SUNDAY
I awaken to someone gently shaking my shoulder. My feet are freezing, and I have a cramp in my spine. I open my eyes and see Jaq’s face mere inches from mine.
‘Good morning sunshine,’ I say.
He leaps back when I speak. I sit up with some difficulty. I try to stretch, and say;
‘Hope you slept well.’
He looks guilty and embarrassed.
‘Sorry about that.’
‘It’s fine. Just don’t get mad at me if I stretched your favourite jumper.’
He laughs, already more comfortable with the situation.
‘Actually, I kind of hate that one.’
‘Oh, perfect, then where’s your favourite so I can ruin it?’
He laughs again. I rally.
‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me about your brother?’
‘Oh.’ He looks startled. ‘It didn’t seem relevant?’
‘Relevant? Do you live here with him?’
‘…yes?’
‘Then I needed to know.’
‘Does it really make a difference? You already have the plan for my parents sorted.’
I attempt to stand, but it’s a struggle with my numb and frozen feet.
‘Your parents are usually out of the country, right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘But your brother isn’t.’
‘He doesn’t really leave the house.’
‘It’s going to be much harder to fool him than your parents. He spends far more time around you.’
‘…I guess so.’
'If he were in on this, he could have helped us.'
Jaq looks horrified.
'He can't know.'
I have no idea what their relationship is like. If they're rivals he'd probably love this chance to get rid of Jaq. I guess I can't argue the point.
‘Do you have any other siblings I don’t yet know about? Friends who visit a lot?’
‘Just Charles.’
Charles? Oh jeez. Charles Pitch. He was the mountain I met last night.
‘That guy gave me the creeps at the party.’
‘What did he do?’
‘Weird flirting.’
‘He doesn’t mean anything by it. He even flirts with Mother.’
‘Gross. So, um. Is there a shower, and some clothes I can wear for my walk of shame back to the hotel?’
I can spot the exact moment that Jaq realises I’m only wearing his oversized jumper. I don’t know how he missed the dress draped over his chair. He turns away, standing straight-backed. His ears have turned bright red.
‘What? Are you 5? The jumper is almost knee length. You haven’t seen anything to make you blush.’
He moves to turn, as if he might look back at me, but instead, he stretches his arm out stiffly to open a nearby door. He points.
‘That’s my bathroom. I’ll get you a towel and clothes.’
I shake my head and walk in. It’s so clean and empty that it feels sterile. It doesn’t look like a personal bathroom. The only sign that it has ever been used is the toothbrush. No knick-knacks. Not even a potted plant. It's weird.
The shower is hot, and my scalp feels amazingly free once all the hairspray and pins are finally out of my hair. When I turn the water off, Jaq knocks and says;
‘Towel’s just outside the door. I’m going to go get breakfast.’
Once I hear the bedroom door close, I peer out of the bathroom door. There is indeed a towel. And some clothes. Ladies clothes. I hope they weren’t borrowed from Frances.
When Jaq next returns, I’m sitting at the window, looking out at the garden. It’s enormous. If you were short, you could get lost in there. You'd need to be under four foot six, though. None of the hedges are terribly tall, so someone of average height would always be able to see the house.
Jaq places a cup of tea next to my elbow.
‘Thanks.’
It hasn’t been prepared the way I like it, but it’s still hot and caffeinated, so I can’t complain. Jaq sits at the end of the bed.
‘I’ll drive you back to the hotel when you’re ready.’
I nod and continue to sip the tea.
‘And, I’m sorry about Lionel.’
‘Don’t worry. It’s in the past now. Just try to give me fair warning next time.’
‘…Father wants to take us to dinner tonight.’
Oh dear.
‘Dress code?’
‘Formal.’
Ugh.
‘Formal enough I need someone to do my hair for me again?’
‘No.’
Thank the universe for small blessings.
I finish my tea and stand. Jaq winces.
‘You ok?’
‘Yeah, just. You look good in those clothes.’
I don't think he realised he was complimenting me until after he said it. He blushes deeply.
‘Whose are they?’
‘…Lionel’s ex-girlfriend's.’
I laugh. Perhaps he had a crush on her.
‘Was she at the party?’
