MONDAY
When the morning does arrive, I feel like my brain is made of hot compost - replete with burrowing rats and worms. I remember flashes of nightmarish nonsense that can't be real; A gigantic Lionel leaning down to lift Charles up into his car, but Charles is a pile of tiny red rabbits, whimpering, trying to escape. A staticky voice in the heavens blares;
'He wasn’t unconscious, just playing possum.'
I rub my eyes and check the time.
Moving my arms reveals to me all the pain I didn't know I was in - I slept in my ridiculous battle jacket covered in pins and patches. I peel back one sleeve to discover the texture of the fabric with all its folds and seams deeply imprinted in my flesh. I gingerly take the whole thing off and feel freer. Thankfully, I had the foresight to remove my boots. They wouldn't have been fun to deal with had I slept in them. The buckle on my belt hurts to undo, but it has to go. All of it has to go.
My skin stings as I stumble to the bathroom. My green folder is on the counter in the kitchenette. I guess I managed to get it back somehow.
The shower doesn't do enough to wake me up. My head hurts, and the drumming of the water on my scalp doesn't help at all. When I'm out, I dress myself in my own clothes. Not the ones Jaq bought me. Those are too fussy for someone feeling this awful. He'll forgive me for being out of costume for one day.
I retrieve my phone. I hold it in both hands. I feel like a drowning sailor clinging to a life buoy. I'm not sure why. I check my texts. Nothing remarkable.
I want to call Casey.
I want to tell her that I think I was roofied. I want to tell her I'm okay.
I can't.
Not now. The run for the play isn't long. For her sake, I have to wait. Just a few more days.
Can I even tell her at all?
I start to sob uncontrollably. The loneliness of being unable to speak to my closest friend burns my insides.
----------------------------------------
After some time - maybe minutes, maybe hours, there's a sound behind me.
‘Jo. Jo. Wake up.’
From my vantage point, floating in the clouds a million miles away over a warm tropical peninsula, I slam back into reality.
‘What?’
Casey and Lionel are with me in the kitchenette.
'How did you get here?'
Casey is crying. She hugs me close.
'Lionel let me in. Are you okay?'
I think hard about the question.
'Not exactly.'
Lionel looks awkward, unsure of what to do.
'I got your folder out of his car. I guess he might have actually given it back to you. I don't know if he took copies of anything, or if he kept anything. You should check it to make sure it's all there.'
I'm too absorbed by the hug to follow his advice. I don't want to let Casey go.
'I don't think copies of documents would be enough for a tabloid to risk a lawsuit, but I guess it depends on whether... the kidnapper... is bribing them to carry the story or not.'
Casey squeezes me tighter. I guess he hasn't told her who did this. I probably shouldn't either.
'I made sure to send the kidnapper some deterrent material from the dash-cam recording I made - something to persuade him it'd be in his best interests to leave you alone.'
'Thank you.'
'No problem. You wouldn't have gotten into this mess if my brother wasn't such an idiot.'
Lionel looks around.
'The doctor says your toxicology report is in the priority queue. It won't be long before we have it.' He pauses to sigh. 'Now that you have someone to stay with you, I'm going to go back home. Let you have some privacy to talk. Call me if you need anything.'
He places my room key on the counter, tapping it twice as though to draw my attention to it, and then steps out of the room. The door clicks quietly shut behind him.
'Casey?'
'Yes?'
'I'm sorry.'
'Why on earth are you sorry?'
'You have a show.'
She laughs.
'You're more important.'
I release my grip on her to hold my head, hoping that putting pressure on my skull will reduce the pain. She withdraws and watches me.
'I'd get you some painkillers, but I don't know what you were given. I don't want to risk a bad drug interaction making you worse.'
I hate that she's right. I probably shouldn't take anything for this.
In an attempt to distract myself, I ask;
'How did you get here, anyway?'
'Lionel came to the house first thing in the morning - he said you asked for me just before you passed out, but he didn't have any way to contact me.'
I don't remember doing that. I guess it sounds like something I'd do.
'Do you wanna talk about what happened?'
I shake my head, then change my mind.
'Yeah. I think I do. I think I need to tell you.'
She drags out one of the chairs tucked under the table and sits, expectantly.
----------------------------------------
I order us delivery food for lunch and feel guilty. It costs so much. It's still the least I can do, considering Casey stayed with me all morning.
She regards the scattered shards of pottery on the table, eyes persistently drawn by the maze of coloured fragments.
