Chapter 28
Mallory
The lampshade above my head – one of the three hanging over the kitchen island – is shaped like an upside-down pasta dish.
Lots of people have them, so I was reluctant, but I loved the colour.
They’re not actually from Pooky, but John Lewis.
The outside is pewter – a sort of rustic grey-brown – and the inside is a shiny copper.
That was important when I chose them, because it makes the light muted, and slightly orange.
I wanted to get the tone perfectly correct, to match the Hague Blue of the kitchen cabinets.
The orange and blue combination is so satisfying to me.
Sometimes I just stand and look at the scene.
This looks good, I think. This looks so good.
Ronan mentioned the other day that he thought it looked dated, and perhaps we should change it.
I look at my phone.
21:00.
He will be back soon.
I think about texting Joanie. But what would I say?
I quickly draft a message.
Hey hon
Spoke to the police, gave description
Good to see you today – sorry I was a bit all over the
place!
Shall we get coffee soon?
M x
But I don’t press send. I realise that someone secure in themselves – in their story – would have no need to.
I scan over the end of Slay – open on my laptop on the counter in front of me.
‘You’re dead, pussy. You’re gonna fucking die under this bridge.’
Liam’s head was held under the surface, thrust down, again and again, water filling his nostrils with every inhalation.
This was it, he thought.
There was no way out.
I close the document and hide it in a folder on my laptop entitled patient notes – confidential, then bring up my emails and quickly compose one, galvanised by my creative surge after today’s events.
Hi Stan,
Just to let you know I’m making headway with the book. I feel I am mining Liam’s pain, his trauma and his getting closer to understanding his past. It’s quite a journey to go on with him, but I think it feels authentic. I’ll let you decide.
I feel I should expand a little on your desire for the book to be rooted in authenticity.
As I write, I feel more and more that my brother Nick is with me, and even begin to visualise his face as Liam’s.
I’m not sure yet if I would be willing to talk about him publicly – should it get that far!
But yes. It’s really been an emotional journey for me, understanding the pain he went through.
I wanted to send just a little more to you – a few more chapters, as you said. Let me know what you think.
End of next week I will have the first half over to you.
More soon!
Mal
I attach the file entitled Chapters 1–10: slay: draft 1.
The front door clicks.
Ronan.
But I don’t startle. I am prepared. I calmly press send, wait for the whoosh, close the email tab and get up my notes from Elaine’s therapy session last week, which are already waiting for me on the desktop.
Ronan doesn’t shout. Usually it’s Hi, honey, only me!
, but this time, nothing, until the slow tread of his shoes moves through the hallway.
I am prepared.
I take my tea and sip. My mug is half empty and lukewarm, as it should be. Like I have been here for hours.
Which I have.
Nothing is amiss.
He stops in the kitchen doorway, briefcase in hand, a silhouette framed by the hallway light behind him. ‘Hey.’ He seems quiet. In a mood? Could be. Or tired. Nothing more. ‘What are you up to?’
I stretch my arms up like a cat waking from slumber and rub my eyes. ‘Just typing up my patient notes,’ I say. ‘You must be hungry.’
‘I am.’
I can’t see his face, so I stand and make my way over to him.
He looks a little drained, but this is not unusual.
His eyes are their typical green, but ever so slightly dull.
Just tired. He is back late. He is just tired.
I put my hand gently on his chest and kiss him on the cheek.
He smells like soap, with the faintest hint of neroli from the diffusers in his office.
I’ve never been, but he told me the company puts one in every room and that the smell has become so constant that he no longer notices it himself.
‘I thought I’d make us something easy. Pasta?’ I remain next to him for a moment, watching him.
Did Joanie text him?
‘Sounds good,’ he says, his voice slightly gruffer than usual.
Sometimes he will have a cigarette if he’s stressed, but I can’t smell it on him.
There is a flicker, though, of something, in the way his jaw is clenched.
Suspicion? No, because he kisses my cheek.
Begins to take off his coat and shoes. He is just tired. He knows nothing.
I was sure the first thing Joanie would do after I saw her would be to get straight on the phone to him. Apparently she likes to do that now.
But he doesn’t seem to be aware.
Does he?
Maybe she was too distracted by her little robots, Topsy and Turvy.
He turns back into the hallway and opens the cupboard to hang his coat.
I move beyond the kitchen island to the sink and take the Le Creuset pan that I have already placed there ready, fill it with fettuccini and boil the kettle.
