Fragile

by Sarah Hilary

  Robin and I were so close we made a single shadow on his desk. He reached to untie the apron from my waist, setting it aside. The whiteness of it dazzled the edge of my eye.

  We leaned into the wall, away from the window where the night’s neon was stretched on the street’s stone. Hardly moving, my neck turning loosely to the left when he wanted more of it under his mouth. No kissing, no scent from him other than clean skin and ink, a hot press of light against my lids when I shut my eyes. I thought of the bathroom upstairs, raw and white, the mirror where I’d held my own gaze as if it were a stranger’s.

  When he moved away, I shivered, feeling the cold in the room for the first time. The loss of his heat was unbearable, the worst loneliness I’d ever felt. I shut my eyes against it then made myself look. My apron was limp on the desk, already losing its starchiness. I was his servant. He’d backed me into this wall – he and Meagan both – and I should stay where I’d been put.

  He was adding ice to fresh drinks, sharing the glasses between us. Vodka again, smoother this time. I swallowed it, setting the empty glass on the edge of his desk. The slim spines of his books set their words in my head: Narrow Wave. Love and Barley. Lips Too Chilled.

  His hands again. His mouth. I knew I felt good; nothing beat a three-storey-house workout. I tried to set it all aside, as if this were happening to the stranger in the mirror, but it was no good.

  Lips too chilled, heated by his kiss. Meagan’s way was the easier; I was too afraid of being lost, of what it would mean for me and Robin tomorrow, and the next day. I tried to focus on the thought of what was happening in the drawing room, the narrow wave of silver in Carolyn’s hair coming loose under Joe’s touch. Joe wasn’t in danger because he was not in love. He was playing by the rules, Meagan’s rules, but I couldn’t do the same. It meant too much. One night. My life.

  Robin’s hands held me in the room, taking his time. A lesson in self-control, or to pleasure me, I couldn’t tell. His fingers snagged, and his mouth, finding out a slim ribbon of muscle in my throat. Enjoying what was different about me.

  What was she like in bed? Like this?

  I’d been passive, thinking that was what he wanted. But now I pushed away, reaching for the back of his neck, pulling his mouth to mine before he could issue any protest or counter-command.

  Kissing him, tongue and lips, tasting him for the first time. Salt and vodka, smooth as glass. He put his hands on my shoulders, a warning pressure but I kept kissing, deeper, knowing my mouth felt good. His hands moved to my throat then up through the fall of my hair to the shape of my skull, the bones of me.

  This was what I wanted. Skin, taste; the heart of him. I could make this man – smooth as glass, distant as the horizon – lose control before I did. But I wanted more than that, more than Meagan’s vicious bargain and more than my cure for loneliness, or the need to hold my old fear at bay. I wanted Robin, all of him, no part held back by either one of us.

  I backed us away from the wall, to the sofa, pushing him down with the pull of his hands at my waist. My hair fell forward, covering his mouth for a moment before I swept it aside with my lips.

  Curling my hands around the heat of his skin, I let him move his mouth back to the ribbon of muscle in my throat and on, to all the places where I was different, and new, like nothing he had ever touched before.

  Afterwards, I watched him as he slept.

  Secrets were packed under his skin, too deep for Carolyn to reach. I wasn’t her, I didn’t know who I was.

  I wasn’t there, in the library. There was only my reflection trapped in the small surfaces, the rim of our glasses and the spines of his books, squirming to break free.

  28

  Four of us now in Starling Villas. Five, if I counted Rosie. Meagan must have known her vengeance didn’t need any other weapon but this – my memories, and my conscience. The night after I slept with Robin, I opened the attic window wide and let the memory of Rosie in.

  Gulls had woken me that morning, their cries sounding loud in my bedroom. I turned in the sheets, and smelt the sea. Rosie turned too, bumping me with her small body, a freckle of sweat across her shoulders. She’d been sick last night, clutching her tummy until she finally fell asleep, soothed by a cup of warm milk. I curled around her, despite the heat.