‘This doesn’t look like something that you can really fix.’
‘Yeah.’
‘He did this, didn’t he.’
It wasn’t a question.
‘Lionel should have hit him harder.’
'Lionel hit him?'
'Yeah. He broke a tooth.'
I sweep the mess back into the box it came from, making space for us to eat. Casey moves to block me, like she wants to put the pieces away with more care.
‘Don’t worry about this junk. The sculptures were just packed in boxes under the bed anyway. I didn’t have space to put them anywhere else in my room. Now that they’re broken I can throw them away and I won't feel bad. I’ll even have less junk for when we next move house. I should thank the bastard for making it easier.’
Casey laughs a little, more at the fact I'm trying to make light of the situation than at my joke.
It had gotten to a point where I couldn’t give my sculptures away, so I stopped making new ones. I couldn’t keep making more if I didn’t have places to store them, and I was never able to throw old art away easily, even if it was awful. I tried to let go of the worst pieces. I even managed to throw away a box full of sketchbooks. It put me into a state of depression that lasted a week.
Giving my sculptures away was almost the same as throwing them away, it just felt a little better initially. My art wasn’t ever treated with much respect once it was in other people's care – most things got broken or returned to me, or broken, then returned. Sometimes they just mysteriously vanished from people’s houses and memories, as though they’d never existed at all. That hurt more than tossing them myself.
If no one would enjoy them… then what was the point in making them?
‘Can you re-make them?’
‘I don’t think I’d want to. I haven’t worked with clay for a long time, and the feeling that inspired the original is completely gone. The replacement wouldn’t have that… I don’t know... That sounds weird.’
Casey shakes her head and takes my hand. She holds it by the fingers; like she’s going to lift it to her lips for a chaste, courtly kiss.
‘Make new things then.’
I close my eyes.
I have nowhere to work. Nowhere to store the things I make. I could scrounge materials easily enough… but, to what end? Nobody wants my art.
‘I don’t think I have it in me right now.'
A rap at the door interrupts my wallowing. Casey brings the food to the table. I survey the room as we eat – it’s not a great place to entertain with all my boxes of junk in the way. I can’t even suggest we turn the TV on. There is too much in front of it, blocking the view.
All I can do is talk.
Casey flips through my folder of records.
'Is the letter telling me I'd been expelled from uni still in there?'
Casey looks over.
'Why would it be in here? You told me you never wanted to see it again. I put it in with my academic transcripts.'
I rest my head on the table beside my plate. I forgot I gave it to her. I'm not sure if I'm relieved to hear it was never in there.
'What do you think?'
'About all of this? I think he didn't find anything he could use. Your life is too boring to even try to ruin. He needed something better, so he blackmailed you to get you alone. That way he could invent a scandal to really hurt you.'
It makes sense. The Executioner probably suspected as much. I should have listened to her. I should have talked to Casey about my fears - she would have reassured me that she was still guarding my secret shame.
It didn't matter that none of that shit was true in the first place. I was expelled. That was the important thing. The fact it was for someone else's crime is completely irrelevant.
I hate myself.
‘Tell me something funny. Or nice. Or happy.’
Casey thinks for a moment.
'I don't know if you will find it funny, but Director Hollis...'
----------------------------------------
Casey leaves shortly after lunch. She doesn't want to go, but I insist. My head feels better. I don't feel as sick. I think I just need to rest. She lets me know where and when the cast party will be before she goes. The production ends soon.
There are eleven text messages waiting for me when I go back to the bedroom for my phone. That’s a little intimidating.
Jaq apologises for getting me kidnapped. Lionel asks how I am. Charles… I don’t want to read your messages. No sir.
I timidly tap the message thread.
> You were right. I misunderstood. I’m sorry.
>
> Let me make it up to you.
>
> I didn’t mean to scare you.
>
> Sorry.
I scowl at my phone. How do I even reply to that? Do I reply? …I probably should say something. I don’t know what to say. Do I need to appease him? Can I just tell him to fuck off?
There’s a decent chance anything I do will set off some other unreasonable chain of events. This man is unstable.
I take a deep breath.
Too early in the morning for this.
I check the time – 1:30 pm.
It doesn't really count as morning anymore.
There's a box with my name on it just inside the front door. I pick through the contents - it's just the clothes that the hotel’s laundry has kindly returned to me. I toss little paper laundry tags into the bin as I sort.
