by Molloy, Ruby
“She told me his name is Matthew Bateman.”
“That’s it?”
I shake my head and my eyes fill with tears that spill down into my hair. “He was fifteen years old when I was conceived. My mother was thirty. She was his teacher.”
Mason’s face loses all trace of colour and he’s searching my face, his own contorted into an expression of horrified disbelief. “Fuck!”
I nod and wipe my nose with the back of my hand. “Yeah,” I say. “How fucking awful is that?”
He falls to his back again, tightening his arm, pulling me in so I’m almost lying on top of him. “Shit, Frankie, I’m sorry.”
“All these years I’ve kind of been hoping for someone to come forward and say, ‘hey, I’m your dad’. Sometimes, when I was younger, I’d weave stories around complete strangers. I’d sit on the bus with Ivy and imagine that the guy in front, wearing a smart suit and a raincoat, was my father. And how he knew I was his daughter but he couldn’t tell me or talk to me because he was a secret agent and he didn’t want to put me in danger. So he made do with sitting close to me on the bus.” I sniffle and give a weak smile. “Pathetic, huh?”
“That’s not pathetic at all. I’m just sorry it turned out this way.”
“That’s kind of the way my life goes. It’s okay.”
“It’s not fucking okay! And you had to deal with hearing that shit without me and you came over tonight and what did I do? I screwed your fucking brains out, when we should have sat down and talked.”
“I kind of liked the fucking,” I say.
He searches my face and leans in for another kiss, this one on my mouth, and though it’s brief there’s nothing perfunctory about it and I can’t help smiling; which means I’m smiling and crying at the same time and Mason is staring at me as if I’m perfect.
“Are you going to search for him?” he asks a while later. His hand is below my t-shirt, warm and heavy and comforting.
I shake my head. “No. I don’t think I could do that to him. He doesn’t know I exist and with everything she did ...”
“He’s got to be thirty-six now, Frankie. Maybe he’ll be ready for this. Give yourself time to think about it, you might change your mind.”
“I won’t.”
“You don’t know that, Frankie. It’s too soon, too raw. He’s your father, you might feel differently―”
“No!” My strident voice rings through the apartment. “I don’t want to meet him, okay?! What’s so fucking difficult to understand, Mason? My mother abused a fifteen year old boy and I am the product of that abuse. Why the hell would he want to meet me or I him?”
Mason scowls, biting back words he knows will inflame. “Whatever you say, babe.” His tone is cold and hard. He rolls from the sofa and heads towards the bedroom. Minutes later, when the guilt is too strong to ignore, I make my way to his room. The en suite door is open and he's standing beneath the bank of showerheads rinsing his body free of suds. He’s sideways on and I know he can see me in his peripheral vision, but he doesn’t acknowledge my presence. I strip off my clothes, kicking them to the corner of the bathroom. Stomach tight with regret, I step between Mason and the wall, waiting for him to meet my eyes. When he does, I see only anger.
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah?” He turns off the water, his actions rougher than needed. His hands come to rest on the grey tiles beside my head, and he shifts his weight so that his face is close to mine. “You’ve had a crazy shit time so I get that you need to let off steam. Only thing is, I’m not the kind of guy to take that. Next time you think I’ve overstepped the mark tell me and I’ll back off, okay?”
He snatches up a towel from the rail and walks into the bedroom, towelling his chest and thighs. I turn the shower back on, washing my hair and body, scrubbing my skin until it stings and patches of red form on my thighs and breasts.
When I’m done, I stand in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection as if it will offer up answers to questions as yet unformed. With my hair still wet I climb into bed, my pillow soaking up the moisture as I lie on my back, eyes wide open, heart beating dully inside my chest.
Mason lifts his arm and I roll against him, my head resting on his chest. I can’t sleep. My mind is swirling with thoughts and images I wish I could scrub away. Restlessness creeps up on me and the urge to stretch my legs is overwhelming. Sleep is not going to come and I know Mason’s awake, his breaths not deep enough to signal sleep. I slip away from his body, sitting up, the duvet trailing to my waist. I feel the mattress undulate and I know Mason is sitting too.
