by Leick, Hera
The front door opens, blasting my back with summer heat and saving me from rambling out a non-sequential, stuttering non-apology.
"Hi Mum." James runs a hand down my ponytail and kisses my head before hugging his mother. I’m both grateful and horrified, since his mother had most definitely noticed the small action.
"Hello darling. It has been too long."
He nods. "I see you've met Adelaide."
"Yes, we are just getting acquainted." She places a hand on my arm, but her smile doesn’t seem to reach her eyes. "Apparently, she is a very. . . talented artist."
James picks my bag up and slings it over his shoulder. "Not apparently—is. I'm going to take this upstairs and then go find Dad. Is Preston around? I need to ask what he did to my TV remote because it's been acting funny ever since he messed with it last week."
His mother stops him before he starts to ascend the staircase. "Darling, no, take Adelaide’s things to the blue bedroom. We have it all ready for her."
He doesn’t break stride. "Why? She’s staying in my room."
"I thought that perhaps she might be more comfortable staying there."
He stops and looks over the railing, his expression unreadable. "Are you serious?"
"Well, dear. . ." Mrs Hatter rubs her throat absently.
"Mum, we're adults. We sleep in the same bed practically every night. Not to mention I noticed Preston's not staying in a guest room."
"James. . . " Her fingers start twining themselves in her pearls. "Dear, Preston is—"
I decide this is a good time to interrupt. "You know what? I think I will be more comfortable in the uh, blue room." My voice cracks on the last syllable, effectively killing any chance I have at sounding assertive. He gives me a look. "James, I'm serious. It's no big deal." He doesn’t move. "Go. Chop chop." I get one last dubious look before he continues up the stairs.
Camilla breaks the silence by taking my hand and pulling me further into the house. "Let's go meet Daddy. And, ugh, Aunt Catherine too, I guess."
"Nice to meet you," I call over my shoulder as I’m led away.
James’ father has a very different reaction than his wife did to meeting me. He pulls me into a hug, practically lifting me off my feet. "So happy to meet you finally," he bellows, pulling Camilla into the hug, as well. She starts to giggle. "I have heard a lot about you, well, mostly from Camilla here, because my son, well, you know him, you have to practically shove bamboo shoots underneath his fingernails to get anything out of him. Welcome, welcome."
"Thank you." I untangle myself out from underneath his arm. "Thank you for inviting me, Mr Hatter."
"Any time, sweetheart, any time. We have plenty of room. And for God’s sakes call me Bill."
“Adelaide," I hear someone call from behind me. Preston. He hugs me from behind. "Glad to see you. Before you get comfortable, may I just say, for the record, that I did absolutely nothing to James’ bloody television remote other than use it for its intended purpose? He just gets confused by anything that’s more than two buttons, which probably makes him an absolute dynamo in the sack, am I right?"
I narrow my eyes at him and very quietly say, “You really have a filthy mouth.”
"Fortunately for my wife—where is the big guy, anyway?"
"Upstairs, putting our bags away."
"Ah good," Bill says, clapping a hand to my back and leads me away. "Let me give you the tour in the meantime. As long as you are here, please make yourself at home, and if there is anything you need, don't hesitate to ask. Now I must ask, do you like scotch?"
"Yes,” I reply. “Anything that takes the edge off."
His laughter is deep and hearty, and reminds me of James’ a little. "Then I have something you need to try. How about jazz?"
"Love it."
"Oh, goody, we're going to be best friends."
James’ father does most of the talking through dinner, which is served in a giant dining room that I swear is in a film of some sort. At least there are no butlers like in the films, just one older woman who cooks and serves and rolls her eyes when Camilla tips over the bowl full of au jus.
"So, where did you and James meet?" Bill asks, clicking a remote to change the background music from jazz to classical.
It feels like James’ father has turned off the lights with his remote and someone has shone a spotlight down on me. They are all looking at me through the looking glass, waiting for a response.
