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He looks up in surprise then, frowns, and brings the glass over. After passing it to me, he pulls me into his arms. “No, sweetheart, it’s nothing to do with you.”
I sniff. “Are you sure? It’s not because I called you my slave?”
He laughs at that and kisses the top of my head. “Of course not. What happens in the bedroom is just play.”
It’s no good; I have to ask. “Was it… Mel on the phone?”
“Mel? No.” He moves back to retrieve his glass. “What made you say that?”
“You said you saw her today. Ashton said it shook both of you up. I wondered whether she’d initiated communication.”
“Mel would never ring me,” he says, somewhat curtly, “and I have no interest in talking to her.”
“Okay.” I’ve upset him. Shit.
“Ashton knows?” he queries.
I feel ashamed that I told the crew at the Ark. “He asked me how you knew each other, so I told him. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
He swirls the whisky around in the glass. “It’s okay. It doesn’t matter.”
“It does, and I shouldn’t have done it.” I take a deep breath. “If I’m honest, I was curious as to what they thought of her.”
He studies my face, but I can’t tell what he’s thinking. “And?” he asks.
“Ashton called her high-maintenance.”
His lips curve up a little.
“I admit I felt smug when he said that,” I tell him.
He gives a short laugh. “Why?” he says.
“Why what?”
“Why did you feel smug?”
“Because… she hurt my friend, and I was glad others think she isn’t a nice person.”
He meets my eyes. “Is that the only reason?”
Our gazes lock, and we stay like that for a long, long time. I can’t answer, can’t admit it, but I know he’s read the truth in them.
Eventually, I look away, and he sighs and gestures to the sofa. “Let’s sit down.”
I sit on the sofa while he turns on the gas fire, and then he sits just down from me. He stretches out his legs and stares into the leaping flames for a while, then takes a mouthful of whisky.
“You’re making me nervous,” I tell him.
He turns his gaze to me. “Sorry. I’m just debating what to say. I don’t talk about it much, only to Izzy, and this time I haven’t even spoken to her about it.”
I’m puzzled now. “Okay.”
He sips his whisky. “On the phone—it was my mom. She’s a recovering alcoholic, and she’s currently in rehab.”
Chapter Nineteen
Fitz
Poppy stares at me, bemused. “Your mother is in rehab?”
I nod, feeling the usual wave of shame and guilt. It goes against all my instincts to talk about it. But the conversation I had with Mel at the Riverbank keeps playing in my mind. Although I was angry at the time, she shocked me with the revelation that she didn’t leave because of the accident, but because I wouldn’t open up to her. I didn’t purposefully keep things from her, but it’s true that I always try to deal with things on my own. I’m not normally comfortable sharing. But it ruined that relationship. And I don’t want to ruin this one, so I’m going to try to talk about it.
“She’s in a special unit in Hamilton,” I tell Poppy. “She’s been there for a couple of weeks.”
“Marc, I’m so sorry. How long has she had a problem?”
“All my life,” I confess. “Although it worsened after my father died. But I can remember incidents when I was younger, too. You know about Izzy and the boiling water?”
She nods; she knows the story. When Izzy was five, my mother left a pan of hot water unattended on the stove, and Izzy tipped it over herself. It scarred her, badly enough to ensure she never wears short-sleeved tops.
“What Izzy doesn’t know is that Mom wasn’t in the room because she was drunk in the living room,” I say.
“Oh, Jesus.”
“Yeah. I can remember it happening. I was seven, and I’d just gotten home from school. She’d obviously been drinking throughout the afternoon, because I remember that when Izzy started screaming, Mom fell over trying to get to the kitchen. I’ve never told Izzy that.”