‘…yes.’
‘I’ll have to thank her next time I see her.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t.’
‘Okay dear.’
He blushes again.
Damn this guy is easy to fluster.
----------------------------------------
On the drive to the hotel, I receive a text from Casey. She sent me pictures of a tabloid magazine with a small photo of Jaq and I at the party last night on the cover. The subtitle reads ‘Who is Jaques Glarean’s HOT new date?’. There’s a pixelated closeup of my engagement ring. Inside the magazine, they have the clerk’s snap from the boutique and all the details about the designer of the dress I wore. I’m surprised they got it into print so fast. I’m also surprised that they haven’t got my dress size plastered all over the thing.
Even though I hate the clerk for taking that photo, I’m going to have to go back to the store and give her a massive hug for keeping my measurements to herself. While we may not agree on what counts as appropriate celebrity photography, at least we agree that some things shouldn't be shared.
> OMG I DIDN’T THINK THAT SELFIE WAS REAL UNTIL YOU GOT PAPARAZZID!
>
> WHY DIDN’T YOU INVITE ME?!
I text her back;
> You didn’t want to be at that party.
>
> Jaq’s parents threw it.
>
> I’ll invite you to one that isn’t likely to wind up with us both being thrown out onto the street for bringing shame to the family.
>
> How did opening night go?
We chat about nonsense for a while. She keeps probing for gossip. I don’t want to talk about how awful it was. I don’t want to lie to her, and I really don’t want a record of the truth for a P.I. to scrounge up. I can picture the interrogation;
‘Ms. Knight. Why did you tell your friend that you slept in a pile of coats? We have FOUR witnesses willing to testify you were sleeping in Jaques Glarean’s room. Were you not sleeping with him?’
‘No sir, see, he drank too much and had passed out starfishing across the entire bed-‘
‘The king-size bed?’
‘So there wasn’t any room for me.’
‘And you couldn’t have just cuddled up to him?’
‘No sir. He was farting. A lot. The coats were a better option.’
TOTALLY believable.
I glance over at Jaq. His face is back to the normal expressionless mask. He’d die in that interrogation.
‘Mr. Glarean, your alleged 'fiancée', Ms. Joanne Knight, says she slept in a pile of coats on the night of the party.’
‘Yes, that’s accurate.’
‘Because you had too much to drink and passed out, and I quote; ‘starfishing across the entire bed’.’
Tomato-red blush.
‘And she was unwilling to snuggle up to you because you were farting-’
Beetroot-red blush.
‘-so badly that the coat pile was a better option than the bed.’
Aneurism. Massive brain injury. Death.
He glances over at me.
‘What?’
I must be grinning madly.
‘Nothing, nothing. Just a funny text.’
I try to force my face back into neutral. It’s a struggle.
----------------------------------------
Back in the hotel room, Jaq stops in the doorway, surprised.
‘House-cleaning must have been in here.’
I peer around his broad frame. It doesn’t look any different.
‘You sure?’
‘All the plans are gone…’
I laugh, pointing at the suitcase.
‘I packed it up, ready to vacate.’
‘Vacate?’
‘You said the room was booked until the party.’
‘We’ll still need it, won’t we?’
Oh for…
‘You could have mentioned you were thinking of keeping the room a bit longer. I wouldn’t have packed up if I had known.’
‘Sorry.’
'... It's fine. I probably needed to sort and file it anyway. It was getting out of hand.'
He sits at the end of the breakfast bar and starts to tune his violin. I wonder how soundproof the walls are. I guess they would have to be pretty solid, or I probably wouldn’t have been able to sleep through the noise of all the weird stuff that I assume goes on in fancy hotels.
‘Where do you normally practice?’
‘At home.’
‘Would you be more comfortable practising there?
‘Not right now. My Mother…'
He trails off. I sense music-related childhood trauma.
‘You know, you can rent actual practice spaces. The sort where the acoustics and stuff are good for music.’
He just sort of frowns.
‘Actually, why don’t you get a space like that? Wouldn’t that be a better investment than burning money on a hotel?'
He puts the violin down.
‘I guess it would. I’ve just never rented anything like that before. My parents always manage that sort of thing when I’m on tour.'
