The Home for Broken Hearts

by Rowan Coleman

  Ellen had not been pleased when her mother arrived home from the hospital with Hannah in her arms. She had not been pleased at all with her new little sister, a peaches-and-cream golden little thing, perfect from the moment she arrived in the world, charming everyone she met even before she could talk, even before she could smile. At eight years old, Ellen had felt like a gigantic and hulking changeling, the cuckoo in the nest, sticking out like a sore thumb in her newly remodeled family, with her dark skin and dark hair that she apparently had got from some great-aunt she had never met. She was nothing like this stellar little creature who brought so much light into the house, who made everybody coo and smile. But still, despite herself, Ellen had loved Hannah; she’d had no choice but to love her and had been completely devoted to her from the moment that she first picked her up. They had shared a room from the beginning, Hannah’s crib jammed alongside Ellen’s bed in their narrow bedroom. Terrified that something might happen to her little sister when she wasn’t looking, Ellen would force herself to lie awake, gazing through the bars of Hannah’s crib, watching the rise and fall of her chest, checking the expression on her faultless face for any signs of dark dreams or distress.

  When Hannah had been a little older, old enough to be afraid of the dark, she would hold Ellen’s hand through the bars of the crib, her tiny, chubby fingers curled around Ellen’s longer ones until she slept, and Ellen would never remove her hand from Hannah’s. Even when her arm raged with pins and needles or she longed to be able to roll over, she would leave her hand in Hannah’s for as long as her sister needed it there.

  The last time she had gone upstairs to check on Hannah, who seemed immobile in what she hoped was oblivious sleep, Ellen had wondered when that had stopped, that love and devotion between them. Hannah had never done anything really terrible to her, except be more beautiful, more clever, and more successful, and Ellen had long ago accepted that it was her fate to be outshone by her sister whenever they were together. It wasn’t envy exactly that she had felt at the realization—especially not after she’d met Nick and had Charlie. It was just that sometimes she wished that Hannah would leave her alone like she always used to; she felt like more of her own person when Hannah wasn’t there. As if Hannah’s mere presence highlighted the shortcomings in her life that Ellen preferred not to think about.

  “What’s typical?” Matt asked again, as he sat up straight, rubbing his palms over his face and blinking himself awake.

  “When things went wrong, when she’d made a mistake, instead of admitting it or facing it or doing something to try to make it better, she’d always get herself into even more trouble, as if that would somehow blot out whatever the real problem was. Even when she was very little she’d take risks. When she was six she broke this china figurine that our mother loved—it was a dancing lady or something and Hannah had been playing with it and dropped it. Instead of telling Mum, she climbed the tallest tree in the garden. She got up it okay, but on the way down she panicked and slipped, knocked herself out on one of the roots. I thought she was dead, I really did, she was so still and pale—I had to run and tell Mum and it was a huge drama and of course no one minded about the figurine as long as Hannah was okay.”

  “Don’t really think this compares to climbing a tree,” Matt said, puzzled.

  “Then, when she was eight, she wanted this doll from the toy shop. Well, it wasn’t a birthday or anything, so one day when we were in town, looking round the shop with our pocket money while Mum was in the supermarket, she decided to just take it, and slipped it under her skirt. And she got away with it, only she realized that she couldn’t go home with it. So while I was at the till, buying some sweets or something, she got on the bus that stopped just outside, no money for a ticket or anything. Just got on the bus and sat at the back and didn’t get off.

  “Mum and Dad were frantic. I was supposed to be watching her. A policeman brought her home when she got off at the last stop in Brighton. They were all so relieved to see her, no one but me noticed the doll at the bottom of her toy box. It’s been the same ever since. Whenever she’s done something stupid or wrong, she pulls a stunt like this, gets herself into trouble, gets herself hurt so that everyone will forget what she’s done and feel sorry for her.”

  Ellen got up abruptly and put the kettle on again.

  “You don’t really think that’s what she was doing this time, do you?” Matt asked. “Hannah wouldn’t deliberately put herself in that kind of danger just so no one would be cross with her.”

