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I waived the Marchhunt because I was away in Switzerland, waiting for my injuries to heal. I waived the April hunt since Willow was hospitalised, admittedly through no fault of her own (mostly). I waive the May hunt while I wait for her injuries to heal—it seems only fair.
While Willow recovers, I try my best to maintain my routine, focus on my work and keep up with my social calendar. I manage to resume order and control over every part of my life… except my own home.
My home, during the course of Willow’s convalescence, becomes a palace of chaos. Everywhere Willow is, she infects the space with her presence. My couches are now covered in cushions and throws, my coffee table is buried under a small mountain of books. Random articles of clothing seem to danglefrom every doorway, and my bedroom becomes invaded with random objects. Water bottles, mirrors, perfume bottles, bras, empty cigarette cartons, paper bags of sweets, more Japanese cartoon books, a decrepit laptop. My bathroom counters grow cluttered with shampoos and face mists and sticks of eyeliner and mascara, while my kitchen windowsills are now lined with pots of herbs and plants.
With each day that passes, the cleaners seem to focus less on getting rid of the mess and more on trying to keep the mess itself as clean as possible. It’s a losing battle we all seem to be finding. Willow’s presence is a disease, and the infection is too widespread to combat.
No amount of commands or remonstrations seem to affect her. Willow carries on blithely through her days while she recovers. In the mornings, she has breakfast in the gardens, where Cerberus, belying their name, run around giddily around her. She takes short walks, at first, then longer walks on the edge of the trees, hazarding further as the weather grows warmer.
In the afternoons, Willow reads, alternating between her disgusting books and my copy ofThe Divine Comedy, which she seems doggedly determined to finish reading. She listens to music, cooks, and sometimes, she goes out to shop with Nadine as her overly enthusiastic security detail. In the evenings, we dine and argue and sometimes play chess and other times agree to a silent ceasefire while we both read or Willow lies on her stomach watching dubious cartoons on her laptop.
As the weeks pass, her injuries, once vivid and raw, gradually yield to the inevitable healing process. Her bruises darken, then fade. The wounds on her back close and heal. The bandages on her wrists are replaced by new scars. I begin, for the first time, to see Willow’s scars for what they truly are.
Not a proof of weakness but a testament to her willpower and resilience.
I try my best to maintain my distance from Willow, and not just physically. My indifference towards her has been shaken and ruptured, my antagonism tempered by the realisation of her importance to me. I do not love Willow—how could I—but I’m not so reckless as to allow myself to grow fond of her.
For that reason, I try repeatedly to stop her from using my bedroom as her own. If she falls asleep on my bed, I make sure to pick her up and dump her back into her bed. I stop helping her with her bandages as soon as she no longer needs me to. I refuse to let her make me laugh, and I start fights with her sometimes just as a way of remindingherof how much she hates me.
She starts a fair few number of fights herself—and one such fight is the garden party fight.
This particular argument brewsover a number of days. Willow, growing restless and irritable, keeps telling me she’s going to Lady Astley’s garden party. This rings alarm bells because Willow Lynch, grifter from Greenleigh, is the last kind of woman who would ever be invited to such a party, but more importantly because Willow Lynch, anti-bourgeoisie rebel and eater of the rich, strikes me as someone who would rather take a knife to the kidney than go to a garden party.
Three days before the party in question, Willow returns home from a shopping excursion holding a Chanel garment bag. I’m in my boots and about to take the dogs out for an early evening walk, but I stop in my tracks as I watch her carefully drape her garment bag over the bag of an armchair.
“Chanel, Lynch?”
“It’s couture as well.” She gives me a satisfied grin, eyes glittering. There’s still a green smudge of bruising around her eye. “I’ll be the belle of the ball.”
“You’ll be the clown of the circus,” I correct her. “Where do you intend to wear this exactly?”
“I told you. Lady Astley’s fancypants garden party.”
My hands tighten into fists. I turn away from the bay of windows and step towards Willow. “And I told you—you’re not going.”
“AndItoldyou.” She turns and steps towards me. “I’ll be there whether you like it or not.”
“I’m not taking you to the garden party in this state. People will think I’m the one who injured you.”
She scoffs. “Since when do you care about people thinking you injured me?”
“Since you’re sporting injuries I did not inflict upon you.” I step right into her, gazing down at her, barely able to contain my frustration. “When I take you out on my arm, Lynch, it’ll be my bruises around your throat, not someone else’s.”
“That’s the creepiest proposal I’ve ever heard in my life,” she sneers. “Consider therapy, Luca.”
“Lead by example, Lynch. You’renotgoing to that party. If you want to go to a party, I’ll take you to any other of your wish when you’ve healed.”
“I don’t want to go to another party,” she bites out. “I don’t even want to go to this one. Ihaveto go.”
“Why is that?”
I’m close enough to Willow to feel the heat of her skin, the richness of her perfume. I can almost taste the sugar on her breath from the sweets she’s been eating. I’m close enough to kiss Willow, although I know better, and close enough to see Willow close a door within herself as she makes the decision to withhold the truth from me.
“That’s none of your business.”
“If you told me, I might be able to actually assist you.”
“I don’tneedyour assistance,” she hisses.
