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“Elizabeth. Get the fuck back up the stairs.” Not good.
It carries on. Beth screaming all kinds of obscenities. Alex becoming quieter by the second. Until, eventually, it’s just her screaming at him, or at herself. I’m not sure which, but him going quiet is the beginning of something none of us want. I sip my vodka, unsure whether to intervene or not. It’s not like it’s my problem. I’ve done my bit. I let him get the angst out into me rather than deliver it to her. If he’d just admit he was hurting it might help her. Show her the tears he cried in front of me, but as usual – wall of fucking ice.
Stupid.
Waiting for the other one of us to arrive is becoming tedious, but necessary. I wander towards the window into the back garden and stare out into the falling evening around us. He’ll find some unique way of dealing with the little predicament occurring that I can’t be bothered with, I’m sure. I still don’t really know how he does it better than me, but he does. They have a connection between them that I can’t get in the middle of, like Alex’s love for Pascal deserves more respect than he ever shows anyone else. Apart from when they’re fucking. There’s no respect there at all that I can see.
The door slams behind me, so I turn, wondering which one has left.
No one has.
Someone’s arrived.
All volume from Beth dissipates in the hall. No noise at all. If I was interested enough, I’d go out there and watch whatever plan my lover has come up with, but I’m not really. It’s only him I want in reality. I smile as I smell his aftershave waft into the room with me, and lean back against the wall to wait for him to find me. I don’t go for him anymore. The power switched a long time ago, and he likes it this way, likes me aloof and capricious.
His cane taps the floor in quick succession, heels clacking the Minton tiles as he leads another pair through to the kitchen. They’re Beth’s, her feet shorter in stride than his or Alex’s.
“No, stay out there,” he snaps.“You are wholly inadequate in this guise. Go to Lilah.” Another door slams. The kitchen one. And Alex walks back into the room with me, a scowl of near rage gracing his face. Well done, Sir. Well done.
“You handled that beautifully.” I can’t help myself. What a moron.
“In the mood I’m in, don’t push it.” Oooh. That told me. I grab at his drinkas I pass one of the massive sofas, and hand it over to him as I sit on the opposing chair.
“Have you ever cried in front of her?” He looks at me over his drink, scowl still firmly in place. “Or is that too unmanly for you?”
I happen to think it’s one of the most beautiful dispositions a man can offer, but this is Alex, not Pascal, and therefore his expression of vulnerability, or lack thereof, is of no relevance to my sensibilities other than interest alone. Friend or not, he’s become utterly unfathomable lately. Like he’s disappeared into unknown territory. Pascal is what he needs, but he’s stayed away, which has only caused more problems.
He doesn’t answer. In fact, he seems to sink into his seat with a look that might be considered surrender of sorts. “I was lost once. You helped, remember?” comes out of me. Maybe I could return that favour now. If I have to.
“I think you’ve helped enough, Lilah,” he mutters, a slight smirk to his lips. Naughty. That’s not happening again. “There is no answer to this problem.”
“There is. Try again.” He takes another drink. “Why are you being difficult about it?”
“I’m not. I just don’t want children.”
“Yes you do. If you didn’t you wouldn’t have cried on my shoulder when you found out it was dead.” His scowl turns to a look of rage again, shoulders tensing at my dismissal of something he loved. “And you wouldn’t be looking at me like that because I called your unborn child dead either, would you? So, again, why are you being difficult?”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then talk.”
“Elizabeth is going to bed,” Pascal proclaims, walking into the room and aiming straight for the drink I’ve already poured him. He stops half way and looks at me, then reaches for my hand to pull it to his lips. I snatch it back before he can, not entirely sure I’m happy about him not answering my phone calls yet or disappearing without trace for a few days. “You look ravishing, my love.” My brow rises. As does his. I might have to fuck him to rid myself of Alex. And then beat him for all the things I can’t concentrate on with him this close. “Did you bring your weaponry?” Of course I did. My legs cross the other way at the mere thought, tightening my sore cunt in the process. Pascal turns and carries on for his drink.
“Why are you being so challenging, Alexander?” Well, quite. We both look at him, as Pascal sits in the high wingback chair by the fire. “It is preposterous of you to deny her comfort in this time. I shall have to if you do not.” My eyes narrow, unhappy about the thought. “And then Lilah will become angered with me for being decent.” True, certainly when it’s not his position to be so inclined. “And you will seem the unhinged moron for not abiding by sensible protocol.” Perfectly put. “I am perturbed by whatever decision this is.”
Silence. Silence and brooding good looks that have me considering the two of them, together. Sadly, perhaps now is not the time.
We both stare again.
And then Pascal reaches for the chess table between them and starts lining up pieces. Oh god, no. I roll my eyes and drink some more vodka, bored with the thought of a three hour tournament to tease the information out of Mr Arsehole. Mr Arsehole should just spit it out.
Man up.
“Really?” I ask. Both heads whip to me. “A chess game to determine if you’re an arsehole or not? I think it’s a pretty sure fact that you are.” Pascal chuckles. “And you are too, at the moment. Get down from your high horse.” He smirks – bastard. “Why not just go up there and do what you know you should be doing rather than sitting here attempting to demonstrate all the reasons you shouldn’t?”
His head swings back to the chess board, obviously more interested in denial than honesty or love. It’s dull. He’s dull, actually. And the fact that I, seemingly, can’t have children is heightening this situation to absolute stupidity. “I’m bored with this,” comes out of me, as I stand. I’m not staying here to watch whatever this crap is. I know Pascal’s alive, which is the main reason I even came here in the first place. Perhaps I should go look at Eden. Give it the once over. I’m damned if I’m staying here any longer if this stupidity is occurring.
My feet have me walking to the door before I’ve thought much more about it, grabbing at my bag as I go. Fools, both of them. Well, not Pascal so much but still. I check my phone and pull at the main front door, sifting through a raft of emails from New York that I should probably be dealing with. In fact, by the look of this one, I should really go back.
