TUESDAY
I’m getting comfortable waking up in the guest room. Probably a little too comfortable. I can’t let the soft sheets and perfect mattress ruin me. I’ll have to go back to a normal bed in a few weeks.
Or maybe I won’t? I don’t know. I can probably afford to splash out and buy a nicer bed now. I probably won’t go this far, though.
I’ve got some messages from Casey; she sent them last night. Must have been after the show.
> Hey Jo, um. Idk how to tell you this, but… we’ve been evicted.
>
> We just got the notice when we came home.
>
> So, we’re going house hunting as soon as the last show’s done.
>
> I know you’ve kind of moved in with Jaques, but I thought I should ask…
>
> Do you want to come with us?
>
> You can still move with us if you want to, but let me know soon so we can look for a place with a room for you.
Oh no.
Oh no.
Were we evicted because of the break-in?
Our garbage landlord hated the fact that he was on the hook to pay for repair and maintenance work. The broken front door may have been the last straw for him.
It's all my fault.
I already felt bad that they were robbed by someone who was targeting me, and now they're being thrown out because of me.
I don't know how to tell Casey that there’s no way I’m permanently moving in with Jaq - it'll sound suspicious if I'm not careful. She knows I'm staying in a hotel room and not his house, at least, but it was never explained. She might think he's staying with me. She knows my financial situation better than anyone, so she knows I can't afford a hotel room like that.
But, that was my old financial situation.
I have some money now. How much have I amassed?
I go to check my bank account, then remember I don’t have the phone with my banking app, let alone the account I used to use. I’m not sure how to log in to my new account. I haven't had to. I haven't been so broke I needed to plan out how I'd spend every single cent in... well, days.
I don’t believe this. I have to ask my accountant if or when I can afford to buy a house. A house big enough for all my friends.
I don’t want to be a landlord.
I want to protect them. I want them to be safe. When this is done…
The money I've gained is going to change everything. No, it already has changed everything. I just didn’t see it. I didn’t think it through. I accepted the fruit without question, and now Hades has me in his claws forever.
I hate this.
I get up, stretching to try and work out the anxious strain that has already settled into my back and shoulders. I’m not looking forward to today.
I’m certain there are people out there that wouldn’t care about leaving their friends behind – people that would take the money and use it to drag themselves up into whatever counts as the 'elite'. But, this is my family. Through everything, they’ve been there. I don’t want that to change. I don’t want to create a hierarchy where my word feels like law, just because I own the house. I also don’t want to leave them in the cold. The house we had was a miraculous find – 5 bedrooms for that little? Sure, we didn’t have heat or cooling, but the windows closed, the doors locked, the lights turned on, and the water ran. The house I lived in before that only had water and lights. Every night I lay awake with a cloud of mosquitos buzzing around my head, terrified some random drunk would wander in off the street.
Could I lie to them? Pretend the house wasn’t mine, but they somehow got an awesome deal on the rent – I could ask for just enough to cover the bills. It might be vaguely believable... but they're all well acquainted with how brutal the housing market is. They'd know something was fishy. They'd likely suspect that they were being used for something nefarious. They might not want to stay under those conditions.
This is the kind of poorly thought-out plan Jaq would come up with. It’s terrible.
I know they're not my responsibility. I just want to share my luck with them. Yes; I’m working for this money… but it was only luck that gave me the chance to earn this much. Jaq could have picked any of them.
Well, any of the women. I doubt his parents would have accepted a boyfriend.
I’ll probably be paying for the stress I’m enduring to earn this money for years to come… my health wasn’t exactly ideal to start with. But, I was in a good place…
I shake my head, as though it’s that easy to banish doubt and anxiety. I have a world to save. I can’t let myself fall into the enticing embrace of hopeless anxious depression. I need to stay on top of my brain’s misbehaviour.
I don my dress battle armour in a meditative state, focused on the wisdom of a long-dead emperor. Things happen; you can’t always control them. What you can control is how you interpret those things, and how you respond. There’s power in that.
