Chapter 46
Mallory
I can’t find it.
It’s not here. I’ve searched the house all day, while avoiding my mother and intermittently pretending I’ve been writing in my room, on a laptop that no longer seems to exist. If he finds it, I’m done.
And Leo... That news report...
What have I done?
‘Mal?’ Mum, from downstairs.
‘Yes?’
‘There’s someone at the door!’
Oh, shit. Shit.
I need to stop my hands from shaking. I’ve been wanting a lorazepam, but I seem to have taken them all.
Which is odd, because I just got a new prescription.
Unless Ronan hid them. With the laptop. Is he trying to make me feel crazy?
He’s done this before. Get me looking like a lunatic in front of my mother.
‘Mal!’
‘Coming!’
I hesitate. Arrange my face. Present a smile. Pull open the door.
‘Mal!’ Joanie says. She stays back a bit, on the porch.
‘Hey! Joanie! How are you – what are you doing here? It’s so nice to see you!’
‘I thought I’d make an impromptu drop-in!’ she says. ‘I wanted to bring you this.’ She holds out her hand. In it, I see a glass jar.
‘Oh! Jam!’
‘Yes – it’s damson. I thought you might like it. Lovely on toast. Might inspire you to get up in the mornings. Oh...’ She pulls a face. A grimace of regret. ‘Sorry – I didn’t mean—’
‘No – you’re right! Great motivation. It’s great. Thank you so much.’ I take it from her and inspect the label. ‘Lovely,’ I say. ‘Looks delicious.’
We stand in silence for a moment. It’s almost uncomfortable, but it has been this way for so long now that we are both fully trained in negotiating it. We smile simultaneously. I lean on the door frame, folding my arms. She pushes her hands into the pockets of her jeans.
‘You look great,’ she says.
‘Thanks,’ I offer. We do this. We say what we think the other person wants to hear.
We act like we are the kind of women who grow rose bushes in their back gardens and own Ottolenghi cookbooks.
OK, we are those women. But at fourteen we would ride our bikes together from Crouch End to Tottenham, swigging alcopops – screaming bloody murder at each other, swerving in and out of the cars – thinking we were the most rebellious and carefree girls in the whole of London.
Now look.
An impulse inside me wants to tell her about the texts.
To tell her everything.
We will both be dead in fifty years, I want to say. Why are we doing this? We both hate it.
It is so easy to lie.
‘How’s the writing going?’ she says. ‘It’s so good to hear you’re doing it again.’
‘Thanks, yeah. I’m enjoying it.’ I pause. ‘It’s a romance.’ I pull a face: I know, how wild.
‘Yeah, you said.’ No – I didn’t say. Ronan said.
Those messages were from my husband. ‘I was interested to hear that – I thought you always hated romance. You always seemed more driven to write things that are gritty.’ She says the final word with an element of excitement – a thrill.
Then I notice a sadness that moves over her features.
‘Yes, well. I think that’s in the past now,’ I tell her earnestly. It always interests me that we often talk like we are being watched by other people, even when we are alone together. How mannered we are. ‘I want to tap into a new genre. It’s good for me. It’s more uplifting. More hopeful.’
‘That’s good,’ she says. ‘That’s nice.’
‘They say, write what you know.’
‘They do.’ She raises her eyebrows. ‘Are you sure everything’s OK?’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Well, I know you’ve been struggling – and I’m sorry. You just seem...’
‘What?’
‘Quite resolved, really. Level.’
Should I be acting differently? I presume so. ‘Oh, right. Yes. I feel that way.’
‘That’s really good.’
The performance remains. Joanie. My friend who I do not know. She narrows her eyes.
Is she willing to break it? The pretence?
Am I? ‘Well. Actually. There is something.’
‘Yes?’ Her eyes widen. Hope? Does she hate this as much as I do? Is she dying for the truth as much as everyone else, behind their shuttered glass windows and Chardonnay-blurred eyes? Or can she not face it? She looks conflicted. Unsure. Unsafe.
‘You know the messages we exchanged?’
‘Um... Yeah?’
I lower my voice. ‘I didn’t actually send them.’
She cocks her head, shocked. Shocked because she believes me, or shocked because I sound insane? ‘What do you mean, Mal?’
‘Yes, what do you mean?’ A figure emerges behind her, walking down the pathway towards us. Ronan. Shit. Swinging a bunch of flowers. ‘Jojo!’ He kisses her on the cheek.
‘Ronan!’ she says. ‘God, you smell good – what is that?’
‘Hard work and probably a dose of exhaustion.’ He flashes me a look. A warning. One that she doesn’t see. ‘What are you doing here, Jojo?’
She stands differently now. Shifting on her feet. Trying to appear relaxed. Effortless. Breezy. ‘I just wanted to bring Mal some jam. I would have bought J?ger but – maybe not the time.’ She laughs.
He laughs.
I laugh.
Ha ha ha.
‘There’s always time for J?ger,’ Ronan says, and then he hands me the flowers. ‘Here, these are for you.’
