WEDNESDAY

I spend another night in the guest room, glad to have a bed to myself. The morning is met with hot coffee and a shower. Dressed in the yet-to-be-released Lucinda's Solace blouse, I feel like a triumphant general, returning with the spoils of war. I can hear Jaq’s violin, like a chorus singing praise to my brilliance.

I thought he didn’t want to practice here?

I check my phone and find a message from Casey. Our house was robbed last night.

I deflate.

I walk stiffly to the practice room. Lionel finds me on my way there.

‘You okay?’

‘I need to go home.’

‘Sure, I’ll drive you to the hotel.’

‘No – home-home.’

Neither of them had been there before. I didn’t trust them before. Now…

I don’t know why I feel so uneasy – I don’t have much worth stealing. My room is full of old sketchbooks, shoddy sculptures, and folders of notes. That junk is only precious to me.

The money in the sewing box…

I’d almost forgotten it. It seems so insignificant now. Compared with all the lavish gifts I’d been given just so I’d fit the part of Jaq’s fiancée, that money was pocket change.

It really was pocket change. He gave it to me so casually. It’s taken this long to sink in.

I'm not sure I feel good about this change in my perspective.

Lionel and Jaq accompany me to the house. They try to cheer me up – I try to play along. There’s a cannonball in my guts, heavy and cold. I can’t ignore it.

The front door is open, the frame splintered so it can’t be shut again. I can see everyone is in the living room. Casey runs to hug me as soon as my shadow darkens the doorway. She’s been crying.

‘What happened? Is everyone okay? What was taken?’

Laurie turns his tired face toward me

‘We’re fine, but the rent money…’

Our landlord takes payment in cash only. It means we’re forced to keep the cash in the house, ready for whenever he feels like dropping by. It was in a biscuit tin in the pantry.

‘Some electronics.’

Easily replaced.

‘Chloe’s laptop.’

...all her work…

I feel like I float to my room, detached from reality – well, the wreckage of my room. My drawers had been rifled through – the clothes I didn't bring to the hotel lay scattered on the ground. Sketchbooks sit open on the floor, trampled. The boxes of old sculptures that had been carefully stored under my bed were upended, their contents kicked aside – worthless to the thief. Broken pottery shards crunch beneath my feet.

The sewing box is untouched. Why would a thief bother with something so small and trifling?

I feel cold and hollow. A bubble in ice. All the evidence that I ever lived is less than debris. The hours of labour. The emotion. Everything I breathed into these artifacts of my existence now disregarded as… chaff. Not even worth stealing.

Sure, I probably should have tossed a lot of it out years ago - I had even been working up the nerve to cull the sculpture collection. Just keep the things that I was proud of or the things with deeper meaning. Now, the choice of what to toss has been taken from me. I can only really keep what little might be left intact.

If I try to be positive, I suppose this gives me the opportunity to start over. Make new mementoes. Of course, I'll never be able to replace my first clay sculpture from primary school. I'll never have the same silly little two-room doll house I built in shop class, the one that made me fall in love with carpentry. I'll never be able to replace my final submitted piece from uni - though that last one might be a blessing. Looking at that thing made me cry.

Right now, my tear ducts are full of ash. I can't even cry for my losses.

I take the sewing box out into the living room.

Nobody looks up.

‘It’s not enough… but, here’s my share of the lost rent, and enough to cover one other share.’

I take out the money and put it on the table. We all stare at it in silence.

Jaq clears his throat.

‘How much… was the rest?’

I tell him. He pulls out his wallet and places the remainder of the money on the table.

We all stare at him.

‘Please don’t stare…’ he mumbles. Casey launches herself across the room and hugs him tight.

‘Thank you thank you thank you!’

I can see him turning red, but I feel too numb to do anything. I see Lionel look in the door of my room – he retreats quickly, as though scalded.

I stare into my hands. There are no solutions there.

I’m sinking.

Perhaps it’s for the best.