I didn’t make Charles break into my house… that’s not my fault. I’m carrying the guilt because I haven’t told them why it happened. I haven’t given them the chance to decide if they want to hold me responsible.
Stupid Roman. Couldn’t he have told me how to feel better about hiding things to protect people from getting hurt by vengeful pop stars?
I think I may have to tell them.
Can I trust them to keep it secret?
I don’t know.
I pick up my phone, feeling calmer.
> Of course I want to move with you guys. Don’t tell anyone, but Jaq lives with his parents.
>
> I want to try to persuade him to move with us too. And maybe his brother. It’s not healthy for them to be so sheltered at their age.
>
> I mean, if they’re welcome to come too. Don’t feel like you have to say yes. If you say no, I’m still moving with you.
This is hard to do over text.
I want to say more. I can’t. Not yet.
----------------------------------------
I stand in the estate’s garden. I came out here to think. It isn't really helping; I feel so exposed.
I can’t escape the scrutiny of the house. It sees me wherever I walk. It feels like I’m in a gilded panopticon – the dark, glittering windows threatening me with uncertainty though I stand in this tranquil garden full of colour and light. I shouldn’t feel this way.
I hear the sound of secateurs clipping something and follow the sound. It leads to a woman in high vis overalls delicately trimming a border.
I never see the estate staff unless they’re serving food. I’ve never had the chance to talk to them.
Would it be wrong to?
Ugh. This is pointless.
‘Hello!’
She looks up and grins.
‘Hi!’
‘You’re doing such beautiful work.’
‘Cheers. Just doing my job.’
The grin widens – though she turns back to her task. I desperately want to have a conversation with someone I’m not terrified of, working for, or hiding things from. I don’t want to be a nuisance though.
‘Did you design the garden?’
‘No, it’s too formal for my tastes. I just maintain it.’
‘Ah… um. Do you like working here?’
Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.
‘It suits me fine. Regular work. Something I’m good at. I get to be outdoors.’
It actually sounds wonderful. She glances up at me;
‘How about you? What do you do?’
I’m a little startled by the question.
‘Not much right now. I build sets, but unless something breaks, I won't be needed until work on the next production starts.’
‘I’d like to have inbuilt holidays like that. Gardens keep needing things whether it’s raining or blazing hot.’
I shake my head.
‘The pay isn’t good.’
Less than minimum wage, considering how much extra time I have to put in. In artistic fields like mine, you’re expected to do what you do for the love of it, and be grateful. A dozen others would push me down the stairs if it’d get them my place.
‘And directors can be fickle. One day they want the sets to express cheer and whimsy, the next they want a total redesign with nothing but pain and ennui.’
She laughs. I realise I haven’t introduced myself.
‘Ah, sorry, I’m Jo.’
‘I know who you are. You’re Jaques’ secret missus.’
Of course she knows.
‘I’m Emily.’
She straightens up and offers me her garden-gloved hand. I shake it. Her grip is firm but friendly.
‘News like that gets around the house faster than a rabbit with its tail on fire. You’ll have to get used to people knowing more about you than you know about them.’
It’s probably sage advice.
‘I’d rather not get used to it. This is all so weird to me. If I get used to it, then… I don’t know.’
‘Sounds like you’re overthinking it.’
Story of my life, sister.
‘I’m sorry. I’m distracting you. It’s rude of me to charge over and start talking at you while you’re working and you can’t escape.’
She laughs.
‘It’s fine. It can get boring out here by myself.’
I still feel awkward.
And, the mansion is still watching me… but it’s not just Frances’ that I’m worried about. Every window might mask the presence of dozens of pairs of anonymous eyes.
I shiver.
How do people live like this?
‘…well, thank you for talking to me. It was nice meeting you, Emily.’
‘You too.’
I walk back up the path, my skin crawling with the knowledge that, whether I like it or not, whether it’s intended or not, my every movement is under surveillance.
