Chapter 12 #2
“A Morton Hall guest.”
Her face goes still.
That is never good.
“You do not work at Morton Hall yet.”
“Not officially.”
“But unofficially you are doing emergency underwear runs?”
“Helping Hunter.”
“Hunter asked you to buy knickers?”
“Yes.”
“Hunter.”
“Yes.”
“My Hunter.”
“There are not many of them.”
“Peter.”
I shift the basket from one hand to the other. “Guest care is complicated.”
“Apparently.”
“She was caught short.”
The second the words leave my mouth, I know I have made it worse.
Alexandra’s eyes sharpen. “Caught short?”
“With luggage,” I add quickly. “Her luggage. It went missing.”
“Where?”
I look at her.
She looks at me.
“In transit,” I say.
“In transit from where?”
“To Morton Hall.”
“That's not an answer to my question.”
“No.”
“She arrived at Morton Hall with no luggage and immediately required sanitary towels, ibuprofen, black knickers and enough sugar for a school disco?”
I glance down at the basket. “Essentially.”
Lexi stares at me.
Then, very slowly, she smiles.
Not kindly.
Not cruelly either.
Worse.
Like my sister.
“You are lying.”
“I am not.”
“You are lying so badly I am embarrassed for both of us.”
“That feels unnecessary.”
“Do I know her?”
“No.”
Too fast.
I have learned nothing.
Alexandra’s smile fades into suspicion. “I do know her.”
“I did not say that.”
“You said it with your stupid face.”
“My face is under considerable strain.”
“It always confesses under strain.”
“I need to pay.”
She studies me for a moment longer, and then her expression shifts. The teasing drains out of it, leaving something softer.
“Whoever she is,” she says, “you can tell me.”
That would be easier.
So much easier.
I think of Mandy on my sofa in my jumper, pale and embarrassed and trusting me with something small enough to be ridiculous and intimate enough to matter.
“I know,” I say.
Lexi waits.
I do not give her more.
Her mouth presses into a line. “That is still not an answer.”
“No.”
“And you are still a terrible liar.”
“Yes.”
“At least we agree on something.”
I manage a smile.
It does not quite work.
She steps aside. “Go on, then. Your mysterious guest is clearly in need.”
“Thank you.”
“And Peter?”
I stop.
“If you are going to use Hunter as an alibi, bear in mind that he is my boyfriend.”
The threat lands with terrifying precision.
“I will.”
I pay at the self-checkout with the speed of a man trying to outrun consequences.
Naturally, the machine has strong feelings about the knickers.
Unexpected item in the bagging area.
“Yes,” I mutter. “We all know.”
By the time a member of staff clears the error, I can feel Alexandra watching me from somewhere near the envelopes.
I do not look back.
I carry the bag to the car, put it carefully on the passenger seat, and sit behind the wheel for a second with both hands resting on it.
Then I laugh once.
Quietly.
Because if I do not laugh, I may have to admit that I have just lied to my sister in a supermarket because the woman I am not supposed to want publicly is sitting in my cottage wearing my jumper.
I start the car and head home.
By the time I get back, Mandy is on the sofa with the blanket over her legs. She pauses the telly as yet another damp wall fills the screen and leans back against the sofa.
“Successful?”
“I have returned with supplies.”
“Good.”
I hand her the bag. “Pads with wings. Actual pads. Two options because the aisle was designed by people who hate clarity. Ibuprofen. Plain black knickers with no slogans, cartoons or alarming declarations.”
She looks inside.
Then at me.
“You bought chocolate and sweets.”
“Yes.”
“Because I started my period?”
“I thought you might want them.”
“That is such a cliché.”
“I was being supportive.”
“You bought half a children’s party.”
“I panicked.”
She gives me a look, then takes out the dark chocolate and opens it.
I raise an eyebrow.
“Do not,” she says, breaking off a square.
“I said nothing.”
“You were about to.”
“I value my life.”
She puts the chocolate in her mouth and closes her eyes for half a second.
“That does not make you right,” she says.
“Obviously.”
“It means I was hungry.”
“Of course.”
“And mildly betrayed by my own uterus.”
“I would not dare comment.”
“Wise.”
I sit on the arm of the chair, rain still in my hair, and watch her break off another square.
Then I say, “I also ran into Alexandra.”
Mandy freezes with the chocolate halfway to her mouth.
“Of course you did.”
“She did not connect it to you.”
“Did she connect it to anyone with a pulse?”
“She has theories.”
Mandy closes her eyes. “What did you say?”
“That the items were for a Morton Hall guest.”
Her eyes open.
I continue because apparently the only way through humiliation is straight into the centre of it.