  That summer was so hot, even the nights. She’d be hungry when she woke, and cross if her breakfast took too long to prepare. I’d been saving an egg for her but she’d rather have a big bowl of puffed sugar. Last night, I’d hidden the milk at the back of the fridge where it stood a chance of staying cold. Joe and the other boys could drink a pint in seconds, hips propping the fridge door, throats working fast before Meagan could catch them and read the riot act. I’d told her we should buy more milk but she refused to believe it was growing pains, just the boys getting greedy, taking advantage. She was so fast to think the worst of us.

  Shutting my eyes, I breathed in the sticky sweetness of Rosie’s skin, trying not to think about shopping and meals, money and washing. Just for a minute, before it was time to get up, I wanted to be a child myself. How would most fifteen-year-old girls be spending their summer? Sunbathing on the beach or shopping with their friends, sucking giant iced coffees from plastic cups. I’d seen them in town, always in twos or threes, tanned legs and long hair, giggling into their phones or at the gangs of boys who followed them everywhere. Back home, I bet no one shouted at them to make supper or beds, to put the washing on or get the ironing board out. Some of the girls were pushing prams already, but they had their mums with them. It was rare to see anyone my age on her own. When I went into town with Joe, the girls stared at us. They knew who we were, everyone did. Lyle’s kids, foster kids. Some were scared of us, others hated us, but mostly they just stared, like the man at the harbour wall that day. Joe never seemed to noticed, and they stared hardest at him.

  Rosie snorted in her sleep. If it wasn’t so hot, I’d tickle her awake, the pair of us rolling in the bed, smothering our shouts for fear of Meagan’s wrath. Roughness pricked my foot and I fished with my toes for Mr Bear. His funny face, button-eyed, winked at me. I rubbed his fur against my cheeks and lips, remembering a toy my mum gave me, a donkey glove puppet with a strip of fur for a mane. The glove had been too big for my hand but I’d liked to cuddle the donkey, happy to have a gift from her. The glove puppet was in the cupboard now, in the playroom. Meagan said it was only fair to let the little kids play with it, since I’d outgrown toys.

  Gulls beat past the window, heading out to sea. It would be too hot for the beach today. Rosie’s pyjamas stuck to her skin, and mine. I lay and listened for the church bell. Meagan made a rule at the start of the holidays about not getting up until the bell rang eight, but the hours before eight were the only cool ones, when the kids could play in the garden. As long as they didn’t wake Meagan, it was allowed. Sometimes I thought she’d allow anything as long as it didn’t disturb her. The bells were quiet but I could tell it wasn’t yet six o’clock, maybe as early as five.

  ‘Nell.’ A whisper from the doorway. ‘Let’s go to the lake before it gets hot.’

  No shade at the lake, but I smiled across the room. ‘Give me a minute.’

  Rosie stirred in my arms. ‘Me too,’ she whimpered. She hated it when we left without her. It was why she slept so close to me. I unpeeled myself, propping Mr Bear under her neck so she could tuck into him instead. ‘Me too . . .’

  I loved her but if I didn’t hurry, Joe would leave without me. I slid from the bed in stages, freeing myself without waking her. She hunched away, seeking a cool spot in the sheets, and I stripped off my vest top to strap on a bra before pulling an old sundress over my head. The curtains hung limp at the open window. It would take less than ten minutes to reach our lake. I thought of its chill, and shivered deliciously.

  Joe was waiting at the top of the stairs.

  He cut his eyes in the direction of Meagan’s room, shaking his head. We were serious, unsmiling, treading in one another’s
footsteps around the creaking of the house.

  Outside, the air was honeyed. A seagull sat on the gatepost, its wings folded along the bullet of its body. The sea was beyond the hump of the hill, but we turned inland.

  Every house we passed was silent and curtained, people still in bed. These were the only hours cool enough to let you sleep. No one but the gull saw us going.

  The road bent away from the houses, narrowing to a lane that ran behind the walls of the school where Joe smiled at the teachers to stop them examining his work too closely. I helped him when I could, but none of that mattered now because it was the holidays. Six long weeks stuffed with our whispered plans to never go back. We’d run away, taking Rosie with us to start a new life.

  ‘Her dad was round again.’ I fidgeted a stone from my sandal. ‘Talking with Meagan. He wants her back. He’s got a new girlfriend who loves kids, that’s what I heard him saying.’

  ‘They’ll never let him.’ Joe shrugged, shouldering the beach bag. ‘If it was her mum maybe. But not her dad, not without hundreds of interviews and questions. He’ll get fed up of it.’

