by Alam, Donna
I can’t help but snigger as Nat begins humming a song I recognise as one of my mom’s favourites. If you leave me now, by Chicago. Moments later, Nat bursts into an adlibbing song,
‘If you leave me now . . . you’ll take away your biggest part from me . . .’
And, like the good wing-women we are, we join in at the chorus.
The cheque arrives shortly after. A coincidence? I think not.
‘I’m desperate for a pee. I’ll need to stop off at home. I won’t make it back to the flat.’
Ivy has always possessed the bladder control of a pregnant woman at almost full gestation. But even through my wine numbing, I feel a pang, because the home she’s referring to is the one she grew up in. The fact that she still calls it home and the place she actually lives the flat tells a story, I suppose. How I wished I still had a place to call home even if, like her parents’ place, it was rented out. They’re currently off doing the grey nomad thing.
‘Did you say they were in Australia?’
‘Yeah, they’ve been there about three months now. I can’t say I’d enjoy living in a caravan for months on end. I told them, you’re supposed to go travelling when you’re in your twenties, not when you’re sixty-bloody-three.’
‘Hey, won’t the tenants be a bit pissed off when you pop in to use the facilities?’ asks Nat. ‘I would be.’
‘It’s not tenanted at the minute. It’s not really holiday season, is it? Anyway, Mac’s staying there for a couple weeks and it’s my home as much as it is his, so he can get stuffed.’
Ivy slips a bundle of keys from her purse as she darts up the garden path. ‘Why is it the nearer you get to a toilet, the more desperate you become?’ She shoves the gold-coloured key into the lock.
‘Ah, the age old mystery,’ says Nat. ‘You could cop a squat in the bushes if you’re that desperate.’
‘Some of us prefer not to flash our vaginas to the unsuspecting public.’ The door bangs against an internal wall in her haste and she turns, shoving the box containing the remains of our pizza into my hands. ‘Go on. You know where the front room is.’ Then she dashes upstairs to the bathroom, taking the steps two at a time.
I do know where the front room is, having spent years making myself at home in this house. Pushing open the door, I think I still expect to be greeted by the overstuffed chairs and chintz curtains of my youth, so am a little perturbed to find a room of nautical near whites and pale blues. From the threshold, I take in the changes. How the furniture is so very different, of how a large-screen TV now hangs above the fireplace, replacing a dark framed mirror that once hung there. And of how this TV is currently playing silent porn, of how the sofa’s high back now faces the door—hang on, porn?
Natasha’s fingers tighten on my arm. ‘The dirty bird!’ she whispers. ‘Is that her brother rubbing one out? Wanking, I mean?’
‘Thanks for the clarification,’ I whisper back. ‘And I don’t know!’ The question belongs in an alternative reality; a place maybe parallel to what’s playing on the TV. It’s also a question I don’t want to know the answer to.
Is there someone watching porn from the sofa? Yes.
Is that person masturbating? Probably.
Is it Ivy’s brother? I don’t know, you go look!
If it’s not him then this is somehow both better and worse. Better, because, you know, less mortifying. Worse because, hello, there’s a random man whacking off on Ivy’s mom’s couch.
As the person in question suddenly straightens, I’m ninety-nine percent sure that it’s Mac.
My eyes flick automatically from the top of his dark head to the busty blonde on the screen, currently riding the pool boy and his massive . . . erm . . . hose. Silently. On second inspection—yes, I looked—it’s not a silent orgasm, but rather the result of Mac wearing a set of headphones.
Not that there aren’t other sounds.
‘That’s right,’ Mac grunts. ‘Hmm . . . hngg .’ His heavy masculine breaths fill the room. ‘Oh, oh, fuckkkk yeahhh .’
Mac’s enjoyment, coupled with Natasha’s heavy breaths, is an assault to the senses. Her chest begins to heave in the periphery of my vision and I’m suddenly worried which of them will reach climax first.
‘Where are you going?’ My fingers tightly grip Nat’s as she makes to step further into the room.