  “No, no—I suppose not, I know this isn’t the same—it’s just… I feel guilty, I suppose. Something’s been going on with her, something big and dark, and she’s been spending all this time around me and Charlie, and I’ve minded. I haven’t wanted her here. All she’s been doing is trying to be a good sister, and all I’ve been doing is pushing her away, which is why I haven’t noticed that she’s been struggling with her own problems. I haven’t seen anything outside those windows in a year.” Ellen nodded toward the outside world as she poured boiling water onto two fresh teabags. “And now this—this awful, brutal thing. If I’d been paying attention, really looking at her… I always thought that we should be like two peas in a pod, me and Hannah. That sisters would have this… bond. But right now I feel like I know her less than ever.”

  “Maybe it’s a kind of guilt,” Matt suggested. “Maybe she’s punishing herself.”

  “What on earth could she possibly have done that made her think she deserved that?” Ellen asked, glancing at the ceiling. “She drank too much, tried to drown out whatever it is that’s been hurting her—but being attacked like that? That’s not Hannah’s doing. Someone… some people saw how vulnerable she was and they deliberately hurt her when she wasn’t strong enough to stop them—and it’s killing me that I don’t know exactly what happened. The worst of it is, I don’t even think she knows.”

  “Maybe, for now, that is for the best. Maybe she just needs some time to figure it out.” Matt stood up and stretched. “Look, I need to get ready for work, take a shower—I’d stay home if I could, but I really can’t.”

  Without thinking, Ellen went to him and put her arms around him, hugging him to her. It was only after he returned the gesture that she remembered she was wearing only a shirt under her dressing gown. She let a beat pass in his arms before she stepped back.

  “Sorry,” she said awkwardly. “I’m a bit overtired, it’s making me inappropriate. What I meant to say was ‘thank you.’ You didn’t need to be any part of this, but you were. I really needed a friend last night and I’m grateful. So, thank you.”

  Matt didn’t speak for a second, caught up as he was in the briefest sensation of her soft body molded to his and every feeling that awoke in his exhausted brain. He hadn’t wanted her to break the embrace. He’d wanted her to stay exactly where she was. He’d wanted to hold her.

  “It’s not a problem,” he mumbled, glancing out the window rather than at her face.

  “Here, take this with you, I’ve put extra sugar in it.” Ellen handed him a cup of tea.

  “You know what,” Matt said, pausing at the door. “One thing is obvious about your sister.”

  “Oh, and what’s that?”

  “She cares more about what you think of her than anything else,” Matt said.

  CHAPTER

  Sixteen

  The last person Matt expected to see sitting—no, lounging—at his desk when he finally made it into work was Lucy, the associate editor from downstairs. He’d thought it was oddly quiet when he’d walked into the office, none of the usual banter or jokes going on. Raffa, Steve, and even Pete were sitting at their desks, apparently concentrating on work, which was unheard of, particularly when there was a leggy blonde in the vicinity, in this case leaning back in Matt’s desk chair with her ankles crossed on his desktop.

  “Er, hello?” Matt slowed down as he approached her. If he wasn’t very much mistaken, the last time he’d seen her she’d called him the baddest swea
r word he could think of, one that even he balked at using. What did she want with him now?

  “You always this late?” Lucy asked archly.

  “Had a bit of a heavy night,” Matt said warily.

  “Lured some other poor victim into your lair?”

  Matt thought of Hannah’s bruised and battered body curled up on Ellen’s sofa and cringed inwardly. How much difference was there really between him, cruising bars, looking for tipsy women to talk into bed, and the men whom Hannah had encountered? The thought hadn’t escaped him and it had been haunting him ever since.

  “Look, Lucy, it’s been a tricky night—”

  “Ah, now he can remember my name!” she exclaimed. “I thought you might think it was…” she picked up a copy of Bang It!, folded open to reveal Matt’s column, “‘leggy blond bombshell’ or maybe ‘insatiable, curvy babe’?”