  I turned and looked back in the direction of Lyle’s, lost behind the hill of houses. Joe walked on a few paces then stopped. ‘Nell. The lake.’ I could taste it in his voice, the coldness of the water, the slate beach when the sun sat in purple splinters. An ache reached up my legs to ripple through the pit of my stomach. I turned away from Lyle’s and followed him.

  The way down to the lake was closed off. Signs warned that this was private land, the water dangerously deep and subject to strong tidal currents. We found our way in through a gap in the fence, the same gap we slipped through every day, its edges worn smooth by our shoulders.

  The pool was sunk deep between the slag heaps, glinting green.

  We worked a circle of slate, flattening it with our hands before digging a shallow trench where we’d lie the whole day if we could get away with it. The beach bag opened flat into a groundsheet under the towel, softening the worst of the slate. We worked swiftly because we wanted to swim before the lake heated up. The sun was already strong in a cloudless sky. When the towels were down, we stripped to our underwear and walked into the water. We didn’t run or splash, wanting the slow push of water against our ankles and shins, its icy tongue at our thighs.

  The slate ended abruptly, stubby grasses stabbing our toes, weed strangling our ankles as we pushed out until the lake swelled, lifting us onto our toes. Spreading our arms, we balanced on the points of our feet until the first wave took us. I shuddered, shutting my eyes at the brisk chill in my armpits, then ducked beneath the surface, greedy for more, opening my eyes to the cut-glass heart of the lake, brown and green as bottles.

  I swam deeper, feet shoving, arms scooping, leaving the surface behind. Down, down, until my chest burnt with held breath. Bubbles squeaked past my lips like kisses. I saw the shallow slope that fell away to the deep base of the pool and pushed harder, wanting its true heart. The pressure stacked in my chest; I knew I’d never make it. My feet kicked as if at a wall. The lake thickened, resisting my efforts to dive deeper, drilling its fingers into my ears. At the last second, with my chest about to burst, I turned back. Up, up to where the sun was moving in silver bars across the surface. Joe was a long shadow in the water over me. His feet turned so slowly I wondered how he kept afloat.

  I was in the throes of panic but it was thrilling, gripping me like a lover. I knew I’d make it and if I didn’t, Joe was right there to save me, hauling me through the surface into the golden air.

  It was mid-morning before I felt the first itch of guilt. Meagan would be waking to find us gone and the kids hungry, Rosie bawling, the heat making everyone noisier than usual.

  Joe was immune to guilt. ‘What can she do about it?’ He lay on his back, flat under the sun. ‘It’s not like she can kick us out. And she wouldn’t anyway, because she needs us. Needs you.’

  ‘I hid the milk.’ I sat beside him, chewing my lip. ‘For Rosie’s cereal. She’ll be hungry.’

  ‘She’ll be fine.’ Joe brushed a lazy finger at my leg, above the cuff of my shorts. ‘Stay with me.’

  I ducked my head to sniff at my shoulder, the beer bottle smell of it. ‘I’m here.’

  ‘So stay.’ He dropped his hand from my leg. ‘I want to sleep. I can’t sleep back there.’

  I rested my head on my shoulder, seeing the water dazzling Joe’s fringe. He was so beautiful it took my breath away. That pressure was back in my chest, like being inside the lake.

  ‘We didn’t bring any food. We’ll get hungry.’

  ‘Nell, come here.’

  His mouth tasted sweet and sour, a new flavour. New Joe. Tomorrow, he would tell me it was weed, or whatever he’d been able to buy down at the harbour. He’d be frantic to confess, needing me to understand, and to cover for him. I didn’t like the taste but it was Joe’s. I shut my eyes, concentrating on the plush heat of his mouth and the hardness of his body against mine.

  The slate moved under us, opening and closing in pockets to fit the shapes we made. On our sides as we kissed, then Joe over me, on top of me, inside. The slate sliding, splintering against the base of my spine, digging me deeper into the trench we’d made.

  When he rolled free, Joe muttered my name. I turned to look at him, ignoring the flare of pain between my legs. The need to sleep flattened his face, his mouth tight, freckles on his lips.

