After we’ve said our goodbyes to Theo and Tig, I’m all set to sprint from the front door to Mark’s car when he holds his arm out to stop me.
‘No point both of us getting wet. Wait here.’
‘You don’t have to.’
He doesn’t respond, he simply jogs down the street to where he’s parked.
The growl of an engine carries up the road, and a minute later he pulls up level with me and I dash into the shelter of his car.
‘Thanks for that,’ I say, putting on my seatbelt.
I’ve stayed dry, but Mark’s light grey T-shirt is spotted black from the rain. His cheeks and nose are wet, too.
He puts the car in gear and pulls away.
It sounded noisy from the outside, but inside, the car is awkwardly quiet.
‘Theo’s a good cook,’ I say, so we’re not sitting in silence. ‘Unless you’re about to tell me that curry was from Waitrose.’
‘Cleans and irons, too. Tig’s done well. He’ll make an excellent housewife.’
‘Most men would try to hide their chauvinistic tendencies.’
‘What’s the point of hiding them? You’ve already formed your opinion of me.’
His irritation irritates me; he’s the one being casually mean about my sister.
‘I don’t give a shit how well house-trained he is; I care about how he treats Tig.’
He looks surprised by my outburst. ‘We’re back to this again?’ He shakes his head. ‘He’s not forcing her to get married. She’s more than happy with the arrangement. And why wouldn’t she be? If they waited more than six months, he’d realise what a handful she was.’
My patience snaps. ‘Stop the car.’
He scowls. ‘We’re a hundred metres away.’
I take a breath to steady my voice. ‘I was wrong. You’re not a chauvinist. You’re a misogynist. I should have got that message loud and clear fifteen years ago.’ I pull the handle, and the door swings open.
He hits the brakes. ‘Jesus, we’re still rolling!’
‘Tig’s not good enough for Theo, and I wasn’t good enough for your brother.’ The anger I’ve been supressing all night bursts to the surface. I’mshakingwith it. ‘You hate women – you’re just like your dad!’
He looks at me with cold, hard eyes. The famous Marino temper – he’s seconds away from losing it, and I’m not going to hang around to witness it.
I scramble out, slamming the door behind me and run the last stretch home, my feet hitting the rain-soaked pavement as hard as my racing heart.
Dad’s dozing in front of the telly, and Mum’s at the kitchen table, on her iPad. She frowns when she sees me. ‘Are you okay, Nellamou?’
A big part of me wants to say, no, I’m not okay. But I don’t. Does she know Mark is living with Yan and is Theo’s Best Man? Or is she as blissfully ignorant as I was less than twelve hours ago?
‘I’m just tired,’ I say, pouring myself a glass of water. ‘I think I’ll turn in.’
I get ready for bed and curl up under my duvet. I’m doing exactly what I did fifteen years ago: telling everyone I was okay, that I was ‘just tired’, and hiding in my room.
I’m thirty-one. I’m a therapist for God’s sake, but right now none of that seems to matter. I can’t outrun the scared teenager I was when I last saw Mark.
I thought I’d moved on, but I haven’t.
And neither has Mark.
