Sweet Agony

by Charlotte Stein

  ‘Ah, so that is the issue – you have selective hearing. I just confined you to the library that time forgot and told you to somehow tidy it up, did I not?’

  ‘Oh, yes, absolutely you did. But the real reason is to give me the books,’ I insist, and barely even balk at his answer. ‘That seems at best like wishful thinking,’ he says, but to my joy my confidence is undimmed. He is lying. I know he is lying. And as his edifice crumbles, so mine grows stronger.

  I can even feel a smile beginning to bloom on my lips.

  A teasing smile, followed by teasing words.

  ‘So were you going to stop me reading then?’

  ‘I might have done. I just might.’

  ‘You were going to force me not to.’

  ‘Yes, absolutely, I was. No question.’

  ‘Yank the books from my desperate hands and –’ I start, but I get no further than the gesture of clutching imaginary stories to my chest. He holds up one hand like a man about to hear that his wife has been murdered. He even closes his eyes, as though the rest is too unbearable to hear.

  And his words back up that insane assessment.

  They back it up, they back it up, oh, my God, they back it up.

  ‘Stop there. Damn you, stop. That is quite enough. No, I was not about to do such a despicable act. I would sooner pull out my own heart and put it on a pike. There, are you satisfied, you unbearable creature?’ he says, and all I can think is: how could I be anything but? He just confirmed what I only suspected. He confirmed it so hard that all I can say is ‘I am’, after which he just digs himself in deeper.

  ‘I have no idea why. It still does not explain why you remained here when I laughed as you struggled to climb a gate, and refused to show you my face, and said all manner of cruel things,’ he says, and after that it is all I can do to contain the bright burst of unmitigated joy and amusement and wonder that explodes inside me. I have to bite back a grin, because oh, my God.

  Oh, my God. Oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God, I was right.

  ‘Yes, but you do all those things to deliberately drive people away, don’t you?’ I ask, then watch with a great and glorious glee as he fights to say no. He wants to so badly that he is practically drooling at the thought. He gropes for it blindly in the dark, and when he comes up short it maddens him. His jaw tightens until I think I hear the bones squeak. He has to squeeze out his words.

  But he does, and it is marvellous.

  ‘Even if I do, you should have left long before now.’

  I mean, he did just admit it, didn’t he?

  And if he did, is it all right that I sound breathless when I reply?

  ‘If that was really what you wanted you’re going about it all the wrong way. You should be dumb as a rock and sneer at me whenever I am the least bit smart. Never play the piano because you hear me singing or write letters to me like we live in the nineteenth century or give me a library, and always make sure you are utterly predictable in every way. Then all of this would be just like my life up till now, and I could leave without a second glance,’ I say, and oh, my God, his expression when I do. It shifts from baffled and irritated to dawning comprehension to something like resignation, all in the flicker of an eyebrow.

  And I know I’m reading it right.

  I know I am, because he admits it.

  ‘I suppose I was doomed from the start. The very idea of trying to scare you off in such a manner is utterly abhorrent to me in every way.’

  ‘Then it seems you are stuck with me.’

  ‘Much to my regret and horror,’ he says, but even that doesn’t shake me.

  Nothing could now. I am invincible. I am a towering steel door. I feel as though I made it to the castle beyond the goblin city, and then kept on going.

  ‘Does the horror have anything to do with my hand on your shoulder?’

  ‘You simply caught me off guard. I have no problem with being touched.’

  ‘Are you absolutely sure about that?’

  ‘Completely positive, I assure you.’

  ‘So if I just reach forward slowly and calmly and –’ I say, hating myself for doing it but still needing to see for sure. Most of his viciousness is for effect, true. But I think it stems from more than just not wanting to be around another person. I think he genuinely hates a hand on him, so much so that he’d go much further to stop it happening. He would insult me, and scorn my happiness, and make me believe it was all nothing.

  And the seven-mile step back he takes here all but confirms it.

