15. Avery
AVERY
I thought there was nothing more terrifying than Kill’s mother, being shot at, or meeting the London Maths Club, but as it turns out, there is.
Kill is coming for dinner. At my parents’ house. Sunday lunch, no less.
And his parents will be here too. Was there ever a more awkward situation? But my mum insisted that if we were meeting, she’d cook lunch with all the trimmings.
They arrive like a cross between royalty and movie stars, complete with black limos with dark glass, half a dozen other SUVs and Kill’s men in black suits and visible guns. In my parents’ quiet 1970s cul-de-sac.
There’s a hurricane of curtain twitching.
“Oh. Gosh.” My mum’s understatement rings through our tiny entrance hall, with its wind chimes and “Welcome to this Happy Home” plastic sign from a trip to Spain years ago.
“Yeah,” I agree.
“You’ve been working for this man? Is that right?” my dad asks again, and I don’t blame him. I do not fit with Kill, and the difference between us has never been this stark.
“Yeah.” Now my voice is faint and self-pitying. “But uh. It’s quite intense?”
“Oh.” My dad doesn’t fully understand.
“Well, they’re on time!” My mum makes the best of the situation with a pointless comment.
This is going to be a disaster.
My heart beats like a hummingbird in my chest, and my mouth is dry. I’ve been putting this off, telling myself that Kill and I can figure it out. My parents thinking he’s my employer, his parents believing I might marry him. The truth somewhere in between, or perhaps neither.
But as Kill and his parents walk towards our front door, I can see what’s going to happen. My parents will let the cat out of the bag, assuming Kill is my employer, and the whole thing will come crashing down.
“Mum, Dad, there’s something important I need to tell you,” I say urgently.
“Is that a designer handbag?” My mum doesn’t even look at me.
“My job is to disrupt a competition to marry Mr Farrell, my boss, and his parents don’t know that I’m his employee. And you can’t tell them, or I’ll lose my job.” It falls out of me in a rush, in a half-whispered panic.
My parents don’t respond, as though shock has trapped in amber.
Then they both turn to me in horror, before Kill is at the door, and they swivel back in unison and paste on polite expressions.
There are words like “Hello!”, “Welcome!”, “So lovely to meet you!” being said, like some sort of railway track of social nicety that even a bomb like I’ve just detonated half a second before a guest’s arrival cannot derail.
The two sets of parents have their own rules, and play their parts perfectly, Sue handing over flowers and my mum being performatively delighted, both insisting that they call each other by their first names. The fathers shake hands.
I barely get a chance to do more than give Kill a glance that probably conveys that I’m about ready to throw my guts up. This is so bad.
“Come in, come in.” My mum ushers the Farrells into our neat little living-room, and never has it seemed smaller than with Kill in it.
He takes up all the space, like there’s no air left in here.
“Now, what can I get you all to drink? And help yourself to nibbles. Do sit down.” She indicates the bowls of peanuts and crisps on the pristine coffee table between the over-stuffed sofas.
I watch Sue assess our house, and bristle with protectiveness at the silent judgement in her eyes.
“Thank you.” Kill smiles and settles himself down, and where the enormous sofas swallow anyone else whole, his long limbs and powerful presence easily take it up. His dad takes Kill’s lead and sits beside him as my mum and Sue try to out-polite each other about drinks.
“Avery, could you help me with these flowers?” My mum gives me a significant look, and I slink after her into the kitchen.
“That’s THE Farrells,” she hisses in an undertone as soon as the door is closed.
I wince. “I know.”
“The Archway mafia! And you’re pretending to want to marry him?” she demands.
“Yes.” Am I pretending, or pretending to pretend? I stuff that question into a cupboard as quickly as my mind allows.
“Well. Not a real job then, is it?” She huffs and shakes her head. “A bit of notice would have been nice. Do the drinks, please. On a tray. The good glasses.”
And I’m left not knowing if I’m profoundly grateful or totally destroyed.
My dad and Kill’s dad are talking about cars when I get back to the lounge with the tray.
My gaze meets Kill’s as I pass across his glass of water. His green eyes gleam, and there’s something so confident and reassuring in them that I can finally pull air into my lungs. A bit, anyway.
The dads continue to talk, and my dad gets out a magazine on motorhomes to give to Kill’s dad, who fishes his reading glasses from his pocket after much drama about whether he brought them, which Kill’s parents seem to understand the joke about, and begins leafing through the glossy pages.
And by the time we’re all seated around our dining room table, I’m half on my way to thinking that this… Isn’t going terribly?
But the tension is liquid steel in my spine.
Something touches my foot, and I stifle a gasp and jerk back. I bring my feet together and try to focus on the conversation going on without me. I feel bad, my pulse pounding, because I must have been spreading. I don’t want anyone to think I was being inappropriate.
But after a second, there’s a touch to my ankle again, and I stifle a gasp.
