Chapter 14
Mallory
‘The kitchen looks amazing, did you get up early?’
Ronan is stood at the countertop with his back to me, making a bacon sandwich for himself. My breakfast is a bowl of granola that he made for me and that I prod at, simultaneously pretending to read, at the kitchen island.
‘I did!’ I say, ladling a heap of acai and granola into my mouth.
It’s the last thing I want, but I am able to pretend otherwise, swallowing my shame with it.
I am wearing my morning dressing gown – silk with paisley print – and my hair is back in its intentionally messy bun.
I am clean. I smell fresh. The Yves St Laurent perfume Ronan bought me lingers on my skin.
Small pearl earrings that he gifted me for my birthday now hang from my ear lobes.
They are subtle, but he will notice. My hands are washed, nails polished, fingers steady.
Moving slowly, I casually take another mouthful, trying to mask the speed and quantity of my thoughts.
Does he know? Is he suspicious? He is so perceptive.
About this house. About me. Always about me.
But the place is spotless, and so am I. There should be no trace of last night.
Any of last night. He says he knows me better than anyone.
‘How’s your granola?’ he asks.
He has his bacon sandwich, and I have my granola. Always. He likes routine. ‘It’s lovely, thank you.’ I stuff another mouthful in. It churns to paste. I struggle to swallow.
‘Good. I got this new light stuff.’ He picks up the cereal box on the counter next to him and shakes it, still not looking at me.
It has the words LOW SUGAR plastered on it.
‘So it should be filling and healthier. And I topped it up with fruit.’ I watch him take a bite of his sandwich, the smell of burnt fat making my insides twist with hungover envy.
‘Great.’
‘Did you enjoy the party?’ he asks.
I sense a shift in his tone.
Probing? Suspicious?
‘Yes!’ I answer brusquely, turning the next unread page of the book that I quickly pulled off the shelf before he came downstairs, to see a glimpse of Shakespearean verse. ‘It was great. You did so well!’
Who makes the fairest show means the most deceit.
Oh, Jesus.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I did well. Despite you hiding in the bathroom most of the night, on your phone.’ I look up. He keeps his back to me, taking a huge bite of his sandwich. Half gone.
I try to make my voice surprised, with a dollop of nonchalance. ‘Oh! Was I?’
‘Yes.’
‘I was just taking a moment!’ I say jovially. ‘Just needed a bit of time to myself... It can be overwhelming. And it was your night, not mine.’
‘What’s on your phone?’ he says so bluntly that I nearly drop my spoon.
Shit. Maybe I didn’t delete them. Did I delete the pictures?
I’m sure I did. I must have. I was meticulous last night.
Wasn’t I? Maybe not. And he looked. This morning.
He knows my password because he told me once years ago, in a way that made me never want to change it.
He’s seen the photos. Of him. Splayed. Naked.
Oh, God. I’m going to prison— ‘What’s on there that could be better than a night with a house full of lovely people? ’
The bounce from dread to relief in the space of two sentences nearly sends me dizzy.
Answer him.
I can’t say Candy Crush.
I make my spoon clink against the bowl a few times as I heap some berries onto it, both to gain some control over myself and so that Ronan thinks I am absentmindedly eating and not in the aftermath of an emotional swing so jarring that it nearly gave me whiplash.
It seems to work, because he continues chewing.
No reaction. When he has finished the sandwich, he puts his plate in the sink and starts scrubbing it gently with the coarse green side of the sponge.
He is meticulous, and always has been. I can’t read him, but he is quieter than usual.
Not the jovial Ronan everyone knows. There are a few things this could mean.
He could just be worried for me. He’s not wrong: I was in the bathroom a lot.
Perhaps he did go through my phone, and he did see the photos, and he liked them?
Perhaps he wants more. That would be the best outcome here.
He loved the pictures of himself and wants more of them.
Maybe some of me? That’s the right thing to assume.
Isn’t it? Whatever the reason, I need to say something.
‘I was meditating.’ OK. I need to say more. ‘I’ve been using a meditation app.’
‘Mal.’ His hands stop moving. It isn’t abrupt, but there is purpose to his pause, which makes me twitch. He bows his head slightly, considering the state of the chopping board. He slowly wipes it down with a tea towel and places it on the countertop next to the Sakuto knives.
‘Is everything OK, love?’ I say.
‘I want to talk to you about something.’