The only value I’ve contributed to the world is in numbers on other people’s spreadsheets.

It’s not enough.

I don’t hear her approach until she calls out;

‘Yoo-hoo!’

An elderly neighbour, all smiles and friendliness, fills the door to the lounge. She lives a few houses down in a little block of flats. She’s holding a cardboard box.

‘Sorry to barge in…’

I shake my head.

‘Welcome any time, Nona.’ My voice is flat. The response is automatic. This interaction has been well rehearsed.

‘I found some things in the wrong bin. You know how nobody seems to understand how recycling works? Always the pizza boxes and plastic bags. I was going through it to make sure it was right… and Ethel told me you’d been broken into, so I thought, maybe these things were yours?’

There was the laptop, now cracked across the entire casing – a phone, our small TV.

What?

This box poses a problem I can’t comprehend.

Why would someone break in just to dump the stuff they stole in the garbage a few houses down? Did they get spooked, or…?

My blood runs cold as I return to my room – I hurl clothes and sketchbooks over my shoulder, searching.

My records.

I had a green two-ring binder – graduation certificates, tax returns, enrolment records, resumes, termination notices, medical records. It’s gone.

This mess was made to hide what was really stolen.

Casey comes to the door, holding some of the crumpled sketchbooks that made their way into the hall.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Are you missing anything else? Stuff that would be useful if someone wanted to steal your identity?’

I can feel the hardness of my tone more than hear it. She puts the notebooks down on my chair and runs back to her room as though I’d hit her. I continue my search. After a few minutes, she returns;

‘I don’t think so – all my important paperwork is still there.’

‘What about the others?’

After about half an hour, I’m the only one with records missing. I feel sick. I want to burn the rest of the house down.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Why me?

Jaq stands awkwardly nearby.

Why me.

Was it retaliation? For what though?

Could it have been Frances trying to intimidate me? Surely not.

Paparazzi? Am I really that interesting? I can't be. I'm nobody. And, they didn't know my name.

Maybe they do now.

I feel like the ground is whirling away beneath me. I shut my eyes. It doesn’t make sense. I hear a thundering noise, getting louder and louder. I cover my ears, but I can’t block it out.

A touch on my shoulder.

‘Come on. Let’s get out of here.’

Lionel’s voice breaks through the sound like it isn’t there. He pulls me to my feet and we walk out of the house. I see Jaq on the phone.

‘What…?’

‘He’s talking to a lawyer on your behalf. Working out what we need to do.’

I stare, not really comprehending. He sits me in the car.

‘We’re going for a drive. Somewhere happy.’

‘But, Jaq…’

‘A car is coming for him.’

Lionel gets in the driver’s seat, and we leave.

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We sit on a pier, expensive ice cream cones in our hands. I watch seagulls glide and circle, hoping a fisherman will throw them something disgusting to eat. The sea undulates frantically, slapping against the concrete pilings. The cold wind and sickly-sweet dessert drag me back down to the earth like heavy iron chains. Extremes of physical sensation. I instinctively reach for my wrist – for rubber bands that aren’t there anymore. I haven’t needed them for years. I haven’t needed sensory extremes like pain and cold for so long. I forgot to take my panic medication.

I was in too much of a panic to take my panic meds.

I feel the corners of my mouth turn up, involuntarily. I don’t know how to tell them not to anymore.

‘Oh, now you’re smiling. What’s up?’

‘it’s nothing. Just… a silly thing.’

I hear footsteps. Jaq is walking down the pier toward us. He sits beside me.

‘You okay?’

I nod.

‘I think so.’

‘There’s not a lot that can be done about identity theft. Close accounts – alert police. The police have been alerted.’

I nod again.

‘My lawyer didn’t think it’d be wise if he represented both of us, just in case… something happens between us. But he recommended someone. So, I got you your own lawyer. You’ll need to sign some things, but after that, she’ll look after anything that comes up.’

‘Thank you.’

He smiles and pats my shoulder, reassuringly.