This is no accident. I flick my gaze to the side where Kill is sitting next to me as we pass around the roast chicken slices, cut by my dad, and everyone helps themselves to roast potatoes, boiled vegetables, and gravy.
He doesn’t look at me, just complimenting my mum on her cooking. But the solid pressure increases.
And it’s that feeling of Kill’s foot pressed against mine that keeps me alive as we dodge and shift through the conversation and begin to eat.
And then my dad, who seems to have bonded with Kill’s dad, asks, “What business did you say you were in?”
“Death,” says Kill’s dad.
The blood drains from my face.
“Comes for us all eventually!” I say chirpily. “It’s a certainty.”
“And good business,” Kill interrupts. “Services related to undertaking are part of our portfolio.”
“A portfolio.” My parents glance at each other, and my mum gives a little laugh. “That sounds terribly important and complicated.”
“Not at all.” Kill smiles like a predator. “It’s just a way of saying a group. We have investments in several businesses, and manage them. I’ve been lucky enough to take over a successful business that my parents built.”
His mother smiles tightly.
“But they weren’t as lucky as you, as they got me rather than a clever and charming daughter like Avery.” Kill raises a challenging eyebrow.
My mum shifts, like she doesn’t know what to do with that comment. “I suppose that makes all that money she spent on university worthwhile. She’s in debt. Everyone is these days, isn’t that the case?”
“Debt is an issue we understand well,” Sue replies, a bit darkly.
“We were so glad when Avery got this job with you, Mr Farrell,” my dad says. I freeze. “Begin to pay those loans off. And she’s paying rent!”
“What job is that?” asks Sue, with a tone like a shard of glass. She takes a sip of her wine and then seems to regret it. Again.
Oh no. No no no.
I glare at my dad, his face falls as he realises what he just did.
“The freelance legal work,” Kill cuts in smoothly. “Didn’t I tell you about that?”
“No.” Sue’s eyes narrow. “I don’t believe you did.”
“It’s for the fund we started last year that helps previously displaced or migrant people who live in Archway to access any legal needs they might have.
” He turns to my parents. “Our history includes several who made their homes away from where they were born, including my mother. And that job is why Brandon found and suggested her.”
I can’t breathe, as Sue tilts her head and glances between Kill and me like a bloodhound that has caught a scent.
“You’ve been so busy organising other things,” Kill adds blandly. “I’m not surprised you don’t remember it.” His eyes flick towards his father.
“Yes, it’s been a lot.” But Sue’s expression clearly says she knows something is up.
Somehow, we make it through main course. Apple pie and custard for dessert. Coffee and tea afterwards. Kill’s warm presence gets me through.
And his quick thinking.
Eventually, we’re gathered on the doorstep to wave goodbye, and the relief… The relief is bodily. We did it. Kill and I navigated a Sunday lunch with both our parents, and… It was okay?
No one died. No cats were let out of the bag, though a few were caught by their tails and stuffed back in before they could fully escape. None were run down or painted as retribution.
But Kill walking away, his green eyes flashing as he shoots a look at me over his shoulder before he disappears into the car? That wrenches my gut.
I miss him.
Hard as that meal was, I’d rather be by his side than anywhere else.
“Better make a cup of tea,” my mum says as they drive around the corner. “And then you have some explaining to do, young lady.”
“I could murder a cuppa.” I’ve used up a century of adrenaline since breakfast. I might never recover. I slump against the closed door and close my eyes.
Now for the worst part.
Kill is going to do this for the other girls who want to marry him.
He’ll meet their families. He’ll sit and laugh at their tables, his eyes will dance and he’ll flirt.
Maybe he’ll press his foot to other feet.
And they’ll be in other mafias. More advantageous if Kill did decide to marry.
By comparison, what do I have to offer? Slightly judgemental parents who are better than I thought at hiding their shock.
I know this is a job, but it doesn’t feel like that to me. It’s personal.
My heart sinks to the soles of my feet.
Ebbing through from the kitchen, there’s the low conversion of my parents.
“Avery! Tea’s ready!” my mum calls.
“On my way,” I lie.
An expensive car purrs outside, and I furrow my brow as a car door thuds, then the front door is thrown open without so much as a knock.
“Ah, there they are!” Kill says. “My father dropped his reading glasses.” He shows the glasses, clearly taken from his pocket.
My parents respond slowly from the kitchen, but in one step Kill has me in his arms and is kissing me, his lips warm and desperate, pent up with all the restraint of the past couple of hours.
Happiness explodes in me, but I barely have time to melt into him before he’s drawn away.
“Thank you for keeping them safe for me,” he says loudly, and returns the glasses to his pocket. “And thank you again for lunch, Mrs Morgan.”
My lips tingle, my heartbeat has kicked up, wild. I have the insane urge to throw myself at Kill and beg him to take me with him.
“You did brilliantly.” He cups the back of my head and presses a brief, hard kiss to my forehead, then is gone.