Above our heads now, the creak of Callie’s floorboards. I picture her moving through the flat, wineglass in hand. Taking time at the window to drink in the stars.
I can’t help wondering what she thinks of me, after our encounter atthe shop earlier. Has she concluded Melissa’s my girlfriend? That I’m as shallow as I am untrustworthy?
Maybe, I think, it would be for the best if she did.
“Dominic hates pizza,” Melissa says, settling down by my side.
I don’t recognize the name. But I do recognize the way she lays it down, like a parcel to be unwrapped. It’s not the first time, and we’ve never claimed to be exclusive. What we are suits us both. That’s why we’ve worked so well for so long.
I sling three oily salami saucers into the box, play along. “Who’s Dominic?”
“Someone I’ve been seeing.”
“Older man?”
“What makes you say that?”
I shrug. “You’re a Richard Gere short of a party.”
She smiles thinly. “No, actually.”
“Was it his do you were supposed to be at tonight?”
She sets her mouth in a way that implies it was. “We argued. He wants me to move into his place.”
“How long have you been...?”
“Three weeks.”
I masticate my carbs. “Sounds a bit full-on.”
She slackens her jaw slightly. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous.”
“Look, in all honesty, if you’ve met someone you like, then...”
“Then what?”
“Then I don’t think we should be doing this. I want you to be happy. I’ve told you that.”
We sit quite still for a while. I can feel a pulse, but we’re so close together it’s hard to know if it’s hers or mine. “We can just hang out tonight,” I say. “Nothing has to happen.”
She snakes around to kiss me on the mouth. “Thanks. But I want it to, pizza-breath.”
Ah, Melissa. I can always count on her to say the perfect thing.
•••
That night, I dream of something so disturbing it has me by the throat.
Saturday night about a year from now, and I’m standing in Dad’s kitchen. He’s kicking off about something, jabbing an index finger in my direction. The words are hot with fury as they leave his mouth.
But they are words I can’t begin to comprehend.
“You’re not even my son! I’m not even your father!”
He says them twice during his minute-long monologue. I just stand in front of him, a little afraid, a lot stunned.
And then he strides from the room, orders me to leave him alone. On the other side of the kitchen, an openmouthed Tamsin drops a bowl of strawberry jelly. It splatters across the floor and my feet. Stains them like blood.