I feel guilty for ever comparing him to the traitor Ephialtes. He’s taking care of me.

‘Ready to go back to the hotel?’ says Lionel.

‘…sure.’

I get to my feet, a little wobbly. The cold concrete hadn’t been kind to my joints.

The two of them support me back to Lionel’s car. We all pile in.

I arrive at the hotel room and discover it's filled with boxes.

‘What’s all this?’

Jaq looks a little guilty

‘I had all your things moved here. That house wasn’t safe.’

My eyes burn. Hot tears spill down my face. I sit heavily on the carpet, and sob. Both brothers watch awkwardly, unsure what to do. Lionel kneels beside me, holds me to his chest, chin resting atop my head.

‘It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.’

THURSDAY

I spent the rest of the day sleeping, missing dinner completely. When I wake up, the sun shines aggressively through the hotel window. The room smells more like home now. All my old clothes, dusty books, and art supplies, though still in boxes, fill the space with their own distinct odour. My eyes are crusted with dried tears.

Even after showering, my face is puffy. I sit wrapped in my own dressing gown, knees pinned between my chest and the hotel table, sipping from my favourite mug. It’s yellow, with black spots like a yellow ladybird. I bought it years ago thinking it was silly and cute.

It feels strange to be here, in a hotel, with all my belongings. I feel like an alien.

Jaq lets himself in, bearing an offering of fresh, hot doughnuts.

‘Breakfast of champions,’ I declare, my voice flat.

He sits at the table with me, silent at first.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘For what?’

‘…I didn’t realise you lived somewhere like that.’

I look up from my doughnut, confused.

‘You saw where I worked…’

‘…but that’s different.’ He shifts uncomfortably.

‘It’s… I don’t know. I should have done something sooner.’

I stare at him for a long moment.

‘I liked living there. It was full of my friends.’

He looks pained.

‘But…’

We lapse into silence.

I feel hurt again. It's like a blow to the solar plexus. It wasn't a mansion. We didn't have an army of servants. It was crowded. It was run down from years of neglect. The bathroom was mouldy. It was drafty in winter. But it was a home. I'd rather spend a decade living there than a month at Jaq's soulless mansion.

Couldn't he see the difference? Couldn't he feel the comradery? The warmth? The… indescribable essence that makes a home feel… homey? The je ne sais quoi.

The silence continues, almost unbroken until we reach the lawyer’s office.

She’s very neat. Very professional. Her hair is perfect – held back in a severe style that makes her look like she could be a military Sargent. Her nickname among the troops would have been ‘the Executioner’ - she'd be the last resort for her superiors to send in after everything else had failed.

These fantasies are useless, but I wrap myself in them like a protective blanket.

The Executioner and I work through documents – permission for her to speak with my doctor, the police, my university, all on my behalf.

‘I’ll also need the details of your accountant.’

‘I don’t have an accountant…’

She examines me like a scientist peering through a microscope at a mosquito.

‘Who does your accounting?’

‘…I do.’

I’ve never felt shame admitting my financial position before – to people like myself. But to lay it bare in front of someone like this… it feels like I’m peeling back my skin to show her the viscera beneath.

She takes notes – then hands me a card from her drawer.

‘You’re going to want an accountant if you’re marrying up like this. I recommend you contact her as soon as possible.’ She taps the card. ‘She’s very good at what she does.’

I take the card, but I’m confused. The words make sense – they’re proper sentences. They have meaning… but I feel like I’m watching a foreign film, completely missing all the important cultural subtext.

‘Thank you.’

When I leave the Executioner’s office, I show the card to Jaq. He’s surprised I don’t have an accountant already. I shrug. He understands this world, he takes it in stride. I need to learn. I feel like I’m drowning. Completely out of my depth. Parties and dinners, I can handle. Sort of. People are, at the core, just people. The systems built around the people, to separate them – those are mysterious to me.

I make an appointment to see the accountant.