I'm glad I didn’t have much of a plan for today. I feel sluggish.
I return the nice clothes to the wardrobe and consider changing into something more 'in character,' but decide against it. I don’t need to impress anyone if I’m not going out. I can curl up on the couch with a book. I could do with something light and funny.
----------------------------------------
I’m near the end of the first chapter when I’m alerted to another mystery delivery to my hotel room. Peering through the peephole, I see a mass of flowers. Carnations, roses, orchids, bluebells, and plenty I can’t readily name. I let the delivery woman in, and she places the comically large flower arrangement on the floor beside the breakfast bar. The note just reads ‘Sorry.’
It has to be from Charles.
I sit cross-legged on the carpet, facing off against the botanical beast.
Normally; I love flowers. Especially when they’re in gardens, full of bees. There were carob trees near a house I lived in when I was at university – carob flowers aren’t particularly remarkable, nor is the scent all that appealing, but the trees would hum with bees. I loved sitting under them, just listening to the sound. It was soothing. These flowers are beautiful, but completely silent. They can’t serve their purpose like this. They will produce no seeds. Feed no bees.
Perhaps that’s how I reply to Charles.
Thank you for the pretty pot of dismembered plant genitalia. I assume it’s from you.
I hesitate to send a message like that. As much as I’d like to point out the inappropriateness of the gift with sarcasm… I mentally edit it.
Thank you for the flowers. I assume they’re from you.
I don’t want to use suggestive words with this man. He’ll use them as an excuse to escalate his ridiculous behaviour.
I reconsider typing up a message at all. I don't want him to think I've forgiven him. I don't want him to think I'm encouraging him. I don't know if my polite message will be read as a 'please, continue to harass me.'
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
I get up. I’m too full of anxious energy to rest now, and my hotel room doesn’t feel safe with these weird gifts appearing at random. I don't like that he knows where I am.
He knows where my friends are too. They don't know what kind of person he is.
I'm not sure if it's okay for me to tell them. I don't know why Lionel didn't tell Casey.
I send a message to Casey.
> Are you a fan of Charles Pitch?
Her reply is quick. She must have decided to keep her phone on her in case I needed her.
> OMG yes! Is he friends with Jaques? Are you going to meet him?
I consider how to respond. I don't want to accidentally word it in a way that tips her off.
> He is friends with Jaq. I met him at that party a week ago. He creeps me out. Said some really weird stuff. I was going to tell you, but forgot about it until all this business today. I guess better late than never?
It's hard trying to both keep the identity of my attacker a secret and warn people how dangerous he is. Anything too specific will make it obvious. Especially to Casey.
> Another one? Can’t we just have one hot dude who’s nice?
It’s not much… but if he approaches her, she’ll know she should be careful. I can’t tell her everything until I know why we're keeping his name a secret. Could be a legal thing. I don't want to put my foot in a case against him if something like that is already being formulated.
Though, if I want to protect Jaq and avoid scandal, I guess I personally can’t risk it getting out. There's a good chance some of his fans won't believe my side of the story, even with the dash-cam video Lionel took. They might do something stupid like picketing Jaq's shows. Plus, Charles would probably retaliate against all of us if it got out and he wasn't immediately thrown in prison. It’s probably safer this way.
I hate uncertainty.
To pass the time, I sort through my boxes. I need to reduce the volume of stuff I have in here. It's starting to feel claustrophobic. Broken sculptures, damaged clothes I’ve never gotten around to repairing, meaningless paperwork, old art supplies that probably can’t be salvaged – all these things can go into the hotel’s garbage chute.
Next time I check my phone, I’ve got another slew of messages.
I hate it.
A knock at the door interrupts my resentful reading.
It’s Charles. His face is bruised. His lip has a couple of tiny adhesive sutures, enlarged by the fisheye lens of the peephole. He’s holding a life-sized toy tiger. It must have cost a fortune.
I didn’t want this to escalate. I ignored his messages specifically because I didn't want this to escalate.
Resting my back against the door, I call his phone. He answers immediately.
‘Hi, Jojo!’
‘What do you want?’
‘I just came by to apologise.’
‘You already sent flowers.’
‘It’s not the same.’
I can feel every sinew and every tendon shrieking in terror. Anything I say, anything I do; it could set him off. I feel like I’m going to break apart.
‘You scared me. You still scare me. I don’t want to be alone in a hotel room with you.’
He sighs, heavily.
‘I know, I’m sorry. I took it a bit too far.’