  “So you’ve seen the column then,” Matt said wearily, wondering why on earth he had thought it was a good idea to date a woman who worked one floor down—and what’s more, why on earth he had decided to write about her. What had he been thinking? The truth was that he hadn’t been thinking since he’d got here, at least not with his head. The truth was that he hadn’t been thinking with his head especially since 1998 when his hormones kicked in.

  “Yes,” Lucy said. “And I’ve come to thank you.”

  “Thank me?” Matt shifted from one foot to the other. Suddenly he felt confused and afraid, very afraid.

  “Er…”

  “You see,” Lucy said, snapping her legs down from his desk in one smooth maneuver and twisting his chair around to face him. “If you hadn’t written your column about me, if you hadn’t written, for example”—she scanned the page—“‘This little vixen was all over me from the moment we sat down, wearing a dress that left nothing to the imagination, and let me know just exactly what sort of a good time I was in for. I offered her another drink but she was already good to go and practically dragged me back to my place.…’ If you hadn’t written that, for example, then I would never have had the idea for my own piece. And I never would have been pissed off and ballsy enough to take it to my editor and ask her for a chance to write for the magazine. But you did and so did I, et voilà!”

  Lucy handed him a copy of her own magazine. “You’ve given me my very first byline.” She beamed at him, her bright eyes sparkling.

  Dragging his eyes off her, Matt looked down at the glossy page. The headline shouted HOW TO AVOID TERRIBLE SEX! He read the first line: “We’ve all done it, we’ve all felt a little low, got a little drunk, and found ourselves in a compromising situation with a man we barely know. We think this liberates us, sets us free, but invariably the next morning we feel foolish and used and worst of all have usually experienced a night of terrible sex. The last time this happened to me was only a few weeks ago.…”

  Matt looked up. “You’ve written about me and you?” he asked, incredulous.

  “Yep.” Lucy nodded, a wicked grin lighting up her face. “What? Not thrilled for me? Don’t want to read on? Don’t worry, I’ve memorized it. Let me recite for you: ‘This guy, let’s call him Matt…’”

  “Hey—that’s my real name!” he protested.

  “Yes, but the readers don’t know that.” Lucy continued reading aloud: “‘This guy obviously thought he was the cat’s pajamas in bed. But the truth is, from the moment we got into his bedroom I was looking for a reason to leave. Was it his cheesy predictable lines that put me off? After all, how many times have you heard them tell you they’ve never seen a woman with eyes as beautiful as yours, yeah, right, like they care about your eyes! Or was it his fumbling, amateurish kisses that felt a bit like I was being slobbered all over by a Labrador? Why don’t men ever learn that less is so much more when it comes to tongue? No, it was none of that, it was simply that the moment I let him get into my bed, I realized I was going to be bored—bored, bored, bored—and that for the next five minutes I was going to have to try my best to look like I wasn’t.’” Lucy stood up and strutted to Matt, so that she was standing very close to him, her eyes sparkling with fury and laughter, the heady scent of her perfume in his nostrils. “‘And that’s what I’m talking about, ladies,’” she went on, quoting her piece. “‘That’s why we are all doomed to a terrible sex life unless we take action now. No more pretending that his fumbling at your privates is a turn-on, no more moaning and groaning out loud when really you’re wondering if you remembered to record Grey’s Anatomy. And most of all, no more pretending that you’ve had an orgasm after a couple of minutes of squelching about, when we all know that it takes a lot longer and a lot more effort to get one of those. Take a stand now! Say “no more” to terrible sex just to make some guy feel good about himself. If they’re awful at it, tell them so. And if you’re reading this, Matt—just so you know—you are shocking in bed.’”

  As she finished her manifesto, she dropped her magazine at his feet, turned on her high heels, and strutted out of the office, to rapturous applause.

  “Hey, mate?” Raffa clapped him on the shoulder. “Have you lost a bit of weight?”

  “What?” Matt looked at him.

  “It’s just I think that bird just left with your balls!”

  Matt blinked as the office doors swung shut behind Lucy. He’d had no idea that she was so… well, so cool.