The day passes in a haze – both seemingly endless and passing with shocking speed – until I finally remember to take my panic meds.

They’re not for prolonged or frequent use. Too often, at too high a dose – you get addicted, and they start to lose effectiveness. With the dose I'm taking now, I’ve taken more in the past week than I did in the month prior. I don’t remember the maximum frequency the doctor said was safe before I needed to be put on something else. I’m fairly sure I’m still under it. I don't know. The fog begins to clear, and time draws back to its normal pace. I need to make a doctor's appointment.

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Lionel meets us for dinner, dressed more shabbily than usual. He says he’s found an excellent restaurant but won’t tell us what it’s called. This is meant to be a treat for me, to cheer me up. I’m glad that I feel together enough to try to enjoy it.

‘I turned down Father’s invitation to dinner at the house again – I told him you had had an emergency. I hope that’s okay?’

Jaq looks worried for a moment.

‘That’s fine. It’s true. I was robbed, and I don’t think I’d have been able to make it through another dinner with your folks.’

We reach the door of the restaurant – Lionel bows with a flourish

‘After you.’

I step inside, and suddenly feel inappropriately dressed. Movie posters cover every inch of the cramped dining room walls, memorabilia is packed into every shelf. Stuffed toys and figurines dangle from the ceiling, suspended by fishing line. Complete sensory overload in every direction. The small table closest to us is decoupaged with images of B-grade movie monsters. Lionel leads us to a table of our own, decoupaged with scenes from westerns, and distributes the stack of menus. I stare at the weird squashed face gracing the cover of mine.

‘If you’d have told me we were coming here…’

Lionel laughs at my bewilderment.

‘If I said something, it wouldn’t have been a surprise!’

Jaq looks uncomfortable. His eyes dart around the room, like he thinks the walls will close in on him at any moment.

‘Why here?’

Lionel sits back in his chair, a self-satisfied expression on his face. He points to the table, an image of a cowboy on a bucking horse directly beneath his finger. Jaq sighs, his shoulders sagging.

‘Your ‘fiancée gave you a drawing like this, didn’t she?’

‘Yeah.’

Lionel grins.

‘It gets better – there’s a cinema nearby that shows old films. This place has a deal with them – if you hate it here, we can get our dinner served there…’

I love it here. I could stare at the shelves for hours and still not have seen everything.

‘They’re showing Johnny Guitar.’

I slap my hands on the table.

‘Let’s go!’

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Immediately after the movie, Jaq leaves for home. He wants to be up early to practice – it’s my fault he couldn’t today. He probably hoped to get dinner over with earlier to fit some practice in before bed. I feel remorse for my existence.

‘You tired?’

I shake my head. The film had energised me. Probably didn’t help that I’d overslept, either.

‘We’ll take the scenic route to the car then.’

We stroll down the closed shopping strip, looking in windows at empty showrooms. The night air is refreshingly cold after the heat of the small cinema. A woman jogs past us with a dog in tow. Poor thing looks exhausted. We chat about the film – or, more precisely, I babble about colour blocking and lighting whilst Lionel listens politely. We turn right, into a darker street with fewer businesses on it. I shift to babbling about using colour symbolically to denote heroes and villains –

‘compare Vienna’s bright primary colours to Superman’s leotard, and Emma’s duller grey and green to Doctor Doom’s cloak and armour.’

He laughs.

‘I get it, I get it - I’m not just a pretty face’

I elbow him teasingly.

‘Could have fooled me.’

He elbows back.

‘Hey! Uncalled for!’

I laugh.

‘What else are you then?'

He looks thoughtful for a moment, then dashes to the right, yelling.

‘A troublemaker!’

I chase him through the darkness, laughing hard. He doesn’t run far. We continue in an easy silence until we reach the car.

‘You know – I never thought spending time with my brother’s fiancée would be this much fun.’

I snort.

‘You picked the venue, and the activity. You can’t blame that on me.’

He nods, sagely.