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“When did I say that?”
“In your office the other day, when you were talking with your friend.”
His eyes dip lower, to my mouth then my neck. “I thought you weren't listening.”
He doesn't sound angry or even exasperated. Only interested.
“There's a lot you don't know about me.”
“I'm beginning to see that.”
Smiling, he takes another sip of beer, then he reaches across the sticky bar table for the folder I brought. Sorting through the documents, he discusses them with Daniel, while I sit back and watch the two of them talk. My skin is still rosy with a warmth that doesn't disappear even when I press my cool wineglass to my flushed cheeks. Instead it radiates inside me, whispering little truths I don't want to hear.
It's embarrassing and clichéd, not to mention downright forbidden, but there's something about Callum that I can't ignore. As he leans across the table, chatting with Daniel Grant about a million dollar project that's inches away from his grasp, I wonder if I might find my boss more than a wee bit attractive.
* * *
When I let myself into the house an hour later, I can hear raised voices coming from the kitchen. Dropping my bag onto the floor, I pull off my black suede flats, the soles of my feet throbbing in protest. Then I hear mum shouting, and I panic, memories of the strange man flashing in my brain.
Without thinking, I run down the hallway, my chest tight, my throat dry. By the time I fling open the kitchen door I'm breathless, though more from fear than exertion.
“Mum?” I say.
She's leaning against the oven, arms across her chest. Her lips are turned down, creases scratching out from the corner. She doesn't look scared, though. Dissatisfied, maybe. Angry, even.
I see my brother, leaning with his hands on the table. His tendons are taut beneath his skin, tattoos etched across his flesh. There's a tic in his cheek that dances as he stares at Mum.
“What's going on?” I ask. That's when my sister, Andie, steps out of the doorway between the kitchen and living area. Her eyes are red, mascara stains smudged beneath them.
Andie doesn't cry. She never has. Even when we were keeping vigil around my six-month-old nephew's hospital bed, she didn't shed a tear. That's why her dishevelment is unnerving.
“Mum.” Alex's voice sounds like a warning. I slide my eyes to hers, but she's looking anywhere but at me. “Mum,” he prompts again. “Do it.”
“Shut up.” She bites back. Her voice is tinged with acid. It burns through the air, eating into us all. I'm assailed by memories of days long past, of a teenage Alex staggering through the door, high as a kite with his first tattoo. She laid into him that night, a screaming match so bitter it cut into my ten-year-old soul. Just like then, I feel the need to retreat.
“Do what?” I say. Without thinking, I take a step backward. The movement unbalances me, enough to make my head spin. I reach out and grab the counter, feeling a sticky residue gluing my palm to the surface.
“Amy? Are you okay?” Andie always was part-sister, part-mother. She steps forward, reaching her arms around my waist.
“Wine.” I give her a wan smile. “I had two glasses of wine. They've gone straight to my head.”
Alex joins us, his shirtsleeves rolled up, his hair mussed from running his hand through it too many times. I frown, trying to work out w
hat the heck it is that's going on. Again I'm taken back fifteen years, to that little girl who can't understand why everybody's shouting.
It used to be awful hearing them all screaming. I would lie in my bed, cuddling my Cuggie, screwing my eyes up as if it would block out the angry words. At times like those the house would pulse with fury.
Then I'd wake in the morning to a silence that was laced with hangovers and regrets. Apologies muttered across a breakfast of black coffee and ibuprofen, while I shovelled spoonfuls of frosted flakes into my mouth, trying to decide if everybody was still angry.
But that was years ago. As time passed, first Andie moved out, then Alex followed. Every visit home would reveal a new piece of skin covered with colour, but eventually Mum got used to it. The house changed, became quieter, more sedate, and those ugly rows were a thing of history.
Until now.
“Why are you arguing?” I ask. The three of them are silent. Andie releases me, shooting a glance at Mum.
“It's that man...” she begins, then stops almost as quickly. Rolling her bottom lip between her teeth, she looks over at Alex. Though Andie is the oldest, everybody always defers to Alex. Whether that’s because he's the only boy, or by dint of his larger than life personality, I'm not sure. Alex treats the entire world as his stage, and sometimes forgets there are other actors trying to grab their own piece of the limelight.
“He's a nasty piece of work,” Alex adds. “I don't want him near you.”
