by L.H. Cosway
God, for all I know this could be a ruse. Perhaps he’s only acting nice to break down my defences so that he can play the ultimate game. A game that will crush my heart. The idea makes my throat run dry.
I decide I should keep my distance from him, emotionally if not physically. Allowing Robert to get inside my head (and, God forbid, my affections) will only end in disaster. It always has. Over the years we had a few brief periods of getting along (mostly for Sasha’s sake), but he always broke them by either humiliating me in front of his friends or telling me to get lost once he grew tired of my company.
When I get back downstairs, everyone has gathered in the dining room, sitting around the ultra-modern glass and steel dinner table. I take a seat beside Sasha, who’s having an animated debate with Victor and Jacob about some Hollywood actor who was nominated for an Oscar last year but didn’t win. I sit quietly and listen while my eyes slowly drift to Kara.
She’s sitting between Gary and Alistair, laughing at something Sandra just said. About ten minutes later Robert comes into the room, carrying a glass of scotch. The conversation dies down, with everyone wondering if he’ll lash out at Kara again. He doesn’t, though. He simply sits down in the last empty seat, which happens to be right beside me.
I notice that he’s changed out of Sasha’s clothes and is now wearing a shirt and slacks. The top few buttons of the shirt are undone, revealing his collarbone. My eyes linger in that spot for a moment before I look away.
When it seems like Robert is going to behave himself, the tension in the room settles. He sips silently on his drink, occasionally shooting daggers at Kara or rolling his eyes whenever Gary says something.
After a while he leans in close to me so that his elbow brushes against my arm. “Are you on Facebook, Lana?” he asks, his voice low.
I turn to see him with his iPhone in his hand.
“Um, yeah, I am. Why?”
“I’m going to add you. What do you go by on there, Lana Sweeney or something else?”
“It’s Lana S. But there’s no need to add me. I’m hardly ever online.”
He taps my screen name into his phone and smirks. “That doesn’t matter. I just want to look through your pictures.”
I stare at him. “You want to look through my pictures?”
His smirk turns into a grin. “Yeah. Ah, there you are. Oh, look at your profile picture. It’s very...pure. I like it.”
I glance over his shoulder at my photo. My mum took it about a year ago on the beach. I’m looking into the distance, and my hair is blowing away from my face. The light of the sun makes my blue eyes stand out. It’s actually one of Sasha’s favourites; that’s why I picked it.
“Right, I’ve added you,” says Robert. “The next time you’re online you need to accept the friendship.”
“I will if you’ll tell me why you want to look at my pictures.”
He shoves his phone back in his pocket and stares at me. “You’ve got an...addictive sort of face. I hope you have lots of photos up because I plan on looking at you from all different angles.” On the surface his words are harmless, and I could be wrong, but the way he says them sounds kind of sexual.
“That’s really weird, Rob. In fact, I don’t like the idea of you looking at my photos at all. I’m not accepting that friend request.”
“Oh, come on, Lana, don’t be a spoilsport.”
“I’m not accepting it, Robert. Now leave it alone.”
We’re interrupted when Kara asks from across the table, “What are you two whispering about?”
“None of your fucking business, Boob Job,” Robert answers casually, knocking back the last of his scotch and slamming the glass down onto the table. I think he might be a bit drunk already.
“Aw, what’s wrong Rob? Are you pissed that you paid for them and now you’re not going to get to play with them anymore?” says Kara, her eyes narrowed.
Oh, my God! I can’t believe she just said that. Even I’m blushing, and the comment had nothing to do with me.
Robert snickers. “Yeah, because they’re so great. They’re as hard as two big rocks. And you wonder why I went with Olivia? She might have been ten years older than you, but at least she had proper breasts.”
Okay, I have no idea who Olivia is, but judging by the “ten years older” comment, I’m guessing she’s the married woman Sasha told me about.
“Rob, that was way out of line,” says Sasha, a look of disapproval on her face.