I need to leave.
Inside the house, strains of Jaq’s music waft. Here and there I catch a few bars, before intervening walls and unfavourable drafts carry the sound elsewhere.
He’s busy. Always busy.
I knock on Lionel’s door.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s me.’
Rustling. The door opens.
‘What’s up?’
‘I’m a giant baby and this giant house gives me the creeps.’
‘I don’t think it’s haunted.’
I glance down the hall, very aware that people might be gossiping about how much time I spend with Lionel.
‘It doesn’t have to be haunted to be creepy.’
‘You want a lift back to the hotel?’
‘Please.’
Within minutes I’m holed up in the comfortable confines of Lionel’s car.
‘Doing okay?’
I shrug.
‘I don’t really know.’
‘You should take a break. It’s only a few days until Jackie’s show.' He pauses a moment before continuing; 'I’m going to guess Mother will pull her usual stunt.’
‘What stunt?’
‘Once it’s over and the cameras are off, she’ll shred Jackie’s performance. He'll be catatonic for a day at least.’
She is a gorgon. Euryale, the middle sister, could kill with her voice.
‘Why?’
He doesn’t answer. I watch the traffic through the window. In my mind, I had replaced the image of her as a devil with the gorgeous little girl from her early photographs. Now; she morphs back into a monster.
She looked so ecstatic hidden behind the hulking piano. Her little button nose planted in the middle of the happiest face a child could make. I can't hold on to that cherubic visage. It slips out of focus, and all I see are teeth and scales.
‘Does she still play the piano?’
‘I don’t know. The last time I remember her playing it… I can’t have been more than six.’
Perhaps she fell out of love with music.
I wonder if she misses it?
I sigh. It’s a long time to go without something you enjoy. The piano is right there in the house - if she missed it, she could easily find a quiet moment to sit down and play.
‘Did she sing?’
Lionel laughs.
‘No.’
He drops me off at the hotel. I walk to the lift, but I’m stopped before I reach it.
‘Ma’am, there are… a number of packages for you.’
I feel my insides sink through the floor, dragging me down. My soul is a fish, caught on Hades’ hook, being pulled into the underworld...
No. The metaphor doesn’t work.
I restrain my penchant for melodrama.
The packages are brought up to my room. I don’t even want to open them. They come with unknown strings attached. They have to be from Charles. I told him I didn't want his gifts. I don’t know what Charles wants from me. It could be nothing more than forgiveness… but, the weight in my stomach says otherwise.
I remember the insecurity I felt when he brought the tiger to my door. I remember feeling as though my safe space was being invaded.
It’s not even my space. It’s a hotel room. But where else can I go to be safe? It’s not like my empty room in the house we’ve been evicted from can comfort me. Not anymore.
Nothing is right. Nothing is normal.
I tear open the first box. It’s smaller than the others. Relatively light. Under the skull and crossbones print tissue paper, I find real leather. Shiny metal studs in perfect rows. Sleeves that are already equipped with popular punk band patches. I turn it over. The back is embroidered with a huge, generic, grotesque skull. It’s everything I hate about corporate co-option of counterculture.
I don’t know if sending these things back to him will do anything. I don’t even know where to send them to. I suppose I could look up his address online. Or, I could have Jaq collect all this stuff and dump it on his doorstep.
The jacket still has the tag.
I check my phone, looking for an outlet that sells this brand – there’s one not too far away. I wonder what the odds of returning it for cash are like. Probably very slim. Still, if I can convert it to cash, I can use the money on something I do want, and he'll never have the satisfaction of seeing me with something he bought for me.
I open the next box.
This one gives me pause.
An odd assortment of different sculpting mediums. Air-dry clay, polymer clay, a ‘just add water’ papier-mâché compound. It’s like he went to an art store and took one of everything from the sculpting section. He probably did.
I consider sculpting a hand with the middle finger raised.