“Come here,” I hear him say.
I turn to see that his knees are bent and he’s made a space for me to sit between his legs. I’m careful not to squash his bits as I manoeuvre between his legs, my movements awkward and ungraceful as I finally sit with my back exposed to his front. I’m expecting his fingers to trail along my spine, but they reach into my hair, lightly pressing into my scalp and nape, moving on before the sensation becomes too much. It’s exquisite. A sigh escapes my mouth and my head falls forward as my stresses dissolve with each new glide of his fingers. “You know I’ll be asking you to do this again, right?” I say, eyes closed, voice thick and slow.
“You can ask, doesn’t mean you’re going to get.” I sigh when his thumb gives a final press into my nape, his hands falling to my shoulders as he says, “Okay, babe, that’s your lot for tonight.”
I climb over his leg and fall onto the mattress. “Thank you,” I mumble. “You are the absolute best,” I say seconds before I fall asleep.
When the alarm on my phone rouses me from sleep next morning I’m about to turn it off when I remember it’s Friday, which means I need to get up and get my arse to work. Mason is asleep beside me, his back to the mattress, the duvet shunted down to his hips, where his morning wood has created its own tepee. I want to stay and play, but duty calls.
Myrtle is in the car park below, but as I’m coming back to Mason’s after work it makes sense to travel by train.
Arriving at my desk, still yawning, I find that Charlotte has left a lemon muffin with a post-it that reads ‘enjoy your breakfast’. I guess there could be worse ways to start the day. I bite through its creamy topping into the sponge below, while I trawl through my junk emails, ensuring there’s nothing in there that needs my attention. I come across one sent at six a.m. that seizes my interest. It’s from Mason, or at least it has his name and his email address, but at six this morning he was asleep with me. I know it’s junk, and I know they’ve somehow replicated Mason’s email address, but I’m curious. The email is mostly an empty, white screen but slap bang in the middle of the page are the words, ‘fucking bitch’. The font is large, in bold capitals and underlined with an angry black line.
The combined use of Mason’s email and the abusive words are unsettling. No, more than that, they’re frightening. What kind of person would do that? A name immediately springs to mind―Josephine. I thought I’d seen the end of her when I left uni, but I guess she’s more poisonous than I thought. I don’t have proof it’s her, but I can forward the message on to our IT Department and ask them to look into it. I also take a screenshot with my phone and text it to Mason.
Minutes later I’m engrossed in compiling research into the possible correlation between childhood abuse and crime. It’s a tedious process, but the outcome should be anything but. I can hear my phone vibrating in my bag, but since it’s after nine and the Prison has a no phone policy, I can’t pick it up. It’s not until I’m at the lunch table, sitting with Charlotte and Cecelia from accounts, that I can check my phone. There are three missed calls from Mason and four text messages. In amongst the profanities he explains that the emails are not from his account and that it’s just a display name. Twice he tells me to forward the email to him and twice he tells me not to reply to the abusive email. I think he thinks I’m stupid. I send a quick text confirming and sign off with a kiss.
The afternoon drags. There’s an er
ror in one of the long-winded formulas on the spreadsheet. It takes an hour to discover where it is and a further forty five minutes to find an alternative that works. It’s after five when I leave. I’m checking my phone as I leave the building when I hear a ‘hey’. My head shoots up, a surprised grin on my face when I see Mason leaning against a tree to my right.
I walk across the grass, ignoring the sign that tells me not to, just as he obviously has, and rise up on my tiptoes so that he can kiss me if he chooses. He chooses. His hands come to rest on my hips and he spins me round so that my back is against the bark. His mouth covers mine and I’m drawn in for a long, luscious kiss that’s way too intense given that I’m standing outside work. I’m hoping that Mason’s body and the tree have disguised our PDA.
He draws back once we’ve had our fill, taking my hand and leading me to where his SUV is parked on double yellows.
“What are you doing here?”
“I was at a loose end. Thought I’d come pick you up, seeing as you left Myrtle at home.”