Holy moly this boy is sheltered.
‘And you don’t want to ask them?'
He shakes his head.
‘Okay. I’ll make myself useful and see if I can wrangle something up.’
‘The hotel is fine…’
‘But you could do better.’
As much as I’d like to keep living secretly in a hotel on this dunce's dime, it’s a huge waste of money. A practice space has to be cheaper.
I find my phone and start searching rental websites for ads – it isn’t too promising. Lots of bare concrete and exposed ducting. Places that need a lot of work before they’re usable. The places that look good are poorly described – probably a tactic to force people to contact the agent to ask for more details. The joke’s on them. I hate talking on the phone, and I refuse to call any of them.
Hm.
I locate my old phone in one of the suitcases and plug it in to charge. I’m hoping I have someone in my contacts list that might be able to point me in a better direction. It’s a wonder Jaq doesn’t have an agent doing this for him, instead of his parents.
I’m developing an unpleasant feeling about the way his parents treat him on the edge of my consciousness. I try to put the thought aside, but it’s like a vaguely spider-shaped spot on the wall – you just can’t ignore it until you’ve checked to make sure. I push it away with force, trying to focus.
I start to put together a list of numbers for a mass text – anyone that might be tangentially associated with the sort of folk that rent musical practice spaces.
> Hi, this is Joanne Knight. It’s been a while! I know this is out of the blue, but I was wondering if you know of any music practice spaces that are available on short notice? I’m trying to find a replacement for a musician whose previous arrangement fell through.
I hit send. Now I wait.
It doesn’t take long for the first response;
> Who is this?
Yeah, thanks. I said my name already. You don’t remember me. Rub it in harder. Arse.
> OMG I THOUGHT SAW YOU ON A MAGAZINE TODAY! Is the space for Jaques Glarean?!
Oh boy. This isn’t going to be a fun conversation.
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
> there is space at baker st squat
HELL no. They’d eat this child alive.
> Ask Kevin 04XX XXX XXX
I don’t know this Kevin, but I can text him.
The phone rings.
Just text me back, you philistine-
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, Jo! Long time, no see!’
‘Yeah, it’s been a minute.’
‘My boyfriend is looking for someone to take over his band’s lease, you know they just broke up right?’
Didn’t know she had a boyfriend.
‘No, I hadn’t heard – that text must have seemed really callous’
‘Don’t worry about it! It’d been coming for a while. If you wanna go see the space I can get him to bring you the keys…’
‘That sounds great – can you tell me what it’s like?’
The description of the place, on the other hand, sounds awful.
Eventually, I get a message from a friend that plays clarinet for a jazz band. She directs me to an agency that specialises in spaces for musicians, and I make an appointment. As I head for the door, Jaq stops playing.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Checking out practice spaces.’
‘Need a lift?’
‘Keep practising, I’ll take the bus.’
He looks concerned.
‘The bus? Why? The hotel can get you a car…’
‘Okay, I’ll do that.’
Heck. If I keep being driven door to door I am going to get so incredibly unfit, and none of my new clothes will fit. How do rich people keep in shape? They have all the nice food and drive everywhere. Still, a car will make this process about a million times easier, and I’ll have time on the way to grab a copy of the magazine I’m in.
I shouldn’t.
I know I shouldn’t.
I’m setting a very bad precedent for myself. I know that reading trashy gossip articles about myself is likely to end up with me in tears.
But I really want to read the article.
----------------------------------------
The agent is friendly and helpful. A model employee. Too professional for my tastes. I suspect that if I worked here, I’d be fired within a week for being too chatty and wasting clients’ time.
As she works through her database of suitable locations, I peruse my magazine. The party article is poorly written and there are no photos from inside the venue. Security must have been in top form to keep them out with all those caterers buzzing around. Jaq and I only occupy a small portion of the article, and probably only because I’m new. They don’t have my name. The section on my dress looks like it was copied directly from the designer's website. I look it up to be sure… and it is. Word for word. If they’d have hired me, I would have at least paraphrased it. Of course, tabloids don’t usually care as much for quality as they do for speed.
This is why I’m unemployable.
The agent interrupts my musing on the failures of the for-profit media model.
