Chapter 14 #3
As he turns to his bag on the floor – neatly filled with folded clothes and a towel – I make my way into the hallway and open the cupboard door that is flush to the wall under the stairs.
We modelled it when we moved in. A place we could quickly throw all our things in before people came over to visit, we said.
A practical and efficient way to hide our mess.
We both thought it was a great idea. We both also knew that I was the messy one, not him.
Ronan has been persistently and unwaveringly clean since I met him at the restaurant Pierre Victoire in Soho at a press party.
He was wearing brogues, tan trousers, an oversized white T-shirt and a huge, glowing smile.
I stop, breathing slowly.
It’s OK.
I am fine.
Wait. That’s odd.
My coat, hanging amongst the line-up.
There’s blood on it. On the collar.
I thought I had got it all off? A wave of hot panic makes me bite my lip. Has he seen? I was writing for a long time,and feeling hazy with the joy and adrenaline of my creative surge until my eyes started closing. I must have been careless.
He never comes in here.
It’s fine.
It is.
I stand on my tip toes and reach up to the shelf.
‘Love?’
I pull the boots off it and quickly close the door shut behind me, turning to see Ronan stood in the hall with his bag slung over his shoulder. ‘Is everything OK?’ he says, looking at my face. ‘Monster in the cupboard?’
‘Ha!’
He steps towards me. ‘I’m proud of you. You’re doing really well, OK?’
‘Thanks. Have fun. What time will you be back?’
‘I’ll go for a pint with the boys after. Maybe six?’
‘Wonderful. House to myself.’
He smiles. When he leaves, and the door closes, my exhalation is ragged.
I stand still for a moment, allowing myself to settle.
Only when my shoulders drop do I realise they have been raised this entire morning.
My body is clammy, and my brain feels like it is stuffed with wet sawdust. I align my thoughts as best I can.
We both know your history, Mal.
When I feel a little less crowded – and sweaty – I go straight to the living room, take out my laptop from the dresser, and sit in the armchair. I open up Slay, and begin to scan over what I wrote last night.
I like it.
I do.
It feels... I don’t know. Raw. Fluid. Real.
I hate those words. If ever I saw them on the cover of a book as a puff quote, I’d roll my eyes.
But I think the opening is strong. And Liam is intriguing.
Part of me wonders if I don’t need more from him: Leo.
I could use my imagination, instigating a whole narrative journey for him by myself.
He got me out of the starting blocks. But something tells me to stay close to the truth.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Jesus!’ I look up. Ronan, in the doorway. I instinctively slam the laptop closed.
‘Are you writing again?’
‘I – no. I was just... What are you doing back?’
‘I just walked past your car.’ His voice is flat. Calm, but emotionless. ‘There’s a picnic hamper in the back seat.’
Shit. The fucking vol-au-vents. ‘Yes,’ I say. Don’t scramble. Look composed. ‘I made one up to take over to Joanie’s this afternoon while you’re at football. I thought it might be nice for the kids to have some of the leftovers.’
I make sure my face is straight, then meet his eyes.
He blinks. Once. Twice. Thinking. ‘You’re going to Joanie’s today?’
‘Yes – I was going to go while you’re at football.’
‘Why didn’t you say?’
‘Oh, I just forgot to mention it.’
‘You’re planning on drinking?’
‘Drinking? No, I don’t think I’ll be drinking again for a long time.’
‘So why are you taking wine?’
The wine. ‘I thought she might like it. Did you want it? I can keep it here.’
‘Mal.’
‘What?’
‘You shouldn’t hide things from me. I need you to be honest.’
‘Of course.’
‘Always.’
‘Yes.’
He sighs heavily, then scratches the side of his head, looking down. ‘OK. Well, have a nice day.’
‘I will. You too.’
He turns. But before he leaves – for the second time – he stops in the doorway, eyes still on the floor. ‘When I’m back later, I think it would be really good for us to continue our conversation about having a baby. I think it’s time.’
‘Definitely,’ I say. ‘I’d like that.’
I don’t really hear the words I say, but I know they left my lips because he is no longer in the room with me.
I wait to hear the door slam again, and this time I sit deadly still, biting the inside of my lip, chewing harder and harder, until the ticking of the small grandfather clock on the mantelpiece becomes a blurred and distant noise behind the weight of my thoughts. One thought – repeating.
A baby.
I go back into the kitchen, wash my spoon and bowl, and take my keys from the side.
I look down at the play. Pericles. Its gold embossed lettering and brown leather spine. The edges of the pages are brown and tatty. I open it up, flicking through them.
I pause, my eyes lingering on a line of verse.
To be happy means to be free and to be free means to be brave.
Maybe I was wrong about this play.
I get in the car and drive, stopping only at an industrial bin to throw in the vol-au-vents and wine, then continuing on.
But not to Joanie’s, like I said.
To him.