He opens my door and smacks my buttock as I climb in. Please God, don’t let any of my colleagues have seen that. Or the kiss! He walks round the front and climbs in, checking his mirror before pulling into the traffic. His seatbelt alarm is ringing out and Mason seems oblivious so I reach across and snap it in place. He does the head tilt and grin combo, causing a warm fuzzy feeling to take up residence in my lower stomach. “You taking care of me, Frankie?”
I smile and ask, “What time do you have to be at work?”
“Eight. I’m handing over to Chris at two.”
I do the maths in my head. We’ll get home by six, which means Mason will need to leave by seven thirty, maybe seven forty-five. Subtracting the time it’ll take for him eat, shower, and get ready, that leaves an hour or more for other activities.
“Why do you ask?”
Apparently, my face says it all because he’s full-on grinning and his hand grabs mine to lay it against his thigh.
We don’t make it to the bed. The hall floor is where it takes place, the floor cool and solid beneath my back as he rises up above me, moving, his mouth grinding against mine as he comes.
Afterwards, he helps me to my feet and collects my clothing, hanging my panties from his finger like a talisman he’s unwilling to relinquish. “Yours I believe,” he says, grinning, eyes half open, his body slow and relaxed just as it always is after we have sex. I snatch them up and go get myself together in the guest bathroom while he uses the en suite. While he’s taking a shower I go fix dinner.
Looking at the expensive plates now filled with soggy rice, limp broccoli and charred lamb chops, I’m about to scrape the inedible mess into the bin when Mason rescues a plate and takes a seat at the island.
“It’s awful,” I say morosely.
“It’s fine. Come and eat with me.”
He’s dressed for work in a grey shirt and darker grey trousers. They hug his chest and buttocks and I’m suddenly envious of everyone who’ll get to see him tonight. I trundle over and take the seat beside his, embarrassed that he’s making the effort to eat his meal when really it should be at the bottom of the bin. I can see the effort it takes for him to chew the tough lamb and I don’t know whether to laugh or cry when he takes a sip of water to help it on its journey. “Manson, please, you don’t have to eat this.”
“Are you crazy? This is delicious.” He picks up a sorry mass of broccoli that looks like it’s been boiled to death and bites into it as if it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. He’s over-acting, his eyes rounded when he chews, and I can’t help laughing.
“You fool!”
I can’t bring myself to eat mine. I climb from my stool, kiss him on his cheek and set about clearing the mess I’ve created.
“You get any more emails?” he asks.
“No, just that one. Weird, huh?” I’m placing cutlery in the dishwasher when revelation strikes. “Is that why you picked me up from work?”
He ignores my question. “You get anymore, or anything happens you don’t think is right, you tell me, okay? Anything.”
I stare, shocked. “Are you serious?” Actually, now that I’m looking I don’t need him to answer that question; his posture and expression says it all.
“Yeah, I’m fucking serious! I mean it, Frankie. Anything!”
I wonder why he’s so riled up over a creepy email.
“And you can quit travelling on the Tube. You need to travel anywhere, take Myrtle.”
“That’s an extra half an hour on my journey to work! You know how crazy rush hour traffic can be. I don’t see why―”
“Get up earlier, but you’re not taking the damn Tube. Not until we know who’s behind the email. And no walking anywhere either, especially through the park.”
“Is there something you’re not telling me?”
He shakes his head, and looks down at his plate. That’s when I know he’s lying. That dinner might be hideous, but no way in hell is it that bloody interesting.
After he’s left for work, I mooch on the sofa, flicking through channel after channel, mulling over what’s got him so riled. By ten o’clock I’m yawning, the programme I finally settled on has finished, and I need to make the short journey from sofa to bed. Tapping the lights as I go, I’m almost at the bedroom door when I hear the intercom buzzing.
“Hey William, you okay?”
“Yes thanks, Frankie. Sorry to disturb you so late, but I have an envelope here for you. It was just delivered by courier and it’s marked urgent. You want me to bring it up?”
