by Molloy, Ruby
Ivy is waiting outside the stall, tissues in her outstretched hand. I take them and wipe my mouth as I approach the wall of mirrors, terrified my reflection will show me as the daughter of an abused fifteen year old boy.
My eyes are huge and washed out. I turn my head this way and that, examining my face, searching for similarities to my mother. My hair is the same colour, but hers was straight. And I must have my father’s eyes because hers were blue.
“You’re not her.” Ivy is standing behind me, her eyes bright.
“You’re right, I’m not.” I say, standing taller, shoulders back, head tipped to the side. “I’m not her.”
Hooking her arm through mine, Ivy gently tugs me away from the mirror. “Let’s go for a walk, get some air.”
Outside, I’m aware of the sun warming my skin, though my bones feel frozen.
“This way,” she says, steering me down a wide path that’s edged with squat, prickly hedges. It opens onto a rose garden, the scent overpowering in the relatively small space. There’s a bench at its centre and Ivy heads that way.
“You’ve been here before.”
“I have,” she says, sighing with subdued pleasure when her derriere comes into contact with wide oak slats. “The first time I came here was after I visited Freddie Smith. You remember him don’t you? He had silver hair and a moustache stained with nicotine.”
“I remember. He used to bring me paper bags filled with sweets and comic books meant for boys.”
“That’s him. Way ahead of his time, was Freddie, with his non gender specific ideas.”
I raise my eyebrows at her terminology.
“What? You don’t think an old biddy like me can keep up with the modern world?”
“Something like that,” I say, though my mind’s still mostly on my father. “Do you know where he is? My father?”
Ivy shakes her head. “No. We weren’t allowed to contact his family, what with the court case and everything. We moved not long after. Me and your gramps didn’t want you growing up around people who knew what had happened. We didn’t want that tainting you.”
“Does he know about me?”
She shakes her head. “Stephanie wouldn’t allow us to tell him, even if we’d wanted to.”
“What’s his name?”
“Matthew. Matthew Bateman.”
Matthew Bateman. I silently repeat his name as if this will give me a clue to his appearance and character. I imagine a gentle, intelligent man, someone with liberal views, someone who would look for me, if he only knew I existed. If only my mother hadn’t ... I distract myself by following the path of a bumble bee as it fumbles for pollen. “Does it make me a bad person if part of me is glad she’s gone?”
Ivy takes my hand, enfolding it between hers. “No, Frankie. I don’t see how you could view it any other way. When I think of all the wicked things she did to you, and to your father, I’m ashamed. I’m not sure she ever did a single, good deed that wasn’t centred around her own desires.”
I watch as the bee rises up drunkenly, it’s tiny wings a silver-grey blur. “She had me,” I say.
“That’s true.”
****
I spend the evening with Ivy, making dinner while she busies herself dusting and rearranging ornaments. She’s composed enough, though there’s a bunch of used tissues up her sleeve. With the death of my mother, and Ivy’s revelation about my father, I haven’t had a chance to give much thought to Mason. I want to see him but there’s no way I can leave Ivy tonight. And it’s not until later, when we’re washing up, that I realise the nightclub will open soon and I’ll be able to call their number and speak to Mason there. I leave Ivy to put away the last of the plates and take the portable handset to my bedroom. The woman who answers is friendly enough until I ask for Mason, at which point an arctic wind shimmies down her throat and coats her voice in ice. She refuses to put me through until I give my name and explain that I’m his girlfriend and it’s important I speak with him.
“One moment,” she says.
I sit cross-legged on my bed, wearing the same t-shirt and shorts I had on this morning, waiting for Mason to pick up.
“I’m sorry, but Mason’s not in work tonight. Can I take a message?” It’s the same chilly voice as before.
“Uh, can I have his private number please? I left my phone as his this morning and I need to get hold of him urgently.”
“You’re his girlfriend and you don’t have his number?”
