by Ellie Marney
Six
By the time we get back to the lot, it’s full dark. Marco noses the car along the Parade Road and down Tinpan Alley until we get to the van area, kills the headlights when they pick out the gleam of my front door. We’re meeting Mitch and Eugenia for dinner in half an hour to go over what happened at Lost Souls, but I want to decompress before then.
I push inside, letting Marco make his own way in as I stalk through my van, slipping off my torturous shoes and stripping my tight silk jacket away so I’m down to my camisole and skirt. ‘Ohmigod, coffee.’
‘Whisky,’ Marco corrects, tossing his own jacket on the arm of the couch and turning on the heating.
‘Above the bookshelf. Dad keeps glasses there, too.’ I indicate with my chin as I run myself a mug of water in the kitchen, gulp it down. I up-end the mug on the drainer, then fill the espresso maker and set it to boil.
Marco pours himself a drink before walking over to stand behind me, propping himself against the kitchen counter opposite. ‘Mitch will be pissed about the walkie-talkie. He bet me a hundred bucks it was from Cavendish’s crew.’
‘Then you just scored a hundred bucks.’ I check the coffee, turn and step back to lean at the counter beside Marco. I cross my arms, my bare skin goose-bumping; I should really get out of this ensemble and into something warmer. ‘But it’s still our best lead. We might have struck out at Lost Souls, but at least we know the walkie-talkie didn’t come from there.’
‘We know a lot of things now.’ Marco contemplates the golden liquid in his glass.
‘Are you gonna talk to Eugenia about it?’
‘I’m not sure.’ He bites his lip, swirls his drink. With his head down and his expression like that, he looks younger, more like the boy I knew, even in his fancy clothes. ‘Cavendish might have been on the level about his involvement in the sabotage, but that doesn’t mean he told the truth about my mother. Maybe he was just trying to rattle my cage.’
‘It worked. I haven’t seen you get that angry since the time I dyed your eyebrows while you were asleep.’
He snorts. ‘I still can’t believe you did that.’
‘I still can’t believe you slept through it.’
‘I slept hard when I was twelve.’
‘No kidding.’ I nudge his shoulder where it leans against mine. ‘So your M.O. now is beating up defenceless steering wheels when you’re angry?’
‘It’s better than me pulling your hair, don’t you think?’
I laugh. After the horribleness of Lost Souls, I’m finally starting to feel relaxed. Somehow, being around Marco relaxes me. I heave out a sigh.
Marco’s expression softens. ‘Fleur, all that crap Cavendish said–’
‘It’s not that.’ I bump his shoulder again gently.
‘Okay. Then what is it?’
I step forward to turn off the burner as the espresso maker finishes bubbling, then lean back near Marco again. ‘I was just thinking…you make me feel like I did when I was a kid. Carefree.’
‘And that’s a bad thing?’
‘No. Of course not. But we can’t be like that anymore.’
‘Says who?’
‘We have responsibilities now. Your mum, my dad, the circus, this sabotage business…’
‘Whoah, slow down.’ He slugs back his drink, sets the glass an arm’s length away on the counter. His accent has burred a little more with the whisky. ‘Okay, first of all, stop trying to handle everything yourself. That way lies madness. Secondly, you can be relaxed and still be efficient. The two conditions aren’t mutually exclusive.’
I frown. ‘But when I let my guard down, everything goes to hell.’
‘Ohmigod, will you stop?’ He puts his arm around me. ‘You can’t be a troupe leader and be this stressed out. It’s not sustainable, and no one will want to work with you.’
I stare at him. ‘You think I could be troupe leader some day?’
‘It’s what you’re doing now, isn’t it?’ He side-hugs me. ‘Things will get easier, Petal. But you have to chill sometimes, and stop over-loading yourself. It’s bad for your health. And the more you stress, the more I feel the urge to pull your hair.’
Marco grins, and I laugh, turn in his arm to play-punch him. Just as I move, he reaches out his other hand to tug at a curl near my neck. My hand ends up on his chest and his fingers are in my hair.
I feel the exact moment the air between us changes. It’s like everything inside me slows down. Marco’s expression goes through a series of small, significant alterations as he looks into my eyes.