Normally I’d say yes, but today has not been a normal day and Mason’s reaction to this morning’s email has unnerved me. “You know what? I’ll come down and collect it from you.”
William is waiting behind his desk. He’s taken off his jacket and he looks smart in his white shirt and burgundy waistcoat. A large A4 size manila envelope is sitting on the desk and sure enough my name appears below an orange sticker marked ‘urgent’. William passes me a pair of scissors, handle first. “The way that’s stuck down with tape I think you might need these.”
“Thanks William.”
I slide the blade through the tape, tearing a line from one side to the other. Inside there’s a single sheet of corrugated cardboard that’s been cut to fit the envelope. Written across its length in thick black ink is the word ‘bitch’.
Shock has me dropping it to the desk and even William is taken aback once he sees what’s written on its manila surface. “What the hell kind of nonsense is this?”
He’s angry on my behalf and I’m about to tear the card in pieces when he waves his arm and says, “Don’t! There could be fingerprints or evidence on that. We should call the Police.”
I laugh. “William, it’s a piece of cardboard with the word bitch scrawled across it. I don’t think the Police will be interested!”
“It’s not just a piece of cardboard, though, is it? It’s a nasty piece of work, that’s what it is.” He picks up the phone and starts dialling.
“William, you can’t call the Police ...”
He gestures with his finger against his lips, silencing me. “Can I speak with Mason Zannuto please? This is William, the concierge at his building.”
I try to grab his attention. “William, no, please. Mason doesn’t need to know―”
“Mason, William here. I have Frankie with me. I just took delivery of an envelope for her.” He describes the contents and there’s a pause while he listens to what Mason’s saying.
“Yes, her name, your apartment details. Okay. Yes. Will do.” He passes the phone to me and says, “Mason wants a word.”
“Hello?”
“You okay?”
“I’m fine, really. I was just telling William that it’s nothing to worry about. Admittedly, whoever sent it is weird as hell, but still ...”
“Do me a favour, go back upstairs and wait for me. I’ll be home soon.”
“Okay, but it’s ―”
“Now
Frankie!”
“Okay, okay! I’m going!”
I pass the phone back to William, who’s now absorbed in whatever Mason’s saying. I head to the lift, leaving the envelope and its message with William.
Hyped up from the note, though more so from Mason’s reaction, I sit in the kitchen with a coke in my hand, tearing at the plastic label and messing up the counter with fragments of dried glue. I spin round when Mason arrives, lifting my face for a kiss. He bestows one on my lips, but he’s distracted. Grabbing a beer from the fridge, he sits on the stool to my right, sideways on, facing me. His hands pull at my knees, twisting me round until I’m facing him, and now that I see his grim expression, I’m worried.
“I want you to listen to me real good.” He waits for my nod before continuing. “Whoever’s behind this knows too much. They know where you work. They also know you’re dating me and where I live, and they want me to know this because they sent that envelope to my address. They want me to know they’re watching you, which means they’re a fucking psycho. And since they know so much already, there’s a good chance they know a hell of a lot more.” Mason pauses, and it’s clear he doesn’t want to say what he’s about to reveal. “Such as where you live, and maybe Ivy, too.”
I stare at him with unblinking eyes, feeling as though my life is spiralling out of control when, truthfully, it’s never been in my control. So the fact that I’m sitting here now, scared like never before, tells me just how fucked up my life has become. Even so, I try to convince him it’s nothing to worry about. “When I read the email this morning, I thought maybe it was Josephine. She was jealous of us ...”
Mason is already shaking his head. “I don’t think it’s Josephine.”
“How do you know? She’d call me a bitch at uni.”
“She ever do anything like this before?”
I shake my head.
“Then it’s not Josephine.” He says this with a hint of regret, as if he almost wishes it was her. “What about Sid? You think he’s capable of doing something like this?”
I lean back and stare at him as if he’s crazy. “No way! Sid’s not like that.” I falter for a second, doubt seeping in when I remember Sid’s text messages but another memory pops up. “Besides, remember when he turned up at the diner that time? He said he was heading back to the States in a couple of weeks.”