  ‘All right, all right. Enough, for the love of God. Honestly, I ask you not to look and you stare so hard your eyes almost fall out of your head. I tell you to knock and you barge in. I clearly have a problem with being manhandled and you just go ahead and do it anyway.’

  ‘I think “manhandle” is a little steep.’

  ‘And I suppose the staring was just a mere glance at my hideous visage before you quickly skipped away to more agreeable sights?’ he asks, and then I have to stop in the middle of whatever I was going to say. I had something planned, because this kind of conversation is so easy with him. For some reason, despite everything, it’s always easy. I think it might even be called flirting, though, by God, I’m not ready to call it that yet. I shy away at the last second, that ‘moonish’ still ringing in my head.

  Though I must admit it gets fainter when he says ridiculous things like that.

  ‘Did you just call your visage hideous?’ I ask, and even manage to half-laugh. It takes some effort, because part of me would rather he did not know how gorgeous I find him. But another part is too staggered by that admission to do anything else – and doubly so, when he adds:

  ‘I can scarcely think what else you might call it.’

  He doesn’t sound like he’s fishing for compliments. I think the concept would be beyond him. He always speaks the plain, unvarnished truth about things, no matter how unpalatable. And I know he expects me to do the same. I know he does.

  So I do.

  ‘I think I would probably call it beautiful. I mean, I would rather not, considering what you might think of me when I do. But there really isn’t much else I can say. It’s just a fact, like the grass is green and the sky is blue.’

  ‘Sometimes the grass is yellow and the sky is red.’

  ‘Yeah, but you’re never not beautiful. You try a lot not to be, I’ll grant you that. You put a ton of effort into being an arse and you wear some of the weirdest things I’ve ever seen on a man. Right now you have your dressing gown on over a shirt and formal trousers. The trousers seem to be about three inches too short for your legs. And though you must be at least six foot three, you spend so much time hunching and scuttling around the house like a giant spider that it makes your height irrelevant.’ He has the nerve to nod as though all that is true. Which makes it all the more of a pleasure when I finish with: ‘But the fact remains, even so. You could probably model for Vogue without breaking much of a sweat.’

  After which there is a long, long silence, of the sort I actually do expect. What I struggle a little more with, however, is the expression on his face. For just a second, a flicker of something dark crosses his features. And I believe I know what the dark thing is. Everything I just said bears it out.

  He is afraid. He is afraid to be attractive to someone.

  And that is why he says what he then does.

  ‘I knew it. You are quite, quite mad.’

  ‘No more than the man who thinks his gorgeous face is hideous. Is this why you hide behind doors and make people look at other things? Are you able to see your own face in a mirror? If you are by any chance a vampire I will give you a pass on this.’

  ‘I am not a vampire, you ridiculous person. I am, however, aware of the strange state of my own facial features, despite any claims you might make about their supposed beauty. I mean, my eyes are almost on opposite sides of my head. I have the nose of an upper-class albatross and an upper lip that could probably slice bread. You just put the lo
af in the middle and those two weird peaks do the rest.’

  ‘Your eyes, nose and mouth are the best things about you. Apart from maybe your opinion of Dickens, your ridiculous efforts at driving me away, your amazing home and your strange way of making it feel OK to talk like this. I should be frightened, but I rarely feel it. And when I do, it is delicious. Like the kind of fear I guess only important people have. The kind of fear my dull little life never offered.’ I utter the words before I even know I think them. Everything is just spewing out of me now, as it is for him.

  Though he tries to put a stop to it.

  ‘Perhaps that is why you accept such meagre crumbs from me. Because you’ve never had anything but stale bread served dry, and have no way of appreciating anything better. Or believing you deserve it.’ He seems very satisfied with himself. He has me now, he probably imagines – but he really doesn’t.

  ‘Do you believe I deserve it, Mr Harcroft? Did you believe it when you opened that door for me? Did it make you secretly pleased that I wrote back with such eagerness or sang “La Vie En Rose” with all that passion or carried on liking you despite the fact that you called me ugly?’