My pulse quickens, and beads of sweat form on my brow and down my back. How do I tell them that it all started when their son had wagered me in a poker game, and then I had used him for sex that very night, only to sneak out on him the next morning, and then three weeks later I’d turned up at his hotel door to give him a burlesque dance?
It’s not really a romantic tale to tell anyone. Especially not our parents.
I take a long gulp of wine, trying to buy time. James shoots a look to Preston.
"I introduced them," Preston announces. "I've known Adelaide since my first year of school, and when James moved back I thought what better way to feed his burning fascination with the arts than to hook him up with one of the more, ah, visually stimulating artists in the district. In fact, he was so concerned with the aesthetics of his new place that he came over and practically begged me for that painting in the guest bathroom. You know, the one with the teeth?"
"So that's what happened to my painting," I mutter, and shoot a look at Preston.
"Begged, I tell you. He was practically grovelling. How could I refuse?"
"What did you do to my remote?" James interjects.
"For the last time, nothing. Did you try and take the batteries out? Sometimes that will reset it, if it was, I don't know, dropped in a sink-full of water or something. I'm just saying."
"You arsehole. That’s a brand new TV."
"Please do not use that kind of language at the table, James," Mrs Hatter scolds. Aunt Catherine tosses a disdainful look at us all.
Preston chuckles. "You just got yelled at by your mummy."
"You owe me a remote."
Mrs Hatter is determined to change the subject. "Adelaide, dear, what exactly do you do?" I lower my fork. I did not expect that question. Haven’t we already covered this?
"Uh. . . paintings, mostly, and sketches, pencil and ink and charcoal. Sometimes when I feel really creative I'll try working with clay or mixed media to make three-dimensional pieces, but usually I just stick to canvas. I've done a couple of murals too, but those are commissions."
Aunt Catherine speaks up. "You just. . . paint? You don't have a job?"
James clangs his fork to his plate and is about to unleash, but I put a hand on his leg underneath the table to quiet him. "It is my job."
"I thought it might be more of a hobby,” Mrs Hatter admits. “How does one support themselves by selling paintings?"
This time Preston is the one who nearly has an outburst, but Camilla beats him to the punch. "Don’t be silly, Mother. She is one of the hardest working people that I know. It's not exactly easy to break into the art scene, even if you are as incredibly talented as she is." Camilla smiles warmly at me. "She has dedicated her life to her art. She works hard every day and doesn't have time for hobbies or even to watch TV. I for one am happy that she loves what she does and is good at it.” Camilla looks toward her aunt. “I guess we can't all be living off our second divorce."
Bill snorts laughter into his napkin. I sit motionless, trying to decide whether to beg James to take me home or leap over the dining table and hit Camilla with a high five. Who knew the petite little kitten had such claws?
After dinner, James’ father insists on sitting at my elbow over tea and pie. "Lorina hates it when I smoke in the house," he says apologetically, gesturing at the open window as he lights up a cigar. "I hope you don’t mind."
"Not at all," I say, taking a sip of tea.
"Wonderful," he says, smiling and exhaling a plume of smoke. "Tell me about you. Give me some good stor
ies, and in exchange I'll try and remember something embarrassing about James when he was younger."
I really like Bill, I decide, and give an annotated history of my life, family, and school days.
"When did you start taking lessons?" he asks me.
"Um, I never really took any," I explain, stirring my tea. "My parents were both very, very good at drawing, and my father—he's an architect—he gave me a piece of graph paper once to doodle on when I was about four, and I ended up drawing a picture of an egg with a chicken running in the background, and it was, um, well, it wasn’t a typical child's drawing. He said I got the lighting and proportion right on the money, and even the perspective since I made the chicken smaller and higher up to show distance. I even did some shading and broke down the chicken into smaller shapes and then blended them together. He told me he knew then that I would do this the rest of my life."
Bill’s smile is soft. "He must be very proud of you."
"I hope so. He still has the picture, somewhere."
