Chapter 13
It takes Mark a second to realise his mistake.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says in a shocked voice. ‘I don’t know where that came from.’
I do, but I’m not about to say. When Mark and I are in the same room, Leo is always there, too.
‘It’s funny, our names rhyme,’ says Theo shakily. ‘Never noticed before.’
Mark looks at him in a daze. ‘Neither did I.’
‘I guess I must have been mistaken about the call,’ I mutter.
It’s not much fun after that, especially once the rain starts. It hits the French doors so loudly we can barely hear each other’s stilted conversation. After Theo clears the plates and asks if anyone wants coffee, I tell them I need to get going.
Tig immediately jumps in. ‘You’ll drop her home, won’t you, Mark? She can’t walk in this shitty weather. And we’ve had too much wine to drive.’
I’m not in the mood to sit in a car with Mark. ‘Not to worry, I’ll get an Uber.’
‘That doesn’t make sense. It’s just round the corner,’ says Mark.
I hesitate. The rain isn’t letting up, and it feels pointless to argue if he’s offering. Besides, I’m not sure I’ll find an Uber for such a short ride.
It’s five minutes. What’s the worst that could happen?
After we’ve said our goodbyes to Theo and Tig, I’m all set to sprint from the front door to Mark’s car when he holds his arm out to stop me.
‘No point both of us getting wet. Wait here.’
‘You don’t have to.’
He doesn’t respond, he simply jogs down the street to where he’s parked.
The growl of an engine carries up the road, and a minute later he pulls up level with me and I dash into the shelter of his car.
‘Thanks for that,’ I say, putting on my seatbelt.
I’ve stayed dry, but Mark’s light grey T-shirt is spotted black from the rain. His cheeks and nose are wet, too.
He puts the car in gear and pulls away.
It sounded noisy from the outside, but inside, the car is awkwardly quiet.
‘Theo’s a good cook,’ I say, so we’re not sitting in silence. ‘Unless you’re about to tell me that curry was from Waitrose.’
‘Cleans and irons, too. Tig’s done well. He’ll make an excellent housewife.’
‘Most men would try to hide their chauvinistic tendencies.’
‘What’s the point of hiding them? You’ve already formed your opinion of me.’
His irritation irritates me; he’s the one being casually mean about my sister.
‘I don’t give a shit how well house-trained he is; I care about how he treats Tig.’
He looks surprised by my outburst. ‘We’re back to this again?’ He shakes his head. ‘He’s not forcing her to get married. She’s more than happy with the arrangement. And why wouldn’t she be? If they waited more than six months, he’d realise what a handful she was.’
My patience snaps. ‘Stop the car.’
He scowls. ‘We’re a hundred metres away.’
I take a breath to steady my voice. ‘I was wrong. You’re not a chauvinist. You’re a misogynist. I should have got that message loud and clear fifteen years ago.’ I pull the handle, and the door swings open.
He hits the brakes. ‘Jesus, we’re still rolling!’
‘Tig’s not good enough for Theo, and I wasn’t good enough for your brother.’ The anger I’ve been supressing all night bursts to the surface. I’m shaking with it. ‘You hate women – you’re just like your dad!’
He looks at me with cold, hard eyes. The famous Marino temper – he’s seconds away from losing it, and I’m not going to hang around to witness it.
I scramble out, slamming the door behind me and run the last stretch home, my feet hitting the rain-soaked pavement as hard as my racing heart.
Dad’s dozing in front of the telly, and Mum’s at the kitchen table, on her iPad. She frowns when she sees me. ‘Are you okay, Nella mou?’
A big part of me wants to say, no, I’m not okay. But I don’t. Does she know Mark is living with Yan and is Theo’s Best Man? Or is she as blissfully ignorant as I was less than twelve hours ago?
‘I’m just tired,’ I say, pouring myself a glass of water. ‘I think I’ll turn in.’
I get ready for bed and curl up under my duvet. I’m doing exactly what I did fifteen years ago: telling everyone I was okay, that I was ‘just tired’, and hiding in my room.
I’m thirty-one. I’m a therapist for God’s sake, but right now none of that seems to matter. I can’t outrun the scared teenager I was when I last saw Mark.
I thought I’d moved on, but I haven’t.
And neither has Mark.
Fifteen years ago – St Nicholas Greek Orthodox Church
In the lull between the funeral service and the drive to the cemetery, I escape through the back door of the church. I don’t care about the cold any more. I need to fill my lungs with fresh air to expel the cloying smell of incense and candles.
I want a few moments to myself but I jump when I realise I’m not alone. Mark’s here too, leaning against the brick wall and smoking a roll-up. He holds it between his thumb and forefinger, the way his dad used to. I’ve never seen him smoke before. It’s a habit he must have picked up in the army.
‘Did you think you could do better?’
His scratchy voice startles me. ‘What?’
Keeping his eyes on me, he lifts his head to inhale. When he exhales, the stench of nicotine turns my stomach.
‘Did you think you could do better than my brother? Did you think someone better was going to come along and sweep you off your feet?’
‘That’s not why …’ My throat is tight, and I can’t get the words out.
He pushes himself against the wall so he’s upright, and comes to stand in front of me, knowing how to use his size to intimidate me.
‘Everyone thinks you’re such a goody-goody.’ His low voice belies his fury. ‘But I see the real you.’
I lift my chin up, determined to face him down. ‘What do you want from me?’
‘A bit of fucking remorse, for starters.’
I suck in a breath. ‘You have no idea how I feel.’
‘You should feel responsible. You broke him.’
His words seem to stop my heart.
Then adrenaline whips my blood, and I slap him.
I don’t realise what I’ve done until my fingers are tingling, and the blotchy impression of my handprint starts to bloom on his cheek.
He stares at me, his eyes like fire, red from crying.
‘The truth hurts, doesn’t it?’