Then he lowers his head and presses his lips to mine.
I gasp with the shock of it. My lips open and the kiss deepens. Marco makes a soft sound of surprise, and I make a tentative touch with my tongue. Then things get hungrier, faster. I pull on his neck to get more of him, plunge my fingers into his hair. It’s like we’ve been holding our breath, and now we are each other’s oxygen. Marco’s mouth tastes of whisky, and wet–he tastes like everything I’ve ever wanted. His tongue is a flame that lights a fire from the crown of my head to my toes, torching every sensitive place on the way down.
His arm tugs me closer, bowing my back. His lips have become slick, demanding, delicious. I make small greedy noises, pushing myself against him, forcing him against the kitchen counter. Marco gasps, clutches my nape in one hand to hold my head in place as his other hand grabs my hip, bunches the silk of my skirt. Everything accelerates as our kisses get wilder, until we’re kissing hard enough to leave bruises.
I yank at his shirt and slip my fingers underneath–his waist is smooth, his skin hot and trembling. Marco lets out a desperate sound from deep in his throat, wrenches his mouth away from mine to kiss all along my jaw. When he reaches my earlobe, he nips with his teeth. I make a little cry, and he soothes the spot with his tongue, and I nearly pass out. My entire body has suddenly become an erogenous zone.
Our hands get grabby, frantic, as we drink each other in. Marco’s inhalations come fast and shaky. When he clutches my backside, drags me against his hips, I hear myself moan, can’t help it. This isn’t just kissing. This is like an explosion. And then somehow we both realise that this intensity is not normal, that something is either incredibly wrong or incredibly right, and we both pull away at the same time.
Marco staggers back against the kitchen counter while I lean near the sink. His lips are swollen from kissing. My own lips feel hot and grazed. There’s barely a foot of space between us. We look at each other, panting.
‘Holyholyshit.’ My voice is shaking. I grope for something to steady myself on, find the sink edge.
Marco’s eyes are huge and black, and he’s breathless. ‘That got really fast really…fast.’
There’s a knock on the van door.
Both our heads swivel at the same time, which would be kind of hilarious but holyholyohmigod… I still have no control over my breathing. Marco is flushed, flustered, and his hair is mussed, and I can’t think about how his hair got mussed just a second ago, by me, cos I have to answer the door.
‘I have to answer the door,’ I say stupidly. I look at Marco. Force myself upright.
He swallows. ‘You should…’
His voice is husky, and he steps in closer. He smooths my skirt, touches my waist, and I hear my breath catch. Then it’s as if he takes in my whole face with his eyes, and we’re both leaning towards each other–
‘Fleur, can I come in?’ It’s Eugenia’s voice, from outside.
‘Dinner,’ I suddenly remember.
‘Dinner.’ Marco sighs against my hair, and it seems like only a gargantuan effort of will that draws him back. ‘Go get changed. I’ll answer the door.’ He pushes me gently. ‘Go on.’
He lifts his chin towards the rear of the van, where my room is located, and turns for the door. I get moving when I see him tucking in his shirt at the
waist as he walks.
Once I make it to my room, I close the door and sit on my bed and put both hands over my mouth while my brain goes through a huge, Ferris wheel revolution. I kissed my childhood friend. I kissed Marco. I kissed Marco.
And he kissed me back. There was a lot of kissing. And touching. Ohmigod, the kissing and the touching. And it was absolutely goddamn amazing. I would do it again in a hot second. Right now.
Holy. Crap.
But I can’t sit here on the edge of my bed, thinking about Marco’s shoulders. I can’t. And I can’t go to dinner, and sit next to Marco, and look everybody in the eye, and… I can’t do that, either.
But I have to do something. I have to…have to move…
I peel off my latte skirt, sling on a pair of jeans and a chambray shirt, thrust my feet into my hardiest boots. Grab my backpack and stuff it with random useful things–clean underwear, toothbrush–and pull on my windbreaker, snatch up my phone. I stare into the mirror on my dresser.
‘Okay. You can do this.’ I press my lips together, but that only reminds me of whose lips I was pressing them against five minutes ago. I pull all the pins out of my up-do and let my hair fall, hiding my blush. Then I open the door and go out.