‘I have some lovely locations you can visit right now, if you like any of them.'
She offers me a tablet with a selection of properties prepared. I put my magazine away and peer at the thing. I don’t really know what I’m looking for. Beyond the baseline requirements of cleanliness, security, and the neighbours not making noise complaints… I’m at a loss.
I nod thoughtfully, as though I know what I’m doing. I pick out a few with features that I selfishly want if I’m going to be spending time there. Things like a kitchenette and a decent bathroom. I need outside expertise.
‘Are you a musician yourself?’ I ask.
‘No.’
Worth a try.
‘Neither am I. I’m an artist. I can tell you which of these looks like the best space for me… but unfortunately, I suspect my fiancé would have different ideas about the value of natural light.’
She smiles at me, politely waiting for me to get to the point.
‘Would you mind terribly if I called him to discuss?’
‘Not at all. Would you like a cup of tea while you narrow down your options?’
‘No, thank you.’
I take the tablet out of her office and sit down with it. I’m torn between just asking the driver which locations are better based on his knowledge of the area and getting Jaq involved.
I can’t be lazy about this.
I call Jaq.
‘…hello.’
‘Hey sweetie, I’m trying to narrow down the list of locations and was hoping I could get your opinion on some.’
‘…whichever is fine.’
‘You don’t have any special requests?’
‘no.’
I think he may hate being on the phone even more than I do.
‘Okay gorgeous. Kisses.’
‘…bye.’
That was useful. I should have just asked the driver. I send him a message asking him to come around to the front of the building. I look over at the receptionist. She seems preoccupied.
‘I’m just going to show this to my driver, if that’s okay. I’ll be back in a moment.’
She smiles brightly and nods. It would be so easy to steal from this place. Though, I guess this tablet wouldn’t be all that much of a loss compared to the money they must rake in from VIP clients.
When I show the driver the tablet, he looks as baffled as I feel.
‘I mean, this one’s near a bunch of nice restaurants... and this one’s really close to some popular clubs. Only this one has decent street parking around it, so if none of them come with a reserved parking spot, that might be good. I don’t really know what else to point out.’
I pat the guy reassuringly on the arm.
‘You’re a peach. I knew you’d have excellent advice for me. I’ll be back out in a moment.’
Parking is important. I may not have a car, but Jaq does, and I’m sure he’d rather not have to run in and out every hour to move his car. It isn’t something I normally have to think about. Now I do.
I mentally place that location slightly higher on my list.
I don’t have a great relationship with nightclubs – the last time I was dragged into one I was promptly vomited on. Food, though. Everyone eats. Even, apparently, people in nightclubs. They just aren’t necessarily good at keeping it in.
Near-nightclub moves down the list. Near-restaurant moves up. I place the tablet on the agent’s desk and indicate the ones I’d like to see.
----------------------------------------
Returning to the hotel room, I place a selection of rental application forms on the table.
‘What’s this?’
‘Pick one of them. Fill out the form and sign it. Then you have a short lease on a nice practice space. The one I like best is on top. I took photos and even filmed the inside of some if you care to see.’
I hear rustling paper through the bathroom door as I change into a more formal dress. When I exit, I see him holding one of the forms very close to his face, reading the fine print.
‘Shouldn’t I get a lawyer to look over these?’
‘Why?’
He looks at me, confused.
‘Isn’t that just… what you do?’
‘It’s a rental agreement, from a reputable agency. You can skim it yourself. The 'bad' parts will all be related to breaking the lease early, or what happens in case of damage to the property. The bathroom’s free if you need to change.’
He stares at me like a deer in headlights. I assume he just realised I’d changed my clothes. I wave my hands in exasperation.
‘Earth to Jaq.’
‘Sorry.’
He’s blushing.
‘Why are you blushing?’
He looks away. I have no idea what’s wrong.
‘Is it because you feel silly?’
He shakes his head.
‘Is it because you’re embarrassed that you’re taking me to dinner with your parents?’
Shakes his head.
‘Is this dress too casual?’
I don’t see how – sleeves to the elbow, skirt to the calf. It’s a little plain, but we’re not exactly going ballroom dancing…
He shakes his head.
‘Do you even know?’