A bit?
‘Look, I got you a stuffed animal friend. At least let me give him to you. I know you love animals.’
I don’t want the stupid toy.
‘That’s why I was going to take you to the zoo yesterday. I wanted you to see what it was like to go on a date with someone who cares about you and pays attention to the things you like. So you’d realise Jaq didn’t. Then you got sick, so we left early and didn’t get to visit the gift shop… I went back and bought you a souvenir.’
I can’t take this.
‘You… you had someone break into my house, rob us, scare all my housemates half to death, trample my sketchbooks, smash my sculptures… then you blackmailed and kidnapped me, and you thought I’d be able to have fun on a fucking trip to the zoo? A trip where you POISONED me.’
Shouldn’t have said that. Shouldn’t have said that. Nope. Too much. Stop, stop, stop. But I can't stop.
‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’
My voice is not my own. Someone else is speaking through me. I wouldn’t have said that.
'I don't want your apologies, I don't want your thoughtless gifts. I didn't ask for any of this! All I'm asking is that you fuck off and leave me alone!'
I hear laboured breathing through the phone.
He hangs up, but I hear his voice muffled through the door;
‘Yeah… I fucked that up.’
I hear him walk away. I'm too scared to check the peephole again.
I need out.
Jaq is busy. I text Lionel.
> Hey, any plans for the afternoon?
His reply is fast - it seems like he must have been waiting for me to message him.
> Not really. Am I being summoned?
I smile a little at the thought of being able to summon him like a genie.
> No, I just wanted an excuse to get out of this hotel room.
No need to mention the visit from Charles until he gets here. I don't want him to panic.
> Done. Be there soon.
----------------------------------------
A shave-and-a-haircut knock brings me to the door. I know it’s Lionel, even before I check the peephole. He’s looking scruffier than I last saw him. Is he dressing down for me? That’s… kind?
Once the door is open, my stomach drops. Charles left the horrible tiger.
‘I didn’t expect there to be a queue to get in.’
I grab the tiger by the head and drag it inside.
‘Please don’t be that rough with me – my neck’s delicate.’
I laugh sadly.
‘Fucking Pitch.’
Lionel points at the flowers.
‘That too?’
‘Yeah. They came earlier.’
‘Jeez.’
He sizes up the bouquet.
‘I think this thing is bigger than me.’
‘Do you happen to know anyone who’d want it? I don’t want it in here.’
Lionel reaches into the flowers to see how they’re held together.
‘Nope… But you do.’
Huh?
‘Help me carry this thing to the lift. We can come back for the cat. Unless you want to keep him?’
‘Absolutely not.’
----------------------------------------
We arrive at the theatre well before show time. I direct Lionel to the loading bay, and we carefully extract the flowers from the back seat of his car. Director Hollis watches us reassemble the display from his perch on the edge of the dock.
‘Those for me?’
I laugh.
‘They’re for everyone. The production is mid-run, so I’m guessing people might need a pick-me-up. Don’t tell anyone they’re from me.’
A grin crosses Hollis’ face.
‘A mystery like that will definitely get those flibbertigibbets all a-flutter.’
I run back to the car and haul out the tiger.
‘This too.’
Hollis puts out his cigarette and takes the toy.
‘I know exactly where to put this beastie.’
‘Thanks.’
‘No, no. Thank you. Staying for the show? I think there are a few vacant seats.’
I shake my head.
‘I saw it once already. That’s enough. You know much I hate this play.’
Tiger under one arm, Hollis opens the door back into the theatre.
‘Your loss. Keep out of trouble, kids.’
Walking back to the car, Lionel says;
‘He seems nice. Is he the janitor or something?’
I snicker.
‘He’s the director!’
Lionel winces.
‘Shit, sorry.’
‘It’s fine. I won’t tell him you said that.’
Lionel glances back.
‘He doesn’t look anywhere near theatrical enough.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I dunno. He needs a moustache, a turtleneck, and one of those director hats.’
‘You mean a beret?’
‘Yeah.’
I laugh. He deflects,
‘Where to now, mademoiselle?’
It’s too early for dinner, too late for lunch.
‘Anywhere but the hotel.’
‘Your wish is my command.’
‘I’m pretty sure genies aren’t French.’
‘Eh.’
‘Thank you.’
‘For what?’
‘This was a great idea.’
‘That’s okay… I mean, when we came here last I felt bad because we didn’t have flowers for your friends.’