Eugenia is standing by the coffee table, talking to Marco. And Marco is…Jesus, why does he have to look so goddamn appealing all the time? The collar of his white shirt is open, and I remember, with sudden stabbing clarity, exactly how soft the skin of his neck feels. He turns his face towards me with this expression of cultivated innocence, but his cheeks are glowing.
‘Hey, you’re changed. That’s, um…okay, great. We’re ready to go to the mess when you are.’
‘Yeah, about that. Change of plan.’ I let my hair swing forward, shielding my eyes as I wave my phone. ‘Dad texted me, so I’m gonna head straight for the hospital. Genie, I’ve kind of debriefed with Marco, so he can tell you and Mitch how things went at Lost Souls.’
‘You’re not coming to dinner?’ Genie looks surprised.
Marco doesn’t, and his voice is a lot more deadpan. ‘You’re not coming to dinner.’
‘Nope.’ I shoulder my backpack and force myself to make a rueful expression. ‘Straight to the hospital, like I said. And we already, um…’
‘Debriefed. Right.’ Marco’s eyes add, If that’s what the kids are calling it these days, and I look away.
‘Okay, so I’ve gotta run. Give Mitch my apologies. And uh, Genie, could you lock my door behind you? Thanks.’
Eugenia frowns. ‘You’re getting a cab? You don’t want to wait for Marco to drive you?’
‘Good idea.’ Marco puts his hands on his hips. ‘Why don’t you let me drive you, Fleur?’ He makes a simple question sound like an accusation.
‘Yeah, no, it’s totally fine! I already ordered a cab.’ I wave my phone again. ‘Okay, gotta go. See you tomorrow!’
I skirt around the couch, which is about as far away from Marco as I can physically get. God knows what would happen if I brushed up against him: Electric sparks. Fireworks. Spontaneous human combustion. Literally anything is possible.
Then I’m out in the cool dark air, striding up Tinpan Alley towards the Spiegeltent and the patron car park, thumb-dialling a cab as I go and wondering what the actual hell is going on with my life right now.
‘So it’s gonna work with me in the van? I’m not gonna be cramping your style?’
Dad says it with a gleam in his eye, but I can see just how desperate he is to get back home. Okay, I was wrong, and the doctor was right: maybe it’s for the best if Daddy gets out of the hospital. It’s been twelve days, and even though he’s eating and sleeping better, the pallor is still there. He’s used to being surrounded by colour and action. This hospital ward must seem like a washed-out shadow of normal life, and he’s trapped in it.
‘Dad, I’m looking forward to having you home.’ I make a tight smile. ‘It’ll save me a fortune in cab fares, at the very least.’
‘We’ll have to get some folks to help.’ Daddy pokes at his hospital dinner with a fork. ‘Maybe get a roster system going for when you’re working…’
‘It’s sorted out, don’t worry.’ I’ve gotten very good at lying to my father over the last week and a half. ‘Eugenia has offered to help, and with me and Marco co-organising–’
‘But Marco’s only sticking around for another week or so, right? Kid’s got a job to go back to. So maybe after Marco leaves, I can take over the paperwork while I’m in bed.’
‘No. Yes. I mean–’ I try to control my face, while Daddy’s words sink in. After Marco leaves… Had I really forgotten he was leaving? Oh god, I had. And now I have to keep it together. ‘Daddy, you’re not coming home to work. You’re coming home to rest.’
‘Pumpkin, come on. Paperwork isn’t strenuous…’
I argue with my father with only one half of my brain. The other half is running in circles. Remembering flashes of Marco’s grin, his lips, the starched fabric of his shirt, the muscled stretch of his shoulders underneath the fabric…
He’s leaving. Of course he’s leaving–he’s got a great job at Cadell’s, he’s got a life, a home outside of circus, something solid, something regular… It’s what he’s always craved.
What will I do without Marco helping me? I don’t know. I actually have no idea. But my problems, they’re mine. I can’t lump them on him. I own them. This is my father, my family’s circus. Marco was only ever with us short-term.
