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The taxi is quick to arrive. I grab my purse and jacket. Harry says he feels bad he’s not driving me. I tell him he’s drunk too much, and it’s wet outside. ‘Besides, you need to get some sleep. You’ve got an early start tomorrow. Don’t wait up for me.’
As I open the front door, he touches my arm. ‘Wait. Tell me you’re okay.’
I turn back and look him in the eye. ‘I’m okay. We’re okay. Just ... later.’
He nods.
I hold my bag over my head to fend off the rain while I run for the taxi. We drive through dark, slick roads, streetlights refracting in the water drops on my window, like so many diamonds. I’m trying not to think about what’s just happened, but my mind is playing back a film-reel of moments, snippets of words, movements, touches, trying to decipher the meaning of it all. Snap. Think about Snap. I hope the crappy weather isn’t a bad omen – that Snap is still in one piece, his mind whole.
It’s after hours at the hospital, so I have to press an intercom button to gain entry. I hug my jacket close. Freakin’ autumn. It was warm yesterday. A voice that sounds as busy as hell answers the intercom, and I’m buzzed through.
Snap’s room seems different: there’s a static motionless about it. His chest rising and falling is the only movement, and even that seems shallow. It’s then I realise they’ve removed his noisy breathing tube. Now he’s got one of those thin, spaghetti-like oxygen tubes wrapped around his ears, the little nubs positioned under his nostrils. The light above his bed is on, and his blankets have been folded down a little to free his arms. That’s new too.
I stand beside him, just watching for a moment. His bandages have been removed, and there’s a bald patch on the right side of his head with an arc of spidery black stitches, which start in front of his right ear and curve above his forehead.
His eyebrows twitch. Both his eyes open. He’s looking at me, expressionless.
‘Hi, stranger,’ I whisper.
He looks puzzled, and when he tries to speak his voice sticks. He grimaces, making a claggy noise as he clears his throat. I hold his hand, trying to encourage him. When he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse and his words are slurred, dragged out.
‘Whooo yooo?’
I’m startled even though I’ve been warned this might happen. But as I stand dumbly petrified, a slow smile spreads across the half of his face that still works.
‘Yorrr hair’s mmmess,’ he says.
‘You bastard.’ I lean across his chest and awkwardly hug him. His arms feel frail, like a child’s, clinging to my back. A funny gurgling noise comes from his chest, and I realise he’s laughing while I’m crying. I extract myself, and he gives a rattly cough.
I try to sort out my hair with my fingers. ‘You don’t look so good yourself, you know,’ I say.
He half-shrugs, and I regret the words because he really does look terrible.
‘Maaake a goood exi ...’
I frown, trying to figure out what he’s saying. ‘A good what?’
‘Exxxiii.’
‘Exit?’
He nods.
‘Ah, I get you.’ I chuckle. ‘You made the best exit ever! Do you remember the last thing you said to me?’
He shakes his head.
‘You said, and I quote, “I am not camp, I am dramatic.”’
He gurgle-laughs again.
‘How are you feeling? Your chest sounds terrible.’
‘Fffkin hung-reee.’
I laugh, taking a seat by his side. ‘Not surprising. You’ve been living on soup through a tube the past couple of weeks. I pick up his call button. ‘Pizza with the lot?’
‘Nooo! Wwwatching myyyy waaayt.’
I’m in awe of his humour; his body is gaunt. He tries to lift his arm again, to wave a finger at me, and it takes all his effort, he’s drained.
‘Well, some tea might have to do for now,’ I say. ‘Maybe some cheese and bickies if they can dig them up.’
He crinkles his nose. ‘Iiiced VoVos or noth-th-th-thing.’
‘Princess.’
I squeeze his hand.
It’s around eleven-thirty. The rain has stopped. Harry must have gone to bed and left the hall light on for me. His suitcase is sitting just inside the front door. I hang up my jacket and look down the corridor. His door is open, and there’s a soft glow coming from his beside lamp.
I stand in his doorway and whisper, ‘Harry? Are you awake?’
He doesn’t respond. He’s lying on his stomach, head resting on one arm. I should turn his lamp off. I slip off my shoes and pad over to his bed. He sighs and rolls onto his side. The sheet falls away to his hip, revealing the strength of his wide chest, the honey blond hair on his arms, his narrow waist. Beautiful. It’s so tempting to reach over and touch his skin, to trace the slope of his shoulder down to his hip, feel the structure of his bones and muscles underneath. I don’t. He looks vulnerable, and I’m a creep for watching him without his knowledge. I click his lamp off, pull his door closed and head back down the hall to take a shower.
The pelting water feels good, the night’s tension oozing away. I squeeze my eyes shut and let the water spray on my face, my hair, my shoulders. I soap my body, enjoying the slipperiness on my skin, on my breasts. And I think of Harry, imagining him pressing me up against the shower wall, his hands gripping my waist, his mouth on mine, then slipping down to my neck, kissing me where he did earlier tonight, on that tender spot that made me shiver, his hands sliding lower.