The way she’s speaking to me, after the day I’ve had, I don’t know how I’m not screaming obscenities at her down the phone, but I keep my calm. “I do have his number, but it’s on my phone, which if you were listening you’d know is in his apartment. Now can I have his number?”
“I’m sorry but I’m not permitted to give out Mason’s number.”
“I just told you I’m his girlfriend for Christ’s sake!”
“So you say!”
“Oh my God! Just do me a favour, call Mason and tell him Frankie’s trying to get in touch. Tell him you refused to give me his number while you’re at it!” I give her Ivy’s number, not entirely confident she will pass it on.
I stay where I am, the phone balanced in my lap, willing it to ring. Ten minutes later it lights up with ‘private number calling’. “Hello?”
“Frankie! Where the fuck are you?”
“I’m at Ivy’s.”
“You are? I’ve been trying to find you all day. You didn’t leave the name of the hospital. I’ve been phoning round, but they wouldn’t give out any information.”
“Sorry.”
“Fuck that, you don’t need to be sorry. All I’m saying is I should have been there for you.”
“She died,” I say, tears welling up, ready to brim over. I’m not sure if they’re for my mother, me, or Ivy, but there’s no stopping them.
“Shit. I’ll come over.”
“No, don’t.” I wipe my face and swallow back the tears. “It’s okay, honest. She had liver failure. I guess that’s no surprise, though it kind of was. Ivy’s doing okay, but I don’t want to leave her on her own, not tonight. Will you be home tomorrow? I could come see you after I finish work.”
“I’ll be here. What time do you finish?”
“Uh, five o’clock.”
“I’ll be home. Frankie, I want to say I’m sorry about your mum, but I’m not sure I can do that.”
“That’s okay,” I say, quietly. “I understand.”
“You sure you’re going to be all right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I lay down on the bed, the phone pressed up against my ear. “I miss you.”
There’s a pause, and when he speaks his voice is low and there’s an ache in my chest when he says, “Miss you too.”
“See you tomorrow,” I whisper.
“Tomorrow,” he says.
*****
I leave Ivy’s early next morning. While I’m getting showered and dressed she makes a packed lunch for me, the way she used to when I was at school. I carry it out to the car and she waves me off, standing at the garden gate until I’ve turned the corner.
I have to travel to work via home to collect my ID and phone but I still manage to get there early and when lunch rolls around I take Ivy’s packed lunch to the canteen and go sit with Charlotte. She works in admin and she’s three years older than me, with short spiky black hair and a silver septum piercing. She lives with her girlfriend, Mandy, who’s a prison officer here.
“You okay?” she asks. “You look like you’ve been crying.”
I debate whether to confide, before finally admitting, “My mum died yesterday.” I don’t mention my father. I want Mason to be the first person I speak to about that.
“Shit? Really? In that case, what the hell are you doing at work?”
“I didn’t really know her. I’ve lived with my gran since I was ...” I’m about to say since I was three, because that’s what I was always told, but now I know that’s not true. “Since I was
a baby,” I finish.
“Wow. That’s really sad. Me and my mum do everything together. Last weekend we went to dinner and on to the movies afterwards. I don’t know what I’d do without her, to be honest. And you should see her and Mandy when they get together. They’re like long lost sisters!” Mandy’s twelve years older than Charlotte so this isn’t difficult to imagine.
“Mum was an alcoholic and not exactly pleasant to be around.” I spare her the details. It’s lunchtime and I don’t want to bring the mood down. “How’s Mandy?”
“She’s good. Got a weekend shift coming up again so I won’t be seeing her until Monday. I guess I’ll get used to it soon enough. Must be awkward for you and Mason, with him working nightclub shifts.”
“Seems like there’s always one of us sleeping while the other’s awake, but the in between times are so worth it!” I jiggle my eyebrows and Charlotte laughs.
“Tell me about it!”
“Listen, if you’re at a loose end this weekend you’re more than welcome to come over to my place. Me and Kayla are having some friends over for pizza and movies.”
“Thanks, Frankie. I might take you up on that!”
