Chapter 34
Mallory
‘Morning, sweetheart, would you like a cup of coffee?’
Ronan stands in the open doorway of our bedroom.
His voice is soothing. His arms are hanging loosely by his sides.
His hands are placed gently in his pockets and his eyes are soft in the morning light.
It is still dark outside, but the glow of the corner lamp (a Pooky special with a William Morris shade: a swirling pattern of birds and berries) highlights his frame.
Crisp shirt, beige chinos, mop of curly hair pushed to the side.
I can sense he is a little sleepy, but he looks ready.
Ready for the day. I can feel his quiet confidence, which I have always envied and admired, emanating from behind the tiredness.
That steely inner resolve. That grounding rock.
My rock. Unshakable.
He looks incredibly handsome. I have always thought so.
I have.
‘Morning, darling.’ I glance at the clock on my beside table. 6 a.m. He has asked the exact same question at the exact same time for the past two weeks. ‘I can do it,’ I say, stretching my arms up above my head, catlike. I almost purr.
‘No,’ he says. ‘Stay where you are. You need to rest.’
He’s right. He always is. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure.’
He steps slowly towards me across the carpet, stopping when he reaches the bed, and leans forward to kiss me on the forehead.
As he does, I smell his signature scent: Ronan’s favourite Le Labo aftershave.
It’s so recognisable as him. Expensive, but worth it.
Strong, but inviting. There is a depth to it which feels endless – almost dark and smoky – elevated by fresh floral and woody notes.
A hint of iris. It is very comforting. Wholesome.
I inhale again.
It’s almost addictive.
I smile and make a small mmm. ‘Good morning, handsome.’
When he reciprocates, smiling back, I see how white and straight his teeth are.
They give the gruffness of his features a commercial appeal.
I have always told him he would have been a great model.
He will roll his eyes at this suggestion.
As if being a model is beneath him. As if there is more to him than just his looks, and it is offensive to think otherwise.
He is right. There is so much more to this man than the way he looks.
‘It’s going to be a great day,’ he says gently, perching himself next to me.
His voice has been so gentle recently. He pushes a strand of hair out of my face, tucking it neatly behind my ear.
‘You always look the prettiest in the mornings.’
The light makes him look so soft. That’s what I wanted when I picked the lampshade.
A soft glow. The Strawberry Thief pattern has always been my favourite, and it was the right choice, although I was unsure whether to go with the fringe or without, and it took me a good few weeks to decide.
I ended up opting for without, because the fringe was just too kitsch and, let’s face it, granny-ish.
As so many Instagram homeware influencers have astutely observed: there is a fine line between chic and granny.
But if you get the balance right, you are revered as a boho delight.
Enviable.
It’s all about the colours, I think.
‘That’s a lie,’ I say, looking down. Shy. Embarrassed. But grateful. ‘I look all puffy.’
‘You don’t,’ he whispers. ‘And I never would.’
He never would lie.
I nod and take his hand, kissing the back of it. ‘I have lots to do today.’
His eyes brighten. ‘You do! That’s exciting.’ It is. ‘How many chapters do you think you’ll get done?’
I lift his hand in mine, pressing his fingers against my cheek. ‘I don’t want to jinx it, but I think I could get a good four thousand words down today.’
He almost laughs. And not because he doesn’t believe me, but because he’s proud. He is proud of me. ‘You’re on a roll.’
‘Well, I’m inspired.’
‘I’m just so...’ He stops, biting his lip. He wants to say something, but isn’t sure.
‘Go on,’ I say quietly.
‘I’m just really proud of you, Mal – you’re turning a corner.’
‘Thank you.’
‘After...’ After everything. ‘I can’t wait to read it later.’
‘Good. I can’t wait for your feedback.’
‘It’s so good, Mal.’
I pull a face, an embarrassed wince. ‘Do you really think so?’
At this, he shoots me a look: We are not going through this again. Firm, but tender. ‘Yes. It’s brilliant. And you know it is. You are in your element.’ His eyes trace me up and down, taking me in.
The version of me he adores.
Settled. Calm. Correct.
‘Thank you.’
‘You have become yourself again.’ I try not to look away. It’s hard, but I manage. ‘Right, I’ll grab your coffee.’
‘Thank you.’
He furrows his brow, shaking his head slowly, as if looking at something he hasn’t seen in a very long time. Something he lost that has returned to him. Something he thought he would never get back. This is affection. This is Ronan’s affection.