‘You were still thinking about that?’
‘Sort of?’
----------------------------------------
We sit together in a small café attached to a bookstore – my favourite kind of café. There used to be a chain of bookstores that had an agreement with a café chain, and they’d open together. As a teen I’d sit at the café without ordering anything, reading a book I wasn’t going to buy, and they wouldn’t chase me away. It was the perfect way to stay out of the house as a broke and nerdy kid. Then the internet killed bookstores. Now arrangements like this are far too rare.
Lionel’s drink has a ludicrous tower of whipped cream on top of it. It looks like it might fall. He’s carefully trying to dismantle it without destabilising it.
I have tea. With agave syrup. Because fancy.
Frowning with concentration, he says;
‘She left me because I didn’t have enough ambition.’
Ambition. I hate the word. Theoretically, it should be a good thing – the desire to do something impressive is behind almost everything humans have ever achieved. My personal experiences with the word have never been positive. My projects were only described as ambitious if the speaker thought I wasn’t capable of completing them. Other people were only described as ambitious if they were so driven to achieve their goals that they would happily hurt the people around them for their own gain. My parents wanted me to show ambition by sacrificing my mental health for a higher-paying job than either of them had.
‘Ambition is overrated.’
He laughs.
‘You sound like you’ve been dumped for the same thing.’
I shake my head.
‘No. I had parents that didn’t want their daughter to be an artist.’
‘Ah.’
‘Art doesn’t pay, they said. Get a real job, they said. If I got a B+ in math, I was in trouble. Don’t you know all the good jobs require math skills?’
I stir my tea. Rumination is a trap drenched in honey. It feels so good to complain to someone who gets you. Quickly, that becomes all either of you talk about – then you both wind up hoping you never see each other again because all either of you can do is moan about those awful times. It’s still cathartic every time you get into a conversation… but every time you walk away, you feel a little less satisfied. A little more of the rage and indignation stays with you.
It’s poison.
‘Turns out they were both wrong. Only some of the good jobs require good math skills, and the math you need for good jobs is nothing like the garbage you learn in high school.’
The cream tower sags alarmingly. Lionel scrambles to catch it.
‘Obviously, I didn’t live up to their definition of ambition. You not having enough ambition implies that you had some kind of goal, but maybe one that Sophie thought was beneath you. I don’t imagine you always wanted to be a professional deadbeat.’
Having caught the tower with his fork, he tries to right it without severing the top. It's a struggle.
‘I wanted to be a guitarist in a band.’
‘That’s cool.’
‘I wasn’t too bad either. I managed to sneak lessons in high school.’
‘Sneak lessons?’
‘Mother… didn’t want me playing a low-class instrument.’
‘Wow.’
I wish I could go back in time and slap her. No kid should have to hide taking guitar lessons. Being that dedicated to music lessons seems like something that should have been rewarded. Not that my childhood brush with music lessons ended all that well either.
‘I wanted to play the bagpipes when I was in school.’
He laughs.
‘Unfortunately, the chanter – the practice pipe thing without the bag – was super loud and unpleasant. Neither of my parents were enthused. I was made to return it to the friend I borrowed it from the following day.’
I sip my tea, then ask;
‘What kind of music did you want to play?’
He grimaces.
‘You know what kind.’
‘Oh wow, you really were the epitome of a poseur punk.’
He winces.
‘Don’t worry, if that’s your ambition, we can fix that. I know some people who’d be happy to have another guitarist they could call up in case one of theirs didn’t show up… or passed out halfway through a performance. So long as you don’t let them know how wealthy your parents are, they probably won’t tease you too much. If you demonstrate a little bit of reliability, next time one of them forms a new band I'm sure you'd get an invite.’
He sighs deeply.
‘No… It was a stupid childish dream.’
‘Then what’s your smart adultish dream?’
He looks at me sharply.
‘…I don’t have one.’
And that’s a tragedy.
‘Don’t want to be a travel writer? A composer? A journalist?’
He shakes his head.
‘You could turn your hobbies into life goals. I hear professional gamers can make a ton of money.’
‘I’m not that good.’
‘Is there anything you’d like to try doing?’
‘Not really.’
‘Carpentry? Sailing? Photography?’
No reply.
This boy, with so much money, so many resources, so much privilege… there’s no reason he should be wallowing in depression like this. No reason at all.
I can’t forgive Frances. She’s crushed both of her sons. They’re both such broken men. Sure, Jaq can play like the devil, but he’s so traumatised he responds to everything like he’s about to die.