He reaches over and takes my cup. "Let me get you more tea."
"Oh no, let me. That way you can finish off your cigar."
I get up and head toward the kitchen. Turning the corner, I go through a door and pause when I hear voices. Something tells me to stay put and I press my back against the wall, listening in.
". . .I didn’t mean to come across that way, you know that," I hear Mrs Hatter say.
"Save it," James responds. "You know exactly how you came across."
"Darling, I just—" She stops and seems to choose her next words carefully. "I just want to make sure that this girl. . . that she is not just with you because. . . "
"Because why?"
Another long pause. "Because of what you can give her." He must have given her some sort of look, because she rushes to correct herself. "James, listen, I'm not saying there is anything wrong with Adelaide, I think she is delightful, but you have to be careful when you date someone who has, well, who is not as privileged—"
"So what you're saying is: Be careful because she might be a gold digger?"
"Your cousin Pat—"
"Patrick is an idiot who was asking for it. What did he expect when he ordered a Russian bride off the Internet?"
"But still—"
"Mum, listen. She is not the person you assume her to be. I know her. And I'm not stupid. So I'm sorry you're disappointed I'm in love with a beautiful woman and not some brainless debutante, but she is not going anywhere."
I hear him crossing the kitchen floor and opening a door, most likely the one leading into the game room where Preston and Camilla are playing billiards.
I creep back to the dining room. "Bill, I'm done with tea. How about that scotch?"
I fake a headache and retire to my room early, where I change into my pyjamas and slide into bed with a sketchpad. Blue Room is really a misnomer, since most of everything is white, except for the blue trim on the curtains.
A knock at the door. "Come in," I mumble, reaching for a rubber to fix a misfire.
James enters, wearing only a pair of tight navy-blue briefs, his hair wet from a shower. I swallow the moisture in my mouth when my eyes trail over his lean hips, his narrow waist, his eight-pack and the sexy V-lines of his obliques. Everything from his chest and biceps is cut to perfection and rock-solid, and I can’t believe he is all mine.
Mine.
"Feeling better?" he asks me.
I continue drawing. "Yeah, I guess."
He sits on the edge of the bed, watching my pencil move across the page. "I have to confess something."
"What’s that?"
He plays with the sheet, pulling and creating a row of small peaks. "This is hard for me to say. . . When we were at your house, it was me who made Dormouse throw up."
That gets my attention. I raise my head and look at him with those soul-killing blue eyes. He continues. "You see, your mum made me take more apple pie after I finished the first piece, and no offense, your mother's a sweet lady, but it was dry. Really, really dry. And Dormouse was there, and I was the only person in the room, and he had been eating out of the rubbish, so I decided I’d just save him the trouble and give it to him. He ate it, too. And when he threw up, you thought it was Bailey and Bailey thought it was you. . .”
He clears his throat. Why is he choosing this moment to confess? Until he’d opened his mouth, I’d considered it a cold case.
"So, yeah, it was me."
I’m still looking at him, saying nothing, valiantly trying to conceal the hurt in my eyes that has nothing to do with Dormouse and his touchy digestive system.
"Listen, my mother is a harpy. Camilla and I are used to dealing with it, and the best way is to just ignore her because she’s just one person and we don't take her seriously. And Aunt Catherine has been a troll ever since her son married this Russian woman that he bought on—"
"You love me."
That stops him mid-sentence. He seems to ponder on something deeply. "I guess you heard." I lower my pad and sit up. He breaks the silence first. "Yeah, I do." He looks into my eyes. "I just haven't told you."
I slide over until I’m next to him. "I haven’t either." I hold my pad out to him. "Look."
I’ve been drawing James again, from memory. He flips the pages. All of the sketches are of him in various states: driving; looking down; with glasses; without; in my favourite white vest top of his—the one he works out in—with his silver cross round his neck; sleeping; sitting; standing; smiling; in the shower drinking a beer; and with stubble. He’s been growing it ever since I’d remarked on how it made him look sexy and dangerous.