“What? She’s the one who started it. Getting all pissy just because I was talking to Lana.”
“Hah! I was not getting pissy. You can talk to your little pet all you want. I couldn’t care less,” Kara retorts before glancing at me. “You probably don’t know this, hon, but Robert has this freaky fucking obsession with you. You should stay far away from him. I just thought I’d warn you.”
“Don’t listen to her,” Robert says quietly to me, just as Sasha asks him, “What’s she talking about, Rob?”
“Nothing. She’s making it up because I cheated on her with Olivia.”
Well, I guess he and Kara hadn’t been having one of their off periods during the married woman debacle after all. Now I can definitely understand why she threw him out of their apartment. I can even empathise with her situation, since I’ve been hurt by Robert myself in the past. But what does she mean by “a freaky obsession”? I know Rob has always taken pleasure in hurting my feelings. Is that what she’s referring to?
Robert and Kara stare each other down for a long few moments. Robert’s gaze is hard and unwavering, and for a second it seems like Kara might burst into tears. She blinks, though, and her face becomes an expressionless mask.
“That’s it — we’re leaving. Come on, Gary,” she says, rising swiftly from her seat.
“Good riddance,” Robert mutters, just as the front door slams shut.
Four
Shortly after Kara leaves I say my goodbyes to Sasha’s friends and go to bed. I’ve been feeling uncomfortable ever since Kara said all that stuff about Robert having an obsession with me. I’m not too keen on being anyone’s obsession, especially not someone as intense as Robert. Particularly since he’s so prone to hurting those around him.
Given the day I’ve had, it doesn’t take long for me to fall asleep. I wake up the next morning at eight, but Sasha and Robert are still sleeping. I decide to take the opportunity to get to know the area better, so I write out a shopping list, get dressed, and set off for the high street. I can’t contain my pathetic excitement when I come across a Waitrose, which is a fancy variety of grocery shop. I’m excited, mainly because we don’t have any Waitrose stores back home.
It’s really sunny out today, and I know that there’s a barbecue out the back of Sasha’s house, so I decide I’ll make homemade burgers for us later. We can spend a relaxing Sunday in her garden.
I walk the long way home, taking in the sights and getting a feel for the place. When I get back, I put the shopping away and go to my room to listen to some music and mess around on the Internet for a while. There’s still no sign of Sasha. As usual, I slept like the dead last night, so I don’t know how late everyone stayed in the house drinking.
Sticking in my earphones, I select a playlist on my iPod and turn up the volume. Then I pull my laptop onto the bed to check my emails. I also have a look on The Daily Mail website to see if there are any new articles up that Sasha wrote. I always read everything she writes, because I like to support her, but I also find it funny how different she comes across in her articles. It’s almost like she forces herself to put on a persona that fits the tone her readers will enjoy. Let’s just say it’s far bitchier and more judgmental than she’s ever been in real life.
After scrolling down I find the one she threw together yesterday about that new pop star, who goes by the name of Molly Willis. The headline in bold blue font reads: New Girl on the Block Molly Spends a Wild Night in Camden Town. It’s accompanied by a photo of said pop star flinging her cigaret
te butt at a guy with a camera. The outfit she’s wearing is nuts, but I kind of appreciate the craziness of it. It consists of a bright purple wig, cut-off denim shorts, fishnets, cowboy boots, and a luminous pink bra. Well, I suppose she’s making the most of the hot weather while it lasts.
After this I do a search for open-mic nights in London before writing down some of the dates and locations. Singing in front of an audience is something I’ve wanted to do for a long time, but up until now I’ve only ever had the nerve to do it in front of the mirror when the house is empty. I once signed up for an open-mic night back home, but when I got to the club I didn’t have the guts to see it through. Perhaps the anonymity of such a large city as London will be better for me and my timid little singing dream.
Once I’m finished with my usual rounds of the Internet, I remember Robert adding me on Facebook last night. I’ve never been on his page before, and my curiosity gets the better of me. Normally I see him make the odd comment on Sasha’s wall, but that’s about it.
