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Every year, Kal pissed off somebody new. The Sherpa stopped wanting to talk to him, worried they’d lose their jobs. Doctor Doom, they said, but they meant, Give it a rest.
He could tell her, but there wasn’t any point.
So why did he want to?
He got up and walked to the window. She’d put the shade down. He raised it, even though there was nothing to see outside but black. Thin air and cold that would kill him if he stepp
ed into it. Death.
Kal was sick of hanging out with death all the time.
Rosemary went into the bathroom, came out with a glass of water, and pressed it into his hand. “Drink this.”
“Thanks.”
She linked her arm into his loose elbow and stood with him, hunched over at the waist, staring out into the blackness like she saw something there, too.
“What did you do before?” he asked. He imagined her on a throne in a gown, pointing at some nothing peasant with her scepter.
“I was wallpaper.” She touched the plastic window with her index finger, pressing it until her nail bed turned white.
“I don’t believe that.”
“It’s true. I was a mum. I didn’t work. Winston worked. The car picked him up every day and drove him into the city. I walked Bea to the coach that took her to school. And then seven hours passed, during which I became wallpaper.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
Rosemary moved closer to his side, pressed her mouth into his biceps through the cotton airline pajamas. When she spoke again, her voice was a barely audible mumble. “It means I did charity projects. I directed workmen in a ten-year renovation of the manor house my husband had purchased, which cost three million pounds when all was said and done, and that’s nothing to do with the upkeep, which could be anywhere between fifteen thousand on ordinary things like guttering and the gardens or half a million the year I had the roof retiled. I picked out paint colors. I ordered replacement china. And when my daughter came home, I served her an early supper, directed her through her schoolwork, put her to bed, and cooked for my husband—unless we had to attend an engagement, in which case I put on one of three tasteful frocks, pinned up my hair, and made polite conversation that could never be construed as improper, or distasteful, or either above or below my station.”
“I imagined you on a throne,” he said, “smiting peons with your scepter. You shall not pass, you know?”
Rosemary’s smile was gentle. “I believe you’re thinking of Gandalf.”
“He had a white horse.”
“As did I. So we’ve that in common at least.”
“What was yours called?”
“Pasty.” At Kal’s furrowed brow, she added, “It’s a sort of pie. He was terribly fat and spoiled. Really more of a pony than a noble steed.”
“What happened to him?”
“He took the rainbow bridge to the boneyard when Beatrice was thirteen. She cried for an entire afternoon, poor thing.” When she looked at him again, her eyes were bright, and he couldn’t tell if she was happy or keeping herself from crying. “You know what I think? We should order dessert and watch a film. They have loads. I don’t think I’m ever going to sleep, or open that up”—she glanced toward her laptop—“and we could use the distraction.”
“Sure.”
“Let’s watch one of the superhero movies. The Avengers or some such. You can tell me everything they’ve done wrong making it into a film.”
Kal let her pull him to the couch and drape him in a cashmere blanket. She called for dessert, ordered one of everything, and spread them out around them while Kal found the movie. They watched Deadpool. He told her all about how Deadpool was an antihero who’d first showed up as a bad guy and then started making guest appearances all over the place, cracking jokes and breaking the fourth wall. She said Deadpool reminded her of Shakespeare, whose villains were often his most compelling characters. They ate a tart and a chocolate thing and drank champagne, and at some point Kal realized the tension had gone out of his shoulders and he felt better.
Also, that she smelled good, and was warm and animated against his side.
He didn’t give it a lot of thought. He just reached over and pulled her into his lap.
“Oh,” was all she said when he kissed her, which wasn’t the answer to the question he was asking. He kissed her again, her mouth softly yielding, her neck hot against the palm of his hand.
“Rosemary?”