“And that Hunter had asked me.”
“Peter.”
“I know.”
“You do not even work there yet.”
“I also know that.”
“Why would Hunter ask you to buy sanitary towels and knickers?”
“Guest care.”
Her mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
Then she starts to laugh.
Not the little controlled laugh she uses when she is trying to stay above things. This one catches her sideways and folds her forward, one arm around her stomach, the bag sliding down onto the blanket.
“Guest care?”
“It was the best I had.”
“That was the best?”
“I was holding knickers.”
She laughs harder, and the sound does something reckless to me. It fills the sitting room. It warms the air. It makes the whole awful errand feel worth it, right down to the unexpected item in the bagging area and Alexandra’s expression when I said guest care.
Mandy wipes beneath one eye. “What did Alexandra say?”
“That I was lying.”
“She is not wrong.”
“No.”
“And?”
“That whoever she is, I can tell her.”
Her laughter fades.
Not all at once.
Enough.
The room changes with it.
I move and sit properly in the armchair opposite her. I do it deliberately. Space, because if I sit beside her, I will touch her, and if I touch her, we will both have somewhere easier to look.
“She is not stupid,” I say.
“No.”
“And I am tired of hiding.”
Mandy looks down at the bag in her lap.
I keep my voice even. “I am not asking you to move in. I am not asking you to marry me, share a toothbrush, abandon your independence or let me rearrange your cupboards.”
“That is quite a list.”
“I have been rehearsing.”
Her mouth twitches, but her eyes stay wary.
“There is the harvest festival next Saturday,” I say.
“I know.”
“Come with me.”
She goes still.
I let the words sit there. No joke. No escape hatch.
“As a date,” I add. “An actual one. In public. With terrible bunting, raffle tickets and Bernard committing crimes near the cake stall.”
“Peter.”
“One village event,” I say. “That is all I am asking for. Not your whole future. Not the keys to your house. Just one afternoon where I do not have to act as if you are something I keep hidden.”
Her face closes.
“No.”
One word.
Too quick.
Too sharp.
I nod once.
Mandy shifts as if the nod hurts more than an argument would. “We talked about this.”
“We did.”
“You know what this is.”
“I know what we called it.”
Her eyes flash. “Do not do that.”
“I am not trying to trap you with language.”
“It feels like it.”
“Then I am sorry.” I mean that. I do. “But I am allowed to want more than the parts of you I am allowed to have in private.”
She looks away.
The room feels suddenly too small.
The blanket on her knees. My jumper on her body. The bag from Sainsbury’s between her hands. Homes Under the Hammer paused on the television as if even the damp wall has decided not to interrupt.
“I cannot be that woman,” she says.
“What woman?”
“The one who turns up with you at the harvest festival and lets everyone decide what we are.”
“You would still be you.”
“You do not know that.”
“I do.”
“No, Peter. You want to.” She stands, the blanket falling to the sofa. “You think this is simple because you want it to be simple.”
“I do not think it is simple.”
“You are making it sound simple.”
“I am making it sound small because I am trying not to scare you.”
Her mouth tightens.
Wrong thing.
Too honest.
I stand, but I stay by the chair. “I respect that you do not want this. I do. But I cannot keep acting as though you are only a secret I get to visit when no one is looking.”
Her face changes.
Not anger now.
Something worse.
“I never said only.”
“No,” I say quietly. “You just keep choosing it.”
The words land hard.
I wish I could take them back, but I won't because they are true.
Mandy shifts the shopping bag from her lap.
“I should go.”
Every part of me wants to say no.
Stay. Sit down. Have tea. Tell me what you are afraid of and let me hold it for five minutes without trying to solve it.
But I have just told her I need to stop being a secret. Asking her to stay would make a liar of me.
“All right.”
She goes upstairs to dress.
I stay in the living room and listen to the floorboards creak above me. The television is still paused. The house feels painfully ordinary around me, which seems unfair when everything inside me is not.
When she comes back down, she is wearing her own clothes. My jumper is folded over her arm.
She holds it out.
I take it.
Neither of us says anything about that.
At the front door, she puts on her coat. I open the door before either of us can stand there too long.
Mist has settled over the lane, softening the hedges and stone walls.
“I am not punishing you,” I say.
“I know.”
“I just need to protect myself a bit.”
Her mouth trembles once before she presses it firm.
“Good,” she says.
It is a terrible word for that face.
She steps outside.
For a second, I think she might turn back. Say something. Anything.
She does not.
I watch her walk away until the bend in the lane takes her.
Only then do I close the door.
The cottage is quiet again.
This time, it does not feel familiar enough to help.