When I log in, his friend request pops right up, and I don’t know what to do about it. I want to accept it so I can snoop on his page, but then that’ll have to go both ways and he’ll be able to snoop on mine. My life is nothing exciting. I mostly only talk to Sasha and my few friends from college. Feeling insecure that Robert will discover how dull my life is if I hit “accept,” I decide to play it safe and click on “decline.” I know I shouldn’t care about what he thinks of me, but I do. I can’t help it — I always have.
A couple of minutes go by as I comment on a few of my friends’ statuses. Then I hear a door opening at the end of the hall and hard footsteps on the wooden floor, becoming louder as they get closer to my room. My door flies open, and Robert steps inside.
I glance up from my laptop screen to take him in. His stylish haircut is dishevelled, but he’s dressed nicely in a shirt and expensive jeans. He drops down on the bed in front of me, scratching his hand across his day-old stubble.
“You declined my request,” he states, vaguely annoyed.
I pull out my earphones and laugh, then ask, “What were you doing, waiting eagerly online for me to accept it or something?”
He rolls his eyes and smirks. “No, I was online just now when I saw your cruel rejection.” He stops and puts his hand dramatically to his heart. “How could you, Lana?”
Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes. “You’ll get over it.”
He reaches forward and tugs on the toe of my sock. “I’m going back to my room to add you again. This time don’t be a bitch and just accept it, will you?”
I give him a considering look, then take great pleasure in replying, “Eh, let me see, that would be a no.”
He grins. “Oh, my, are you enjoying this, little Lana?”
I keep my face expressionless when I glance up at him and continuing typing. “Maybe.”
He grabs my iPod, tearing it from the earphones, and begins scrolling through my music. He makes a face of disgust when he starts calling out the artists’ names: “Ani DiFranco, Kate Bush, PJ Harvey, Regina Spektor, Tori Amos. Good God, Lana, is there a single male to be found in this monstrosity of a music collection?”
“Uh, yeah. Keep looking. But I do like a lot of female artists,” I tell him.
“Well, that much is clear. I bet you have a dream to one day go to the Lilith Fair and everything,” he says, all matter-of-fact. It’s actually scary how well he can read me, especially after all our years apart, because yes, I would like to go to the Lilith Fair someday. “Ah, here we are, you’ve got an album of The Frames, which, quite frankly, is just as bad as all the women.”
“The Frames are amazing. Do you know Sasha and I once met Glen Hansard when he was busking on Grafton Street? He was really lovely.”
Robert scoffs at this. “The man looks like he needs a good bath and a haircut. Oh, and a hairbrush.”
“Not everyone cares as much about their appearance as you do. But anyway, if I were to look at your music, what gems would I find?”
He holds up his hand, bending down a finger each time he lists off a name. “Mumford & Sons, Kings of Leon, Kasabian…”
“Ugh, I’ll stop you right there. I get it. You like over-hyped indie. Since this is the case, I won’t take your comments on my tastes to heart.”
He gives me a look of mock outrage. “‘Over-hyped indie’? I think not. Although it’s definitely better than quirky female sexism.”
“I am not sexist.”
“You are. You’re a music sexist. That’s the worst kind.” He looks at me in a pleased way that tells me he’s enjoying the argument.
“Okay, fine. I’m a music sexist. You can go now.” I reach over and grab my iPod out of his hand.
He stares at me with fire in his eyes. “Are you going to accept my friendship?”
Man, he really doesn’t give up. “We’ll see.”
Hopping from the bed, he rubs his palms together. “That’s a yes.”
“‘We’ll see’ is not a yes, Rob,” I call after him.
“Yes, it is,” he calls back, walking down the hall to his room. Confident bastard.