‘Oh!’ I say, taking them from him. ‘They’re beautiful.’ They are. Then, for some reason that I cannot control, I ask, ‘Why?’ It just slips out of my mouth.
‘Why?’ he repeats, then makes a snort, as if this is the most ridiculous question he has ever been asked. ‘Because I love you and you are wonderful.’
Joanie looks enviously at them, or at me. I can’t fully decipher which.
‘Oh! Well, thanks, darling.’
I look down to see his hand on my arm. Gentle. But there. ‘I can smell dinner,’ he says. ‘I’m famished.’
I stop, considering, then look at Joanie and ask her, ‘Do you want to come in for food?’
Ronan’s fingers tighten their grip, ever so slightly.
I watch Joanie’s lips part, then she stalls, not knowing the answer.
She looks to Ronan, like he might have the correct one.
I sense him give the subtlest shake of his head.
One he does not think I can see. One imbued with melancholy. One that says, She’s still not ready.
She’s still unwell.
Joanie’s eyes widen with understanding. She nods conspiratorially and turns to me. ‘I’d love to, Mal, but I’ve got to get back to the kids. I’ll come over next week. If you’re not too busy with the writing.’
It’s clever, how he does this.
How he’s done this over years and years.
Taken her.
‘That’d be great,’ I reply.
‘Night, Jojo,’ Ronan says. ‘Thanks for popping by.’
He’s in a hurry, but Joanie won’t notice – his smile is too bright for her to see past it to his hand pulling my arm. Just before I turn with him into the doorway, she says, ‘Wait – Mal?’
‘Yes?’
‘Do you remember when we used to do that reading group?’
That’s odd. A memory I had in fact forgotten, until now. ‘I do.’
‘Maybe we could restart it. Come over to mine one night? Read some trashy fantasy book and bitch about the characters?’
I feel a warmth inside me suddenly build. ‘I—’
‘I think she’s a bit tired, aren’t you, Mal,’ Ronan cuts me off. ‘What with the new medication.’
‘Oh – right...’ Joanie takes a step back, like she has just been moved into uncharted territory – territory she does not belong in. Territory that frightens her. ‘Well – you get back to you, and then maybe we can plan something.’
‘Well...’ I say. ‘I’m actually not that tired – I’d love to come over, Joanie.’ Ronan’s grip tightens. ‘Let’s make it happen.’
Then I do something I didn’t expect.
He took my phone, I mouth at her.
She cocks her head. Momentarily confused. As if perhaps it didn’t happen. Her eyes narrow. There is a brief moment where I see her. Her. The Joanie I have known for twenty years, peering out from behind the facade we have all created.
I do it again. He took my phone.
Her eyes narrow. ‘Mal?’
I feel Ronan turn to me, his gaze lingering on my face.
‘What?’ I say, and shrug.
‘You just...’ She stops. ‘What did you just say?’
‘I didn’t say anything.’ I shrug again and make a confused laugh, like I am deeply perplexed. But Ronan is properly gripping my arm now, and it is starting to hurt. ‘Is everything OK, Joanie? Maybe you need some of my meds!’ I laugh again.
Ronan joins me this time: laughing. It’s all very funny. But Joanie doesn’t. She begins to, half a smile appearing on her lips, but then it is overtaken by complete bewilderment. Like I am insane. ‘Sorry – I just thought you whispered something.’
Shit. ‘No?’ I say. ‘I didn’t.’
Ronan’s finger nails dig in. ‘Right – let’s not leave your mother waiting, Mal. Night, Jojo.’ I see his eyes try to communicate with a look. Ignore Mal.
She’s unwell.
‘Your mother’s here?’ Joanie says. ‘Oh, God. Good luck.’
She narrows her eyes at me. Why didn’t you tell me?
But before I can reply, Ronan has pulled me inside and closed the door behind us. He doesn’t stop, yanking me down the corridor towards the kitchen with him, not saying a word. Before we enter it, he abruptly stops. He turns me to face him.
‘Ow – Ronan—’
‘What did you say to her?’ he hisses.
‘What? Nothing.’
‘You said something.’ He puts his face in mine. ‘Was it about me?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about...’
‘You’re lying.’
‘I’m not.’
‘I can’t trust you. Do you want me to speak to the doctor again? Is that best? You’re acting oddly.’
‘I’m not, Ronan.’
He flinches, as if holding something in – the muscles in his neck tightening. ‘You can’t be kept safe if you keep lying.’
He snatches the flowers from my hand, not looking at me, opens the kitchen door, walks straight towards my mother and hands them to her. ‘Stace! Oh my God that quiche looks incredible.’
She takes them, eyes wide with glee. ‘Are these for me?’
‘Of course.’
‘Oh, they’re stunning. Thank you, Ronan.’
I enter behind as Ronan opens a drawer in the island and takes out a bottle of whiskey. He moves effortlessly, pouring himself a glass. ‘Are you having wine, Stace?’
‘I...’ She falters. And something odd happens. She glances at him, then rubs her hand on her chin and says, ‘No. I’m just going to have water tonight, thank you.’ Her eyes flick towards me, for the smallest of moments. There is something in them – something that I cannot interpret.