  ‘I never called you ugly.’

  ‘You said that very quickly.’

  ‘Did I? It seemed slow to me, Ms Parker,’ he says, so airily I could almost think he was telling the truth. He didn’t rush to correct my assertion. He didn’t panic slightly at the idea that I could go away believing he thinks I’m ugly. It was just a trick of the light or a shift in atmospheric pressure.

  Like the way he stiffens when I soften my voice.

  Or looks so lost when I say: ‘I think you should call me Molly.’

  I think his face almost caves in. He begins to answer me, and for a second nothing comes out. Then, when it does, the ‘yes’ he most likely wanted to say is gone. It disappears back down inside him, along with the rest of his emotions.

  ‘That seems like the very worst idea I can think of.’

  ‘I can hardly imagine why. People do it all the time.’

  ‘Yes, and people are generally idiots. They form attachments and have feelings, none of which is the least bit palatable to me. I would far sooner we simply continue addressing each other in a more formal manner, and not just because doing otherwise encourages a worrying surfeit of sentimentality,’ he says, then pauses as though reluctant to continue. When he does, I can see why he hesitated. ‘There is also the fact that I would rather not tell you what my Christian name actually is.’

  ‘Is it because you are the son of some peer of the realm?’

  ‘No, it’s because my name is ludicrous.’

  ‘I want to hear it even more now. Is it somewhere amongst all of these tomes? Is there one from your childhood, saying, “Property of little Rupert Ignatius Sebastian Harcroft”?’

  He makes the irritated sound he did when we had our little interview.

  He behaves just as I thought he would, down to the hand wave and the frustration.

  ‘I hate you for thinking it might be Rupert.’

  ‘But not for Ignatius.’

  ‘I wish it were Ignatius. At least that has the honour of being a real name.’

  ‘So your name is so posh it sounds made-up.’

  ‘I am not about to indulge in a guessing game with you, Molly.’

  ‘You called me Molly. I think a guessing game is on the table,’ I say, and this time he breaks. He really, really breaks. ‘Damn you,’ he says, and actually brings a frustrated fist up to his mouth. Apparently, whatever this game is, I am winning it.

  And by quite a wide margin.

  ‘Tell me. You’ve told me everything else.’

  ‘Have I? I feel as though I barely said a word.’

  ‘Apparently you didn’t need to.’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ he says, with just the barest hint of bitterness. It soon fades, however, and gives way to something so cool it makes my heart thump. ‘You are very good, you know. Not as good as me but then few people are. Honestly, you have no idea how many people I turned away – it must have been hundreds.’

  He sounds like he might be marvelling a little.

  Marvelling over someone as small and insignificant as me.

  ‘They had no idea what they were missing, Augustus.’

  ‘Your guesses are terrible – which leads me to think you are making them terrible on purpose. A sloppy tactic that somewhat belies the praise I just lavished on you.’

  ‘Was that lavishing? Crikey, what are you like when you really let go?’

  ‘I never really let go. Or had you missed that fault in my personality, my little Sherlock? Perhaps I should downgrade you again to Watson.’

  ‘You can if you want. But you will look silly when I finally make you crack and confess. As far as I know Watson never made anyone do that.’

  ‘Actually Watson was almost as clever as Sherlock in the original –’

  ‘Now you’re just trying to change the subject.’

  ‘I know but you are backing me into a corner,’ he says, and I don’t know what I like more. That he admits it, or that he speaks from behind gritted teeth.

  ‘I apologise, Bartholomew Huntley Harcroft the Third,’ I say, then delight when he rolls his eyes. He has great eyes to roll, despite what he thinks of them.

  And he has a great name, despite what he thinks of that.

