“I haven’t heard from you,” she says, almost tremulously. Entirely different from the woman who demanded to know who I was not five minutes ago. She sounds timid in his presence.
“What have I told you about just turning up out of the blue? If you can’t respect my boundaries, I’m going to have to take the key back.” It’sa tone I haven’t heard from him before. Harder, more abrupt than it was even this morning.
“Jack,” she says, and there is a horrible, pleading note to the word. “Darling. I think we need to talk about getting you back to rehab.”
“I’m fine, Mum,” he says, and he shoots a vicious glare in my direction that would shrink a lesser woman than me. I pretend it has had the desired effect. I back into the counter until I feel it press against my spine.
“We’re just worried about you, Jack,” I say. I make my voice small and timid to match his mother’s. Two women who only want what’s best for him.
“Weren’t very worried about me last night, were you?”
I falter. I’d hoped he wouldn’t bring it up. I see Catherine shoot a quizzical glance in my direction. Time for damage control.
“I didn’t…I didn’t know how bad it was. I thought you could just have a glass. I’m sorry. That was my mistake.”
“Well, neither of you needs to worry. I’m going to a meeting this evening.”
“Do you think it’s perhaps past that point, darling?” If I didn’t know better, I’d say Catherine sounded scared.
“No. I can get a handle on this,” he says shortly. “Without you two twittering in my ear.”
“OK.” She doesn’t sound convinced. “It’s just, your father would have—”
“Don’t talk to me about that man. Leave, please. Now.”
She doesn’t need to be asked twice. She collects her bag, which she had set on the counter, and scurries out, leaving me and Jack staring at each other across the kitchen.
Thirty-three
I manage to bringus back from the brink. Of course I do. I am demure, and so apologetic I almost believe it myself. It takes him a while to thaw. I cling to his arm and show him the cake, the marinated duck on the side. His face softens as he takes them in. He’s quiet, pinching the bridge of his nose with his eyes closed before he opens them again, offers me a small smile.
“I’ve been a bit of a twat, haven’t I? I’m sorry, it’s been a long day.”
Understatement of the century, but I shake my head vigorously. I’d do anything to set him at ease, to show him how committed I am.
“Not at all. I shouldn’t have given you the wine last night. That’s on me. I’m sorry. Did work keep you late?”
“Work?” And there’s that look again. That haunted, panicked expression.
“You said you had a long day?”
He coughs, looks at the floor. “Work, yeah. I had something to take care of for them.”
He doesn’t look at me, and I find I don’t quite believe him.
But then he comes to me, presses a kiss to my temple. I don’t regretgiving him the wine. Not at all. Not when it’s led to this easy, casual intimacy between us.
We have a nice dinner. No wine. I avoid contentious subjects, like the wife, or the drinking, and generally just let him do the talking. Which he does. Almost like he’s using his voice to resist the urge for a drink. On the table, his hand clenches into a fist and unclenches, and there’s a tendon raised in his neck. I ask all the right questions and wait for him to relax. It takes a while—it was easier when he was lubricated last night—but eventually his breathing settles. I pounce on the moment.
“Sorry to bring it up again, but could I get that key?” Softly, casually. Like it’s not a big deal. But the truth is, I will go stir-crazy if I have to spend another whole day in this house. I don’t like being cooped up. Not when there are things to do, items to purchase, people to watch.
I had far more autonomy in my relationship with Freddie, though—looking back—I wonder if it was perhaps too much. Too much time, during those long nights where I was not with him, to linger on details. To torture myself with thoughts of him with someone else.
I tried to convince myself the ring was for me. It worked for a while. Whenever my thoughts turned to the morbid, I’d imagine Freddie down on one knee. Somewhere public, where everyone turned to look as he proved his commitment to me with that ring. I tried to keep the fantasy going for as long as I could, but sometimes—in this dream—I’d turn, and there would be a face in the crowd. A woman who pushed through the throngs of people, walked toward us, and threw her arms round Freddie’s neck, right in front of me. Sometimes, she had Marcie’s face.
I upped my efforts with Freddie. I employed all of Marcie’s most successful tactics, but I couldn’t help but feel he was still pulling away from me.
My work performance suffered as a result, but Freddie didn’t bringit up, as though his guilt for what he’d done—for what he wasdoing—prevented him from admonishing me.