‘I want to see,’ she says a little breathlessly, trying to tug her hand from mine. ‘Why are you whispering? It’s not like he can hear.’ Her smile becomes wicked as she adds with a lewd wink, ‘But we can hear him.’ Wet, furious sounds—intimate sounds—continue to fill the air. ‘I’ll put money on that being lotion, not lube, and I wanna be sure.’
‘I don’t give a flying fuck what it is!’ I sort of whisper-yell. ‘You can’t go in there. God, this is—’
‘Come on, what are you doing standing there? In you get.’
Engrossed—though also maybe just plain grossed out in my case—neither of us realise that Ivy, post pee, has reached the bottom of the stairs. Which is also why I’m surprised to find myself ushered, or more accurately, pushed into the room.
‘No, Ivy, you don’t understand—’ I say, turning back and waving my arms.
I don’t know why the hell I decide jazz-hand semaphore as a suitable diversion. Bad enough that I’ve seen more than I’d care to, but she’s his sister. She deserves not to see! But as the expression slides from Ivy’s face, it’s replaced by a look that remarkably resembles a whale shark. You know, the huge, open-mouthed one. A bit like a vacuum cleaner. The look lasts for precisely two seconds before morphing into something way more vicious—maybe tiger shark?— as her expression swings from the TV screen to Nat.
‘Tell me that’s not you,’ she says, sounding absolutely serious and perfectly scandalised.
‘I wish!’ scoffs Nat. ‘Other than the fact her tits are no’ real.’ Her gaze slides to the TV as she begins her critique. ‘She’s the look of me, sure. And I wouldn’t mind a go of him.’
Which him though, is anyone’s guess. Though maybe not as Ivy doesn’t appear to have noticed the masturbating elephant in the room.
‘Why would you put porn on?’ Her voice is so high I think I can hear dogs in nearby gardens beginning to squeal from the pitch.
‘It wasn’t me!’
‘Go on—go on! Yes, ah, fuck , would ya look at that!’
Natasha doesn’t need to stand on her tiptoes to see Mac squeezing the results of his happy rub onto his stomach. But she does anyway. It’s around the same time that Ivy’s confusion dissipates, her body beginning to shiver subtly from rage.
‘Knock that off,’ she grates out, pulling on Natasha’s arm. ‘Have you no respect?’
‘Sorry,’ Nat adds sheepishly. ‘I forgot for a minute he was your brother.’
‘I not bothered about that lump—have a bit of respect for yourself, woman!’
Either Mac’s interest in his viewing choice has waned, or maybe Ivy’s not so dulcet tones weave their way under the ear-piece of his headphones. Or maybe—and my money’s on this—it’s some kind of inbuilt early warning system, honed over years of sibling warfare, that causes him to turn . . . at the precise same moment Ivy’s hand lands on his head.
‘Cormac!’ she yells as her hand connects.
‘What da’ fuck!’ he shouts, both hands coming up to hold the crown of his head. ‘What was that for?’ He slides the headphones to his neck.
‘What was it for?’ Ivy repeats, fists now clenched by her sides. ‘What was it for?’ Her volume increases with the second repetition. ‘Because. You. Are. A Filthy. B—brute!’
‘Oh.’ Completely unabashed, his gaze slides to Natasha. ‘It wasn’t my best angle,’ he says with a sly smile.
‘Your best angle! Thanks be to God I missed it this time!’ Ivy yells back. ‘You’re gonna have to buy a new sofa, you violating . . . turd!’
‘You might benefit from a bit of masturbation, Poison .’ His tone is cool as his attention returns to his s
ister, and though no one can see rightly, he appears to be tucking himself back in. ‘Might make you chill the fuck out.’
‘Oh? Oh. That so, is it?’ I’m surprised steam isn’t rising from her body because she looks like a volcano of words ready to explode. ‘That’s what I need?’
‘I think we should go.’ I pull on Nat’s sleeve, keeping my voice low. Last time I saw the pair so angry, violence ensued. Ivy’s so mellow, but when she goes, she really does go. She has the temper of a tiger with a sore tooth.
‘Not on your life,’ Nat whispers back, folding my fingers into the crook of her arm and holding them there.
