Chapter 44
Mallory
‘Shit.’
I pick up the piece of bacon that has landed right on top of my bare foot, noticing – but not immediately feeling – the red blotch left on my skin by the scalding oil. ‘Shit.’
‘Careful, Mallory.’
‘Sorry.’
Mum is watching me from a stool at the island, wearing her Jimmy Choo sheepskin slippers and a disapproving glare.
Ronan gave her the slippers for her birthday three years ago.
She was ecstatic when she opened the box – I’ve never seen so much joy related to discounted soft shoes.
They still appear brand new: the wool remains completely white.
How does she do it? She hasn’t even mentioned last night.
I assume she won’t. We don’t do that. We sweep these things under the carpet.
We pretend. ‘You don’t need to apologise, Mallory, just be careful. ’
I try to zone in on the radio to drown her out. The news. It’s 08:30. Ronan is late for work. He hasn’t come downstairs yet. I’ve decided to make him a bacon sandwich to take with him because he will be hungry and, more importantly, I need everything to be fine. Normal.
‘You’re shaking, Mallory. Did you sleep at all?’
‘I did.’ I didn’t. Hardly. I pick up the fallen rasher and place it into the bin, slamming the lid shut, too hard. A giveaway of my anxiety. I say, ‘Oopsy,’ as indifferently as possible, in a bid to offset any evidence that I am internally obsessing over last night’s email.
Wait. Where’s the laptop? Did I leave it upstairs, in the bathroom?
I swear I brought it down with me—
A voice on the radio.
‘The body of a man has been found in Regent’s Canal, in Camden, in the early hours of this morning.’
My fingers clench.
‘The police have yet to identify the body. Wearing joggers and a hoodie, drugs found in his system...’
Oh my God.
‘Mallory? Are you listening to me?’
The speed at which my mind moves leaves a metallic taste in my mouth. It can’t be him. He can’t be dead. There is no way. Can he? High. Drunk. A young male. Hoodie. Joggers.
I automatically flick the radio over. Classic FM. A dark and moody film score fills the kitchen, instantaneously making me visualise his body, face down in the canal, gently floating.
Like Virginia Woolf did.
I should go to prison. That would be the best place for me.
I should have helped him!
What have I done?
‘Mallory, what are you doing?’
‘Hmm?’ I look down to see that at some point since binning the bacon, I have piled up the rest of it from the frying pan on top of a piece of bread, balancing the rashers together like I am creating an art installation.
It is made up of six pieces arranged in the shape of a tent.
‘Oh! Look at that!’ I exclaim, as if I am both surprised and very proud of my ability to stack meat in this way.
My mother doesn’t seem convinced. ‘Ronan loves bacon,’ is all I can think to add.
Again I feel like I am under water. My brain appears to have no ability to actually register what is in front of me, to connect me to reality.
That this bacon teepee is my reality. All I can think about is Leo.
I try to add ketchup to the meat mound, but the bottle is nearly empty, so it suddenly sprays out a constellation of red splotches, like I am endeavouring to add some kind of Jackson Pollock-inspired flare to my creation.
‘Does Ronan usually leave this late?’
‘No.’
‘Hmm. Maybe you kept him up.’
I’m sweating. Mum puts her fork into the scrambled eggs on the plate in front of her, picks up the smallest amount on the end of her prongs and nibbles like a tiny bird. I want to scream. I smile instead. It hurts to do it. ‘Do you not want the toast, Mum?’
‘You know I don’t eat bread.’
I take a slice from the loaf on the counter and push it right on top of the bacon stack – collapsing it, squashing it with force into what I hope will be a more appropriate and edible state – and then wrap the whole thing in tin foil.
‘Where is he?’ I whisper to myself.
‘Right here.’ Ronan’s voice, just behind me. I jolt with the shock of it and nearly scream. But I don’t. I don’t because, as I feel his arms loop round my waist, his lips on my neck, I immediately experience such an incredible sense of familiarity that instead, I want to burst into tears.
‘Hi, darling,’ I say.
‘What is this?’ He laughs, pointing at the tin foil sandwich – the size of a brick. The way his arms stay wrapped around my body sends a thrill into me, energising something deep in my bones. A sense of actuality. Of safety. Of protection. ‘Is this for me?’
‘I thought you might be hungry,’ I say.
‘Clearly,’ he says, taking the sandwich.
When he lifts it, he makes a groaning noise like it is weighing his arm down.
I hear my mother laugh. I laugh. We all laugh.
With the laughter, the tension in my body breaks, my nervous system settles.
My anxiety around the news report dissipates.
Of course it wasn’t Leo. There’s no way it was him.
‘You look amazing this morning,’ Ronan whispers in my ear.
I feel myself smiling. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re going to have a great day.’