Nothing. Oh no.
‘Oh my god, is it because you were in the room next to the room I was changing in?’
Deeper blush.
I gently bump his forehead with my fist.
‘How old are you?’
He mumbles.
‘Three? Did I hear three? You’re a tiny baby that can’t handle the idea of people in their knickers on the other side of a wall?’
His head slumps lower.
I stop myself. I’m not making his mental state any better by persisting. I’m just bullying him. He needs to be calm and collected so he can get through this stupid dinner. At the moment, he’s radiating enough heat to fry an egg.
I have to do something.
I’m not qualified for this…
What would I do if this were stage fright?
I check the tiny bar fridge for something cold – there are bottles of water and some single-serve cartons of milk. I bring two bottles over to him and hold one against his cheek.
‘It’s not Valium, but… try to focus on the feeling of the cold on your face. There’s nothing in the world but you and the cold water.’
He puts his hand up to hold the bottle in place. I put the second one beside him, just in case he wants a second.
‘Cold water carrying away all those feelings. They might want to linger, but the cold water just washes them away. Just you and the water.‘
I don’t know if growing up wealthy kept this inept man alive or made a perfectly capable man this inept. If this is his nature… if this is all he could ever have been… he’s so damn lucky he grew up wealthy. The world chews up people like this.
‘Can you feel the condensation on the bottle? Pay attention to the way it makes your skin feel.’
I have no idea how his parents expect him to marry when he’s like this. Then again, they’re probably wilfully ignorant of all his more inconvenient traits.
He cradles the second bottle, holding it to his chest. I sit at the table and wait, watching as his complexion returns to normal. We’re going to be late for dinner. That’s my fault. I shouldn’t have pressed him. No matter how tempting it was.
‘Hey.’
He makes eye contact. He’s alert.
‘You going to be ok?’
He nods.
‘Thank you.’
‘No worries. Are you going to be okay to go to dinner?’
He nods.
‘Get ready then. We need to go soon.’
He reaches out to check his phone. Nope nope nope! Don't look at the time! I cover it with my hand.
‘No phone. Get ready.’
He looks confused but does as he’s told. I can’t have him panicking about how late we’re going to be. I don’t think he’d be fit to drive, and then… well, we’d miss the dinner entirely. That’s… not a good impression to give them.
In the car, I pray Jaq doesn't notice the time on the dashboard. Fortunately, the drive to the restaurant is peaceful. Apart from the guilt gnawing at my intestines. I’m leading this frightened lamb into a den of angry… wolf. Isaac seemed fine. Frances is the wolf.
We arrive. I hate myself. I take his arm. Speaking low, I say;
‘We’re late. It’s my fault. I took far too long to get ready.’
He looks confused. I hand his phone back. He looks mortified when he sees the time.
‘It’s my fault. Not yours. I’m in trouble, not you. We’re late because of me. Okay?’
He starts to sweat. I can feel his breaths become shallow as the panic rises.
‘Shhhh, it’s okay. It’s my fault. Not yours. I’m the one who is to blame. I’m the one to point anger at. You did nothing wrong. I’ve got you. I’ve got you. I’ll defend you.’
He nods, but he’s trembling.
‘Come on now. Big breath.’
He forces himself to take a few deep breaths. He’s starting to look a little better.
What the hell did his parents do to him?
I gently lead him to the entrance of the restaurant. There's not really anything I can do to help him any more. At this point, the panic will only get worse. We can’t escape lateness by hiding outside.
The host at the door recognises us (more likely he recognises Jaq) and beckons us toward him – at least with his guidance I don’t have to put my ignorance of the fine dining process on display.
We’re shown to our table – Frances and Isaac are already seated. Isaac’s wineglass is almost empty, as is his soup bowl. Frances has barely touched hers.
‘I’m sorry we’re late – it’s all my fault.’
Isaac looks pleased to see us. Frances doesn’t even attempt to feign a smile.
‘Jaques, this lateness is intolerable.’
I attempt a jolly laugh. ‘What was the poor boy going to do? Drag me here without my shoes?’
She narrows her eyes like she’s inspecting a caterpillar that was foolish enough to attempt to ensconce itself in her salad.