‘That’ll solve my problems, will it?’ Ivy asks with a frightening glint in her eye. ‘A wee fiddle?’ Mac visibly winces. ‘Maybe I’ll take your advice, seeing as you’re such an expert. Go to the pub and drop my knickers? Treat your pals to the same kind of show?’
‘There’s no need to be—’ She doesn’t let him finish, speaking louder and over him.
‘So every time they see you, they’ll only ever see the image of me with my hand between my legs!’
‘You’re looking at this—’
‘That’s where you’re wrong, ‘cos I’m not looking at all! And neither should my friends!’
‘Come on,’ I repeat, tugging on Natasha’s arm. ‘They’ll be arguing for hours yet.’ This time she allows me to pull her to the door where we quietly slip out.
Outside is cool and quiet, a huge contrast to the room we’ve just left and I let out a long breath.
‘He’ll walk her home once they’ve made up.’
‘Will he?’ Nat responds.
‘Yeah. They say a lot of shit to each other, but they’re tight.’
‘They’re lucky to have each other, then.’
‘Yeah.’
We’re each quiet as we make our way back to the flat, lost to our own thoughts, the only sounds between us the joint click of our heels against the paving stones. Neither Nat nor I will ever know the blessing and curse of a sibling relationship, even if I do consider Ivy my pseudo sis. And I suppose I’m lucky that I still have my mom, because Natasha’s only family is June.
‘Can I ask you a question?’ She’s uncharacteristically coy as we reach the door of Ivy’s place.
‘Wouldn’t expect it to stop you if I said no.’
‘Do you think Mac might fancy me?’ I feel my eyebrows pull together. ‘I mean, do you think it was a possibility he chose to watch someone who looked like me ‘cos he wanted to shag me?’
‘I don’t know. Honestly. I mean, it makes sense.’ Or it might’ve been a coincidence; what do I know—me—the person whose husband had womenfolk dropping their panties for him left and right. ‘Do you like him?’
‘I might,’ she says, inspecting her shoes now.
‘But he doesn’t have a beard.’
‘It’s not a deal-breaker,’ she says with a slight shrug. ‘He could grow one, couldn’t he?’ Her eyes rise again. ‘Might not be the best idea to bang my boss’ brother, though.’ She sighs.
‘Or your friend’s only brother.’
‘Aye. Ho’s before bro’s. Did I say that right?’
Nineteen
Fin
I’d started work the following Monday, peddling Nat’s old pushbike over the causeway after collecting the keys to Tremaine House from the local real estate agent. I’d received an email package of my duties and responsibilities the week before, the codes to the alarm system, along with the cell number of someone called Anna. She’s my one contact with my employer in a job that’s a very solitary one. Not that I’m complaining. Not at all. In fact, over the last few weeks I’ve come to relish the peace, spending less and less time at the salon, though I still manage to man the reception desk on Saturdays. It’s the least I can do, even if it feels like some sort of penance having to face everyone.
But I’ve enjoyed my solitude, even going as far as to move into one of the little cottages, sort of. It’s an unofficial move, though I had mentioned in an email to Anna that it may be prudent for me to stay on the property from time to time. As it happened, one Friday afternoon three weeks ago I’d become engrossed in inventorying a delivery of glassware when I’d missed a brewing storm. Faced with the prospect of crossing the causeway in high waves and torrential rain, I’d decided to hole up in one of the cottages. It wasn’t so bad, especially as it seems someone had the idea to convert the old stable block into holiday cottages at one time. I’d found linen in a cupboard to make up a surprisingly new bed. The small kitchen housed a tiny fridge and a hotplate, though I’d brought nothing to eat beyond my small packed lunch. More useful still, I’d found an electric heater to plug in. As the wind howled and the rain pounded, I’d eaten what I had left of my lunch and slept as soundly as I ever do these days. The following week, after telling Ivy that I was needed longer hours on the property, I sort of moved in.
The main house looked as though the builders had left in a hurry, and I’d spent some time trying to make sense of what jobs were complete and prioritizing those next in line. As I understand it, the builders have pulled out due to some kind of legal dispute. I have no idea when work will begin again, but after speaking to Mac, he’d recommended some local construction companies and I’ve begun contacting them for quotes as a sort of Plan B. While I’ve previously experienced the management of large projects, construction isn’t where my experience lies, though I suppose one project is as much as another, at the end of the day.