  ‘My name is Cyrian, for the love of God,’ he says finally, furious at finding himself trapped between my awful guesses and the truth, but almost relieved once the thing is out. Now, at least, he can lay down the ground rules. ‘But I swear if you ever call me it I will tell you tired old jokes about mother-in-laws while playing easy listening elevator music at full volume in a caravan at Butlins that has only a copy of Maxim in the toilet with the crossword puzzle solved…wrongly,’ he says, that one word on the end so packed with dark menace that I shiver. His voice could make the Teletubbies sound like an international terrorist ring.

  ‘That was a really vicious threat, even for you.’

  ‘I will take that as a compliment.’

  ‘It was intended as one,’ I say, but he just shakes his head.

  ‘You give me entirely too many of them.’

  ‘Now who is the one who thinks they’re undeserving?’

  ‘Some people genuinely are. You really have no idea about me,’ he says.

  Though I can see I’ve caught him off-guard.

  A little more, I think, and he could cave completely.

  ‘Then tell me all the things I should know.’

  ‘I can scarcely think of a worse way to pass the time.’

  ‘So maybe I should just come up with more things myself.’

  ‘Oh, no. Wait, I can think of something worse. Well done.’

  ‘I promise I will be gentle.’

  ‘That is the reason it is worse. Sympathy is for fools and morons and people who are unable to cope with the rigours of everyday life. I have no need of it.’

  ‘Then you want me to be harsh? You are a massive buffoon,’ I say, intending it as a joke yet somehow not expecting him to react to it as one. In fact I thought he might be incapable of displaying real amusement at anything – least of all my attempts at humour.

  Yet he proves me wrong about that.

  He proves me wrong in startling and glorious fashion. So startling and glorious, in fact, that at first I wonder what on earth he’s doing. A sound comes out of him and his features shift around and all of it is so completely not him that I just don’t recognise it for what it is.

  It takes me a full minute, and even then I have to ask.

  ‘Did you just laugh?’

  ‘I know. I am as surprised as you are to discover I can do that.’

  ‘You get these lovely lines around your eyes,’ I burst out, but only because I want to say something else. It makes you look even more beautiful, I think. It makes you look warm and human and like one day you might let me be more to you than just a person you know, I think.
Then thank God that I manage to keep it inside.

  He barely accepts what I do say.

  Lord knows what he would make of that.

  ‘That might be because I am ancient and decrepit.’

  ‘I somehow doubt you are more than thirty-five.’

  ‘Now I know you are just coddling me. I am thirty-four and appear forty-five, a fact that I am well aware of. My own fault, of course – I had a love affair with cigarettes until a year ago and it left me the ruin you see before you. To this day I still crave the sweet embrace of Benson and Hedges,’ he says and now it’s my turn to giggle – much to his irritation.

  ‘I fail to see how that is amusing. My lungs are most likely blacker than Hades.’

  ‘It’s amusing because of how you put it. God, I love the way you put things. I love the words you use and the way you put them together in sentences. You almost never speak like a normal person and it’s thrilling to me. Absolutely and in every way. I could listen to you talk all day,’ I say, and only realise at the end that I’ve gone way, way too far. I missed the bullet of telling him I want him to be warm and my friend and all of that other stuff, and shoot myself with this one instead.

  Luckily for me, however, he doesn’t seem to notice.

  Or not in any way that matters.

  ‘You are the strangest creature.’

  ‘Said the man who thinks his gorgeous face is ugly and tries to drive people away with duets and letters and books and magical dresses.’

  ‘I have good reasons for all of those things.’

  ‘And for the aversion to touch, too?’

  ‘It is not really what it appears,’ he says, but immediately seems to know he should not have. Now he has left a little door open, and I just have to casually step through.

  ‘Is it a germ thing?’

  ‘That guess was beneath you, Molly.’

  ‘You called me Molly again.’

  ‘Slip of the tongue.’

  ‘Or an attempt at distracting me.’

  ‘As though I would utilise such a feeble gambit.’

  ‘Then we can go on talking about it?’