‘You are a bad influence on him.’
She’s firmly in Evil Queen territory now.
With all the grace and charm I can muster, I grin at her.
‘The absolute worst. He’s never been late to a single date with me, but here I am making him late to dinner with his lovely parents who have been away for so long.’
Too much, too much, too much. He was so late for our first meeting. Lateness might actually be habitual behaviour for him, and if it is; now they know I'm a liar.
Isaac smiles. I think I’ve actually charmed him. Somehow.
‘Oh, I’m sure we can forgive you, just this once, can’t we dear?’
She glares at him.
By the time we’re halfway through our mains, Isaac is undeniably drunk, and by extension, unduly chipper. Frances has given me the silent treatment since she called me a bad influence. Jaq has withdrawn into his shell, answering robotically when addressed by name.
Why aren’t I panicking?
I’m in a poorly written play.
These people are paper-thin caricatures – if I didn’t have them sitting in front of me, I’d have called them unbelievable. I almost feel like I’m in the audience, watching this performance, helpless to change the obvious destination of the plot.
Except, I’m here. Right in front of these people. They’re real. And I’m stuck here with them.
Gravity betrays me. I feel like my body is dragging me down into the earth. Like my bones are made of stone. I shouldn't have questioned my composure.
Stop thinking like that! I can redirect the plot. I can end this dinner without disaster.
If only my muscles were strong enough to move my leaden limbs…
Move. Move!
I nudge Jaq’s foot with my own, he shifts his gaze to my wrist, where it rests on the table. Words vomit from my mouth unbidden.
‘Darling, I don’t want to interrupt this lovely meal, but I’m feeling unwell. Would you mind terribly if we skip dessert and go home?’
‘OH! That’s AN EXCELLENT idea', exclaims Isaac. 'I’M VERY TIRED.’ He says, leaning close and winking with great difficulty.
Isaac, you are a drunken angel. I could kiss you.
Jaq’s response is sluggish, but he nods.
Isaac is already standing – one of the waiters rushes over before he has the chance to shout for the bill.
Frances fumes silently.
I take Jaq’s hand and squeeze it. He stands awkwardly, and I do my best to stand with grace beside him.
I extend a hand to Frances.
‘Thank you so much for inviting us to dine with you– you are such delightful dinner companions.’
She ignores my hand again. Fair cop. I was being snarky.
‘We shall have to get together another time. Perhaps when I’m feeling better, and Isaac isn’t quite so tired.’
Why am I being such an arse? Don't poke the bear, Joanne!
I’m yanked away by Jaq, who seems to have forgotten we’re holding hands. He stumbles through the tangle of tables and chairs in front of me. I keep hold of him, so he knows he hasn’t lost me. Once we're standing in the street, he stops.
The night air is smoky and cold. I put an arm around his waist and gently usher him towards the car. We’re not driving anywhere like this, but at least the car is quiet and safe.
I put Jaq in the front passenger seat, and, with some effort, adjust it into the reclining position. He’s asleep before I even manage to get myself into the back.
I think about texting Casey to call me when her show is over. I’m pretty sure she can drive… but it isn’t fair of me to lay this kind of stress on her.
I take out my phone, but I can’t unlock it. My hands won’t stay still. Instead, I seek out the pill bottle – almost spill them – and then lay back in the seat. It takes a bit for these to take effect. I never usually take them this frequently. I don't want to build a tolerance for them. But, I need them now.
I watch Jaq’s sleeping face. I’m not a psychologist, I’m not a counsellor. I don’t know how to fix his problems. I just know I need to find ways to limit the time he’s exposed to his parents.
And I need to get us home.
How?
I have an idea.
I gingerly check Jaq’s pockets. If he wakes up while I’m doing this… I find his phone. Perfect. I press it to his thumb to unlock it and search through his contacts for his brother. The contacts list is surprisingly short. Barely a dozen numbers. It’s a little sad.
After a few attempts at opening the right contact profile with my shaking fingers, I hold the phone to my ear and listen to it ring.
Pick up…
The call rings out, switching to an answering machine. Nobody checks answering machines. I hang up and immediately call again. The universal signal for caller in distress. This time the phone is answered after the second ring.