Suddenly, it’s Samuel in my head. The smell of him, the heaviness of him, the grunts and ugliness of that night. I pull my arms to my chest, tight, protective, nausea returning. Why is my memory betraying me? That night is supposed to be buried. Deep. Is this what’s going to happen now? Every time I get close to someone?
I spin the hot water tap off and brace myself as the shock of the cold water drains away the nightmare. Shivering, I turn the hot back on, waiting for my body to stop shaking. Eventually I get out, wrap myself in a towel and sit on the side of the bath. I need to get a grip. This is my body. My life. Maybe there’s only one way forward.
Harry is oblivious to me standing next to his bed. I drop my towel, lift his bedcovers and ease in beside him.
He stirs. ‘What—’
‘Shhh.’
We lie there, side by side, breathing in the almost-dark. Each one of my heartbeats punctuates a second. Thud. Thud. Thud. We’re so still I wonder if Harry’s fallen asleep again.
‘What’s going on?’ he whispers. ‘I thought you didn’t—’
‘I changed my mind. Is that okay?’
I reach for his face, my fingertips landing on the smoothness of his forehead, then running down to the roughness of his cheek and beard. He shifts, and I catch the glimmer of his eyes. It’s weird, the presence of someone else’s body, warm, so close. Weird ... and terrifying.
Harry pulls back, takes my hand. ‘Maybe we should talk first.’
‘Can you just hold me?’ My voice breaks. ‘Please?’
He props himself up and leans to turn on his lamp.
‘No! Leave it off.’
‘What is it? What’s happened?’
‘It’s nothing ... I just need you to hold me.’
‘Lauren—’
‘Please?’
His weight shifts, and I lift my head so he can push an arm under me. My hair catches under his elbow. ‘Ow.’ Even my laugh is tense.
‘Sorry.’
‘It’s okay.’
He strokes my face. ‘Is it Snap?’
I shake my head. ‘He’s fine.’
I can’t say any more. If I speak, a torrent of words will bleed me dry. The muscles in my throat contract. It hurts. Can a person die from keeping so much inside?
I should tell him. Everything. Just let it out. Let it breathe. It wouldn’t be so bad, would it? It was something that happened to me. It isn’t who I am now. It wasn’t my fault. Maybe telling him, telling anyone, might make it go away. Like bursting a blister ... all that’s inside let loose, and the pressure gone.
But what if he’s revolted by it? Or worse, what if he feels sorry for me? I couldn’t bear to see sympathy in his eyes, for him to treat me like something broken, something too delicate to live an ordinary life.
I can’t think about it. Not now. Not with Harry so close.
I wait, holding my breath. Finally, he kisses me. His tongue warm, still a little salty, beard soft, grazing my skin. My hand rests on his chest, fingers brushing the few coarse hairs that curl there. I have the strangest sensation of floating, like I’m losing myself. He’s still kissing me, and I press myself against him, waiting for that feeling to return – the one from earlier: the longing, the physical needing. It should be part of this. And ... I want to feel it. But then he reaches for my butt cheek, pulls my hips to his, and his hardness is there, between us, pressing against my thigh.
I freeze. Can’t move. Can’t breathe.
I want to scream, but my throat has closed. I’m looking up at Harry, above me, his face concerned. He’s speaking, but I can’t hear him. Now he’s shaking me, tapping my cheek and ... I’m back.
‘Lauren? What’s wrong?’ he’s saying. ‘What happened? You scared me.’
‘I don’t know.’
I look down at my nakedness, throw my hands over my face. The shame. The excruciating shame. I can’t face him. Can’t face it.
~
It’s just after 6 am. Harry is in the shower. He’ll be leaving to catch his plane for the cruise soon. I could stay here, in my own bed. Hide. Like I did last night, when he followed me and knocked on my door, calling to me. And I told him to go away, I was fine.
Will he try to come in now? Try to talk to me? It’ll be better if I get up and make some coffee. Pretend like nothing’s happened.
But he’s leaving. Six weeks. I can’t let him go without explaining. It wouldn’t be fair. And if I don’t, it’ll be even more awkward when he comes back. Maybe he’ll just think I’m a nutcase and leave me be. I could live with that. But I know he’s smarter than that. Kinder.
I roll over under my doona. There’s a clunk at the window, and Mr Pink comes wandering in. He jumps onto my bed, his heavy paws sinking into my stomach as he strolls up to nuzzle my nose.
I’ll stay here. It’ll be easier.
But then I hear Harry turn the water off. The dull clunk of the shower door. The memory of my own shower last night returns. Why is it all coming back now? I want it to go away. Leave me alone. It’s done with.
Mr Pink is kneading my stomach. I wait for him to stop, to step off me, turn his three circles, then settle by my side. He doesn’t. He keeps kneading.
Okay. Coffee. It’s always the answer.
~
I stand with arms crossed at the kitchen sink, looking out the window, waiting for the coffee machine to do its gurgly thing. It’s raining again.
‘Morning.’
The thud of Harry’s carry bag on the floor makes me jump. I keep my back to him, shoulders tense. ‘Morning. Coffee?’