Lionel may be carrying his trauma differently, but it’s pervasive in every part of his life. It’s broken his relationships. It’s broken his spirit.
I’ll never forgive Frances. I can’t forgive Isaac either. He let her do this to them.
I don’t know how to undo it.
‘What about becoming a professional clown.’
He sputters, spraying his drink over the table.
‘You could get good money doing children’s birthday parties, and it would really piss off your mum.’
‘I nearly choked to death.’
‘Excellent. That means you survived, and you’re stronger now. How do you feel about juggling? I can just barely manage it, so I wouldn’t be much of a teacher… but my housemate, Sal, is amazing.’
----------------------------------------
Lionel and I are on our way to the estate when Casey and the crew discover the flowers.
> OMG JO! Someone sent us these INSANE flowers!
>
> Hollis says he doesn’t know who sent them
>
> THERE WAS A STUFFED TIGER IN THE DRESSING ROOM CLOSET
>
> IT FELL OUT ON MIKE
>
> THE NOTE SAID ‘ROAR!’
I can’t help but grin. Hollis’ note was an inspired addition. I suspect the tiger is about to become a beloved mascot and source of stupid pranks. I read the messages out loud for Lionel. We’re still giggling about it when we pull into the driveway.
Jaq must be practising near a window – I can hear him the moment I open the car door. The air feels cold and damp. I suspect it’s about to rain. I gingerly climb out, careful not to drop any of the hot food I have on my lap – I persuaded Lionel to stop at a fish and chip shop on the way, so we’d have an excuse to decline dinner invitations from Frances and Isaac. A touch of genius, if I do say so myself.
I spot Jaq on a balcony, silhouetted by the electric lights. The thin fabric of his shirt is lit up like a dim halo around his arms.
‘He must be freezing.’
‘Probably.’
‘I’m a double genius for bringing hot food.’
When we reach the room Jaq is practicing in, he’s standing right at the end of the balcony, facing out into the gardens. I call out to him;
‘We brought you dinner.’
He turns, looking surprised.
‘Hope you love fish and chips!’
I start to unpack the parcels on the floor next to the piano.
‘There’s a dining room you know…’ he says from the balcony door.
‘Shush. Sit down. Actually, no, shut that door, wash your hands, get a jumper, then sit down.’
He shivers, as though he only just noticed how cold it is.
Unfolding the paper wrapping on the chips, I spread it out like a picnic rug. For most of my life, this was a rare gourmet treat. Something that I’d splurge on if I had a bit of extra money that I didn’t feel I needed to squirrel away into savings. Now, I suppose it will have to be a rare treat because it’s fatty and salty, and everything that isn’t fat or salt is 100% carbs.
When I was a child, I dreamed of owning a chip shop so I could eat like this every day. My parents would shut me down, saying I’d get sick of eating the same food again and again. I couldn’t articulate the hypocrisy of that statement at the time… though if I could have, it wouldn’t have changed anything. Dinner with them was almost always peas, mash, and boiled chicken. No salt. Salt’s bad for you.
Eating at a chippy every day would have been a clear step up in dietary variety. The chips might be what they're named for, but a chippy doesn't just sell fried potato. I could have had a different burger for every day of the week, and saved the chips for special occasions.
‘Did you forget plates?’
‘Plates? You’re kidding. Next, you’ll ask for a knife and fork.’
Jaq looks uncertain.
‘You were going to ask for a knife and fork.’
He doesn’t respond.
‘Have you ever had chips before?’
‘Yeah. As a side. Served on a plate.’
‘And you ate them with a fork?’
‘…yeah.’
I point at the paper.
‘This paper is clean. Clean enough to wrap the food, clean enough to eat off.’
I waggle my fingers.
‘These are excellent tools for eating.’
I attempt to pick up a chip, pretending it’s slippery and I can’t hold on to it.
‘They are a bit complicated for beginners though.’
I chase the chip around the paper in front of me until I finally have it cupped in both hands.
‘You’ll get the hang of it.’
My expression is deadpan. Lionel’s face is turning pink. He’s doing a fine job of suppressing his laughter though.
I stare, unblinking at Jaq.
He starts to chuckle.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘Eating chips with a pair of unsophisticated plebs.’
Lionel’s resolve snaps, and he bursts into raucous laughter. Jaq’s chuckle turns into a giggle. I grin.
This is how it’s meant to be.