. When Suzanne invited him to the Rose of Tralee, Ireland’s most prestigious festival, I gave him permission to go. Not that my consent mattered—he would have gone regardless. I stayed behind, counting the days until he returned.

“You won’t believe what Suzanne tried on me,” he announced triumphantly when he walked through the door.

“She touched me under the table, but I pushed her hand away,” he said, as if resisting her advances were some noble conquest.

I neither wanted nor dared to imagine what had really transpired.

The breaking point came later, when my mother and sister came to Ireland on holiday. I had asked Jack to care for them while I worked: drive them, make them comfortable, and, at the very least, refrain from smoking in their presence.

To his credit, he collected them from the airport, entertained them for a few days, and even suggested a family trip to Mayo, his mother’s birthplace, so they could see the “real” Ireland and meet his relatives. The idea charmed me.

We set off for the west coast, staying in two adjacent rooms at a stately eighteenth-century hotel. The grounds were magnificent, lush, steeped in history.

But Suzanne would not let go. She called incessantly, interrupting lunches, intruding on car rides, demanding to know his whereabouts and actions. It mattered little that he was with me and my family—perhaps that made it all the more thrilling for her. And Jack, seduced by the promise of future wealth, never had the courage to end her calls. I eventually had to explain the situation to my mother, who found his obsession with Suzanne strange and unsettling.

A few days later, he insisted I meet her. Curiosity overcame reluctance. Suzanne was diminutive, overdressed, over-perfumed, and clingy in a way that made my skin crawl. I brushed her hand off my shoulder again and again, but her boldness seemed endless. I could not fathom why Jack thought it wise to parade her before me.

The final straw came one night, close to midnight, when the doorbell rang. From my room, I heard Suzanne’s voice—and Pete’s—as they made themselves at home downstairs, speaking loudly, as if ours was no longer their space. My mother and sister were asleep upstairs, and I felt the urgency to restore order.

I stormed out and shouted for Jack to throw them out immediately. Instead, he forced me back into our bedroom, leaning far too close, shouting in my face that Suzanne was his guest and would not be asked to leave.

By then, my mother had emerged, alarmed by the noise, and sided with me. One might have thought Jack would restrain himself in her presence, but he only raised his voice further. Downstairs, I heard Suzanne and Pete muttering, preparing to leave. I rushed to the window, hurling one final volley of insults at Suzanne as she fled in her glittering stilettos. I never saw her again.

My mother begged me to leave too, to free myself from him. But I could not abandon the relationship I had fought so hard to build—not in an instant.

So I curled up alone on the living room couch, sobbing. From the radio drifted Listen to Your Heart by Roxette, the words etching themselves into me like prophecy.

In that moment, I believed I had to stay until the end. I could not walk away from the battlefield. Everything I had seemed to hinge upon this fight. I thought I was fighting for love. Only later did I understand: this was the beginning of the fight to love myself.