‘So are you.’ I turn on the spot so I am facing him, greeted by his green eyes. His hair is pushed to the side, wire-rimmed glasses balancing on his nose. He is so professional. So effortless. So sexy. It is a difficult balance to achieve. And yet he does it. So brilliantly.
I can feel Mum staring. He must too, because he makes the smallest wink at me. A wink for me. It makes my stomach flutter – our own in-joke, excluding everyone else, our own coded language. He turns to her and says, ‘Stace, do you need anything today?’
She keeps nibbling her eggs, not looking up. ‘No – I’m fine, thank you, Ronan.’
‘What’s your plan?’ he says, packing his tin foil brick into his bag.
‘I have a few bits to do for work, and then Mal is going to show me some of her new book – aren’t you, Mal?’
I nod. ‘Yes.’
‘We’re going to talk about her getting back to her clients’ – I wasn’t aware of this part of the day, perhaps she has discussed this with Ronan... – ‘and I thought we could make a quiche Lorraine for dinner. You like quiche?’
‘I do,’ he says brightly. ‘It’s a favourite.’ He looks at his watch. ‘Right. I am going to be horrendously late.’ When he turns back to me, I notice a flicker of concern in his eyes. What is it? What does he know? ‘Mal,’ he says cautiously. Oh, God. ‘Do you mind helping me choose a coat for today?’
‘A coat?’
‘Yes – I have an important meeting.’ Oh. ‘I need your fashion advice. I want to give off a certain vibe.’
I try to keep the relief out of my voice. ‘Of course – you’d look great in anything.’
‘What kind of vibe?’ Mum asks.
‘I think...’ He pauses, placing a hand on his hip, in mock contemplation.
‘Sensible and relaxed, but with a hint of the unexpected.’ He makes a self-knowing, modest laugh, swiping his hand through the air – like he could never achieve such a thing.
‘Oh, God, I don’t know what I’m doing. This is why I need my beautiful wife. ’
‘Well. I think you’re certainly giving off that vibe,’ Mum says, still nibbling.
‘That’s very kind of you to say, Stace.’ He nods, and picks up his bag. ‘Right. See you later.’
‘Hope it goes well today,’ I say.
He is about to turn into the hallway, when he stops. ‘Are the porch windows open?’
‘What?’ I turn and look. They are, just an inch. Did I leave them open last night? I can’t remember. I must have.
‘Look,’ he’s pointing to the floor in front of them. The keys. The keys are on the floor.
‘That’s... Wait. Did I do that?
I can feel him glaring into the back of my head. ‘Oh,’ I say breezily. ‘I just opened them this morning to let some air in. All the smoke from the bacon.’
I quickly pick up the keys and put them back into the fruit bowl. Was I a bit drunk last night?
‘Mal, are you ready?’
‘Huh?’
‘Coat.’
‘Yes!’ I nod, wiping my hands on a tea towel, then follow him into the hallway. I pull the kitchen door behind me until it clicks shut. I expect him to stop halfway down the corridor and open the coat cupboard, but he walks straight past it.
‘Ronan?’ I say, but he keeps walking, only stopping at the very end by the front door.
Now is as good a time as any. He’s in a good mood.
‘I was thinking, darling – it would be quite good if I could have my phone back – if I’m going to be looking at work stuff today.
’ He keeps his head down, eyes to the tiles. No answer. Odd. ‘Ronan?’
I open the cupboard and take out the most relaxed but unexpected coat I can find: a camel bomber, from Cos. He will look cool. My husband is very cool. ‘This one is cool—’
‘I need to talk to you.’
His tone. A shift. Small but seismic. My nervous system instantly ignites.
‘OK?’ I say, approaching him with the coat. But he doesn’t take it.
Instead, he holds out his hand. ‘What’s this?’
I look down.
Oh, God.
No.
A sheet of tablets.
My birth control pills.
Shit. ‘Ronan...’ I look up at him. His expression is blank. As I stare at him, trying to find my words, he remains completely still, until the muscle beneath his left eye flickers.
‘How long have you been taking them?’ His voice is low. Quiet. But determined.
‘Ronan, wait...’ He must’ve been in my wash-bag. It was under the bed.
‘How long have you been taking them, Mal?’ Louder. Forceful.
I turn to check back down the corridor – that the kitchen door is still closed. I lower my voice. ‘Maybe we should talk about this late—’
‘You’re lying.’
He won’t look at me. ‘Ronan. I was going to talk to you about it – I just needed to find the right time. I take them to help regulate my mood, because—’
‘I cannot believe you would do this to me.’ He is shaking.
‘If you lie to me, how can I know how to keep you safe? He suddenly looks so small. Like a child. His voice trembles. ‘I love you so much, Mal. I don’t know what I’d do without you.
I need you. I need you here with me. And I’m so scared...
’ His eyes fill with tears. ‘I’m so scared of losing you. You’re scaring me.’