‘Magnificent Mal,’ he says.
When he gets up to leave, the slats in the bed beneath the mattress groan, as if trying to say something. To interject. To break the calm. To remind me that there are cracks, out of sight, waiting.
I lie still, until the pad of his socks on the carpet disappears down the stairs. When he is gone, I instinctively turn to take my phone from the bedside table. But like every other morning for the past two weeks, I remember that I no longer have it.
‘Oh, and I’ll bring up your tablets!’ he shouts up from below.
‘Thanks!’ I reply, with a cheery eagerness.
He has it.
My phone.
He has had my phone since the night on the porch, two weeks ago.
He saw everything. Grindr. The pictures I took of him when he was asleep.
The conversations with Daddy and SxyRodent and other men.
My overzealous use of the aubergine emoji.
All of it. And in the lounge, right after Leo ran away with my copy of Pericles, Ronan stood in deep silence for a moment, eyes wide.
I have never seen him quite like that.
The anger beneath was surfacing. That wasn’t exactly new. But first: the utter confusion and terror. He looked at me like I was someone he had never met before – an intruder in his life. A lunatic, just escaped from the asylum. He kept his distance, staying at the other side of the room.
‘What is this, Mal? What is happening?’
I had no excuse.
I had nothing. I panicked. I had to plead guilty.
I had to plead complete insanity. I had to tell him about my secret writing project.
About Slay. About Leo. About the creativity I was finding through this boy for a new book.
That I had met him at a T-Party. That a T-Party is not a tea party, despite what one might think. I told him all of it.
‘You’ve been following a drug addict sex worker – for inspiration?’
‘Yes.’
‘So he’s not a client?’
‘No.’
‘He’s a random stranger?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know how dangerous this is?’
‘I mean—’
‘You’ve been lying to me.’
‘Yes. Yes, I have.’
‘How can I trust you?’
‘Ronan—’
‘You know what happened last time you acted like this. Are you becoming unwell?’
‘No, I—’
‘Tell me what’s happening then. Because it is very hard to see otherwise.’
So I told him the truth. I told him that for a while I’d felt like I’d been drowning in my own mind – that I’d felt numb and stuck and small.
I said I wanted to write again. That I hated being a therapist/counsellor.
And that I’d felt trapped. This wasn’t the life I’d imagined.
That I’d needed something to make me feel alive again.
He laughed. He laughed like I was stupid. Like I was a child. He said I was naive. That I was living in a fantasy world, which was entirely self-centred.
‘Can you hear yourself?’
He said it was important for him to understand what had been going on in my mind for the past few weeks, and asked me to show him what I had written.
I sat on the couch watching his eyes scan over the laptop screen, over Slay, utterly disgusted.
His hand went to his mouth. He nearly cried.
It was the first time in years – since the time he almost didn’t get his promotion – that I saw tears in his eyes.
I listened, as his words flooded over me.
‘This is disturbing.’ ‘Why are you writing this?’ ‘It’s sick.
It’s twisted. Who is it even meant for?’ ‘There is something seriously wrong with you.’
When he put the laptop down, he stared at me, genuinely terrified. He said I was unrecognisable. I again tried to explain. I again tried to tell him that I didn’t think I was very happy. That I wasn’t sure my life was as I wanted it to be, and that perhaps I was trying – in some way – to escape.
He looked so angry.
‘Escape what? Your life is incredible. Enviable.’
I didn’t know what to say.
‘I’m calling the doctor, Mal.’
I begged him not to tell anyone. I begged and pleaded and said I’d just got a bit carried away with myself and that it didn’t need to be a big deal.
He took out his own phone – mine was in his pocket – and googled the crisis line, because it was the middle of the night and he didn’t think going to A&E would be appropriate in case we saw anyone we knew.
He put the phone on loud speaker and told the lady who answered what had happened.
He told her how unsafe I had been. How very, very worried he was for my welfare, and now for his.
She sounded young-ish. Maybe early twenties.
I could hear she was chewing gum. She kept asking to talk to me, but he said I wasn’t able to come to the phone – which I suppose was correct.
By this point I was crying on the floor and my voice wasn’t coming out right, it was shaking so much.
My brain was stalling, malfunctioning, as I was trying to piece together what I had done.
How anyone could see any sense in my actions.
No one could.
I knew it.