I can hear him taking his time out there, placing his shoes on the shelf.
That’s not unusual. He often does this.
‘How’s the deal going?’ I call to him, taking the courgettes I have pre-washed and left on the chopping board. Using the potato peeler, I begin to strip them into long, thin strands.
‘It’s nearly over the line,’ he says back. Not too much effort in his voice, but again, not unusual.
‘Oh! Amazing! What is it again?’
‘I told you, hun.’ Is he annoyed? I hear him move back into the kitchen behind me, but I don’t turn.
‘It’s the book rights we’ve been fighting for.
’ I can hear him moving around the kitchen as I keep my back to him.
I hear him open the drinks cabinet and the pop of a cork as he opens whiskey, then the glug glug of it into one of the crystal glasses my mother gave us.
‘Sony, and Warner Brothers are all putting in huge bids, so we had to give a really solid pitch to the author today, showing her that we could sell our vision, offer her an executive producer position, blah blah – basically give her a feeling that she would be involved creatively, even though we don’t want her to write the screenplay.
’ The drag of a stool from under the island.
His sigh as he sits on it and takes a sip.
‘She’s too heavyhanded, and the book is actually a bit of a fluke if you ask me.
I don’t think she’s a good writer – she’s actually a shit writer – but it’s a great story, that I know I could make better.
But I ultimately need to make her feel like she’s in control. I don’t think it’ll be that difficult.’
‘Wow,’ I say. ‘Must be some book.’
‘Bids for the option are going over 100,000. For the option alone. It’s a big play.’
‘Do you ever feel like it’s all just people showing their bollocks off?’ I say with a little laugh. Gentle. Fun. Because he is so much fun.
‘That is what is happening, yes.’ He doesn’t reciprocate my tone. ‘But we have to have the bigger pair.’
He seems serious. That’s fine. He can be.
‘What’s it about?’ I say, moving to the fridge to take out a lemon and the feta. ‘The book?’
‘It’s called Killing Me – about a girl who is used by a gang to smuggle drugs across county lines.’
‘Oh yes, I remember. It’s not even been published yet, is that right?’
‘Still not even been announced. It’s become hot property early. We want it.’
I try to hide any hint of jealousy. ‘Sounds edgy.’
‘It is. But it’s more than that. The protagonist is struggling with her sexuality, and her identity, and it’s about her breaking free from the gang, and herself. It’s got a good personal journey. That’s important, it’s what people want. It’s good. Very.’
‘Character-led.’
‘Character-led is in!’ he proclaims. I hear him gulp, then the pop of the cork again.
‘Well, I really hope you get it.’
‘Me too.’
A pause, while I cut the feta into chunks. It crumbles between my fingers.
‘How are your patients?’ I notice his tone shift slightly.
This is because he says the word patients with an overladen sense of importance, and I immediately cringe.
We both know the people I see are rich women who have minor anxiety about their very privileged lives and just need someone to vent to.
We both know I am hardly qualified. We both know I am no doctor.
That I am no trauma psychologist with an overbearing and intense workload.
But I can feel from the way he says it that this is exactly what he wants me to be.
‘They’re OK,’ I say. ‘I saw Elaine yesterday.’
‘She still moaning about her roses?’
‘Ha. Well, yes. A little.’
‘And what about the other two? Lillian and Penelope?’
He really shouldn’t know their names. I should never have told him. But for whatever reason, I did, and now he knows more about their lives than their own husbands do. ‘Seeing Lillian tomorrow. Penelope is on holiday in Spain.’
‘Oh, that’s right,’ he says. ‘Are you putting the lemon on after?’
‘Hmm?’
‘I just know it’s better when the lemon goes on after. Not in with the courgette and bacon.’
Bacon. Shit. I forgot the bacon. ‘Yes, I remember.’
He taught me this recipe.
‘You seem a little stressed,’ he says.
This is also not unusual. He says this to me a lot.
Everything is fine. ‘Just a long day of reading notes and thinking which way to go with Elaine,’ I reply, replicating the tone of importance he’s used.
I wince at the notion that I actually have any clue which way to take her – or that she even needs taking anywhere – hand-holding her through the difficulty of worrying that the money she has in her savings account isn’t accumulating enough interest.
I stir the water with the fettuccini and watch the pasta begin to soften. ‘She’s very vulnerable and I want to help her,’ I add. I push down the top of the pasta so it too is under the bubbling froth.