‘No time. I’ll get some at the airport.’ He comes up behind me. ‘Lauren?’ He touches my shoulder. ‘You okay?’
I swallow, turn, and before I know it, I’m pressing myself onto his chest, sniffling. He hugs me, and it’s exactly what I need. Face buried, I mumble. ‘I am now.’
He doesn’t say anything, just holds me until I’m ready to let go. I want to stay here. All day. But he has to leave. When I eventually pull away, he releases me, and I reach for some paper towel to wipe my nose, then stand back, arms crossed again. ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be.’
He’s frowning, fringe hanging in front of his worried eyes. Beautiful eyes. I want to reach up, brush his hair aside, but instead I curl my fingers, pull my arms tighter. Awkward. He obviously doesn’t know what to say and neither do I.
‘Want to talk?’
I shake my head. ‘Later. You have to go. Can’t miss your plane.’
‘I feel bad leaving you like this. I was really worried about you last night.’
‘Don’t be. I’m okay. I promise. I need to work through some stuff. It’s not you. I just need to ... take things slower, you know?’
‘K,’ he says. ‘We can do that.’ Then as an afterthought he adds, ‘How’s Snap?’
I brighten and manage a smile that’s not an effort. ‘Doing well. He’s awake, eating, talking ... well, slurring for now. The doctor says there’s a good chance of a full recovery, but we have to wait and see.’
‘That’s fantastic.’
‘Yep.’
Another awkward moment before Harry bridges the silence. ‘Listen, you know how I mentioned Freda last night? I was thinking ... she studied law before she became an artist. She might have some useful contacts for Snap. I mean if he wants to press charges against Bob, now that he’s—’
I clear my throat. ‘Sure. That would be great. I don’t know what he wants to do yet, but I’ll follow up with her.’
‘She’s good to talk to,’ he adds.
‘Uh huh.’ I know what he’s saying.
‘And this,’ he reaches on top of the fridge, finds a piece of cut-out newspaper and shows it to me. ‘It’s an audition notice for a stage show.’
‘But—’
He presses it into my hand. ‘Just look at it. Okay? I’d love to stay and argue with you, because I know you want to, but it’s a good idea to explore all bases. A recording deal may never come through. It’s good to spread your wings. Try different things. You can’t sit around like some princess waiting for her fairy godmother to fly in on a broom. Speaking of flying, I gotta.’
He’s pauses, as though he’s wants to say something more.
I know what he needs. ‘We’re okay. We’ll talk when you get back. About everything.’
‘Sure?’
‘Sure.’
I take his shoulders, spin him around and give him a push. ‘Anyway, you’re getting your fairies and witches confused. Go on. Get out of here. Up, up and away with you.’
He grabs his carry bag, and I follow him down the hallway. It’s freezing outside. I pull my dressing gown closer. He’s still hesitating, suitcase in hand, as if he’s unable to find his words.
‘Look,’ I say, ‘I got a bit emotional is all. I shouldn’t have ...’ I take a breath, smile brightly. ‘We’ll talk. I promise. I’m okay. And we’re all good.’ I reach up, kiss his cheek. Everything – my fear, my longing, my need for him to understand and not push – is showing in my eyes. I know it.
He leans in and kisses my forehead, then grabs me tight, squeezing. ‘Take care of you.’ He heads off down the landing, turning back to smile before he slips around the corner towards the lift.
I listen to the receding rumble of his suitcase wheels, then close the door. There’s an immediate sense of emptiness to the apartment, so I fetch my coffee and go in search of Mr Pink. I find him dozing on the lounge where the sun is filtering through the blinds. Cheeky thing thinks he can take over the house now that the boss is gone. I sit and pet him. He hardly stirs. Comfortable. Confident. I could learn from him.
What do cats think about?
Thinking. It’s a dangerous thing. ‘But we won’t go there, will we, Mr Pink?’
‘Murr.’
‘No need to dig up old stuff, good and buried, hey?’ Still, my mind edges there.
I wanted to be with Harry. Why wouldn’t my body let me? I refuse to believe that one night out of all my years – one horrible night – could still be affecting me so much. That’s just stupid. It must have been first-time nerves. Because it was a first. Samuel doesn’t count. That wasn’t the same thing. And Harry would never, ever ...
I mean, what’s there to stress about? I’m not being blamed for the house fire anymore. Never was, turns out. So, everything is fine. It should be a relief. But it’s not. And I’m thinking it’s the guilt, the tension, that’s been keeping me afloat all this time. So now I’m in freefall. Everything has changed, and my mind is still catching up. That makes so much sense. That’s what last night was all about – nothing to do with Samuel after all. God. What a relief.
‘Okay, that’s enough,’ I tell Mr Pink. ‘We’ve sorted it.’
I look about the room. It’s going to be weird, having the place to myself. Even though I’ve been in every room in the apartment now, I’ve never pried. It didn’t feel right. It doesn’t now, but the temptation is there, to open drawers, sneak peeks at Harry’s private things. I should resist. He trusts me. And trust is so fragile.