Oh, no.
I can tell from the tone in his voice, the way he scratches the side of his cheek, the way the muscles flicker in his neck that he is sceptical.
I have never said the words I was meditating before, at least not in that order, and he knows it.
It sounded so foreign in my mouth that I panicked halfway through, making my intonation change so it sounded like I was asking a question.
Like I wasn’t actually sure if I was meditating.
I was meditating? Maybe it sounded cute.
Little old me, trying to be wholesome – aren’t I quirky!
But my throat was clogged with yoghurt. He’s tense.
It won’t show on his face, but he is. I scan my brain for a casual response to move things in a different direction.
‘Don’t you have football in half an hour?
Shall I get your boots?’ But he doesn’t answer – he remains hunched over the sink, seemingly deep in thought.
There should be no reason for him to suspect.
Should there? I was careful. I was quiet.
He was passed out. When I went to bed, he was in the exact same position I left him in. ‘It’s half past ten already.’
He stays motionless.
Don’t spiral.
Don’t—
Unless one of the neighbours on the street saw me.
Who are his friends that live there? Caro and Benji?
Oh, God. Maybe they live next door. Or directly opposite.
Maybe they’ve texted him. Mal was acting erratically on our street last night – are you aware?
Perhaps they saw me hiding in the car. Tin foil, wine, blood.
Maybe there was something in the news. Woman in yellow coat helps boy flee from scene – wanted—
‘I think it’s best to clear this up before I go.’
He has cleaned everything up, so it’s evident he isn’t referring to the sink.
I swallow hard. ‘Has something happened?’
He wipes his hands on the tea towel and turns, looking at me in a way that I can’t fully decipher.
When he steps to the opposite side of the island, leaning forward, towards me, placing his hands on the marble top, he dips his head and speaks gently.
‘Last night was out of character for you, Mal. Should I be concerned?’
I nonchalantly turn another page of the book.
Which is actually a play. In verse. Which I admit might seem a tad heavy for a Saturday morning.
Shit. I should have picked something light and easy.
Normal People. Fourth Wing. Do we even have those?
I didn’t look. I doubt it. ‘Concerned? What do you mean?’
‘I’m not going to lie – you were being a little odd.’
‘Odd?’ I spit, like this is entirely ridiculous. ‘I was just trying to be present.’ I smile, and blink a few times in a way that is meant to appear naive.
‘That’s the opposite of what you were.’ He squints, as if attempting to see past my face, right into me. ‘We both know your history, Mal. I just need a gauge on the situation. Some of the guests said you seemed distant. Distracted. A little off kilter. Some said rude.’
‘Rude?’
‘Yes. Is everything OK?’
His face remains still. I can’t read it. ‘Of course it is.’
‘You were very drunk.’
‘Everyone was very drunk.’
He frowns. ‘You know you shouldn’t be drinking like that.’ Ronan never looks angry, and he doesn’t now. He looks steady. Unrattled. But troubled. Definitely troubled. ‘Something feels off.’
‘Off?’
‘You’re being strange.’
‘Strange?’ I make a small laugh, because at this point I appear to just be repeating his final words – which is not ideal – so I look down at my page again to redirect.
Those who can think,
but cannot express what they think,
place themselves at the level of those who cannot think –
I’ve never read Pericles, and I already hate it. They say it’s the worst one, and I definitely agree. ‘I didn’t know taking a minute in the bathroom at a party could be interpreted as strange.’
‘It was a bit more than a minute, Mal. It was more like an hour.’
‘Was it?’
‘And then in bed, after. You just sat there with your clothes on. I was waiting...’ I can feel him staring at me. The back of my neck prickles with sweat, and adrenaline, from the lack of sleep and the rush of what happened. ‘You haven’t wanted to have sex for a long—’
‘We have sex.’ I say this louder than I’d hoped, his words stinging me into impulse – to swat them away like a cluster of persistent wasps.
It comes out too defensively, bouncing off the tiles, making the vein in his temple flicker.
To deflect from the suddenness of it all, I smile, and repeat, ‘We have sex,’ softer this time, smooth and alluring.
I try to fill the words with pleasure, but it’s hard.
It’s hard to do that with only three words.
I know, because I have tried multiple times before. Different words, but the same lie.
I feel my cheeks heating up. From the shock of it? The reality? We do have sex, even if it’s not in the way either of us would like.