Not two minutes later a brand-new friend request pops up. I wonder if there’s only a certain number of times you can add someone before the site blocks you from trying again. Perhaps I should just block him myself right now. However, if I do that it’ll be like he’s won. He knows the idea of him looking through my page freaks me out, and that’s why he’s pushing so hard for this. Well, maybe I should show him that I’m not bothered by it. Does that mean I’ll have won? Jesus, look at me, I’m playing along with his mind games all over again, even though I said I wouldn’t. He just has this way of luring me in.
I need to not care about him, about whatever little judge-y thoughts he might have while looking through my photos, so I squeeze my eyes shut and hit “accept,” praying that I’m making the right decision. Immediately a chat window pops up.
Robert Phillips: Hey, sexy. What are you wearing?
Lana S: Very funny. You just saw me.
Robert Phillips: Fair enough. What colour underwear do you have on?
Lana S: Goodbye, Rob.
Robert Phillips: Spoilsport!
I log off before he has the chance to write me anything else and go into Sasha’s room. I find her lying in bed in a vest top and pyjama pants with her mobile phone held to her ear. She mouths the name “Liz” at me, and I nod. Sasha and her mum try to talk as often as they can. As far as I know, Liz tries the same thing with Robert, but he makes it as difficult for her as he possibly can.
I think he might have some unaddressed hostility towards his mother for breaking up her marriage to Alan. Which is ridiculous, since Liz caught Alan in bed with his secretary, so the divorce is more his fault than hers. Sometimes it’s best not to try to understand the workings of other peoples’ families. I guess you have to be a part of them to fully comprehend them.
Sasha looks hung-over as she fills Liz in on what’s going with her. Mostly work biz. I sit on the other side of the double bed, and she finishes her conversation with her mum.
“Hey, kid. You want me to plait your hair for you?” she asks past a yawn.
I shrug. “Sure, if you want.”
Sasha loves doing people’s hair, which is odd since she never puts any effort into her own. Though it’s far too short to do much with anyway. She grabs an elastic band from her dresser and then divides my hair into sections before weaving it into a plait.
“Your colour is amazing, Lana. It’s so bright.”
I laugh. “Yeah, unfortunately it’s like a beacon for arseholes. I can’t count the number of times I’ve gotten the old ‘does the carpet match the drapes?’ routine.”
She sighs. “Well, that’s men for you.”
“Indeed. Have I ever told you how much your brother irritates me?”
Her hands still. “What’s he done now?”
“Oh, nothing bad. He’s actually being friendly. Sort of. It’s freaking
me out.”
“I told him not to hassle you, so perhaps he’s taken my warnings to heart for once.”
“Yeah, perhaps.”
“Though you know what Rob’s like. He’ll always go overboard just to show that he’s not giving in completely. That’s probably why he’s acting extra nice. He’s a perverse little git like that.”
Is that what he’s doing? Being extra friendly to mock the agreement he made with Sasha to be nice?
Sasha finishes up my hair and gives a little tug on the plait once it’s finished. “There, now you’re all beautified.”
“Thanks, Sash. Oh do you mind if I fire up the barbecue out the back? I went food shopping earlier, so I’m going to make us homemade burgers for our Sunday lunch.”
“Sounds good to me. Work away.”
She climbs out of bed and walks over to her closet, rummaging out some shorts and a T-shirt and pulling them on. “Come on, I’ll show you how to use it. Make sure there’s no danger of you setting yourself on fire,” she says with a grin.
I sigh and smile back, following her down to the garden. She instructs me on how to turn it on and makes me practice a few times to ensure I’ve got it right.
A minute later Rob sticks his head out of his bedroom window, calling, “What are you two tossers playing at down there? I’m trying to get an afternoon nap, and all I can hear is your constant nattering.”
“Lana’s going to use the barbecue to make burgers. It’d be a waste not to take advantage of this weather,” says Sasha. “And it’s your own fault you’re tired, since you stayed up half the night making love to that bottle of scotch and slagging off Kara and Gary to poor Alistair, who had the unenviable job of listening to your shit.”
He gives his sister the evil eye and then glances at me. “Burgers are an excellent idea, Lana. I’ll take two.”