The carnival was only a pitstop for him. Something he agreed to do on his mother’s request, not something he’s committed to. His Duplo van, with nothing but the bare essentials, is only a rental, and so is he. Marco’s only on loan. He’s only temporary.
And I am the world’s biggest idiot.
‘Are you going to need anything else right now? I can move the couch over, if you think Terry needs more room in here…’ Seb Patel trails off, peering at me.
The strength performers have shifted the furniture around in our van, and I’ve been cleaning up in their wake. Right now, the glamorised, ring-performance version of me is about a million miles away: I smell sweaty, my face feels grimy, and in the wash of morning light through our van door, I can see dust sparkling as I rake my hands through my hair.
‘No, it’s fine.’ I give up, wipe my palms down the sides of my jeans. ‘I won’t really know what Dad needs until he’s back home. But shifting the bed around was the real issue, and I’ve tidied up in his room now.’
Seb pats my shoulder. For such a huge guy, he’s surprisingly gentle. ‘Fleur, I’ve had an invalid parent. I know this is going to be tough. If you need another hand around here, let me and the strength crew know. Any way we can take a load off, we’re happy to help.’
I take a deep breath. People have been surprising me with their kindness–or at least, their warm regard for my father–since this whole thing happened.
‘Thanks, Seb.’ I force my face out of ‘frazzled’ mode and into a smile. ‘I really appreciate it, and I’ll let you know if there’s anything. Right now, I just want to get Daddy home.’
Colm emerges from the rear bedroom with a bag of tools. ‘Fleur, I fitted the sit-up bar into a bracket above the bed. Once we moved the bed across to the wall, it was pretty easy.’
‘Thank you so much. I wouldn’t have asked you, but Mitch is helping with Dad’s transfer.’
‘No problem.’
My phone chimes, and I fish it out to check. ‘Okay, they’re in the parking lot. They’ll be here in five.’
That gives me just enough time to clear out the broom and dusting rags, wash my hands all the way up to my elbows, and wipe my face on a clean towel. Colm and Seb leave, I tidy the linen in Dad’s room, and Mitch’s car pulls up in front of the van just as I’m straightening the couch cushions. I rush out to the front steps.
‘Oh my god, I’m home!’
Dad shoves the car passenger door open, theatrically inhales the air of the fairground. He’s wearing a white bathrobe over a T-shirt and a pair of loose track pants–which seem too loose, to my eyes. He extends an arm towards me. ‘Pumpkin, come and help your old man outta the car, I wanna see how everything looks.’
‘It looks pretty much the same as always, you mad carnie.’ Mitch has come around from the driver’s side to help my father. He gives me a dry look. ‘They gave him some heavy-duty painkillers at the hospital, to make the trip home easier. Sorry about the bathrobe, but I couldn’t get him into a jacket.’
‘It’s fine,’ I say, grabbing my father’s arm as he tries to lever himself up. ‘Hey, Daddy, hold on there. Let’s just get you into the van–’
‘It looks great!’ Dad lifts his face to the sun, peers around. ‘Wow, everything looks so great. One second, Pumpkin. It’s so nice here. I got sooo sick of hospital air-conditioning, I swear to god.’
He lists sideways, and Mitch and I catch him. We exchange a glance.
‘Okay, Terry, you can enjoy the sun later,’ Mitch says. ‘Time to go inside and lie down.’
I steady my father on the other side. ‘Come on, Daddy. Up the steps now…’
We manage to manhandle my father into the van, keeping him on target when he wants to sit down on the couch, and marvel at the inside of the van, and generally act like a drunk person. By the time we get him into his newly-rearranged bed, I’m sweaty again, and Mitch is side-eyeing me. We leave Dad to recline against his plumped-up pillows, and pow-wow in the kitchen.
‘How the heck are you gonna keep him on bed rest?’ Mitch shakes his head, hands on hips. ‘He’s higher than the top canvas. Are you sure you’re going to manage?’
And that’s the question right there, isn’t it–am I going to manage? It’s not just about handling my father. It’s about whether I can do it all: keep the plates spinning, keep the whole circus on track, find this goddamn saboteur, make sure Dad has the help he needs, all in the limited time I seem to have between waking and sleeping. Can I run the show? And can I do it without Marco?