He glances to the lower right corner of every sketch, right above my initials. I have titled every sketch: Love.
I make a low moan when he kisses me, but try to stifle another much louder one when he presses his hardening erection against my inner thigh. He slides one hand behind my head into my hair, and lowers me gently to the bed, pressing his body against mine. I gasp again.
"Louder," he whispers with a guttural growl. "I want my mother to hear."
16
Hatter
A DOG IS barking outside, probably the same one I’d saw earlier in the day when we’d pulled into the Queen's driveway for her father’s birthday. It’s a small, ratty thing yipping behind the neighbour's fence.
It has now been barking for seventeen consecutive minutes. I know this because my exhausted eyeballs are staring into the bright-red numerals of the digital alarm clock placed inches from my face. There isn’t much space in Adelaide's old bedroom, especially since her mother had started using it for storage, and the nightstand and bed are shoved closely together. I’m stuck on the outside. Sleeping on the inside edge against the wall makes me claustrophobic.
The dog keeps barking. I should borrow one of Bailey's basketballs and try hurling it from the second floor window.
Sighing, I turn on my other side and crush half of my girlfriend's body in the process.
"OW. You're on me."
"Sorry, love." We adjust, each trying to find a comfortable position on the cramped double bed. It had probably been big enough when Adelaide was a teenager and sleeping alone, but I’m bigger than most people, and it feels like sleeping on a domino. I stare at the dim outline of the boxes full of Mrs Queen's scrapbooking supplies and wonder if Chloe and Bailey are experiencing the same problem in his old room—
"Stop it, Adelaide."
She retracts her hand from my cock. "Why?"
"Bloody hell, woman, we're in your parents' house."
I know she’s pouting in the darkness. "You didn't care when we were in your parents' house."
"That's different." I shift again and the mattress springs groan from the slight movement. "They can hear us."
"They can’t.” I feel her hand move down again, but I grab it, pulling her arm over my chest instead. “Fine then, go to sleep, you big wuss."
I reach over and turn the clock’s face away from me. The dog out
side is still barking, and now Dormouse is giving an occasional tired "woof" back.
"I'm trying. Move over."
Adelaide scoots and I shut my eyes, willing my brain to shut down so that I can start falling asleep. Ten minutes later, a restless prickling current shoots down the left side of my body. She flips over, jostling my body and whipping me in the face with her hair.
"Sorry, babe."
"Hmm," I grumble.
She inches her face toward mine. "You sleeping?"
"No."
"Were you getting close?"
"Yes."
"Whoops. Sorry." Adelaide rolls onto her side and tries to find a place to put her bottom arm, finally sliding it under my neck. I grunt and turn my head, pinning it in place. "OW. My arm. Can you stop moving?"
"Can you stop talking?"
"I'll stop talking when you stop moving."
"You're talking more than I'm—"
My words are cut off as a familiar rhythmic squeaking noise comes faintly through the door.
"Oh my God. . ." Adelaide pulls her head up and listens closer. "Is that. . .?"
I pull my pillow over my face. "Great."
Adelaide drops her head back down. "See? My brother's not all hung up about having sex in our parents' house."
My voice is muffled as I speak through the pillow. "That's because your dad won't kill his own son. I'm fair game."
"Coward."
The dog finally stops barking, but the squeaking continues, picking up in volume and frequency in the fresh silence. I try to scoot away from the edge and squish Adelaide into the wall.
"You used to live with them. How long does this usually take?"
"Ugh, I don't know that, James. I didn't have my ear pressed to the door when my brother was shagging my best friend." She sighs. "Just ignore it, they'll. . . you know. . . will finish soon."
Ten minutes later the squeaking is still audible, accompanied by the occasional knock of something heavy against the headboard. Worse, a soft female moan joins in at regular intervals.
Now we are both awake, our eyes wide open as we stare up at the ceiling. Adelaide states the obvious in a quiet whisper. "They're not done."