“Okay, well the offer’s there. I think you’d like Kayla. She’s had a rough few months, but she’s funny as hell! No-one makes me laugh the way she does. Except for my friend, Nora, but that’s because she can be a goofball.
Charlotte abruptly sinks low in her chair and shields her face with her coffee mug. “Shit, watch out, Sweetland’s coming.”
I haven’t worked here long, but already I know that Jessica Sweetland is best avoided. Her dark, sunken eyes are forever watchful behind black-framed glasses, searching out trouble where none exists. Her over-straightened blonde hair sticks to her scalp like a beige swimming cap and her chin merges into her throat, making it seem as if she’s permanently offended. She pauses beside our table, her mouth stretched into a smile though her eyes remain hard and vigilant. “Look at you two, lunching together like best buddies. How long have you worked here, Frankie? Three, four weeks? Didn’t take you long to settle in, did it?”
I’m not sure how to take this, or how to respond, but Charlotte steps in for me. “More like two months, Sweetland, and some people have a natural born ability to make friends, while others,” she glares pointedly at Sweetland, “alienate everyone around them and end up lunching on their own.” She mirrors Sweetland’s saccharine smile and pops a chip into her mouth, deliberately chewing with her mouth half open.
Sweetland’s mouth now corresponds with her cold eyes, puckering up in a way that’s massively unattractive and totally aging. “Maybe some of us don’t need sycophants to make us feel good about ourselves.”
She walks to a quiet corner and sits facing the wall, while I murmur to Charlotte, “Which one of us is the sycophant?”
She smirks and dips another chip into her ketchup. “That would be you, seeing as you’re too nice for your own good, while I, as I just perfectly demonstrated, can be a hard bitch when I want to be.”
I laugh because it’s true, though what Charlotte doesn’t mention is that she has a soft spot the size of China, which is how we became friends in the first place. She saw me sitting on my own in the canteen on my first day and came over to introduce herself.
“Here, do you want these?” I push a packet of salt and vinegar crisps in her direction. “I’m full.”
“Ooh, yeah, please. I can munch on them later when the boredom gets too much.”
“Should have gone into research,” I say, smugly.
♥ NINETEEN ♥
The Gift
Frankie
Damn, what’s that amazing smell?
There’s a hint of lemon and garlic, and something else I can’t identify. I drop my keys on the table in Mason’s hall and follow the scent to the kitchen. He’s reading through a recipe book, wearing jeans and not much else. His discarded t-shirt lies on one of the stools and he has a bottle of beer in his right hand. He doesn’t know I’m here yet and I watch, unnoticed, savouring the smooth skin of his back and the underlying play of muscle.
It doesn’t take long before looking isn’t enough. I move silently, sneaking a hand round to his belly. At my touch Mason jerks violently and beer spurts up through the hole in his bottle, coating us both in foaming, amber liquid.
“Fuck!” He spins round, holding his arms out as if to display his muscles more perfectly, though I’m pretty sure it’s because his body and arms are soaked. So too is the recipe book.
“Oops!”
“Jesus Christ, Frankie, you scared the shit out of me! Next time, a little warning before you try and shove your hand down my pants!”
“I wasn’t ...” Okay, maybe I was. “Sorry. Stay where you are.”
I find a tea towel and run it under the tap, ready to wipe away the beer that now smells as strong as whatever’s cooking. I wipe the cloth against his chest and he flinches. “You didn’t want to run it under warm water, no?” he asks sarcastically.
I apologise once more, and he calms, taking the towel and placing it on the counter with his beer, following me as I back up. “Come here,” he says softly, and I do because his tone is enticing and I know I’m going to like what happens next.
I close my eyes and raise my chin, ready for his lips. Apparently it wasn’t an invitation for a kiss so much as a request to be doused in ice-cold water. Screaming, I open my eyes to see him grinning proudly, an empty jug in his hands. My t-shirt is clinging to my chest, my nipples showing through and the damp patch on my denim shorts makes it seem as if I’ve wet myself.