‘Do you know what time it is?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘…who’s this?’
‘I’m Jo. We met yesterday. Jaq didn’t survive dinner with your parents.’
‘Oh. What’s he doing?’
‘Sleeping in his car. I can’t drive. Can you come and get us?’
‘Can’t drive? I- Okay. I’ll be there soon. What’s the address?’
I describe where we are and he hangs up. I rest the phone on the seat beside me. Hell of a way to meet the parents.
I think back on the other times I’ve met a partner’s parents – it doesn’t often go well. Never this badly.
I’m dozing lightly when there’s a knock at the window – Lionel stands outside the car. I open the door and gently close it behind me.
‘We have to stop meeting like this.’ I say, quietly.
He chuckles.
‘Yeah, it’s not ideal.’
‘What do we do?’
‘I can drive him home – do you need me to drop you off somewhere?’
‘I have a hotel room…’
‘Eh, might as well come home with us. We can stop there on the way so you can grab some clothes – I don’t have any other stuff I can lend you.’
I laugh.
‘I never did get a chance to thank you for that – Should I return them to you, or embarrass your ex-girlfriend by presenting them to her in a public place?’
His grin is genuine.
‘Remind me not to get on your bad side – you’ve got a vicious streak’
This guy couldn’t be more different from his brother. Perhaps he’s the reason Jaq survived this long. He climbs into the driver’s side, and I return to the rear seat.
When we get back to the house, Lionel insists on leaving Jaq to sleep it off in the car.
‘If we wake him up now, he’ll be up all night stressing. Then tomorrow he’ll be tired and stressed.’
I don’t like leaving him in the car, but Lionel makes a valid point.
----------------------------------------
Lionel leads me to the kitchen to get something to drink – he makes me a pot of chamomile tea. I sit at the counter, trying to think up normal future-sister-in-law type chit-chat.
‘So, your Dad seems nice.’
Lionel laughs.
‘What did Mother say?’
‘She thinks I’m a bad influence.’
He turns to look at me, an eyebrow raised;
‘That bad?’
‘I probably am. I really don’t fit in with the kinds of people they invited to the party yesterday.’
He places the hot tea on the counter in front of me, along with a jug of milk
‘No big loss there. I don’t get along with most of them either.’
‘Has he always been like that?’
‘Jackie? No. He was cuter as a baby. I think puberty ruined him.’
I smile to myself, sipping the tea.
‘He’s damn lucky he found someone to put up with his shit. Every other girl’s run a mile.’
I sigh. This again.
‘I’ve dealt with similar before. Actors. You know.’
‘Is that what you do?’
‘Not really. I can be a body on stage if I have to – they usually only ask me to take over unimportant roles for understudies who've been moved up to the lead, or when they need more people for a chorus line. It’s not my calling. Mostly, I just build sets.’
Lionel looks genuinely interested.
‘Sets huh?’
‘Yeah. How about you?’
‘Me? I’m a professional deadbeat.’
I laugh.
‘No, seriously. I stay home and avoid embarrassing our parents. That’s it.’
‘And you’re okay with that?’
‘Eh.’
‘Well, if you want something to do – give me your number. I’ll call you whenever Jaq decides to have another inconvenient panic nap.’
He rolls his eyes.
‘Sure thing’
‘…I can call you for more fun errands too. Maybe if I need help hanging a door, or re-painting an entire backdrop because the director changed their mind the day before a show… or if a friend is moving house and needs someone to ferry their houseplants to the new location.’
He smiles again.
‘That sounds way more interesting than Netflix and video games.’
He finishes his tea and wanders to the door
‘I’m gonna go to bed. Catch you later.’
I watch him leave. What kind of life is that? It seems like such a waste. Surely he has something more constructive he can do? I don't understand. This family is a disaster.
These two men are adults. They could go out into the world and live their own lives. Why would they both choose to stay here and be like this? I moved out when I turned sixteen and never looked back. Life was so much easier to live once I was out of my parents’ shadows.
I suspect this pair would be better off without their parents in the picture too.
If only I had the guts to slip some oven cleaner in the wine – or something.
Unfortunately for Jaq and Lionel, I’m not a murderer.