  I closed my eyes and dozed. The sun was soft on my legs, not yet hot enough to burn. Joe didn’t move. There was only the stir of the water, whispering. When I opened my eyes, I saw a fly sitting on his cheek. He slept so deeply he didn’t feel it, the sun striping him like a tiger.

  I let my mind wander back to Rosie waking alone in my bed. She was always wanting to come with us, but Joe always talked me out of it. She was scratchy when she was tired, too big to carry now. When I held her hand she dragged at me, making herself heavier. If I told her to stop, she pulled harder, hanging off me. She was worse with Joe, winding herself around his legs. Last week, I’d found her trying on earrings, struggling to push them through the holes that had healed since her parents pierced her ears, back when she was a baby.

  ‘Don’t do that.’ I was alarmed, fearing blood, infection. ‘Rosie, stop.’

  ‘They’re pretty.’ She scowled. ‘I want to be pretty.’

  The earrings were long and dangly, made of cheap pink and blue sequins. She had a new bikini made of red triangles, its strings biting at the baby fat on her neck.

  ‘You are pretty,’ I told her.

  ‘No.’ She screwed up her face, a furious pug. ‘You’re pretty. He wants you, not me. I want to be pretty too.’ She was talking about Joe.

  I knew she was talking about Joe but still I said, ‘Who?’

  She twisted her head to glare at me, cocking her hip. ‘Joe. Joe, Joe, Joe, Joe, JOE!’

  The earring popped through her ear, making her jump. Quick as a flash, her eyes were on the mirror, staring at her new reflection. The sequins quivered like her dimples. She curled her mouth into a triumphant smile.

  With a chill, I saw the girl she’d be six years from now. Twelve years old, precocious, lips painted to match her red bikini. Hips cocked at Joe, and anyone else who’d look.

  ‘See?’ She pointed a finger at her face in the mirror. ‘See!’

  At the lake, Joe’s breathing deepened, settling into sleep.

  I lowered myself until I was lying next to him, using his shadow for shade. The lake creaked at our feet. I wanted to watch him sleep but it had been so hot last night, with Rosie rolling in the bed. I was too tired, and the day was too bright. I shut my eyes for a second, and sleep snatched me away.

  When I woke, the roughness at my ankle confused me. I was back in bed at the beginning of the day, waking with her teddy bear scratching my skin. I blinked, feeling bruised.

  Sun, slate, the shifting of the lake. No shadow at my side.

  ‘Joe?’ I moved my hand into the hollow where he’d
been sleeping, as if he was there but I couldn’t see him, the light playing a trick on me. The hollow was hot but it was the sun’s heat, not his.

  I rolled upright, reaching to scratch at my ankle, the brush of a bee or a wasp—

  It was Mr Bear, Rosie’s best friend. She never went anywhere without him. I’d put him into her arms in the bed, before I’d left the house. Hadn’t I?

  I sat up, fear like fine needles in my scalp. ‘Rosie?’

  She wasn’t there. Only the long glower of the lake, scabbed over by the sun. And Joe—

  Kneeling at its lip with his hands in the water as it rippled away from him.

  29

  In the library, Robin was waiting for his breakfast, dressed for the day despite the early hour. I lowered the tray to the side table, carrying the coffee press to his desk.

  His wrist rested on an open book, its page marked by his thumb. He’d showered (cool green ferns in a forest) and shaved. No trace of foam for me to wipe away, his skin sealed by the razor’s brightness. My stomach stirred with hunger.

  ‘Come and see.’ His head was bent over the book. When I didn’t move, he looked up with an easy smile. ‘Nell, good morning.’ He pressed the pages flat with the heel of his hand. ‘Look!’

  It was a guidebook to Japan, Mount Fuji in the distance, shrouded in blue snow. On the facing page, pink cherry blossom crowded an avenue of trees where lanterns swung in golden flasks of light. Robin’s fingers formed twin temples either side of the photos.

  ‘Mono no aware.’ He pronounced each syllable distinctly. ‘The pathos of things, would be the literal translation. Or . . . an empathy towards the little things, their fleetingness and how it moves us. What Virgil called lacrimae rerum, the pity of things. Impermanence. No, that’s not quite it.’ He frowned, searching for the right words. ‘Sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt – “These are the tears of things, and our mortality cuts to the heart.”’