  “Wow, that’s never happened before,” Matt said, sinking into his chair. He felt embarrassed, exposed, and vulnerable—as if she’d told the world his secret… which was exactly what he’d been doing to various women for the last year. Matt closed his eyes. What a prick he was! What a prick he had been—he’d been doing to women what Lucy had just done to him for over a year. And as clever and as funny as Lucy’s piece was, as much as it would make her readers laugh, it hurt him; it stung like a very hard slap. How many people had he hurt that way without a second thought?

  “Never been bitch slapped in public before?” Pete sneered.

  “Never been stung by a revenge column. You got to hand it to her, the girl’s got balls.”

  “Yeah, yours,” Raffa repeated his joke, clearly annoyed that it hadn’t got a big enough laugh the first time.

  “You need to pull it together, son,” Pete told him. “Where’s the dark destroyer, hey? And more important, where’s your piece on that drive-through brothel?”

  “Hang on—I only got the brief yesterday,” Matt said, although last night in the pub did seem like an eon ago. “I wasn’t entirely sure that Dan was even serious.”

  “Dan is always serious. Come on, mate, you’ve got a week to go until the end of your probation, and I’ve got to say it, you look knackered. Please tell me the reason you let that little tramp walk all over you is because you were up all night seeing to your landlady?”

  “Lucy isn’t a tramp,” Matt said, defending his nemesis, and then, seeing the look on Pete’s face, he added, “And yeah, I was up with Ellen all night. It’s true what they say about older women being at their sexual peak!” Matt’s grin was perfectly synchronized with his sense of inner self-loathing. Lucy, Hannah, the idea of writing a piece on a drive-through brothel—after what he’d seen last night and this morning, he felt sick to his stomach. Half-naked girls who were no more than breasts and bums, writing about sex week in and week out—that wasn’t his dream job. It had never been his dream job, and Matt couldn’t remember anymore why he had ever thought it was. Lucy, Hannah—especially Ellen. They reminded him that he liked women, he loved them. He found them interesting and funny and beautiful in ways that were somehow more subtle and complex than their cup size or how much they’d had to drink. How on earth had that joy and fascination with the opposite sex turned itself into this? Matt sighed. Now, on the cusp of completing his probation, was not the time to be developing a conscience or a desire for something better. But nevertheless, both of those impulses were there and he couldn’t shake them off. What was happening to him? he wondered miserably. And then a memory of the scent of her hair as s
he had embraced him that morning came back to him, and he realized. Ellen, Ellen was happening to him. He had a crush on his landlady.

  “Then there’s your next column,” Pete said. “Get your research on the brothel done and a first draft for your column today, and as for that piece of work that just came in here and stomped all over us?”

  “Who, Lucy?” Matt said anxiously.

  “That’s war, mate,” Pete declared. “That’s magazine war. Come up with a plan of attack by the end of the day.”

  As Pete lurched away, Matt sank farther into his chair and considered what would happen if he just got up and walked out of the office and never came back again, because right now, after everything that had happened recently, after everything that had happened last night, the Bang It! offices were the very last place he wanted to be.

  Ellen rubbed her eyes and looked at the monitor. Allegra had dictated to her, and her typing was riddled with red and green squiggly lines. For the first time since she had begun working for Allegra, Ellen hadn’t really been involved in what Allegra was saying.

  “So what do you think should happen next?” Allegra asked.

  Ellen looked at the older woman. She was immaculately dressed, as ever, but there were violet shadows under her eyes, and there was something else about her that was different, too, that Ellen couldn’t quite put her finger on. In the current scene the captain had visited Eliza in her cell to tell her that she was to hang at dawn. Ellen’s tired eyes had welled with tears as Allegra described the emotion in the captain’s voice as he struggled between his sense of duty and his love for Eliza. And then, just when Ellen could not see how Eliza could possibly escape, the captain had left a key and a dagger for her, hidden in a blanket. Allegra had stopped just at the point where Eliza was about to escape.