“You,” I breathe through the chill, “are going to regret that!”
He backs up, laughing, and I grab the first thing that comes to hand. I don’t realise it’s a bag of flour until Mason’s expression doesn’t look quite so humorous. “Shit, not the flour, Frankie! Fuck, no!”
I swing it in his direction and now there’s flour stuck to his ... everywhere! It clings to his hair, turning it grey, and in the mayhem I have time to acknowledge that Mason Zannuto is going to be a hot when he’s older. Globules form where his skin is wet from the beer, and his jeans are dusty as hell. I’m not sure he sees the funny side. In fact, he most definitely doesn’t, judging by the feral glow in his eyes. I’m nearest to the hall and I take the opportunity to run, squealing when I hear him chasing me down. I don’t know which way to turn, but I head for the guest bathroom because I know it has a lock. Unfortunately I don’t have the opportunity to twist it in place before Mason is in there with me, his chest rising and falling, his arms out beside his body, herding me backwards.
“Oh God! I’m sorry, I’m really, really sorry! I don’t know what came over me!”
Mason hooks an arm around my stomach and turns me to face the mirror above the vanity unit, standing with his front against my back. I can’t take my eyes from his sexy gooeyness, although I blink a few times when he presses his jean-covered erection against the small of my back.
“Now I have to punish you.”
I stare, open-mouthed at his reflection. “You do?”
“Yeah, Frankie, I do. I think I’ll fuck you, long and hard. Have you so wet and needy you’ll be screaming for me to take you.” His right hand reaches up to my pebbled nipple, his pinch just the right side of pain. “You want that, Frankie?”
I nod helplessly, staring into narrowed eyes that are darker than I’ve ever seen them before. I think I’m wet already. In fact, I know I am. I squeeze my thighs together and his arm tightens soft and low against my belly as he whispers in my ear. “Dinner first though, hey?” he says, smacking me on my buttock.
He exits the bathroom, leaving me alone with an ache only he can fulfil. I lean on the vanity unit, inhaling through my nostrils as I ride through the pain. It takes a while for me to get myself under control and when I make my way back to the kitchen he’s already cleaned up the mess and the dishwasher is running. He’s pulled on his t-shirt, the logo of which is obscured by his
tightly crossed arms. His face is serious, but I’m confident enough in our relationship to ignore his ‘back-the-fuck-off’ body language. Moving to one of the stools, I sit facing him, crossing one leg over the other, swinging my foot as I lean back on my elbows. I stare at him as he stares back at me. It’s a battle of wills.
I’m not sure there’s a winner, but half an hour later I’m on my back, panting, with Mason inside me, his breath hot against my neck.
*****
Turns out the lemon and garlic was flavouring for the chicken breasts he’s prepared. It’s delicious and his cooking skills put mine to shame. As a thank you I give him an open-mouthed kiss and go tidy up the kitchen, leaving him to watch the football highlights. When I return, with a beer each from his monster fridge, he lifts his arm, a signal for me to lean up against him. It’s a signal I don’t ignore and I snuggle in, my knees curled up on his thigh as I hand him an uncapped beer. I doze off minutes later, but it’s football and therefore to be expected.
When I wake it’s dark. The TV is switched off and the lights too. Mason has shifted lengthways on the sofa and I’m lying along his side, my back to the upright cushions, my head on his chest.
“Hey,” he says.
I raise my head and shoulders and smile down at him. “Hey.” I like how we greet one another, how we’re falling into familiar habits.
“You ready to talk now?” he asks, pressing his mouth against my temple to give me a gentle kiss.
“I think so,” I say. I tell him about the phone call yesterday morning, and how I collected Ivy en route. How we sat in my mother’s hospital room, waiting. That’s when I pause and Mason seems to know there’s more coming because he waits silently, his hand warm around my shoulders. “I asked Ivy about my father.”
This close, it’s impossible not to feel the tightening of his muscles or his sudden stillness. He rolls me to my back, his hand pressed to my hip as he gazes down at me. “And what did she say?”