Peace. Solitude. Productivity.
These are my healing words right now. That, and sort of furious bout of masturbation, which is what, apparently, occurs after your sexuality is switched back on.
Honestly, that shit’s like a fused faucet, fixed by the Rory experience.
They say you never forget your first, though Lord knows I’d tried hard to over the intervening years, succeeding mostly. And I could stick with that line—say I don’t think of him often these days, but it seems a little pointless lying to myself. Especially as I think of him regularly. And mostly when I crawl into bed at night.
But there’s no harm in imagining.
Except in the occurrence of a repetitive strain injury, I suppose.
Twenty
Rory
‘I’ve got something to tell you.’
My head says, Christ, not her again, even as my heart drops into the pit of my gut. Dissolving in my stomach acid, if the resulting sensation is anything to judge. It’s a reflex reaction caused by the mere sound of her voice; the teasing inflection that immediately has me on the back foot.
Get a grip, man. This is only step forty-seven in her master plan to screw Rory to her hip.
‘Whose phone are you on, Beth?’ I keep my tone neutral without mentioning I’d blocked her number well before the construction problems began, bone tired of her brand of crazy-fucked-up. The late night phone calls, the begging and crying. The promises of we-could-be-so-good. The showing up at places I happened to be. I even tired of the naked selfies, eventually.
‘That’s it? That’s all you’ve got to say?’ Her tone is flat; she sounds slightly confused, before her childish simper returns. ‘You play hard to get so well, wo-wee , but I think you’re just dying to hear what I have to say.’
‘Nope. I’m not.’ I keep my answer short and disinterested, letting it sink in for beat. ‘I’m unlikely to be interested in anything you have to say, hen.’
‘Don’t call me that,’ she spits suddenly, her mask slipping, and I’m doubly pleased this is a conversation we’re not having face to face. Apart from having to peel her fingers from my shirt, I’d probably have copped a face full of saliva along with those words.
‘I always thought hen suited you.’ Up until I found out who she really was—the real Beth. The one rude to wait-staff and mean to the point of miserly. The one who isn’t twenty-nine as she’d originally claimed, but ten years older. If she’d told me the truth I wouldn’t have minded. There’s nothing wrong with being thi
rty-nine, even less so when you’re as flexible as her.
‘Well, I don’t like it, so just don’t call me that, okay?’
‘Got it. No hen,’ I say, not bothering to suppress the burgeoning chuckle. If only she knew. Originally, she was hen because she’s small and dark and the kind of girl who looked good with a few ruffled feathers. Now, she’s more the kind of hen whose talons dig in to my chest—the kind that pecks my fucking head. ‘Not that you complained before.’ Sliding my feet from the hotel desk, I lean forward and grab my beer bottle.
‘Well, that was before, Rory. BR: Before Rory,’ she adds, in a childish tone. It’s not cute. It never was. ‘And things will never be the same, especially now that—’
‘Look, Beth. Let’s not rehash this. I can’t give you what you want and you knew that from the start. It’s been four weeks. We agreed.’
‘Yes,’ she answers quietly. ‘We did, but the heart wants what the heart wants.’ More like the spoilt bitch wants what she can’t have. Must be a new experience for her. ‘Besides,’ she says, her tone hardening. ‘I have something to say and you’re going to listen—’
‘Okay.’ I capitulate with a sigh.
‘You’re going to listen to—what?’
‘I said okay. Fine. But not over the phone.’ I tilt the bottle, peering at the production date. I feel sort of sick, but I don’t think it’s the beer. As I put the bottle down, I think it might be instinct, and I don’t mean the name of the brew, but this sick feeling I have.
Step forty-seven, whatever it is, I know intuitively I need not to learn of it over the phone. I’m gonna have to see her again. Put an end to her delusions, once and for all.
‘So you’ll come see me?’ Like the flip of a switch, she’s back to simpering. The woman needs fucking therapy . ‘How wonderful! We’ll have dinner at that place—you know the one. We went on your birthday and you followed me to and fucked me in the—’
‘Arse?’ I finish for her.