I could send it to him in an un-padded envelope, so when it arrives he feels compelled to glue the shattered pieces back together. Depending on how badly it’s broken it might take a while before he realises that he’s repairing an insult to himself.
It’s a petty thought, but it makes me smile.
I spread the awful tissue paper over the table and tear open one of the packets of clay. I don’t like working with air-dry clay. It dries too fast, it’s brittle, and it smells of chemicals… but, it’s more than I’ve had in my hands for far too long. I sculpt a little mushroom and place it on the table.
It’s a simple shape. I’m feeling uninspired.
Soon, the first is joined by fourteen more. A field of boring little white mushrooms. I rearrange them into a fairy ring. It would look better if the tissue paper were green.
I’m turning twee.
I glance over at the kitchenette and sigh. I’m going to get dusty white fingerprints over everything if I’m not careful.
I wash my hands with dish soap, then rinse the fingerprints off the taps and the soap bottle. I don’t have anything to help clean under my nails.
It’s fine for now.
I open the next box. Paint, brushes, and sculpting tools.
He listened to me, at least. Perhaps he can be reached. He heard that I didn't want the things he'd given me already and tried to work out what I really wanted. He’s taking a scattershot approach, but...
I’m making excuses for an irrational beast. I can’t let my guard down. I can't forgive him. He poisoned me.
I told him what I wanted was for him to leave me alone.
He didn't want to hear that part.
Still, it felt good to make something. Even if it’s as pointless as fifteen little mushrooms.
My anxiety has dissolved into resignation. This is my life. I can’t control these external forces now. I can only choose how to think; how to respond.
Maybe I can make something worthwhile from all this. That way it hasn’t been wasted.
Before I open anything else, I send a photo of the packages to the Executioner.
She tells me not to open any more packages from him. She'll sort out having everything returned.
I suppose it was too much to think I'd be able to convert this into something for my benefit. I should know by now that I can't have my own way.
Why does everything have to suck?
Wait.
Does it suck?
Glancing over the stuff Charles sent, I come to the conclusion that I could afford to buy all this myself.
I couldn't before.
The thought stuns me more than even thinking about buying a house did. Buying a house is so much more abstract to me than these little luxuries. A house is an unfathomably expensive item. That packet of air dry clay I wasted making stupid little mushrooms probably cost more than a week's worth of food used to cost me... and now I can just throw money away on stuff like that.
I should go back to organising my belongings. I need to downsize as much as I can while I have the leisure to do it at my own pace.
I can be ruthless. I don't have to save every odd button just in case I need to make a repair, because I don't have to make repairs anymore. I have money for new clothes.
I don't have to keep any of the things I won't use with reasonable frequency, and I can use my nice things - no more squirrelling away a special shirt or dress for the rare occasion when I'm invited to a baptism, wedding, or funeral.
Outfitting myself appropriately for those sorts of niche occasions won't break the bank any more.
I hold up my special funeral trousers. They were cheap, but they look good. My casual everyday clothes now are nicer than any of the things I put aside for those sorts of events in the past.
When I first started sorting through my belongings a few days ago, I only discarded things that were definitely worthless. That choice was a remnant of the conservative approach I was forced to take to my entire life. I have money now. I can be at least this reckless.
It's not even really recklessness anymore.
I pile up three garbage bags full of clothes by the door. Those can be donated. I never wanted them. Now, I don't need them either.
I feel so weird. I'm not sure how to describe it.
Free?
It's not really freedom.
There's guilt and fear; euphoria and optimism. I'm so scared that this will all go away... but I know that there's more money coming. All I have to do is keep playing my role. I'm playing it so well that Frances welcomed me into the family with her weird staged photo ritual. Even Jaq's obsessive and controlling 'best friend' believed it enough that he tried to destroy me.
This is working.
Somehow, despite everything, it's working out just fine.
I sit down among the boxes of things I need to carry out to the garbage and weep.
I don't even know why.